by Logan Beirne
To appease the British for these alleged offenses, the Americans put Henley on trial. But it was a sham inquiry since the Americans were unwilling to condemn one of their own.17 The tantrum-prone patriot was cleared of wrongdoing, and Washington then appointed Henley as his intelligence officer and commander of prisoners. The commander had placed Henley in charge of screening prisoners and procuring intelligence.
Washington had shown that he was willing—if absolutely necessary—to use prisoners as pawns in an effort to protect his people. In fact, British intelligence suggested that he may even have used random executions to further the American cause. One episode revolved around a gentleman affectionately known as “Old Huddy.”
Captain Joseph Huddy was an ardent patriot from New Jersey.18 The state militia had sent him to oversee the defense of Toms River, including its small yet strategic port and its salt warehouses. At the time, Toms River was a busy seaside village that had become a prominent center of activity for patriot privateers, who used small merchant ships jerry-rigged with cannon to seize the lucrative cargoes of Loyalist and British ships. They grew to be quite a threat. One privateer sailed across the Atlantic to assault the British mainland—the first such attack in seven centuries—in the process coining the battle cry “I have not yet begun to fight!”19 Britain was determined to eradicate the menace and encouraged Loyalist assistance in doing so.
After a privateer attacked a prominent Loyalist ship off the coast of New Jersey, the outraged Tory’s “Board of Associated Loyalists” launched an offensive.20 Their heavily armed regiment descended on Toms River in a surprise attack. Old Huddy’s small defensive force was completely outgunned and outnumbered, but refused to surrender without a fight. Stationed in a wooden blockhouse—more akin to just a reinforced house than a true defensive fortification—Huddy bravely defended the town.21 Despite his heroics, the patriots were overwhelmed. The town rendered defenseless upon Huddy’s defeat, the Tories then went about pillaging, burning down the blockhouse, the salt warehouse, and all but two homes.22 The privateer port destroyed, the Loyalists next turned their bloodlust back towards their new captive, Old Huddy. They grabbed their defenseless prisoner and “on a gallows made of mere rails he was cruelly treated and then hanged.”23
As the shell-shocked townspeople emerged from the rubble, news of the gruesome episode began to spread rapidly throughout the countryside. The inhabitants of the surrounding region “cried out for retaliation.”24 Referring to the incident as “the most wanton, unprecedented and inhuman Murder that ever disgraced the Arms of a civilized people,” Washington demanded that the Loyalist officer who ordered the execution be handed over.25 Otherwise, he wrote, “I shall hold myself justifiable in the Eyes of God and Man, for the measure to which I shall resort.”26 When the British refused to comply, Washington called for blood.
Terrified British captives reported to their superiors, “Mr. Washington & Congress are going to commit such an act of Cruelty, and Breach of Faith that cannot be equaled in civilized Nations.”27 One British prisoner explained that the Americans were intent on making “the Innocent suffer for the guilty” by ordering prisoners to draw lots for their lives.28 Thirteen slips of paper were placed in a hat, “all blank except one, upon which was written the word ‘unfortunate.’”29 In protest and fear, the British prisoners refused to draw. The Americans were unrelenting, however, and simply drew slips for them. The “unfortunate lot” fell on Captain Charles Asgill, “who was immediately ordered into close Confinement . . . and [was] to be hanged” unless the British surrendered the leader of the party who murdered Old Huddy.30
“An amiable youth,” Asgill was the twenty-year-old son of a prominent English baronet.31 With his soft, youthful features, arched eyebrows, and pug nose, he certainly looked the part of a lamb being led to the slaughter. His noble family’s only son, he had lived a privileged life, splitting his time between London and his family’s scenic holiday estate along the River Thames. Washington agonized over the quandary before him. He was all too aware that the young man was an innocent victim in all this. However, not only did Huddy’s murder demand retribution as a matter of principle, but to turn a blind eye could endanger future American captives. If Washington did not retaliate, the British side was liable to treat other American prisoners similarly.
