Washington

by Douglas Southall Freeman

  Most of Washington’s correspondents assumed that he could not resist so overwhelming an appeal, but Washington had not yet said “Yes” and he did not intend to make any public announcement until the electors’ votes had been counted officially and he had been notified of the result. All his private references to the subject still hung on an “if,” but he had, of course, to make preparations, financial and other, in event he was to be absent from Mount Vernon for a long time. He would need £500 or £600 to pay pressing debts and the expenses of a journey to New York. On the very day the wheels of the new government were supposed to turn for the first time, March 4, Washington applied for a loan from a wealthy citizen of Alexandria.

  Three days later Washington made what he told himself probably would be his final visit to his mother, the “last act of personal duty,” as he termed it, “I may (from her age) ever have it in my power to pay [her].” She still was at Fredericksburg, about eighty years of age and in what appeared to be the fatal stage of cancer of the breast. Washington found her in the little house he had provided for her, not far from the rear of Kenmore, the home of her daughter Betty Lewis. It was part of the independent nature of Mary Washington to live in her own establishment and dress, eat, sleep and manage her servants in her own way, even though her daughter, like her son, was willing to do everything possible for her. Washington knew his mother’s habits, but he did not know how fixed they were. Two years previously on one of the occasions when her demands for money had been particularly embarrassing, he had urged that she “break up housekeeping” and live with one of her children. In the same letter he had said frankly that he did not believe residence at Mount Vernon would ever “answer [her] purposes in any shape whatsoever.” The house was “to be compared to a well resorted tavern, as scarcely any strangers who are going from North to South, or from South to North, do not spend a day or two at it.” She had remained where she was, and there she would die. He owed her more, perhaps, than he had realized—his physical endurance, his resolution, his ambition to make his own way. Quiet words, then, at her bedside, a smile, a clasping of hands and peaceful preparation for the Great Silence that soon was to fall.

  Back at Mount Vernon, Washington began to formulate the instructions he was to give George Augustine for the management of his farms. This was troublesome labor and had to be discharged when he painfully was answering the applications of those who assumed he would take office and have vast patronage to dispense at pleasure. Sadly he wrote Samuel Vaughan, to whose son he knew he could not offer a desired post:

  . . . from the moment when the necessity [of accepting the Presidency] had become more apparent and, as it were, inevitable, I anticipated in a heart filled with distress, the ten thousand embarrassments, perplexities and troubles to which I must again be exposed in the evening of a life already nearly consumed in public cares. Among all these anxieties . . . I anticipated none greater than those that were likely to be produced by applications for appointments . . . my apprehensions have already been but too well justified.

  Congress had been expected to assemble in New York on March 4 and, at a time of its choice, to have the certificates of the electors opened and counted by a temporary President of the Senate chosen for that purpose. Eight Senators only and no more than seventeen Representatives had made their appearance by the fifth. Frequent letters thereafter, long delayed by mud and bad weather, told of slow increase in the number of Representatives and Senators in attendance. Washington continued his efforts to put his affairs in order, and by one act, in particular, he tacitly admitted that he had despaired of finding any way of escaping the Presidency: Early in April he dispatched his secretary, Tobias Lear, and his body servant, Will, to New York. Still there was no report of a quorum for the organization of Congress.

  At last, probably on April 10, an anxiously awaited regular post brought news that the House of Representatives had achieved a quorum on the first and had organized. Perhaps by the thirteenth Washington learned that the count of the electors ballots might have been made on the sixth, but he did not know officially whether this had been done or whether the poll for him had been unanimous. On the fourteenth a clatter of hoofs and the sound of an unfamiliar voice told him a guest had arrived. When he went to the door and recognized the visitor as the old patriot Charles Thomson, Secretary of Congress, he knew what to expect: Henry Knox had written him on the second: “Mr. Thomson will set off to announce to the President the unanimous choice of the people of the United States as soon as the votes shall be opened and counted.”

