Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  He paused for one brief moment, then concluded. “You are dismissed.” Stewart turned from the lectern and strode to the small room from whence he had come, followed by Armstrong and Pickering, who closed the door behind them.

  For thirty seconds the officers stood in loud discussion while their shattered thoughts came together and they realized they were dismissed. Some began filing out of the large doors at the rear of the hall, where two captains handed each of them the notice of the meeting called for the following morning, together with the printed statement of the case Stewart had prepared against Congress and General Washington. They jerked their tricorns low and walked out into the wind and sleet, trying to read as they walked.

  Billy and Turlock accepted their copies of the documents and walked to the north side of the building to huddle close to the wall where the south wind and sleet passed over them. Silently they read the two documents, then read the statement a second time to be certain they had understood the plain meaning of the proposal. Billy looked at Turlock and without a word turned on his heel and trotted down the sloping bank of the river to the waiting barge, Turlock following. Forty minutes later he leaped from the barge to the dock, running west toward the headquarters building of General Washington. He halted before the confused picket while Turlock came running behind him.

  “I’m Lieutenant Billy Weems, Massachusetts Second. I have to see the general. Now!”

  The picket’s brow was furrowed, eyes narrowed in question. “The general is not to be disturbed. What’s going on? Officers walking around in this weather, reading something.”

  Billy thrust the two documents forward. “These. Mutiny.”

  The picket’s head jerked forward, eyes bugging. “What? Mutiny?”

  “Mutiny. Do I see the general?”

  Two minutes later Billy was in the square, plain room that served as Washington’s headquarters, standing at attention before Washington’s desk. Turlock was to his left, slightly behind him. The general was leaning back in his chair, blue-gray eyes inquiring.

  “You wished to see me, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe it is urgent you read these.” He laid the two papers on the general’s desk and stepped back.

  Washington leaned forward to pick up the damp notice. Quickly he scanned it, then read it in detail. A quizzical expression flitted across his face.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “An hour ago, in a meeting at the Newburgh assembly hall.”

  “This is not signed. Who arranged the meeting?”

  “Colonel Walter Stewart, sir.”

  “The inspector general? For what purpose?”

  “It’s in the second document, sir.”

  Washington squared the second document on his desk and for two minutes the only sound in the room was the wind at the fireplace and windows, and the pelting of the sleet. Washington did not move until he had finished the reading twice. He raised his eyes to Billy, and there was controlled thunder and lightning leaping from them.

  “This is also unsigned. Who wrote it?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “I doubt Colonel Stewart wrote it. Was anyone with him?”

  “Major John Armstrong, Junior, sir, and Timothy Pickering.”

  “General Gates?”

  “I did not see him, sir.”

  For a moment Washington leaned forward on his forearms, face down in deep thought. Then he raised his eyes. “How many officers were at the gathering this morning?”

  “I would judge between forty and fifty, sir.”

  “What was their reaction?”

  “From what I saw and heard, they were . . . shocked . . . in the beginning, but it seemed the longer they listened to Stewart the more the shock wore off. I think they began to consider some of the things written there. I think most of them will attend the meeting called for tomorrow morning, and a lot of other officers with them.”

  Washington locked eyes with Billy. “Is there serious discontent among the officers?”

  Billy did not flinch. “Yes, sir. There is.”

  “Where do you stand in this?”

  Billy’s answer was instant. “I didn’t join this army for pay or pension or land. I believe what Colonel Stewart is doing is treason, sir. I refuse to be part of it.”

  “Is there anything else you should tell me?”

  “Not that I can think of, sir.”

  Washington looked at Turlock. “Sergeant, do you wish to add anything?”

  “No, sir. Yes, sir. Billy—Lieutenant Weems—told it right. I didn’t join this army for pay, either, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. You men are dismissed.”

  Billy interrupted. “Sir, is there anything we can do?”

  “Yes. Go back to your regiment and conduct yourselves in a normal fashion. Should you see or hear anything else I need to know, bring it to me.”

  “Yes, sir.” The two turned on their heels and walked back through the heavy, plank door, out into the weather.

  Inside his small, austere office, the iron will of George Washington clamped down on the seething rage within. Slowly he forced his mind to settle and waited for that certain inner sense to tell him he was in control of himself and seeing the affair for what it was. He began putting his thoughts in order, examining them from every angle to be certain of the logic and reasoning.

  Stewart—once an aide to Horatio Gates—still is—Gates was behind Stewart going to Congress—they’ve talked since—they’re responsible for this mutiny—Stewart’s persuaded Armstrong and Pickering to join his plan—Armstrong is the best writer among them—he has to be the one who wrote these documents.

  He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, closed his eyes, and buried his face in his hands while his thoughts continued.

  This is what Hamilton and Morris and Wilson saw coming when they approached me with their plan to use the anger of the military to force the states to give the Confederation broader powers—sufficient to stop this uprising—but their plan was wrong—the states wouldn’t stand for giving the powers those men wanted to Congress—and it is likely they will now be ambitious about reminding me of their plan—must be careful in handling Hamilton and Morris and Wilson.

