Blood of Tyrants: George Washington & the Forging of the Presidency

by Logan Beirne

  To Washington, the Native American attacks were not just another horror of war; they were a grave affront, and as commander in chief, he had a duty to counter it. Ardent in his belief in the sanctity of American rights, he would defend his countrymen with a vengeance.

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  Band of Brethren

  As commander, Washington saw himself as the guardian of American liberty; but, on the flip side of the coin, he had far less respect for his enemies’ liberty. Washington treated men quite differently depending on their nationality.

  During the Revolutionary War, nationality was a tricky and somewhat fluid notion. For the first year of the war—from the Battle of Lexington to the start of the disastrous New York campaign—the “Americans” were technically British subjects. It was not until the Continental Congress issued the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776, that the Americans formally renounced their place within the British Empire. At that point, Americans would no longer be royal “subjects”; instead, they became “citizens.”

  The notion of citizenship was still a developing one, but it had a long history. The concept harks back to the ancient Greek city-states, particularly democratic Athens. In the fourth century B.C., Aristotle defined a citizen as “he who has the power to take part in the deliberative or judicial administration of any state.”1 Of course, this privilege was restricted to Greek male property owners.

  Such men had the right to vote and to hold office, but with these rights came duties: to pay taxes, serve in the military, and participate in their own self-governance. This meant not merely voting, typically conducted by a show of arms “naked to the shoulder,”2 but also being present, active, and vocal in the life of the city. In fact, the Greeks had a term for those who did not actively participate in their democracy: idiotai.3

  The Romans adopted a similar concept of citizenship, calling it civitas. Under the Roman Empire, citizenship grew more expansive, guaranteeing rights and protections of law. But many of these notions were lost as Rome disintegrated.

  During Europe’s medieval era from the fifth to the fifteenth century, a sense of citizenship existed in some free cities, but the concept of national citizenship was practically nonexistent.4 Instead, society revolved more around individuals’ feudal obligations to the nobles who controlled the land on which they worked. Ordinary people were “subjects” of a ruler and had few rights.5

  In the eighteenth century, the Western political world still clung to trappings of a sovereign-subject relationship. The members of the English king’s community were regarded as dependents who were afforded defense against outside aggressors in return for unwavering loyalty to the Crown. Under this tradition inherited by the American colonists, there was a general sense that there should be a distinction between outsiders, to whom the king owed nothing, and the king’s subjects, who had a right to protection.

  Analogized to the bond between parent and child, this king-subject relationship was one in which the subject held a “natural” allegiance to the king. This relationship was deemed immutable: the subject owed “lasting obedience to his natural superior, the king.”6 The Americans, however, bristled against this notion of perpetual allegiance.7 They rejected the perception of the king as a father figure to whom they owed a natural, unending loyalty. Instead, they developed the idea that the community owed allegiance only insofar as the government protected their rights. And King George III, along with Parliament, was not protecting theirs.

  Inspired by the revival of classical political philosophy that began in the Renaissance, the Americans embraced the relatively radical idea of citizenship. They sought to emulate ancient Greek democracy and the Roman Republic and likewise empower the people to participate in all aspects of government. However, just as in ancient Greece, not all types of people were considered citizens. The backbone of the new American republic was to be white men, while slaves and Native Americans were excluded. Moreover, white women were disfranchised citizens who could not vote or hold office.8 Instead, their role was to raise sons with the civic virtue required to govern the nation.

  The white, male American citizens owed their allegiance not to some monarch, as “subjects” did, but to each other.9 The citizens of the United States were to be their own masters and, together, to strive for the betterment of their country. A land of idiotai was to be avoided at all costs. Thus, American citizens were expected to fulfill their civic duties, which included remaining informed and actively improving their republic. Self-government meant hard work, but along with these duties came privileges.

  In some respects, American citizenship was a club. One congressman characterized the American citizenry as a “band of brethren, united to each other by the strongest ties, . . . attached to the same principles of government, very similar in their manners and customs.”10 Being a part of this band provided certain perks: citizens were guaranteed their natural right to “life, liberty, and property.”11 It was the government’s duty to protect these rights, and Washington, as commander in chief, served as the defender of citizens’ rights in wartime.

  This club of citizenship was so unaccustomed at the time that Thomas Jefferson, in an early draft of the Declaration of Independence, referred to the American people as “subjects.” But he remedied this mistake with zeal. While he simply crossed out other errors in the draft, “subjects” was the only word that he obliterated with the furious strokes of his pen.12 He was so intent on removing that word because it signaled loyalty to King George III. The Americans wished to renounce their allegiance to the British Crown and declare themselves citizens of the new United States of America. With the Declaration of Independence, the American people collectively naturalized everyone living in the states (except those of African descent and Native Americans) and automatically made them United States citizens. 13

  The Declaration basically formalized the prevailing notion that “Americans” were those who had lived in the colonies prior to the outbreak of war. In keeping with the general xenophobia common at the time, those who had recently emigrated from Britain were often viewed with suspicion, however. For example, Charles Lee was an Englishman who had moved to America only three years before the war. Even though his military qualifications were superior to those of the Virginia-born Washington, his relatively recent arrival—along with his many other faults—made Lee a less desirable candidate for commander in chief.14 But while newcomers were often distrusted, they were still generally considered Americans. Surprisingly, the same largely held true for Loyalists.