  Thomson exchanged greetings and compliments and then addressed Washington informally, reading from a prepared statement which said in part:

  . . . I was honored with the commands of the Senate to wait upon your Excellency with the information of your being elected to the office of President of the United States of America . . . I have now, sir, to inform you that the proofs you have given of your patriotism and of your readiness to sacrifice domestic separation and private enjoyments to preserve the liberty and promote the happiness of your country did not permit the two Houses to harbour a doubt of your undertaking this great, this important office to which you are called not only by the unanimous vote of the electors, but by the voice of America. . . .

  Then Thomson read the formal notification:

  Sir, I have the honor to transmit to your Excellency the information of your unanimous election to the Office of President of the United States of America. Suffer me, Sir, to indulge the hope, that so auspicious a mark of public confidence will meet your approbation, and be considered as a sure pledge of the affection and support you are to expect from a free and an enlightened people.

  I am, Sir, with Sentiments of Respect,

  Your obedient humble servant,

  JOHN LANGDON

  The General was prepared. From his pocket or from a table he took a paper he had made ready for the occasion:

  Sir, I have been long accustomed to entertain so great a respect for the opinion of my fellow-citizens, that the knowledge of their unanimous suffrages having been given in my favor, scarcely leaves me the alternative for an option. Whatever may have been my private feelings and sentiments, I believe I cannot give a greater evidence of my sensibility for the honor they have done me, than by accepting the appointment.

  I am so much affected by this fresh proof of my country’s esteem and confidence, that silence can best explain my gratitude—while I realize the arduous nature of the task which is conferred on me, and feel my inability to perform it, I wish there may not be reason for regretting the choice. All I can promise is, only that which can be accomplished by an honest zeal.

  Upon considering how long time some of the gentlemen of both Houses of Congress have been at New York, how anxiously desirous they must be to proceed to business, and how deeply the public mind appears to be impressed with the necessity of doing it immediately, I cannot find myself at liberty to delay my journey. I shall therefore be in readiness to set out the day after tomorrow, and shall be happy in the pleasure of your company; for you will permit me to say that it was a peculiar gratification to have received the communication from you.

  That was the end of formalities. Washington prepared a brief conventional letter to President Langdon. Then he completed his arrangements for departure. On the morning of April 16 he entered his carriage with Thomson and Humphreys. His reflections were confided to his diary: “I bade adieu to Mount Vernon, to private life, and to domestic felicity, and with a mind oppressed with more anxious and painful sensations than I have words to express, set out for New York . . . With the best disposition to render service to my country in obedience to its call, but with less hope of answering its expectations.” At Alexandria citizens gave him a dinner. Thirteen toasts were drunk and a most affectionate, laudatory address was delivered by Maj. Dennis Ramsay. Washington’s reply was a cordial and candid statement of the struggle through which he had passed in deciding whether he would accept or decline the Presidency. �
�. . . words, my fellow-citizens fail me!” he said at the last: “Unutterable sensations must then be left to more expressive silence: while, from an aching heart, I bid you all, my affectionate friends and kind neighbors, farewell!”

  The events that followed Washington’s leave-taking at Alexandria offered the happiest possible contrast to his own gloomy foreboding. Everywhere the welcome was warm and the auguries were favorable. Always, when he was on the road, he put himself under strain to cover the greatest distance possible on a given day. Now he had a longer whip for his lead horses: Congress was waiting for him; some of its most conscientious members had been in vain attendance since the fourth of March. He resolved that he would start every morning at sunrise, if possible, and travel the entire day. Ceremonies were to be expected—and within the bounds of modesty to be enjoyed—but they must be kept as brief as possible.