  He reached for a conclusion.

  Both mutiny and treason—if Gates and his confederates succeed, they’ll tear the United States apart—must be stopped—but how—how?

  Washington dropped his hands from his face and for a long time sat with narrowed eyes staring unseeing at his desk. Then he picked up his quill and with studied strokes wrote:

  10th March 1783

  Colonel Hamilton:

  I am aware of the meeting proposed for all officers by an anonymous writer for ten o’clock a.m. tomorrow, March 11, 1783, at the Newburgh assembly hall. This is to advise I will personally take the matter in hand.

  Cordially your ob’dt

  G. Washington.

  He stood and strode to the door and swung it open, and his startled secretary came to attention.

  “Would you please have this delivered to Colonel Alexander Hamilton at once? He is now a representative in Congress, at Philadelphia.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Until further orders, I am to be disturbed by no one except Lieutenant Billy Weems.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At noon General Washington summoned his secretary and handed him a carefully drafted document.

  “See to it this is copied in numbers sufficient to post it immediately at all places the officers will see it. Instruct all general officers they are required to read it aloud in the officers’ barracks as soon as possible, and this evening at officers’ mess.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  By two o’clock the wind and sleet had stopped, and the thick overhead clouds had thinned to show patches of blue. By three o’clock the camp was flooded with sunlight, with wisps of steam rising from the puddles of melting sleet. At four o’clock, Billy Weems was startled by a knock at his door.
He opened it and faced Eli Stroud, dressed in his leathers with his rifle at his side and some folded documents in his left hand.

  Billy stepped back. “Come in.”

  The door closed and Eli raised the documents. “You seen these?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you officers know any more than what’s here?”

  “Should be three papers. One is a notice of the meeting tomorrow. The second one calls for treason. The third one is from General Washington. You got all three?”

  “I do. I never saw anything like it. Can you tell me anything more about what’s going on?”

  “The papers speak for themselves. But I have my own idea about it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Gates wants to replace Washington.”

  “Looks that way. And after that I think he wants to set up a government controlled by the military, and he wants to be the commander in chief.”

  Billy nodded silent agreement and Eli went on.

  “How are the officers seeing all this?”

  “Some one way, some the other. Most want what they were promised. I don’t know what they’ll do when they have to make a choice.”

  “You read what General Washington says?” He held up Washington’s writing.

  “All of it. Called that business of creating a new state an act of disorderly and irregular conduct on the part of whoever proposed it and condemned the proposal for the meeting tomorrow morning. Ordered that it not be held. He set up a meeting for all officers next Saturday, the fifteenth. Ten o’clock in the morning. In the Newburgh assembly hall. He’s going to be there.”

  Eli interrupted. “So is Gates.”

  “I saw that. The general asked Gates to conduct the meeting. That surprised me.”

  Eli shook his head. “No, I think Washington has become the fox. By handing the meeting to Gates, Gates is going to think Washington has sympathy with his side, and Gates will have his entire crowd there. If that happens, I expect Washington will put a stop to this Gates thing for all time. I believe that’s how Washington figures it.”

  Billy fell into a few moments of thoughtful silence. “Makes sense. The question is, what’s going to happen if Washington comes down hard on the Gates people? Will the officers take it? Will they revolt? Walk out? I know for certain they want what was promised them. That’s what the McDougall affair that started this whole thing was all about.”

  Eli took a deep breath. “I never expected this, but it looks like Saturday is going to turn this country one way or the other. The army runs it, or we keep our liberty.” He slowly shook his head, and spoke thoughtfully. “The British couldn’t stop us. Now it looks like our own army intends to pick up where the British failed. Think on it. General Washington has to try to put down his own army, to save this country. In my worst thoughts I did not see this one coming.”

  Billy spoke quietly. “Neither did I. We better be there.”

  The following morning, within five minutes of the roll of the reveille drum, the three documents, two from Armstrong, one from General Washington, had seized the minds and the tongues of every man in camp. Every tent, every hut, every place two or more men met, the talk rolled on, sometimes heated, sometimes quiet. In blustery March weather, soldiers completed their regular daily functions woodenly, without thought, while the chatter spilled out. After evening mess, men gathered around campfires to continue the debates. Quiet voices could be heard long after the ten o’clock drum tapped out tattoo.

  Time lost meaning as the days dragged on. By Friday it seemed no one could remember a time when Gates’s mind-wrenching proposal of drawing the army off into the wilderness to form a new state had not been the core of existence in the military. Worse, if the proposal would force Congress and General Washington to deliver their pay, land, and pensions as promised, what was wrong with it? General Washington’s condemnation of it was only to be expected, since it was now clear that neither Congress, Washington, nor the separate states could keep their promises, nor did they intend to try.

  The rattle of the Friday night tattoo drum had echoed and died in the far reaches of the black forest when Eli rose from his blankets to stand in the night breeze, peering up at the three-quarter moon in thoughtful reflection.

