Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  Washington’s words were scarcely audible. “I was there. I know.”

  Anger nearly choked Morris. “Those men—the ones who survived—suffered beyond anything I have ever seen. And they did it because they would not quit! What they were fighting for meant more than their suffering!”

  Morris was nearly trembling. “Most fought for more than two years with little or no pay. Twenty cents a year! That’s what the lucky ones got. The rest got a promise.”

  He stopped to regain control. “So when Congress appointed me Superintendent of Finance and directed me to set things right, I provided temporary relief to avoid a catastrophe, and I told Congress there was but one permanent solution: levy taxes. They tried, and failed.”

  Morris drew a great, weary breath, and for a moment a dead silence held the room. Then he leaned forward, and his words hung in the air like a cloud.

  “The problem has nothing to do with money. It has to do with a government that is structured for catastrophic failure. There isn’t the slightest chance the thirteen states are going to agree unanimously on anything to do with money, and lacking that unanimous agreement, the government is not, and never will be, capable of paying its debts because of its own Articles of Confederation! It is doomed. Absolutely doomed.”

  There it was! As clearly as mortal man could say it.

  Morris picked it up once again.

  “The Confederation government has been reduced to the status of a beggar. It must beg the states for money, and the states do not have it. The only other source of money is through the voluntary gifts—charity, if you will—of individuals. I have given my entire fortune in the cause.” He turned to Salomon. “This man has bankrupted himself of his fortune and ruined his health in paying government debts. I know you have freely given most of your private fortune, and refused to take one dollar in pay for your services in leading this army for the past eight years.”

  He threw one hand in the air. “Heroic! But not enough, and never will be.”

  He stopped, and Washington waited for his conclusion.

  “May I reach the bottom of this. It is simple: Americans abhor the thought of a strong central government—a king, a monarch, an all-powerful parliament. They fear and detest the idea of any one person or any institution being vested with power to control them. Each state has learned to handle its own government, and none of them, no, not one, can conceive of giving up local control in favor of a strong central government.”

  He stopped for a moment. “It is my opinion that the problem that resulted in that Lancaster debacle is the fact that Americans are shackled by their own minds. They cannot rise above localism! The revolution forced the individual states to unite against a common enemy, but their minds have not yet conceived that such a union can survive only if given the powers to do it. As deplorable as it may seem to them, that includes taxation.”

  Morris sank back in his chair, and it seemed the air went out of him. His head tipped forward, and for a time he stared at his hands, working one with the other.

  Washington studied him for several moments, then looked at Salomon. The little man met his gaze, eyes clear, face firm, and Washington knew he was looking into the soul of one of the great patriots of the entire revolution.

  “Mr. Salomon,” Washington quietly said, “I would value your views.”

  “I have not discussed this with Mr. Morris, but sir, he has stated it well. No government institution can long survive if it can not maintain itself, and that requires revenue. Until our people accept that and make provision, the financial crisis that is now shaking this government to its roots will continue.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Washington turned back to Morris. “Is that the urgent business that brought you here?”

  Morris nodded. “That, and one more thing. I am of the firm conviction that no state can, or will, make the necessary contribution to meet the immediate need. If that is true, sir, it is my opinion that the Lancaster rebellion is but the beginning. Temporary measures may stall it for a while, but in the end there can be only catastrophe.”

  “I see. Is it in your mind to continue to function in the office of the Superintendent?”

  “Yes, I will remain. I will do everything I can to delay the inevitable, but again I say, until the root problem is solved, there is nothing I or anyone else can do to avoid the final result.”

  For a time Washington stared at his desktop while his mind set things in order. “You realize this matter is beyond my commission. I command the army. Congress commands me. Only Congress can address such problems.”

  “I know that, sir. I have driven Congress to a near frenzy with my demands and arguments. And to what end? They now dread my very appearance in their chamber. I came here for another reason altogether.”

  Morris leaned forward, and there was an uncommon intensity in his face. “General, sir, make Congress wake up! They might listen to you. This country—the world—is on the brink of the greatest advance in thinking in recorded history, on the question of governments. Make them listen!”

  For a moment the three men sat motionless, Washington startled by what sounded like a direct order from Robert Morris, Salomon dumbfounded, Morris shocked at his own audacity. Morris continued.

  “But whatever you do, do not let the failure of Congress tarnish you. You’ve given too much. Don’t let their foolishness diminish you.”

  Time meant nothing as Washington sat silent, considering Morris’s frank, unvarnished request that he somehow persuade Congress to rise above itself, coupled with what was nothing less than a deep need in Morris to protect him. It came to Washington that Morris and Salomon had appeared before him in one, last great effort to save their country from ruin. The truths they had laid bare rose in his breast, terrible, appalling, as the three of them sat in silence, and then the feeling faded and was gone. Washington cleared his throat.

  “I suggest we do not speak of this meeting outside this room. I will make an entry in my personal journal, in which each of you will receive the credit you have so richly earned. Was there anything else?”

  Morris shook his head. “Nothing from me, sir.” He turned. “Mr. Salomon?”