Washington needed to send a strong signal to his enemies. While he suffered “anxiety and poignant distress” over the pending execution, he nevertheless remained “firm and inflexible in his determination to obtain satisfaction, or pursue a course, that will tend to deter others from a repetition of crimes so derogatory to the laws of humanity, of war, and of justice.”32 Supported by Congress and the American public, Washington did not relent. And his resolve set off an international incident.
When word of Asgill’s plight reached his family estate, his mother fainted and his sister disintegrated into an emotional wreck. “The extreme grief of his mother, the sort of delirium which clouded the mind of his sister at hearing of the dreadful fate which menaced the life of her brother, interested every feeling mind.”33 Lady Sarah Asgill, determined to save her son, composed herself and quickly launched an international lobbying campaign.
The valiant woman proved to be a shrewd diplomat. Spreading word of her family’s plight—albeit with the slight misinformation that Charles was only nineteen, a detail that made her “teen” son seem even more sympathetic—she successfully elicited the “attention and solicitude of almost all Europe.”34 In a time when news generally traveled slowly, this heart-wrenching story spread like wildfire as it found its way to the lips of every town gossip. The far-flung “interest which young Asgill inspired” was so great that “the first question asked of all vessels that arrived from any port in North America, was an inquiry into the fate of this young man.”35 The world watched the showdown as Britain refused to remit Huddy’s killer and Washington readied the young man to be hanged in retaliation.
Pulling on Britain’s heartstrings, Lady Asgill threw herself at the feet of George III and pleaded for direct intercession. The British king, eager to have this scandal behind him, ordered his commanders to remit Huddy’s killer to Washington. They disobeyed—whether from shocking insubordination or simple miscommunication is unclear. Since the British proved immalleable, Lady Asgill redirected her efforts to the Americans’ allies. Next, the Dutch implored the Americans to pardon young Asgill, but Washington was unrelenting.36 Finally, the resolute Lady Asgill approached the United States’ most important ally, France.
The Americans desperately needed French money and support for their cause, and Lady Asgill knew it. And luckily for Captain Asgill, she was of French Huguenot origin and held sway in the French court. She wrote a letter to France’s leaders, “the eloquence of which [was] that of all people and all languages, because it derive[d] its power from the first and noblest sentiments of our nature.”37 It was “enough to move the heart of a savage,” yet Washington refused to back down.38 Only after months of negotiations and even a direct appeal from Queen Marie Antoinette was Asgill released, but not before Washington had made America’s intent to exact an eye for an eye abundantly clear.
George Washington abhorred prisoner abuse. He wanted to elevate his nascent republic’s conduct to a higher moral plane than the brutal European wars of the past. And so, at the start of the war, he ordered that the British prisoners in his custody be treated with humanity. But the brutal realities of war compelled him to deviate from this lofty ideal.
The British fiercely abused their American captives. They beat them. They burned them. They starved them. They butchered them. Washington was forced to act. And so he used his captives. Abuse became a weapon by which Washington could retaliate against the British outrages and help prevent future harm to his people. It was a horrible but practical tool. It was used to obtain better treatment for American prisoners, to suppress Loyalists, and even to save lives. The commander in chief was willing to deploy this necessary evil against the enem
y in order to defend the nation.
The world and circumstances certainly have changed. Brute reprisals have largely been replaced by individual punishment for violations of the laws of war. No longer are we using prisoners as leverage to save American captives—we have given up on hopes that terrorists will treat our people with humanity. Instead, we debate whether torture should be a last resort in obtaining information that will save American servicemen and civilians alike. However imperfect the analogy may be—and it certainly is imperfect—it is worth remembering Washington’s precedents as today’s commander in chief grapples with what must be done to defend the American people.
Washington’s actions were rooted in an innate sense of right and wrong in view of his moral obligation to protect his countrymen. This fundamental principle continues to influence our thinking today.
Walking along the well-trod paths of a serene park in East Haddam, Connecticut, one could expect to pass families out for an afternoon of exploring nature. The park is known for its tranquility, as the gentle roar of a waterfall drowns out the noises of the quaint suburbia that surrounds it. The peacefulness that visitors enjoy as they stroll alongside the gushing stream’s gray boulders ensures that thoughts of war and prisoner abuse are the last thing on their minds.
