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

by Logan Beirne

  As the war wound down, Washington settled with his troops in winter quarters near West Point, in the town of Newburgh, New York. No longer burdened by battles, marches, or fear of attack, the troops milled about, anxiously contemplating their future. And if idle hands do the devil’s work, here in Newburgh the devil was using them to foment a military coup.

  The intrigue began to unfold when the destitute army readied “to procure justice to itself,” just as Nicola had foretold.17 On March 10, 1783, two anonymous tracts circulated, calling on the soldiers to “assume a bolder tone” with Congress and “never sheath your swords . . . until they had obtained justice.”18 The troops were exhorted to do something about a “country that tramples upon your rights, disdains your cries and insults your distresses.” Declaring that the army would not “Go, starve and be forgotten,” the mysterious author—signing the tracts only as “a fellow soldier”—urged the troops “to oppose tyranny, under whatever garb it may assume; whether it be the plain coat of republicanism, or the splendid robe of royalty.”19

  When his officers planned an unauthorized meeting to discuss the situation, Washington saw a grave threat brewing: it appeared that the army was sliding down a slippery slope towards mutiny and even armed conflict with Congress. He foresaw the possibility of the army marching to Philadelphia to demand their pay at gunpoint. Trembling with anger and shock, he intervened.20

  Washington blasted the unapproved meeting and vowed “to arrest, on the spot, the foot that stood wavering on a tremendous precipice, to prevent the Officers from being taken by surprize while the passions were all inflamed, and to rescue them from plunging themselves into a gulph of Civil horror from which there might be no receding.”21 Although he sympathized with his men and even admitted that the anonymous call to action was an elegant “force of expression,” he needed to nip the uprising in the bud.22 It could send the country spiraling into civil war, perhaps lead to military rule, or even invite the British to resume hostilities.23 Washington forbade the unauthorized meeting and proposed, instead, his own meeting of officers for March 15 so that they might air their grievance via ordinary channels.24 Plus, this would give them a few days to cool off.

  Since the commander was not expected to attend this meeting, his old rival Horatio Gates would chair it. This was ironic, because circumstantial evidence pointed to his involvement in the plot: the two anonymous tracts were believed to have been written by his former aide and his current aide, thus leading some to pin the culpability squarely on “Gates and those around him.”25 Although his military ascent may have been halted, his political ambitions remained active. But with little direct proof linking Granny Gates to the scheme, it was unclear whether he had been pulling the strings or merely lending a sympathetic ear. Regardless, with the tract exhorting the troops to “suspect the man who would advise to more moderation,” namely Washington, the commander was in danger.26

  On the day of the meeting, the officers anxiously milled within a building called the “Temple of Virtue” due to its use as a church, dance hall, and Masonic lodge.27 But at noon on that Saturday, the Temple was far from sanctified. A palpable anger permeated the hall along with the aroma of its freshly milled wood. The murmur of complaints was abruptly cut off by an unexpected attendee—Washington had entered.

  Washington’s solid steps echoed through the cavernous room. He strode to the front and stood before his surprised officers. Although a man of astonishing control over his emotions, Washington was “sensibly agitated.”28 It being the first and only time that he stood in opposition to his men, he began by reading a lengthy address from a script, uncharacteristically replete with exclamation points.29 Washington reminded the stone-faced officers of his own devotion to them as their “constant companion and witness of [their] distress.” He pledged to use his power to champion their cause and entreated them to “place full confidence in the purity of intentions of Congress.”30 He next turned to castigating the “insidious foe” who had penned the anonymous letters, decrying:this dreadful alternative of either deserting our country in the extremest hour of her distress, or turning our arms against it, which is the apparent object, unless Congress can be compelled into instant compliance. My God! what can this writer have in view, by recommending such measures? Can he be a friend to the army? Can he be a friend to this country?31

  He ordered his men to join with him in suppressing this movement to “overturn the liberties of our country and deluge our rising empire in blood.” Attempting to rouse their “sacred honor,” he implored them to “give one more distinguished proof of unexampled patriotism and patient virtue, rising superior to the pressure of the most complicated sufferings.”32

  Washington’s men were mostly unmoved—hunger trumped words. For all his political genius, he was proving ineffective in maneuvering the country from the verge of a military coup. Looking at the faces of the men before him, Washington sighed. He had failed. But, as had happened so many times throughout his life, a twist of fate would save him—and the republic.