  On to Baltimore, then, to a welcoming salute on the afternoon of the seventeenth by its artillery and a supper at Fountain Inn. Washington was in his coach at 5:30 the next morning and, with the roaring “goodbye” of the volunteers’ cannon, left Baltimore for Wilmington. On the twentieth the Burgesses and Common Council of Wilmington presented officially an address which Washington and Humphreys had seen informally long enough before the ceremonies to prepare a suitable answer. The theme was one already becoming a bit tedious—the call of the country for the General to head the new government and his acceptance of the summons in spite of a deep desire to continue in the retirement he had hoped to enjoy to the end of his days. When these felicitations had been exchanged the coach started for Philadelphia with a mounted escort of gentlemen, honorable but hampering. At the Pennsylvania line a new guard appeared. Representatives of Delaware, with the warm thanks of Washington, entrusted him and his vehicle to Philadelphians.

  As he approached the city Washington found “every fence, field and avenue” lined with people. Cannon barked, church bells rang, vessels in the river ran up all their flags and joined in the salute. It was incredibly different from his march through Philadelphia that day in August 1777 when he had been pushing his ragged men southward to meet General Howe and had been able to give their tatters no other uniform than a sprig of green, the “emblem of hope.” Now, twenty thousand citizens seemed to contend for a sight of him. A great dinner had been prepared at the expense of private citizens who invited “all the clergy and respectable strangers in the city.” Washington remained to the end of the dinner and, “as usual, captivated every heart,” though he must have been weary long before the last clinking of the glasses. From the tavern he went to the Morris home and probably to the very chamber he had occupied in the summer of 1787 when he had wondered what sort of government the members of the Convention would offer the country.

  Now he had to inform President Langdon of his plans to press on to New York. He wrote: “. . . knowing how anxious both houses must be to proceed to business, I shall continue my journey with as much dispatch as possible. Tomorrow evening I purpose to be at Trenton, the night following at New Brunswick and hope to have the pleasure of meeting you at Elizabeth Town Point on Thursday at 12 o’clock.” The distance to be covered in two days and a half was about seventy-five miles—not an overtaxing journey if the weather was favorable and halts were short. To get an early start was imperative, and that might be difficult. The General had to attend a display of fireworks that evening; the next morning, he was told, various addresses were to be presented. Threatening weather on Tuesday the twenty-first did not deter five committees from presenting addresses, to each of which Washington replied briefly. The hands of the clock were nearing ten when Washington could give a nod to his coachman. Off rolled the vehicle on what proved to be a damp, swift and uneventful ride up the Delaware, past villages that had witnessed many a painful march by the Continental Army.

  He found a troop of horse, a company of infantry, and a large body of citizens ready to escort him into Trenton. After huzzahs and salutes, Washington took a handsome mount, thoughtfully provided for him, and rode to his assigned place in the procession. A public dinner followed at City Tavern and after that a reception. The next morning he was off at sunrise. At Princeton he received the formal address of the college, to which he spoke in brief acknowledgment. After the short ceremony he proceeded on the familiar road to New Brunswick. As he approached the town the volunteer companies of infantry and artillery, with a detachment of cavalry, formed a line past which Washington admiringly rode. A band of music played martial airs that heightened the enthusiasm of the townsfolk, nearly all of whom came out to welcome the General. Under cavalry escort, he left New Brunswick at 5 P.M. in the company of Jersey notables and with affectionate acclaim of the crowd. The night was spent at Wood-bridge, and in compliment to him, light horse from New Brunswick remained nearby to share in the ceremonies of the twenty-third.

  On the last stretch of his journey the procession reached Elizabeth Town before the clocks struck nine. Through a throng that overflowed the streets, Washington passed a saluting line of militia and volunteers and went to the Red Lion Inn, where he broke his fast in the company of the leading men of the community. He met there the town officials and a committee of three from the governments of New York State and City, but he punctiliously arranged that he would call on the three Senators and the five members of the House of Representatives who had come to Elizabeth Town to receive him on behalf of Congress. These gentlemen were at the home of Elias Boudinot, himself one of the committee. After pleasant conversation at Boudinot’s residence, Washington proceeded to Elizabeth Town Point—the whole population, as it seemed, with him. The General walked to the craft that had been prepared for him with pride and pleasure at the expense of leading men of New York. Washington observed admiringly both craft and crew and got aboard with the joint committee of Congress and the representatives of the civil government of New York.