While times and tactics may have changed, history does not. America’s past remains, bubbling just beneath the surface like Mr. Beebe’s millstone.
III
DICTATOR OF AMERICA
“[T]he Congress having given up the government,
confessing themselves unequal to it, and creating
Mr. Washington dictator of America . . .”
—LORD GEORGE GERMAIN, BEFORE THE BRITISH
HOUSE OF COMMONS, 1776
At the heart of New York City’s famous Wall Street, a majestic statue of George Washington soars above the bustling foot traffic. From atop a large marble pedestal, the towering bronze sculpture stoically gazes over the crowd towards the New York Stock Exchange. The great hero wears a flowing jacket decorated with large buttons beneath a striking cape. With his right hand extended outward, he steps forward as if to honor the proverbial right foot on which he set the nation.1
This tribute to the nation’s father stands before the entrance to Federal Hall, which houses a museum commemorating Washington’s role in founding our country. In a nod to the democratic republic’s roots in classical antiquity, the hall boasts Greek revival architecture with marble columns and a relief etching inspired by the Parthenon. Complete with Washington’s Greek-godlike statue in front, the scene appears to have been plucked from the Acropolis and dropped into Manhattan. Although such a grand building would rise over its surroundings in most other parts of the United States, here it is dwarfed by gleaming skyscrapers on all sides. As the fabled New York financial district has grown around it, Federal Hall has remained as a tribute to a long-ago era. The stark contrast between the sleek modern city and the stout old hall presents the appearance of a time warp—one that abruptly pulls passersby back to the nation’s roots.
Washington’s image stands at a symbolic crossroads of America’s affluence and apprehension. Like the republic they honor, Federal Hall and its monument have not been immune from attack. The terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001 marked a turning point not only for the nation, but also for Federal Hall. The structure was so shaken when the Twin Towers fell that the trauma spread deep cracks in its walls, and many feared they might crumble. As the country has worked to mend its wounds from that infamous day, construction crews have labored to reinforce Federal Hall. But the nation has not just returned to the status quo. The national psyche has been fundamentally altered as we seek to guard against future attacks.
Vowing “never again,” New York City blockaded Wall Street as a precaution against the terrorist threat. This historic street, which has borne the weight of everything from horse-drawn carriages to Model Ts to yellow hybrid taxicabs, is now accessible only on foot. Pedestrians are closely monitored by video surveillance and heavily armed New York police as they mill beneath Washington’s likeness.
The statue’s face glimmers with the reflections of camera flashes. Visitors from all around the world, wearing jeans and T-shirts, come to snap photographs of the area, blocking annoyed financiers, lawyers, and other professionals busily rushing by in their well-tailored dark suits. Whether the members of this motley crew of pedestrians take the time to admire historic Federal Hall and get a picture or just take it for granted as they bound to their next meeting, Washington’s monument stands as a testament to the great man’s critical role in creating the prosperous city and nation around it.
On Wall Street, Washington is celebrated for making America possible. He changed the course of history, and the Americans working in the skyscrapers that surround Federal Hall owe him their gratitude. Even as those buildings shook and the Twin Towers fell, the “Father of Our Country” stood firm as the stoic protector of New York City. Little do the passersby know that Washington once lobbied Congress to burn lower Manhattan to the ground. And he got his wish.
The chapters in Part III delve into how Washington exercised his war powers in relation to the authority of Congress. In so doing, they detail how the concept of the American commander in chief developed in the heat of war.
13
Scorpion on a Leash
“Had I been left to the dictates of my own judgment,” General Washington confided to a relative, “New York should have been laid in Ashes.”1 He wrote these words in a moment of frustration. Congress had just overruled his military tactics. While willing to grant him broad authority over enemy prisoners, they were wary of granting any military leader sweeping control over war strategy. Instead, they kept Washington on a short leash early in the war and micromanaged his military decisions. But this leash lengthened as the war raged—and Washington became untethered once America realized that their commander needed to be a powerful one in order to protect the nation.