  In a last-ditch effort, Washington reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a letter illustrating “the good disposition in Congress towards the army.”33 But he began to stumble through the closely written words of the congressman’s scribble. His officers leaned forward, “their hearts contracting with anxiety” as they observed their gallant commander suddenly appear confused and helpless.34 Then he reached into his pocket again and withdrew something they had never seen: his spectacles.

  By April 1783, Washington was fifty-one years old and had aged noticeably since attaining his commission as commander in chief eight years earlier. Violent bloodshed, crushing defeat, stinging sleet, and untold hardships had turned the youthful farmer into a haggard veteran. As inevitably happens, his eyesight eroded along with his youth. During the last part of the war, he had begun borrowing eyeglasses from his officers. Increasingly dependent on them to keep up with his voluminous correspondence, he contacted David Rittenhouse, a renowned mathematician, astronomer, inventor, and optical expert. Washington asked him to craft a pair of spectacles, sending him the borrowed lenses that best met his needs so that Rittenhouse would “know how to grind his Christals.”35 Honored, Rittenhouse promptly began the task at his workshop in Philadelphia. After less than a month, Washington received two pairs of eyeglasses, one with ornate silver frames, and was pleased at how they “shew those letters very distinctly which at first appear like a mist blended together and confused.”36

  Rittenhouse had donated his own time and expertise, but asked reimbursement from Washington for the silversmith’s charge. Had he known how prominently the glasses would be featured in the annals of history, he may have absorbed the extra cost and portrayed himself for posterity as even more generous.

  As he brought the spectacles to his eyes in the Temple of Virtue, Washington self-consciously told his officers, “Gentlemen, you must pardon me. I have grown gray in the service of my country and now find myself growing blind.”37 They had never seen him exhibit vulnerability before. This was the man who refused to flinch as musket and cannon fire whizzed past his face. Ignoring the words coming from his mouth, they instead fixated on the imagery. This display, “so natural, so unaffected,” was “superior to the most studied oratory,” reported one witness, adding that “it forced its way into the heart, and you might see sensibility moisten every eye.” As Washington spoke, “every doubt was dispelled, and the tide of patriotism rolled again in its wonted course. Illustrious man!”38 With one unplanned gesture, Washington had melted their anger and possibly saved the republic. He departed the hall, and his officers reaffirmed their support for him and for the United States government. Eventually, the soldiers did receive much of the pay owed them.

  The Continental Congress approved the peace treaty on April 15, 1783, and it was officially signed on September 3. Thanks to Washington’s leadership, America had won the war. The fight was bloody. It was messy. The nation had fumbled time and again. But America
did what it took to win and the United States emerged triumphant as a democratic republic. Now the world wondered: what would happen next?

  35

  The Greatest Man in the World

  While sitting for a portrait, King George III questioned the American-born painter Benjamin West about General Washington’s plans for the future. Although he was now the royal court painter, living in London, West retained friendships in America and kept abreast of happenings across the Atlantic. In fact, he so fiercely clung to his roots that he bravely confessed to the king his desire to paint a portrait of Washington.1 The king thus viewed West as a window into the American psyche and was said to have asked him whether he thought Washington would retain control of the army or immediately become the head of state. West replied, “They say he will return to his farm.” According to the legend, the king let out a huff of disbelief and said, “If he does that, he will be the greatest man in the world.”2 He would.