  The little man reflected for a moment. “May I say, the suffering my people—the Jews—have endured has taught us many lessons. One is that from great pain comes great understanding. I do not know if I will live to see it, but I believe this country will rise above its own weaknesses. We will survive. We will flourish.”

  The declaration caught both Morris and Washington by surprise. For a moment neither man dared speak. Then Washington nodded.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Gentlemen, your concern is justified and your presentation deeply moving. I’m grateful to you for bringing them. If there is nothing else, you are dismissed.”

  Three minutes later Washington stood at the window of his crude office, curtain drawn back, watching the backs of the burly Morris and the slight Salomon as they walked to their waiting carriage. He watched them open the door, step up into the van, close the door, and wave to the driver. The dust from their departure had long settled before he turned from his window, sat down at his desk, reached for his quill, and drew out his personal journal.

  “ . . . this day I have had the high privilege of conferring with two of the finest patriots in the American cause . . .”

  Notes

  A substantial number of mutinous American militia from Lancaster did in fact march eighty miles east of Philadelphia, where they were joined by many from the Pennsylvania militia. They gathered at the Pennsylvania State House, where they surrounded the building and held Congress and the Pennsylvania Executive Council hostage pending agreement that their demands for a hearing of their grievances. Alexander Hamilton and James Madison were among the delegates in Congress. Elias Boudinot was the President of Congress, and John Dickinson was President of the Executive Council. The mob made their demands, Congress deferred, and John Dick
inson stated that the Pennsylvania militia would not protect any of them, quoted nearly verbatim herein. Alexander Hamilton thereupon declared the “to the last degree weak and disgusting!” as quoted herein. However, the confrontation between Hamilton and the leader of the mob, named Major Bates, as herein described, is hypothetical, intended to inform the reader of the matter as it truly developed.

  Immediately prior to the Lancaster uprising, Washington had completed the draft of his final message in his “Circulars to the States,” which was promptly denominated “Washington’s Legacy” and is partly quoted verbatim herein.

  The issue involved in the uprising was as described, the promises made to the soldiers by Congress and Pennsylvania regarding their pay and benefits from their war service. Some had not been paid for two years. Others had been given printed money called “Continental dollars,” issued by Congress, however, it took over 500 such Continental dollars to be worth one cent, which meant some soldiers received twenty cents per year for pay. Besides Continental dollars, each state had been issuing its own currency, and most of it was not backed by hard coin or gold. The result was a terrible chaos in the financial affairs of the country, both state and national. To solve the problem George Washington succeeded in getting Robert Morris to become the first Superintendent of Finance for the national government, an office created by Congress in their desperation to solve what they saw coming as described.

  At Washington’s insistence, Robert Morris contacted Haym Salomon, a Jewish financial genius, who gave his all to help the country in the financial calamity that threatened its very existence. It was through the efforts of these two men, Morris and Salomon, that enough money was provided to see the country through to the victory at Yorktown. It is not known that Robert Morris and Haym Salomon ever both met with Washington as herein described, but it is known that Morris delivered to Washington the critical message that he was certain the various states would not make the money contributions requested of them to avoid catastrophe. Much later, in November 1797, Washington found Robert Morris in debtors prison, the result of giving his wealth to support his country. Haym Salomon, his health broken from his unending efforts to save the American cause, died of illness on January 4, 1785, at age 45, leaving his wife and children penniless. A monument to honor the contributions of the three men, Washington, Morris, and Salomon, in their selfless giving to save America, has been erected in Chicago.

  Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation?, p. 39; Morris, The Forging of the Union, pp. 40–42, 50–54; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 299–305; Freeman, Washington, pp. 502–10, 733; Davis, Sectionalism in American Politics, pp. 40–58; Milgrim, Haym Salomon, Liberty’s Son, pp. 6–8, 84, 113–16, and see the Chicago monument with the figures of Haym Salomon, George Washington, and Robert Morris, p. 117.

  Boston

  June 1783

  CHAPTER XII

  * * *

  The thought rose in the mind of Kathleen Thorpe Dunson to set her glowing, and it repeated like a chant—he’s coming home, he’s coming home, he’s coming home! Wild anticipation swept through her, and she plunged into a torrent of mental inventions of how Matthew would arrive, and when and what he would be wearing, and what he would say, and what she would be wearing, and what she would say, and she clenched her hands beneath her chin, picturing the moment when he would sweep her into his arms and kiss her, and they could give expression to all the longing that had been building in their hearts since their separation, and it would come rushing over them like a great, irresistible tidal wave. He would arrive in the late afternoon and burst through the door, dashing and handsome in his naval uniform, and she would be devastating in her finest gown, and he would be tender but manly, and she would be demure but yielding, and she would have the table spread with the finest, shining white linen with needlepoint all around, and folded napkins, and the most expensive silver place settings. There would be goblets of the best English crystal and dozens of scented candles on great candlesticks, and she would have ham and breast of turkey waiting in the oven, and steamed oysters, candied yams, buttered potatoes, relishes and condiments in silver serving trays, and tarts and cakes, and he would be entranced by the richness in the air, and his eyes would glow with love as he understood that this was her humble offering at his homecoming. And she would take him by the hand to lead him into the small room where their little son, John, would be sleeping in his crib, and a look of wonder would steal into Matthew’s eyes as he reached to gently touch the dark thatch of hair, and he would turn to look at her and there would be worship in his face as he gathered her into his arms and . . .