Washington was not always so trusted. In fact, America watched him with suspicion at the outset of the Revolution. Many feared that he might use his military power to subjugate the politicians and strangle the infant republic in its crib. One such watchdog was a fiery patriot from Massachusetts, John Adams.
At forty years old, Adams was a prominent Boston attorney who had emerged as one of the leaders of the Revolution. His ingenious head was balding on top, with a powdered mane that bushed out on the sides. Highly educated in Enlightenment republican values, he drew upon his vast erudition as his small bow mouth lobbed fierce calls for independence. Accentuating the ardor of his fiery words, his ruddy cheeks grew redder and his blue eyes blazed with his passion for the revolutionary cause.2 Known to drink a large tankard of hard cider every morning before breakfast, Adams was not a man characterized by unfailing restraint.3 In his unbounded zeal to oust the British, he was a strong proponent of creating an army and selecting Washington to lead it. This did not mean he had complete faith in Washington, however. “We don’t choose to trust you Generals, with too much Power, for too long Time,” he said.4 Prevailing republican ideology held that a professional army was a tool of tyranny that was liable to corrupt whoever controlled it. Needless to say, Adams kept a close eye on the United States’ first commander.
With this kind of mistrust permeating the nation, it was unsurprising that Washington’s commission as commander in chief was careful to remind him that he was required to “observe such orders and directions, from time to time, as you shall receive from this, or a future Congress of these United Colonies, or committee of Congress.”5 Adams and other suspicious congressmen were intent on scrutinizing his war tactics, and with this directive they reserved the right to meddle incessantly. They developed committees to oversee the war effort, even sending (sometimes militarily clueless) congressmen to the warfront so that they might approve or disapprove of Washington’s proposed tactics. While America saw Washington as a virtuous and principled man, they were not ready
to hand over the reins completely . . . yet.
Washington was careful to earn America’s trust early in the war. He assured Congress and the state legislatures that he was a reluctant general who had given up “the Enjoyments of domestic Life” in order to restore “Peace, Liberty, and Safety.”6 Keenly aware of the long history of military leaders helping to overthrow one tyrant only to take his place, Washington knew that Congress feared their commander would turn out to be the fabled scorpion hitching a ride on the frog’s back across the river. And so he tried to convince the political “frogs” that it was not necessarily in a commander in chief’s nature to sting them by usurping their power and trampling the Revolution’s republican ideals.7 He reminded Americans of his great devotion to liberty as a civilian, and he asked them not to perceive him differently now that he was the commander in chief. “When we assumed the Soldier,” he said, “we did not lay aside the Citizen, & we shall most sincerely rejoice in that happy Hour when the establishment of American Liberty . . . shall enable us to return to our Private Stations in the bosom of a free, peaceful & happy Country.”8 And his actions reinforced his words.
The commander endeavored to shape the army into a symbol of American virtue. He wanted to show that his army was not something to be feared, but a group of upstanding fellow citizens led by a righteous commander who humbly served them.
Washington encouraged his men to attend religious services. Although raised in a pious Christian household, Washington himself was not openly religious, partaking in Anglican services only irregularly and refusing communion.9 In keeping with his proclivity for understatement, he chose to keep his beliefs private, shying from displays of religiosity and even direct references to Jesus Christ, preferring to instead refer to “the Divine Author of our blessed Religion.”10 While he was unwilling to shout it from the rooftops, Washington’s writings reflect deep-seated faith. He repeatedly wrote of a divine “Providence” that “protected [him] beyond all human expectation” so that he might serve a higher purpose—leading his country.11 And religion was crucial to doing so. Washington viewed it as an important part of the budding republic, and professed his ardent desire that “every officer and man, will endeavour so to live, and act, as becomes a Christian Soldier defending the dearest Rights and Liberties of his country.”12 To this end, he provided for chaplains from various denominations to accompany his army. Ecumenical in his approach, he understood religion to be crucial to fostering morality among his troops, thereby assuaging the fears of the populace they were supposed to protect.