First of Men

by Ferling, John;

  Mount Vernon was not Washington’s only financial concern during these years. The inflation that led him to increase Lund’s wages ate away at his investments. Not only did Virginia debtors retire their obligations to him in currency that was worth only a fraction of its original value, but he had to watch helplessly as bonds worth perhaps £7000 in 1775 depreciated until three years later they were worth only about one-tenth their earlier value. Nor did he realize any monetary gain from his western lands. His properties across the mountains continued to stand idle and unsold, a condition certain to persist as long as the war continued. The war undoubtedly had still another impact on him: given the collapse of the English market, less of the produce of Mount Vernon could be sold. There were times when Washington longed for liquid capital, but none was available, not even an officer’s salary, for he had asked that he be compensated only for his expenses. So worried was the general that he once predicted that he might “come home with empty pockets whenever Peace shall take place.”48

  But Washington exaggerated his financial plight. His concern for the depreciation of his investments was justified, as was his anguish at the inevitable and persistent visits of the tax collector; moreover, he had good reason to fret over his income, inasmuch as the revenue produced by Mount Vernon apparently declined steadily during the initial years of the war. On the other hand, creditors had no cause to hound him and, while the overhead cost of operating his estate was huge, the expense was manageable, for a considerable portion of the outlay went into feeding—not paying—his labor force, hardly an impossible requirement for an agrarian operation. Still, Washington’s shrill reaction was natural. Not only was he absent and largely in the dark about the state of affairs at home, but these were new problems for him. In reality, he faced a period of unaccustomed austerity, although he never was so impecunious as to be unable to consider the purchase of additional property or to actually invest in a privateering venture in 1777.49

  One means existed by which he could have converted his assets into ready cash. He could have sold his slave property, a prospect he seemed to find intriguing. His thinking on this matter was strictly pragmatic. Slavery, he had come to realize, was a notoriously inefficient labor system for a wheat farmer like himself. Unlike tobacco, wheat not only required little labor during its growing season, but at harvest time the permanent work force could be supplemented by temporarily retained hired hands; Mount Vernon, he concluded, had a surplus of labor. Washington calculated that by selling his bondsmen he might realize as much as £15,000, and he deduced that the interest that might accrue from the wise investment of that sum would yield far more than the annual merchandising of Mount Vernon’s slave-grown produce. But Washington only thought of this course. He had no scruples about selling these people, provided that families were not sundered, yet he was too reluctant to exchange his slaves for continually depreciating money ever to take such a step.50

  By the third week in April 1778 the gloom that for months had shrouded headquarters was beginning to lift. The snow was gone, the sun now beamed warm and radiant, and the first signs of spring had begun to transform Valley Forge from its winter dreariness to a bucolic wonderland. But better weather was not the only source of rising spirits. Washington was certain that he had smashed the cabal that had threatened his power, and he knew that he enjoyed more support than ever within Congress. Moreover, although at the first sign of winter’s demise, the commander briefly had worried that Howe might strike his sickly, undermanned army, the attack never came. Soon Washington spoke of a future “big with events of the most interesting importance,” alluding to rumors that swirled about York and Valley Forge like a biting March wind. France must seize upon Britain’s misfortune, some said, and declare war upon its ancient rival, perhaps even formally entering into an alliance with the United States. To forestall that, others hoped, Britain would seek to avoid a two-front war by offering acceptable peace terms to America. Washington’s position was clear. “Nothing short of Independence . . . can possibly do.” Never again could he accede to British dominion. “Our Character as Men, are opposed to a coalition with them as subjects, but in case of the last extremity.” In his mind there was but one choice. If Britain refused to recognize American independence, the war must continue, waged now alongside France.51

  Whatever fears Washington might have harbored that Congress would opt to end the war by reconciling America to Great Britain soon were alleviated. At the end of April news reached America—brought by an aptly named brig, La Sensible—that France indeed had recognized the independence of the United States, and that emissaries of the two nations had concluded treaties of alliance and commerce, subject, of course, to congressional approval. The commander promptly let Congress know his feelings about these “good tidings,” and the day after the legislators ratified the covenants Washington ordered a celebration at Valley Forge.52

  He appointed May 6 for a feu de joie, a day of exultation. This army had never experienced anything quite like this; indeed, it had not had much to celebrate since its remarkable triumphs at Trenton and Princeton a year and a half earlier.