  “Half past four o’clock and all’s well in good weather.”

  He’s coming home at half past four, and the turkey and ham are ready and I must change—half past four—and the tarts and cakes are cooling and—half past four . . .

  A tiny, faint voice came from deep within—four o’clock in the morning—the bellman not Matthew—the bellman—

  Kathleen stirred and slowly opened her eyes, struggling to come from the immaculately prepared table in the dining room to the world of reality in the blackness of her bedroom.

  Four o’clock—Matthew coming—

  A warm morning breeze moved in from the Atlantic across the Boston Peninsula to stir the curtains at the window and bring the familiar scent of salt sea air and the sounds of ships’ bells from the harbor. Kathleen swallowed dry and waited for the invented images to fade and those of the coming day to clarify.

  The bellman—not Matthew—Monday—wash day in Boston—he war changed many things—but not wash day in Boston—going to be hot today—must get up soon to start the fires for the wash water . . .

  Her eyes closed, and she drifted into that warm, comfortable place midway between sleep and consciousness, where reality is dulled and secret dreams arise. She did not stir again until the bellman’s call of half past five came from the cobblestone street in front of the great Thorpe home that had become hers following the banishment of her traitor father and the death of her mother in England. She threw back the sheet that covered her, swung her feet out onto the huge oval braided rag rug and into the woolen slippers at her bedside. She was tying the belt on her robe over her nightgown when she entered the parlor and walked to the fireplace where she used the brass fireplace shovel to open the bank of coals. She added tiny pine shavings to the glowing embers, blew gently with the leather bellows, then added more small sticks and shavings until the flames came licking. Back in her bedroom she dressed in a sturdy, gray, ankle-length cotton skirt and blouse, buckled on her high-topped leather work shoes, tied a white bandanna about her head to hold back her long, dark hair, and slipped into a heavy, full-length work apron.

  With the sun half risen, she poured the last bucket of well water into the huge black kettle, added two large chunks of wood to the fire beneath it, glanced at the heavy wooden washtub and the two rinse tubs on the long, sturdy wash bench, and walked back into the house. She stole silently into the room where John lay sleeping, then went through the house, gathering clothing and table linens into a large woven-reed basket. She walked silently down the hall to carry it out to the washbench near the tripod where wisps of steam were beginning to rise from the kettle. For a moment she paused to peer at the sky, judging the weather. The morning breeze had died, and Boston was locked in hot, humid, dead air. In every direction, thin, straight columns of gray smoke drifted upwards from fires heating wash water all over the peninsula. It was going to be another hot wash day in Boston town.

  At half past seven she used a long-handled dipper to move water from the steaming kettle to the big wooden washtub. She cut shavings of brown laundry soap from the bar into the water, stirred until it frothed, then loaded the first heap of clothing into the mix and punched it down with a peeled hickory stick to let it steam and soak. Ten minutes later she had the rinse tubs filled with hot water, then took twelve trips to the well to haul water in the heavy, waterlogged bucket to refill
the kettle.

  While the wash soaked and the water heated, she fed a fretful John his breakfast of mush and applesauce, changed his diaper, dressed him, and pressed her cheek against his forehead, feeling his temperature. Too warm—it’s those two big molars coming in. For a time she sat in the parlor rocker with him in her lap, gently rubbing his swollen gums with her little finger.

  “Does that feel good?” she crooned to him, and he whimpered when she stopped. “I know—I know,” she said and once again rubbed the tender gums, humming while she rocked him. She rose and walked to his room, held him on her hip while she stripped his bed with one hand, then went to her room to strip her own bed, and then moved out to the laundry tubs, John on one hip, the basket on the other, where she set the bedding on the washbench. She tied a fifteen-foot cord from the back of John’s shoulder straps to one of the posts supporting the clotheslines, set him in the grass, returned to the first load of soaked laundry, jammed the corrugated washboard into the water, drew a deep breath, rolled up her sleeves, and began.

  Gather a garment in both hands, up and down the board twenty times, wring it out, into the warm rinse water, take the next garment, up and down twenty times, wring it out, into the warm rinse water—fifteen minutes later she straightened, hands on her hips to relieve her back for a moment, then dipped out the dirty, cool wash water and refilled the tub with hot. Cut soap, stir, jam in the bedding, punch it down with the stick, and move to the rinse tub. Up and down with the first garment, wring it out as hard as she can twist, into the second rinse tub, pick up the next garment. Twenty minutes later she dropped the last garment into the last rinse tub, dipped the dirty rinse water from the first rinse tub, refilled it, moved to the second rinse tub and began the sloshing and wringing out of the finished load. Into the basket, over to the clothesline, fill her apron pockets with wooden clothes-pegs, two in her mouth, and hang the finished load. Empty the second rinse tub, refill it, then back to the scrubboard and start over.