  Not even a clear majority of white males living in the United States actively supported the Revolution at the time. About 40 to 45 percent of them were active patriots, while approximately the same numbers where indifferent or uncommitted. The final 15 to 20 percent supported the British as Loyalists.15 This posed a dilemma for the Americans: quashing their fellow Americans’ rights ran afoul of their republican principles, but suppressing opposition to the Revolution was vital to the very survival of the new nation. With an estimated 50,000 Loyalists joining the British to fight against the patriots, these Tories were a serious threat.16

  They were hated. Likening them to “Spiders, Toads, [and] Snakes,” John Adams colorfully described them as “the most despicable Animal in Creation.”17 But at the same time, abusing them would violate the Americans’ own republican principles. While there was disagreement on the point, many Americans believed that Congress and the state governments acted on behalf of all the American people, including the unpatriotic ones. To many patriots, the Loyalists were indeed Americans. 18 Rather than treat them as British subjects, as many of them desired to remain, such patriots instead considered them a dissenting minority within the larger American society.19 And that minority was expected to obey the patriotic will of their neighbors. When they did not, they would be punished.20

  Some patriots certainly made life difficult for Loyalists—for while Washington saw American rights as sacrosanct, others were not as principled. Though the “A
merican revolutionists were [typically] not bloody-minded men” and the country never suffered a reign of terror on par with the mass murders perpetrated during other wars, there was nevertheless much violence and destruction. Patriot mobs looted Tory homes, taking valuables and burning other possessions. As discussed in Part II, patriotic mobs forced Loyalists to “ride the rails,” endure gruesome spickettings, and face tar and featherings.21 They whipped Loyalists, or forced them to sit on hot coals and cut off ears.22 They stripped many Loyalists of their freedom and even their lives. This was also a civil war, after all.

  “The division among the people is much greater than I imagined,” wrote Nathanael Greene, “and the Whigs [patriots] and Tories persecute each other, with little less than savage fury. There is nothing but murders and devastation in every quarter.”23 The threat of violence and destruction was so palpable that even many of the bravest Loyalists backed down or fled from patriot wrath. One such man, ironically, was rather friendly with Washington.

  Reverend Jonathan Boucher was a gifted orator and outspoken critic of the Revolution. Although he had served as Washington’s stepson’s teacher and enjoyed cordial relations with the great patriot, his loyalties remained with Britain. Cutting an imposing figure, this argumentative gentleman possessed a prominent widow’s peak and confident eyes that blazed from his pulpit. From his strong jaw spewed fiery sermons that condemned the revolutionaries. This made Boucher some powerful enemies, and he took to preaching with loaded pistols under the cushions on his chair in church.

  One Sunday, Boucher faced a mob of two hundred patriots blocking his way to the pulpit. The mob’s leader forbade him to give his sermon, but to the dauntless reverend “there was but one way by which they could keep me out of it, and that was by taking away my life.” With his sermon in one hand and a pistol in the other, Boucher obstinately pressed on towards the altar. He was saved only because a friend threw his arms around him and warned that twenty men were under orders to fire the moment he reached the pulpit.24 Like many Loyalists, Boucher fled the country.

  Many patriots in Congress and among state authorities regarded such “lawless mobs” as an effective means of suppressing the Loyalists. In fact, the New York Provincial Congress even ordered that the pitch and tar “necessary for the public use and public safety” be made available. 25 While mob action lacked any strict legal backing, it was often met with a wink and a nod from the authorities. And Washington often did not see it as his place to stop the mobs, since he did not want the military to interfere in matters sanctioned by the civil authorities, if only implicitly. For example, as related in Part II, Washington scolded Old Put for interrupting the New York City patriots’ abuse of the Tories.

  Congress was slow to develop a formal system for suppressing the Loyalists. They began gingerly by striking at the citizens’ wallets. Couching their actions in moral terms, Congress held that anyone “so lost in virtue and regard for his country” that he refused to accept the (quickly devaluing) bills of credit that Congress used to finance the war would be treated as an enemy and therefore “precluded from all trade or intercourse” with other Americans.26 This was akin to imposing an embargo on their own people. When this relatively gentle action did not seem effective in quelling the Loyalist threat, Congress gradually invented harsher measures.

  Next, Congress recommended that local authorities disarm all those who were “notoriously disaffected to the cause of America, or who have not associated, and shall refuse to associate, to defend, by arms, these United Colonies, against the hostile attempts of the British fleets and armies; . . . .”27 This was another attack on property, but the patriots could not allow the Tories to keep their weapons. Guns in the hands of Loyalists had proven to be too great a danger to the revolutionary cause. And when Washington uncovered a potentially disastrous Loyalist plot, Congress realized that its legal weaponry against the Loyalists needed even more bite.