  It was warm, hot even for so early in the spring, when the festivities commenced at 9:00 A.M. First the chaplains of each brigade read summaries of the treaties, then they preached for the better part of ninety minutes; Martha and George Washington listened to the sermon offered by New Jersey’s chaplain. At 10:30 a single cannon blast rumbled across the rolling green hills, the signal to begin the inspection of the troops. An hour later another cannon’s roar was the sign to commence the next phase. General Washington rode out first, trailed by his aides and his guard. Slowly he rode past the massed soldiery, until he reached a reviewing station atop a knoll, and there he paused to review the troops. After the last man had paraded past, another cannon barked—and another, and still another. Thirteen in all, each fired three times, each accompanied by two running fires of musketry, begun by the commander’s guard then spreading systematically from brigade to brigade. Following the initial artillery explosions the troops shouted: “Long live the King of France.” Another whomp of cannonery and the men cheered: “And long live the friendly European Powers.” The final report from the artillery park evoked the last cheer: “To the American States.” For the men the celebration was over. For the officers it had only begun. They rode to tents erected before the smoking cannon, where they dismounted and in knots of thirteen each, linked arm-in-arm, marched to the shade of the canopies to partake of an elegant buffet of cold meats and flowing wine and liquor, a repast made all the more enjoyable by the presence of several young women from nearby villages who had been invited to the spectacle. The party still was in swing when the long shadows of late afternoon crept over this once dreary camp. Washington was first to take his leave, and as he ascended his steed to ride away a spontaneous applause began. Men hurled their hats into the air and cheered: “Long live General Washington.”53

  It had been a grand day, a fitting crown to a “season of General Joy,” as Washington called it. (So moved was he, in fact, that he pardoned and released every prisoner in the army’s stockade.) A measure of prosperity had returned to this once forlorn cantonment. The “martial appearance of the troops [had given] sensible pleasure to every one present”; the commander’s popularity had been visibly confirmed; and, like many others, Washington believed the coming Gallic presence would “chalk out a plain and easy road to independence.”54

  During those balmy vernal days, Washington’s time began to be taken up less by frantic searches for supplies and more with thoughts of the coming summer campaign. He knew that about 15,000 men were in the Continental army; he had 12,000 at Valley Forge, roughly 2000 were in the Highlands, the remainder were stationed in Wilmington. The British were thought to have 17,000, nearly two-thirds of whom were in Philadelphia. Washington could envision only three options for his army: attack Howe’s army in Philadelphia; attack the small British force holding New York; or remain at Valley Forge, where t
he army could continue to be trained. He elicited the written views of his officers, then two days after the grand feu de joie he summoned them to a council of war. The response was unanimous—sit tight. Both Philadelphia and New York were too heavily fortified to be attacked, and the army would require triple its present manpower capabilities before it could even think of a siege. Besides, with the French entering the war there seemed little need to act in haste, if for no other reason than it was unlikely the ministry would be able to send reinforcements across the Atlantic any time soon.55

  Ten days after the officers met, the first hint of British intentions unfolded. Spies in Philadelphia began to report that Britain planned to evacuate Philadelphia. The next day the commander’s intelligence network reported that the redcoats were returning to New York. His secret agents could not have been more correct. The French treaty with America, tantamount to a Gallic declaration of war against Britain, had compelled Whitehall to reappraise its strategy. Its naval blockade would have to be relaxed so that more of the fleet could be used for the defense of the home islands. The ministry also opted to attack the French island of St. Lucia in the West Indies, a much-contested spot in Anglo-French warfare, because British control of the island hindered the French fleet’s use of its more northern Leeward Islands. The operation in the Caribbean, however, would not leave Sir Henry Clinton, Howe’s successor as commander of the British army in America, with enough troops to hold Philadelphia, New York, and Rhode Island simultaneously. Since New York was demonstrably the most important—and the most easily defended—of the two cities, London in effect decreed that the Pennsylvania metropolis would have to be jettisoned.56 Clinton arrived in town on May 8 to relieve Howe. The next day a vessel arrived from London with orders for him to transfer the army to New York.