  By the time the barge crossed Newark Bay and reached the “Kills” opposite the southern end of Staten Island, a collection of small craft, all with flags flying and fanciful decoration, fell in behind Washington’s boat, as if to form a naval parade. Soon after the barge turned into the Upper Bay, a similar handsome vessel was nearby, ready to serve as special escort. Flags and familiar faces quickly identified it as the barge of Secretary Knox, who had with him the Secretary of Foreign Affairs, John Jay, and the members of the Board of Treasury. As Washington approached the Battery on Staten Island, the familiar work on shore was wreathed with the smoke of a salute. These thirteen guns seemed to be taken as a summons by every owner of a small boat who could push it into the deep water. Minute by minute the column grew wider and longer; everywhere was color, in enthusiastic compliance with the request made by the corporation of New York City that all vessels display their flags as soon as the first salute was fired. A few minutes later, porpoises began to play around the prow of the barge as if they, too, wished to do honor to the tall man in the cocked hat.

  Close now to the landing, Washington looked at thousands and thousands of New Yorkers. When the cannon of the Battery fired another salute, the spectators gave three huzzahs and then nearly all of them started to Murray’s Wharf, at the bottom of Wall Street, to see the General. The flawlessly handled barge was made fast; the committees climbed out and started up carpeted steps. Then, after a fitting pause, Washington went ashore and mounted to the landing, where Governor Clinton and a coterie of officials welcomed and congratulated him. Washington thanked them with dignified regard for each individual. Thereupon an officer stepped up, saluted, and ceremoniously announced that he commanded the guard assigned the General and awaited orders. Washington’s unstudied reply was almost as effective as his remarks at the Newburgh meeting or at the farewell in Fraunces’ Tavern: “As to the present arrangement, I shall proceed as is directed, but after this is over, I hope you will give yourself no further trouble, as the affection of my fellow-citizens”—and he turned to the throng as he spoke—”is all the guard I want.”

  A forma
l parade had next place in the order of exercises but it was not easily started. When at last a narrow way was opened, progress was so slow and difficult that half an hour was required to move from the dock to Franklin House at No. 3 Cherry Street, previously used by the President of Congress and now assigned to Washington. A full-dress salute was rendered by the militia as the General passed their ranks; and even when finally indoors, Washington had to receive and thank the officers who had conducted the procession. Shortly Clinton’s coach was at the door, and the General and the Governor proceeded without ceremony to the latter’s mansion where a banquet was waiting. When, finally, Washington bade the last of his hosts goodnight and retired to the house on Cherry Street he could have told himself that in the whole of his life he never had spent a more amazing day. Emotionally, he was almost exhausted. “The display of boats . . . the decorations of the ships, the roar of cannon, and the loud acclamations of the people . . . filled my mind with sensations as painful (considering the reverse of this scene, which may be the case after all my labors to do good) as they are pleasing,” he wrote.

  “. . . I greatly apprehend that my countrymen will expect too much from me. I fear, if the issue of public measures should not correspond with their sanguine expectations, they will turn the extravagant (and I may say undue) praises which they are heaping upon me at this moment, into equally extravagant (though I will fondly hope, unmerited) censures.” That was the reflection of Washington on the events of April 23 and of the fortnight that followed. It was a shining and, at the same time, exceedingly difficult period for a man who never had served in a public executive position other than as a soldier. He completed easily the arrangements Lear had made in advance for comfortable living in the house assigned him; he carefully visited the members of Congress; he received the congratulations of the city Chamber of Commerce, and he assured a joint committee of Congress that any arrangements that body made for his induction into office would be acceptable. Congress voted to inaugurate him on April 30.