Victory at Yorktown

by Richard M. Ketchum

  Germain sent a message to the king, who was at Kew, and George III hesitated not an instant, returning his reply by the same messenger. After lamenting the misfortune in Virginia, the king—obdurate as ever—added, “I trust that neither Lord George Germain nor any Member of the Cabinet will suppose that it makes the smallest alteration in those principles of my conduct, which have directed me in past time, and which will always continue to animate me under every event, in the prosecution of the present contest.”

  The king and Germain were as one on the subject of the war: as the latter put it, “we can never continue to exist as a great or powerful nation after we have lost or renounced the sovereignty of America.” For the next four months, while the opposition fumed, the king’s supporters, the country gentlemen—those conservative stalwarts who had backed George III’s policies loyally for so long—were beginning to turn against him, dropping off one by one. Meanwhile, the government was adrift, and no decision was forthcoming.

  * * *

  FROM LONDON, THE rumor mill suggested that the king was determined to continue the war, but the public mood was shifting—the American war had proved too costly by far, as the country gentlemen had finally recognized. On both sides of the Atlantic, the war had bled the participants dry for years. As Vergennes had observed, “This war has gone too slowly; it is a war of hard cash, and if we drag it out the last shilling may not be ours.” (In fact, as early as the spring of 1781, with French finances nearing the breaking point and Vergennes fearing that the Spanish might give up and make a separate peace with England, Versailles had appeared willing if necessary to sacrifice the Americans for the sake of peace.)

  When news of Yorktown reached the British public, the general reaction matched North’s sentiments—“Oh God! it is all over!” It was, after all, the second time an entire British army had been surrendered to the American rebels, and the reaction was one of anguish and anger. London was a city in mourning, with “the wisest and most intelligent asking each other what was next to be done, to which the wisest and most intelligent could give no answer,” as one Englishman put it. Adding salt to the wounds, French sea power had made possible the victory at Yorktown, and for all anyone knew, that sea power might cost the empire its other colonies, its fisheries, and its commerce to boot. But Vergennes was a realist: Yorktown was an extraordinary success, it was true, “but one would be wrong to believe that it means an immediate peace; it is not in the English character to give up so easily.”

  In a sense, he was right, for the war would drag on for another year, but it was no longer war on the same scale in America. There, neither side had the stomach for it, and nothing much was happening.

  Then, on the penultimate day of February, 1782, the House of Commons repudiated Lord North’s American policy by voting against further prosecution of the war, and a few days later passed a bill authorizing the crown to make peace with the former colonies. That was it for North, who announced his ministry’s resignation on March 20. A week later the ministry of Charles Wentworth, Marquis of Rockingham, swept into office, bringing a new broom to the task.

  Still, there was no peace, but in America, the first action in what might be called the campaign of 1782 was not made until late August, when Washington’s army moved down the Hudson from Newburgh to Verplanck’s Point. This was in no sense a military maneuver, merely a move to a fresh supply of food and forage. From mid-September to mid-October Rochambeau’s troops were camped nearby, on their leisurely journey to Boston, whence they would sail to the West Indies. So for a month or more the comrades-in-arms enjoyed the reunion with real affection—a pleasure darkened for the American officers by their inability to repay the Frenchmen’s hospitality. All they had to offer, Washington observed, was “stinking whiskey—and not always that—and a bit of beef without vegetables.” Most of the Americans, the French were glad to see, were transformed—they were newly “uniformed and well-groomed”—but Congress’s parsimony was visible to one and all, as was the army’s status as “the most neglected and injured part of the community.”

  The impotence of Congress was frightening. As James Madison reported to Arthur Lee in late May of 1782, “Notwithstanding the importance of the present crisis the number of states in Congress does not exceed 8, sometimes 7 only, and most of those represented by two members. The president is directed to write to the unrepresented states on this subject and urge them to supply the deficiency.”

  * * *

  EVEN AFTER THE victory in Virginia the army was largely ignored, its supplies as meager as ever, its demands for payment shunted aside, and despite new uniforms for some, many of its men were confined to quarters because they lacked clothing to cover their nakedness. It was disturbingly clear, however, that the troops were no longer willing to be put off by a do-nothing Congress, and a three-man committee was delegated to deliver a petition to the legislators in Philadelphia. The document was a list of the officers’ minimum demands, including an advance of part of the pay due them, plus security for the remainder. In place of the half-pay for life that had been agreed upon earlier, they were willing to accept a lump sum or full pay for a reasonable number of years, but they insisted on the clothing, ration, and forage allowances due them, and the closing paragraph of the petition warned that “It would be criminal in the officers to conceal the general dissatisfaction which prevails, and is gaining ground in the army.…”

  General Alexander McDougall (who had been paid only twice in eight years) led the three-man delegation that included John Brooks of Massachusetts and Matthias Ogden of New Jersey, and they had instructions to remain in Philadelphia until Congress acted, when they were to report back to the army. At first they had reason to hope they would be successful, since twelve of the thirteen states ratified the agreement that federal funds would be forthcoming. Only Rhode Island, the smallest, had not yet ratified. Then suddenly the picture changed entirely—word was received that Rhode Island had refused and Virginia changed its vote from yes to no, and the reason was not hard to find. Congress was bankrupt.