  In many ways Clinton did not strike visitors as a battle-hardened veteran soldier. His features were soft, and his eyes seemed to radiate good will and compassion. He enjoyed hikes and canoe trips that permitted him to study flowers and bird life, but his passion was the violin, one of several musical instruments that he played in an accomplished manner. Visitors also found him to be a difficult person to know. Painfully timid and retiring (“I am a shy bitch,” he once said of himself), Clinton was happiest when left to his solitary pursuits.

  The son of an army officer who also once served as the royal governor of New York, young Henry spent eight of his early years in America. At nineteen he entered the British army, and he served during both King George’s War and the Seven Years’ War, seeing considerable action—and suffering a serious wound—in the latter conflict. By the 1770s he not only had attained the rank of major general, he sat in the House of Commons. But the most important event for Clinton during these years was a personal tragedy. He lost his wife to complications from childbirth. Grief-stricken and disconsolate, he fell into a deep, lengthy depression, in the course of which he seemed to further isolate himself from others.

  Clinton accompanied Howe and Burgoyne to America in 1775, and for the next thirty months he was the second in command in the British army. He served capably, though without flamboyance, and when Howe resigned he was not London’s first choice to take control of their forces. Lord North preferred General Jeffrey Amherst for the post, but he declined the offer. Carleton, the Canadian governor, also could have had the position, but he refused to serve under Germain. One or two others likewise had an inside track, only to turn their backs on the opportunity. So it was Clinton, a man who had never stirred intense devotion among his fellow officers, a man with little political clout in Whitehall, who became the commander of the British army in America.57

  Whether Clinton chose to return his army to New York by land or by sea would dictate Washington’s response, and for weeks the American commander was unable to get a handle on his counterpart’s intentions. Of one thing only was Washington certain: he would surrender none of his troops to the Continental units in the Northeast, for he wished to have a large enough army to assail Clinton in the event that the British journeyed by land. By early in June he believed the overland option almost certainly would be Clinton’s choice, but it was not until June 18 that he knew for certain. The redcoats left their barracks that morning at 3:00 A.M., rattling and stomping about the cobblestone streets while they organized. Then they set forth—on foot. Behind them they left the smoldering ruins of every bridge into the city, as well as several ships that had been scuttled; they took with them almost all the Philadelphia Loyalists, thoroughly discouraged folk who, in the words of a civilian aide to Lord Howe, now were but “a ruined Enemy [to the rebels], & to us an inefficient Friend.”58 After only nine months in Philadelphia, the Howe brothers’ great prize, was yielded up.

  Forty-eight hours after the last British soldier had passed from the city into New Jersey, Washington’s soldiery was on the move—out of Valley Forge. The Americans headed almost due north toward the Delaware River, a few days later crossing that now-familiar stream at Coryel’s Ferry. Time was not a particular problem. Conveying an army that included a twelve-mile-long baggage train, Clinton was not moving any too quickly; besides, the redcoats were compelled to pause every so often to remove trees from their path, obstacles felled by Washington’s ancillary forces, and to reconstruct bridges that the Americans had demolished.59

  Washington was in a good position. He had nearly 13,000 men, counting nearly 2000 militiamen and various Continental units posted here and there in New Jersey; against this force, Clinton had barely 10,000 men. By June 23 the British army reached Allentown, almost due east of Trenton. Washington must have hoped they would continue on a northerly course, for that would have compelled them to hurdle the Raritan at New Brunswick, no mean feat with an adversary breathing down their neck. Instead, Clinton turned right at Allentown, taking a narrow road that led northeast toward Raritan Bay and the threshold of Staten Island. For two days the British and their mercenary allies trugged on, covering only five or six miles each day, though it must have seemed like far more to these men. A June heat wave had set in. By noon each day the temperature climbed to near 100 degrees; later each afternoon thunderstorms raged, but by the following morning it always was clear and hot again, the sort of humid, steamy kind of heat that, for men marching in woolen uniforms and carrying heavy backpacks, must have been nearly unbearable. Heatstrokes were not uncommon.60

