First of Men

by Ferling, John;

  The trait most often referred to by those describing Washington’s manner was his aloofness. Yet the commander was not isolated at headquarters from civil authorities or from other general officers, and he apparently made no attempt to seclude himself. Just the opposite. Daily he was surrounded by numerous aides and advisors, and he met frequently—too often, he sometimes complained—with congressmen, state officials, and, most irksomely, with ubiquitous local dignitaries who merely wished to be permitted to meet such an esteemed figure. So busy was he, the commander was heard to grumble, that he had little time for reflection and contemplation, and he sometimes had to apologize for letters that he feared would appear to be “crude, and undigested.” To keep pace with his duties he rose early, as had been his habit on the farm. Normally, he was up and busy by 5:00 A.M., usually working alone in his bedchamber or a separate study, and generally devoting these first hours to his correspondence. After three or four hours he emerged to join his entourage for a long, brisk ride on his favorite mount. In mid-morning he returned to headquarters for breakfast, usually a hurried affair. Several hours of work followed. In mid-afternoon, about three o’clock, all labor stopped and the day’s principal meal commenced, a repast that customarily lasted for about two hours. Several people joined him at this mess, including the young officer of the day, a practice he had begun at Cambridge and was to continue with mixed success throughout the war. The fare at the meals varied from the adequate but unspectacular cuisine at Valley Forge to sumptuous feasts featuring eight to ten separate dishes of meat and poultry, numerous vegetables, and a variety of pastries and pies and puddings, all of which was capped by huge bowls of assorted nuts. At the conclusion of this lengthy meal, work was resumed, continuing until about 7:30 or 8:00 P.M., when the commander returned to the dining room for a light supper. One meat and a variety of fruit, accompanied by claret or Madeira, usually constituted this meal, which, like the earlier gathering, tended to be a relaxed and protracted affair. During these meals Washington customarily said little, merely listening contentedly while his more loquacious aides and generals bantered, a practice he continued when the entourage adjourned from the dining room table to a parlor or living room in the commander’s residence for another hour or so of conversation over coffee and tea.19

  What appears at first glance to have been a comfortable, if busy, life, often, in fact, was the very opposite. Throughout the war Washington labored under great adversity, often facing brief periods of extraordinary stress. Inevitably, he experienced moments of despair and hopelessness, times when sleep came with difficulty, when he snapped angrily at those about him, even when, as occurred on one or two instances, he acknowledged his unhappiness with his position as supreme commander. What was far more remarkable, however, was his facility for coping with his burdens. For eight years he made decisions upon which hung the well-being of his men, the life of the nation, and, as he well knew, his own life and fortune, yet there is no indication that he was harmed physically or emotionally by the weight he bore. Consider his contemporary John Adams, so overwhelmed by the stress and anxiety that accompanied power that he collapsed on at least two occasions during the Revolution, or subsequent statesmen like Abraham Lincoln or Franklin Roosevelt, both gaunt, lined, emaciated, exhausted, seemingly aging by quantum leaps under the strain of leadership. But, aside from graying and lining, the only sign of major physical change that Washington exhibited in these years was that he eventually was compelled to wear reading glasses, hardly an abnormal development for a person progressing from age forty-three in 1775 to age fifty at war’s end. He seems not to have grown stooped or frail or enfeebled, he suffered no apparent gastrointestinal debilities, and the many portraits made of him during these years unfailingly depict his appearance about as one would expect a healthy man at that stage of life to look.

  Washington was aware of the health hazards that accompanied his job, and he sought to protect himself through daily exercise. Each morning, rain or shine, he rode fifteen miles, a trek that consumed about forty-five minutes to an hour. When the press of business permitted he also sought to relax through some amusing diversion. As a Virginia planter he often had taken his pleasure in taverns, where he played cards and shot billiards, but as commander in chief he eschewed such recreation, undoubtedly fearing the example it might set. More surprisingly he also abandoned fox hunting, which had been his principal sport at Mount Vernon, apparently riding the hounds only once during the war years. Occasionally he tossed a ball or played wickets with the younger officers, and during the long days of summer he sometimes accompanied riding parties after the evening meal had been completed. In addition, he attended plays and visited local landmarks, and from time to time he took a picnic lunch to the restful banks of some nearby stream.20