  To General Henry Knox, who had prepared the petition to Congress, it was imperative that the new nation have a strong, responsible central government, and the current predicament of the army was a reflection of that lack. It was obviously absurd to have thirteen separate state armies; as he wrote to Gouverneur Morris, “America will have fought and bled to little purpose if the powers of government shall be insufficient to preserve the peace.… why do not you great men call the people together and … have a convention of the States to form a better Constitution?… Let something be done before a peace takes place, or we shall be in a worse situation than we were at the commencement of the war.” Later, he wrote to Alexander McDougall, “Posterity will hardly believe that an army contended incessantly for eight years under a constant pressure of misery to establish the liberties of their country, without knowing who were to compensate them or whether they were ever to receive any reward for their services.” There is a point beyond which there is “no sufferance,” he added, and he prayed that he and his comrades had not passed it.

  Knox was a moderate, mild-mannered man, but other highly placed officers saw the situation in a different light and saw, moreover, opportunity for personal gain.

  On March 10, the first signs of what appeared to be a military conspiracy surfaced at Newburgh, New York, making it clear that unknown forces in the army were determined to capitalize on the increasingly dangerous situation. Copies of an anonymous address appeared on handbills in camp, calling on the officers to meet the next day to consider a way to deal with the army’s grievances. Since this summons to action was not authorized by (or known to) Washington and was therefore contrary to regulations, it implied a mutinous movement. Upon investigation, the General made the disturbing discovery that his old antagonist and troublemaker Horatio Gates was behind the agitation, supported in Newburgh by Colonel Walter Stewart, Major John Armstrong, and Colonel Timothy Pickering, the quartermaster general, th
eir moves masked by “the most perfect dissimulation and apparent cordiality.”

  On the heels of the call for a meeting, a document appeared that made eloquently clear what the meeting was to consider. The author,* who described himself as “A fellow soldier, whose interest and affections bind him strongly to you,” related how he had loved private life and left it with regret to share with others the toils and hazards of the military, the “cold hand of poverty,” and other hardships, and until lately believed in the justice of his country. Now, instead of justice, he could see “a country that tramples upon your rights, disdains your cries, and insults your distresses.” And at the very moment when swords were to be removed from the soldiers’ sides “and no remaining mark of military distinction left but your wants, infirmities, and scars … Can you consent to wade through the vile mire of despondency and owe the miserable remnant of that life to charity, which has hitherto been spent in honor? If you can—GO—and carry with you the jests of Tories and scorn of Whigs—the ridicule and, what is worse, the pity of the world. Go starve and be forgotten.”

  Although the precise nature of the plot is murky, the idea seems to have been that Washington would be asked to endorse armed intimidation of the state legislatures. If he refused, which was likely, then Gates, as next in line of seniority, would step in and lead the army to Philadelphia and force political action.

  Determined to prevent the officers from “plunging themselves into a gulf of civil horror from which there might be no receding,” Washington issued an order disapproving “such disorderly proceedings” as the assembly had been illegally summoned, and announced a meeting of his own for the following Saturday. The anonymous author of the Newburgh Addresses published another paper agreeing with the change while hinting that Washington’s action indicated his sympathy for the Gates group’s plans.

  * * *

  ON MARCH 15, 1783, the officers of the Continental Army crowded into a structure known as the Temple at noon. The building had been erected by the troops to serve as a church on Sundays and a dance hall at other times, and it was filled from wall to wall with officers. When Washington called the meeting, he had said that the senior officer present would “preside and report the results of the deliberations to the Commander in Chief.” Since the General was not among those seated on a small platform in the large room, it was assumed that he would not attend and that Gates would take charge. Then, suddenly, a door opened onto the platform, and to everyone’s astonishment His Excellency emerged, looking “sensibly agitated,” and began reading from a speech he had prepared.

  He first reminded the officers that he had never left their side for one moment except when called away on public duty; he had witnessed and experienced their distresses; he considered his own military reputation to be inseparable from the army’s; and “it can scarcely be supposed, at this late stage of the war, that I am indifferent to its interests.”

  Moving on, he asked how those interests were to be promoted by those who had initiated this meeting. The “dreadful alternatives” proposed were “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).…”

  He was confident that Congress held “exalted sentiments of the services of the army” and would act justly, while the soldiers could count on his own support in obtaining the rights that were theirs. “Let me conjure you,” he went on, “to express your utmost horror and detestation of the man who wishes, under any specious pretenses, to overturn the liberties of our country, and who wickedly attempts to open the flood gates of civil discord and deluge our rising empire in blood.” By the dignity of their conduct in this matter, he added, the officers would enable posterity to say, “had this day been wanting, the world had never seen the last stage of perfection to which human nature is capable of attaining.”