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  Poison & Peas

  One Loyalist scheme was feared to be such an elaborate conspiracy that it “would have made America tremble, and been as fatal a stroke” to the Revolution had it been carried out. As one patriot reported, the plan was “to have murdered, with trembling heart I say it, the best man on earth, Gen. Washington.”1 Although the facts were never fully uncovered, shocking rumors implicated high-ranking New York politicians, musicians in the Continental Army, and even Washington’s own bodyguards.

  Like any good story, this tale of intrigue began with a mysterious woman. One warm June afternoon in 1776, she insisted on speaking privately with the commander. Taking her aside, the general learned of an “infernal plot”: the woman claimed to have witnessed one of Washington’s bodyguards poisoning his peas for that evening’s dinner!2

  According to one account, the unflappable Washington reacted calmly and decisively: he threw the peas into the yard, where some unlucky hungry chickens swiftly met their demise.3 Convinced that the woman’s revelation was true, he then pondered his next move. A master of espionage, Washington knew it was imperative that he act with secrecy so as not to lose the element of surprise. He quietly called a meeting among his trusted friends and members of the New York Provincial Congress. They set up a twenty-four-hour guard, secured civilian approval to strike against the Loyalist suspects, and then patiently prepared to act.

  On a night soon thereafter, Washington went to bed at his usual hour, but then arose at two in the morning. He soothingly told Martha—who was visiting him at his headquarters, as she often did—to “make herself easy, and go to sleep.” He told her that he was merely “a going, with some of the Provincial Congress, to order some Tories seized.”4 But he was really going on an all-night raid to unravel a plot against his life.

  Carrying lanterns and “proper instruments to break open houses,” Washington and a few select men set out to apprehend the conspirators. By sunrise, they had arrested forty men, including several merchants, five of Washington’s bodyguards, and even the mayor of New York City. Washington soon gained confessions from various members of this motley crew and discovered that they had planned to “assassinate the General, and as many of the superior officers as they could, and to blow up the [Americans’ ammunition] upon appearance of the enemy’s fleet, and to go off in boats prepared for that purpose to join the enemy.”5 Had such a plot been accomplished, it would very likely have ended the Revolution.

  As Washington dug deeper, the backstory unfolded. The mastermind of the plot was the royal governor of New York, William Tryon. With a double chin to match his ill-defined cheeks, Tryon was “haughty and unfeeling in temper, fond of show and of absolute power.”6 And he astutely used his military and aristocratic social connections to gain that power. Securing a royal appointment as governor of New York, he reveled in the role. He lavished tax dollars on ostentatious displays of wealth and grandeur as he entertained New York’s elite. But when war broke out, the patriots became rather unruly constituents. It was “very probable,” wrote Tryon, that he might be “taken prisoner, as a state Hostage, or obliged to retire on board one of His Majesty’s Ships of War to avoid the insolence of an inflamed mob.”7 This proved prophetic.

  Soon after the outbreak of war, the Continental Congress had recommended that the states arrest all royal officers bold enough to remain in the colonies. The New York Provincial Congress was not yet willing to follow through on that suggestion, but Tryon considered it wise to sneak off to the safety of the British gunships sitting around New York City. Though exiled in effect, this shrewd and cunning man was still dangerous.

  Washington feared that Tryon might use his considerable influence to encourage more Loyalist New Yorkers to fight against the patriots. The commander ordered one of his officers to “Keep a watchful Eye upon Governor Tryon, and if you find him directly or indirectly, attempting any Measures inimical to the common Cause, use every Means in your Power to frustrate his Designs [and] if forcible Measures are judged necessary, . . . I should have no Difficulty in ordering o
f it, if the Continental Congress was not sitting.”8 And Washington’s wariness was well founded. Tryon indeed was eager to suppress the patriots and regain his seat of power. To do his bidding, he soon called upon the Loyalist whom he had appointed as mayor of New York City, David Mathews.

  The “obnoxious” Mathews was a money-hungry attorney who seized the chance to cash in on Tryon’s scheme.9 With a wife and ten children, he certainly had many mouths to feed. And he boldly remained with them in his home within American lines around New York City, even as Washington’s forces swarmed around it.10 Although Washington and others suspected his Loyalist leanings, they respected Mathews’s rights as an American. He used this respect against them and began to employ his sanctuary within the American lines to liaise with other undercover agents. Mathews readily recruited Loyalists and even convinced some patriots to defect with the lure of Tryon’s British pounds—of which he would presumably take a cut, of course. Mathews and his henchmen were rumored to have persuaded an astonishing seven hundred patriots to defect to the British side.11 One such defector was Washington’s bodyguard Thomas Hickey.

  Hickey was a rascal who had previously deserted the British Army. At five foot six, he was sturdily built and had a complexion that was rather dark for an Irishman. 12 Having cultivated a good reputation while residing in Wethersfield, Connecticut, he was selected to join Washington’s newly formed personal guard. Although this trusted position was quite honorable, Hickey was looking for something more lucrative. He decided to moonlight for a counterfeiting ring.

  The currency of the era employed few security measures. The bills did not have especially complicated designs or colors nor did they use special ink. In fact, all a counterfeiter needed was an ordinary printing press and a certain kind of paper, which was not too difficult to come by. One just needed to know the right press operators.13