  The British evacuated New York City on November 25, 1783. Not above petty antics, the redcoats nailed a British flag to a sixty-foot flagpole at the Battery, greasing the pole to make the Americans look foolish when they struggled to remove it. They also went about removing any Stars and Stripes prematurely raised. According to lore, when a drunken Bloody Bill Cunningham spotted one such flag outside Day’s Tavern in Harlem, he went to tear it down. To his great surprise, the “robust” Mrs. Day burst from the tavern, fist and broom flying. Beaten until “the powder flew from his wig,” Cunningham retreated with a bloody nose.3 He would live out his last few years in Britain before he was convicted for forgery and hanged. Poetic justice was served.

  Once all the troops and fleeing Loyalists were aboard, the majestic warships’ sails filled with the wind and they slowly set off for the British Isles. Throngs of gloating patriots lined the wharves to jeer the humiliated redcoats and the thousands of Loyalists who accompanied them. In anger, the British responded with a boom, firing a cannon towards their hecklers. The lead ball splashed harmlessly into the river, and as it sank into the dark gray waters, the last vestige of British rule in the United States disappeared along with it.

  Having secured the nation’s independence at last, Washington marched into New York City to a jubilant racket of fife, drum, and fanfare. Like returning home after much time away, even the intact neighborhoods of the bustling island appeared intangibly altered despite the familiar facades. Whether it was the city that changed or the viewer, Washington cared little. He had yearned to retake Manhattan for so long, but now he cared most about getting home to Mount Vernon.

  He ordered his officers to Fraunces Tavern for a meeting on December 4, 1783. The stately brick inn had served as a meeting place for the Sons of Liberty at the outbreak of war, and then, during the British occupation, the Freemason who ran the tavern served as an American spy. Considering the central role it played throughout the Revolution, Washington viewed the handsome corner tavern as the perfect place for an impromptu goodbye.

  Raising a glass of Madeira, Washington stood to address the three dozen officers gathered in the long banquet hall. With sidelong rays of the weak December sun pouring in through the tall windows of the elegant room, he took a moment of “almost breathless silence” to gaze upon the men in their blue and gold uniforms. “His emotions were too strong to be concealed which seemed to be reciprocated by every officer present,” recounted one of those officers.4 Together they had fought, shivered, and suffered for so many years, but it was over at last. Washington could finally say, “With a heart full of love and gratitude I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable.”5

  The aloof general—a man who normally was not to be touched—then surprised everyone: he began doling out kisses. His deep voice announced, “I cannot come to each of you but shall feel obliged if each of you will come and take me by the hand.”6 The first officer to approach him received more than he expected. Washington, “suffused in tears, was incapable of utterance but grasped his hand when they embraced each other in silence. In the same affectionate manner every officer in the room marched up to, kissed, and parted with this General-in-Chief.”7 The speechless room turned into a “scene of sorrow and weeping.” After embracing the last man, Washington raised his arm to wave farewell to “his grieving children” and departed without looking back.8 He was ready to go home.

  Washington boarded a barge and set out to visit Congress. This conduct elicited “astonishment and amazement,” for it was “so novel, so inconceivable to People, who, far from giving up powers they possess, are willing to convulse the Empire to acquire more.”9 As he headed south from New York City, Washington was worshipped. “I saw the greatest man who has ever appeared on the surface of the earth,” boasted a Dutch businessman who witnessed his passage through Philadelphia. “. . . We all waved our hats three times over our heads . . . . I don’t know if, in our delight at seeing the Hero, we were more surprised by his simple but grand air or by the kindness of the greatest and best of hero.”10 A French army chaplain, though not a huge fan of Americans, likewise reported,Through all the land, he appears like a benevolent god; old men, women, and children—they all flock eagerly to catch a glimpse of him when he travels and congratulate themselves because they have seen him. People carry[ing] torches follow him through the cities; his arrival is marked by public illuminations; the Americans, though a cold people . . . have waxed enthusiastic about him and their first songs inspired by spontaneous sentiments have been consecrated to the glorification of Washington.11

  While Washington was uncomfortable with such extravagant praise, he had little choice but to accept it. America was more than pleased with her first commander in chief. Stories of his grand exploits were on the tip of every tongue. Scrutinized throughout the war, Washington was accustomed to being the focus of public attention, but this most recent wave of admiration reached new heights. One observer found it amusing that, “in a place so crowded with the fair sex, everybody had eyes only for this Hero. Indeed, we only now and then stole a glance at our girls. His Excellency drew everyone’s attention.”12 Now that was celebrity.