  Most of these men want their pay. That’s fair. Most of them do not want to mutiny to get it. None of them want treason. That is as it should be.

  He watched clouds forming, riding the breeze to drift past the face of the moon. In the moment of passing they were transformed from deep purple to silver, and then they were gone.

  What will they do tomorrow if this all comes to a choice? Will they mutiny to get their pay? If they mutiny, what will Washington do?

  Clouds darkened the moon and held, and for a few moments Eli became an Iroquois Indian, reading the moon and the clouds, judging the transient March weather.

  Maybe rain tomorrow. Maybe not. At least clouds. Cold. And wind.

  He brought his thoughts back to the dark thoughts of what morning would bring.

  Eight years—thousands dead—men and women—blood—too much blood—pain—suffering—all for an idea—liberty—we won—defeated the British—and now, it looks like our own army has become our enemy.

  For a long time he peered up at the moon, watching the gathering clouds cover it, cutting off all light.

  Why is it that somehow the best things in life are the hardest to hold onto—my mother and father, gone when I was two years old—Mary gone—at war most of my life—the French or the British or the Mohawk—and now, liberty—it seems like we paid a big enough price in the past eight years to win it—now it looks like we have to fight our own army to keep it—why is it so hard to keep the good things?

  From far away came the baying of a wolf, then another, and another, as they took their turn in the relay that would bring down a deer or an elk. Nearer, an owl inquired with its soft “whoooo.” Eli lowered his eyes to peer into the blackness of the Hudson River forest, reading the sounds of night as though it were full daylight. Then he raised them again, watching the gathering clouds blot out the stars and the eternity beyond. His thoughts ran on.

  All His handiwork—He put the price on the good things—the only question is, are we willing to pay it?

  He lowered his eyes and dropped back to his blankets. Tomorrow morning—we find out more about the price of liberty—and if we’re willing to pay it.

  Dawn broke with a chill March wind moving, billowing gray clouds up the valley. Morning mess was little more than a forum for final arguments on what was to come. Eight o’clock found officers gathering in groups and clusters, talking among themselves, gesturing with raised voices from time to time. By half past eight they were loading into barges at the dock and pushing off into the broad, slate-gray expanse of choppy water. At twenty minutes before ten o’clock Billy and Eli stood at the door of the large, low, Newburgh assembly hall where two captains inspected them for weapons before one gestured toward Eli and spoke.

  “Are you an officer?”

  “Scout.”

  “For whom?”

  “General Washington.”

  Billy interrupted. “I’m Lieutenant Billy Weems. Massachusetts Second. This is Scout Eli Stroud. He’s the one General Washington sent to scout Verplanck before we moved from here down there. He’s with me.”

  The captain studied Billy for a moment deciding whether he could allow a scout into a meeting limited to officers only. He made up his mind.

  “Lieutenant, you’re responsible for him. If anything goes wrong, you’re the one who will answer. You can enter.”

  They entered and moved to one side to study how the benches were placed, then the pulpit, then the chairs behind. Eli glanced at Billy, who nodded, and they separated. Eli walked casually along the left wall to the front of the great room while Billy walked along the right to the first row of benches. They both leaned their backs against the wall to remain standing, casually watching. From their position they could look into
the faces of all the officers seated on the low pine benches. Each was less than twenty-five feet from the lectern and twenty feet from the four chairs behind it. Behind the chairs, in one corner, was the small room reserved for the participants; in the opposite corner was a door leading outside. Billy and Eli had access to everyone who was to conduct or speak, and to the escape door.

  They remained standing, leaning against the wall, waiting and watching as the hall filled. At ten o’clock the door into the small room opened, and there was a great rustling sound as every officer in the room rose to his feet and came to attention. General Horatio Gates entered, followed by Major Armstrong, then Timothy Pickering. There was an instant, involuntarily intake of breath in the room as General George Washington, towering over them all, also entered. Every eye was on him as he followed the others to the chairs, and they remained standing while Horatio Gates took two steps to the lectern. Tending towards heaviness, round features, jowls beginning to sag, Gates smiled grandly before he spoke.

  “You may be seated.”

  No one moved until General Washington was seated. Then Armstrong and Pickering took their chairs next to his, and the officers sat down on their low, backless benches, silent, waiting.

  Gates continued. “This meeting is convened upon orders of our commander in chief, General George Washington.” He paused and turned toward Washington in the classic tradition of a showman. Washington did not move.

  Gates turned back. “General Washington has requested that I make a statement. As you know, the United States has a peace commission in France, engaged in arranging a treaty of peace with the British. When the treaty has been signed, Congress shall begin the process of dismissing this army.”

  There was a pause, then Gates went on. “You are aware that serious . . . questions . . . have arisen regarding the terms under which both the officers and enlisted will be discharged. Various promises have been made to the entire army in the past, which lately have become . . . troublesome, since it is now thought by many that those promises cannot be kept.”