  At Monmouth Court House Clinton called a temporary halt. Throughout the 26th, then again the next day, he waited, hoping for more seasonal temperatures. The American army, which had been shadowing Clinton’s every step, was brought forward and parked just to the northwest of the redcoats’ lines. Washington faced a difficult decision. Evidently he yearned to assail his adversary, but three times in the past six weeks, twice during the march of the past week, he had been advised by unanimous votes of councils of war not to risk a full-scale attack; at best, his generals urged only a limited, harassing foray. Yet Washington knew that if he did not strike now he would not have another chance before Clinton reached the coast, barely fifteen miles away. He wrestled with the problem until intelligence arrived that Clinton planned to move out again the next morning, then, egged on by Knox, Wayne, Lafayette, and Greene, he decided to strike. Still, it was Washington’s decision, one entirely in keeping with the instinct for daring that he always had manifested, one that now was hastened perhaps as much by the past winter’s criticism of his alleged passivity and overwariness as by his yearning to test the results of von Steuben’s season of training his army. His plan was to send out an advance force of nearly fifty-five hundred men, about 80 percent of whom were Continentals. The main army would follow, remaining close by in case its assistance was needed.61 But who would command?

  Washington had little choice but to offer Charles Lee the opportunity to lead the advance units. After all, he was the senior American general beneath the commander. Whether Washington was troubled by the prospect of placing Lee in charge of a crucial operation is not clear. As thin-skinned as was Washin
gton concerning the alleged plots against him, he might have had misgivings about placing someone as fickle—and, in some quarters anyway, as popular—as Lee in a position to reap the rewards of victory. More troubling, however, would have been the fact that since his return from captivity, Lee consistently had counseled against attacking the British, at one point even recommending that the American army adopt the tactics of a guerrilla force. Lee seems to have believed that with the French entrance into the war the Americans simply had to persevere to win their objectives; to hazard heavy losses in an unnecessary attack seemed to him a poor strategy to pursue. Washington must have wondered whether a man of such temperament could lead an attack force, but in the end he offered him the opportunity to do just that. To Washington’s amazement, and probably his infinite relief, Lee refused the honor, indicating that the thought of commanding such a small force was too undignified to be considered by someone of his rank.62

  General Washington then turned to Lafayette, bypassing both Greene and Stirling. In all likelihood it was not a popular choice, but in the aftermath of the hysteria at headquarters during the past winter no one was inclined to challenge the commander’s thinking. It clearly was a curious choice. Lafayette was not quite twenty-one years old, and he had never commanded an army of this size. A month earlier Washington had put him in charge of a division—about twenty-two hundred men—and sent him on an utterly useless mission into the no man’s land between the Schuylkill and the Delaware. Ostensibly he was to harass the British in Philadelphia, but in the end he narrowly escaped a drubbing at Barren Hill, midway between the city and Valley Forge. Now, seemingly mesmerized by this young man, Washington turned to him again, certain that he would win the laurels he so much lusted after.63

  Once in command Lafayette performed poorly. Ordered to “attack the rear of the enemy” at the earliest opportunity, he planned a night march followed by an assault at daybreak on June 27. But during that night he lost contact with Washington. Indeed, he soon had no idea of the whereabouts of Washington and the main army. For that matter, he no longer was certain of the location of his foe. Alone, isolated, and seemingly confused, Lafayette was in a vulnerable position, one that Clinton might have exploited had he not been preoccupied by his own problems. In the end Lafayette was saved by the commander. As intelligence gradually drifted into headquarters, Washington discovered the truth: Lafayette had succeeded in getting into an extraordinarily precarious position. Washington ordered the young Frenchman to fall back so that he could be supported by the main army, and his directive reached Lafayette just in time. His advance units already had stumbled to within less than a mile of the enemy’s lines.64