  For the last eight years, Washington’s actions as commander in chief had been under intense scrutiny by Congress, the state legislatures, and the American people. His wartime record had “been often detailed” and was “familiar to almost every person.”13 From the highest politician to the humblest everyman, they loved what they heard. The “public mind pointed to him as the most proper person for presiding over the military arrangements of America. Not only Congress, but the inhabitants in the east and west, in the north and south . . . were in great degree unanimous in his favor.”14 One admirer quoted scripture to liken him to Moses: “he was beloved of God and men . . . . The Lord magnified him so that his enemies stood in fear of him, and he made him glorious in the fight of kings.”15 And Washington’s reputation only grew with his next move: he resigned.

  Washington paid Congress a special visit. The transient assembly had since transferred to Annapolis, Maryland, in hopes that the city’s balls and theaters might coax the chronically absent delegates to actually attend its sessions.16 Approaching the lively city on December 19, 1783, Washington waded through the welcoming dignitaries and fawning citizens. On the 22nd, America threw a grand ball in his honor. Here, he toasted to “competent powers to Congress” and danced all evening with the star-struck young belles as he bathed in America’s gratitude.17 Ready to take his place in history, he awoke the next morning and prepared himself for what he thought would be his final public act.

  Wearing his commander-in-chief uniform for the last time, he walked into the Maryland statehouse at noon on December 23. A sense of almost mythic magnitude pervaded the elegant classical chamber as Washington stood before the doting congressmen, while a crowd of gushing spectators in the back of the room peered over a balcony supported by bright Ionic columns. Like a scene out of the Iliad, W
ashington was viewed as a demigod. Feeling the momentousness of the occasion, he was overcome with emotion. His right hand, holding his prepared speech, shook so violently that he needed to steady it with his left.18

  Deeply affected, Washington humbly offered his “sincere Congratulations to Congress” and requested “the indulgence of retiring from the Service of my Country.”19 His voice “faltered and sank and the house felt his agitations”20 as he choked out the words, “I consider it an indispensable duty to close this last solemn act of my Official life, by commending the Interests of our dearest Country to the protection of Almighty God.” In dramatic yet genuine fashion, he composed himself and concluded with a flourish: “Having now finished the work assigned me, I retire from the great theatre of Action; and . . . take my leave of all the employments of public life.”21 His horses waiting out front, Washington nobly departed amidst the audience’s cries of admiration.

  An admirer remarked that from the time Washington entered New York in triumph until he resigned his commission, “festive crowds impeded his passage through all the populous towns, the devotion of a whole people pursued him with prayers to Heaven for blessings on his head, while their gratitude fought the most expressive language of manifesting itself to him as their common father and benefactor.”22 But this demigod just wanted to go back to his farm.

  After sleeping in over two hundred different locations through the previous nine years, he finally returned to Mount Vernon on December 24, 1783. This Christmas he could finally look forward to surprising not Hessians, but his loving family. As a heavy snow blanketed the estate, he settled back into a peaceful existence. Reflecting on where his path had taken him, he wrote,I feel now, however, as I conceive a wearied Traveller must do, who, after treading many a painful step, with a heavy burden on his shoulders, is eased of the latter, having reached the Goal to which all the former were directed; and from his House top is looking back, and tracing with a grateful eye the Meanders by which he escaped the quicksands and Mires which lay in his way; and into which none but the All-powerful guide, and great disposer of human Events could have prevented his falling.23