  That concluded the speech he had prepared, yet a hostile, chilly mood remained in the hall. From the look on most men’s faces it was evident that he had failed to persuade them. He told them he had a letter he wanted to read, reached in his pocket, and drew out a paper, stating it was from a member of Congress and that it would show them what the problems of that body were and what the members were trying to do.

  But something was wrong—very wrong. The General was obviously unable to read and seemed bewildered. Fumbling in another pocket, he drew out what only his close aides had seen him wear—a pair of glasses. Putting them on, he said quietly, “Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country.”

  As he read the congressman’s letter, it was obvious that his simple statement had achieved what his speech had not. Many of the officers had tears in their eyes as the tall, gray-haired man they loved, with his innate sense of the dramatic, walked out of the room without another word, mounted his horse, and disappeared from view.

  Behind was Gates, presiding now, and Pickering, who rose to his feet in a desperate effort to get the meeting back on the track the conspirators wanted. Fortunately, Henry Knox had other ideas and offered several resolutions thanking Washington for his wise counsel and expressing the officers’ unshaken attachment to the commander in chief.

  Another paper was drawn up and approved unanimously, informing Congress that the officers had served their country from the outbreak of hostilities “from the purest love and attachment to the rights and liberties of human nature,” and that under no circumstances would they sully the reputation they had acquired during the years of war. They viewed the anonymous addresses with “abhorrence and reject with disdain the infamous propositions” they contained. They were confident, they added, that the army would not be disbanded until arrangements for back pay and pensions were made.

  Congress was badly frightened by the episode at Newburgh, and rightly so. Washington’s account of the near coup d’état and his pleas that the army’s requests be granted persuaded the legislators to accept most of the officers’ demands, including commutation of half-pay for life into five years at full pay, drawing 6 percent interest, for officers who chose that option. But as much as Washington wanted all men to receive some cash—three months’ pay, at a minimum—Congress had no such resources and voted to send most of the troops home on furloughs that would become permanent when peace was declared. (As a farewell gift Congress voted to give them their arms, which many sold on their way home for travel money.)

  For many of these men, parting from their companions was heartbreaking. As Joseph Plumb Martin wrote, they had lived together as brothers for years, sharing the hardships, dangers, and sufferings common to a soldier’s life; had sympathized with each other in trouble and sickness; had done their best to lighten their friends’ burdens; “had endeavored to conceal each other’s faults or make them appear in as good a light as they would bear.” As a result, they “were as strict a band of brotherhood as Masons and, I believe, as faithful to each other. And now we were to be … parted forever; as unconditionally separated as though the grave lay between us.”

  As devastating as Congress’s solution was for the soldiers, it was thought to give the financial community time to raise funds. But even that proved a mirage.

  When the hour approached for the army to disband, the superintendent of finances, Robert Morris, announced his inability to find enough cash to finance certificates for one month’s pay, let alone three, since he did not have enough money even to buy paper for printing the certificates.

  That was the final straw for George Washington’s fellow veterans, and the General suddenly became the object of enormous resentment for placing them, as they saw it, in this position. Instead of attending a final farewell dinner at which he was to be the honored guest, most of the Continental officers headed for home, angry and disgusted. As heartbreaking as this was for the General, he understood, and confided to Congress, “a parting scene under such peculiar circumstances will not
admit of description.”

  He was the leader they had followed for seven terrible years. They had given him their best, and when at last they relied on him to obtain compensation that was so richly deserved for what they had done, he failed them—or so it must have seemed. Many of them clearly felt that Gates was right, that they should have marched on Philadelphia if necessary and demanded their rights at the point of a gun.

  Yet what could Washington have done? At Newburgh he had narrowly averted the disaster of a coup d’état that might well have put Gates and a military dictatorship in control of the new nation, with God only knew what consequences.

  He took the only alternative left him and put his prestige behind a letter that was circulated to the states, indicating that since he planned to retire from public service forever, this was his final official communication. In it he urged that the Articles of Confederation form the basis of a central government—“an indissoluble union” that would establish a peacetime army and navy sufficient to the nation’s needs, “a sacred regard for public justice,” which would include paying the men of the Continental Army the money owed to them, and the elimination of “local prejudices” that divided the nation. Under the circumstances, it was all he could do.

  Regrettably, the states refused to accept their obligations and come up with revenue to meet the veterans’ needs or the multitude of other claims against the government. Finally, Robert Morris resigned in disgust as superintendent of finances, but when no one volunteered to take the thankless job he said he would stay on until the army was paid and demobilized. But not until the summer of 1784 did John Adams succeed in securing a desperately needed loan from Holland, which finally enabled Morris to fulfill his pledge to the army.

  Soldiers who are in a hurry to return to home and family at the end of a war write few letters and record few thoughts in their diaries, and so it was with the officers and enlisted men of the Continental Army. In 1782 and 1783 the organization all but vanished as if it had been a phantom, and except for a few hundred three-year enlistees no one remained.