  Something evidently kept him fit, for he experienced only three minor illnesses in these eight years. In each of these three instances he seems to have suffered nothing more serious than a two- or three-day bout with some form of infectious viral disease. Otherwise, his only physical malady was his persistent dental problem, a disorder that set in at least twenty years before the Revolution. Washington already was using some false teeth when he took command in 1775 (in fact, at one point he wrote home to request that some teeth he had left behind at Mount Vernon be mailed to him). He wore sets made from wood and ivory, but since England was the source of the latter dentures he was unable to replace some broken and defective plates until the war ended. His teeth or gum problems aside, he was more than fit. At the end of the conflict he weighed 209 pounds, certainly an appropriate weight for a 53-year-old man who was 6′ 3″ in height.21

  By then the extra weight visible in Peale’s 1776 portrait obviously had been shed. Indeed, his 1779 painting of Washington, one commissioned by the executive council of Pennsylvania to commemorate his victories at Trenton and Princeton, depicted Washington as he must have looked during the last several years of the war. He is shown in a jaunty pose, his left hand leaning on a field piece, his right arm cocked on his hip, his left leg crossing his right. His hair had grayed since Peale first had met him at Mount Vernon seven years before, and, while the artist omitted the lines around the subject’s features, Washington nevertheless seemed older. But the aura of the man was what really seemed to have changed. Now, in fact, Washington seemed different from other men. In 1772 he had almost the appearance of an actor, a man who sought to convince others to accept his view of himself. Even so, in that earliest painting Washington’s countenance had been bland and inscrutable. In 1779, however, he reeked of poise and of success, of fearlessness, of assurance that he would inevitably triumph. Tall, ramrod-straight, thinner than after his first winter of war, although still not thin, his features a bit softer and more animated than in the previous portraits, the commander appeared to be relaxed and cocksure, yet detached and alone. Well removed from the soldierly ranks that paraded in the background, Washington seemed an Olympian personage, remote and unapproachable.

  What manner of military commander was General Washington? Moreover, what was the relationship between Washington’s character and his leadership? Was he the man that Charles Lee saw, a “puffed up charlatan . . . extremely prodigal of other men’s blood and a great oeconomist of his own.” Was he the man that one of his young officers saw, the “last stage of perfection to which human nature is capable of attaining.”22 Or, with more information and greater detachment, can the historian see still a different Washington?

  In most respects it is difficult to imagine Washington pursuing alternative military strategies. Not only did his army’s tactics generally conform to the martial wisdom of the age, his decisions normally reflected the collective wisdom of his general officers as expressed in the frequent councils of war. Yet the manner in which he longed to act can be revealing, as can be those episodes when he shook loose of the counsel of his officers and struck out on his own path. Always Washington seemed to view a conservative, defensive strategy with disdain. During the siege of Bos
ton he yearned to assail Howe. He fretted over losing the “esteem of mankind” if he remained inactive, and even though he acknowledged that to attack might be “to undertake more than could be warranted by prudence,” he nevertheless sought to secure his officers’ backing for an assault. Washington similarly exhibited a penchant for standing and fighting on Long Island and Manhattan, and once again in the contest for Fort Washington. Only at Long Island, where congressional pressure probably hectored Washington into a duel with the British and Hessian forces, did he lack a free hand; in the other instances there were compelling reasons to have retreated and fought a “war of posts,” a strategy which he had articulated but infrequently pursued. In the year and a half that followed the debacle at Fort Washington, he again and again lashed out at his adversary, making dangerous assaults at Trenton and Princeton, at German-town and Monmouth. Once again, safer, more cautious courses might have been embraced, yet he always seemed to equate retreat with personal weakness. He seemed mesmerized by the “honor of making a brave defense,” by which, curiously, he meant resolutely fighting his foe in a pitched battle. On the other hand, he feared he would be subject to “reproach” if he adopted a Fabian strategy. “I see the impossibility of serving with reputation,” he remarked in frustration, often speaking of the certainty that he would “lose my Character” in this war, sometimes seeming to equate the destruction of his reputation with the policy of inaction which circumstances often made unavoidable. Thus to preserve his honor he leaned toward defiant action, toward bold and vigorous conduct, and when he succeeded in the pursuit of a daring and grandiose plan his response was relief, not just for the victory but because “my reputation stands firm.”23

  His conduct in this war was not uncharacteristic. This was the same man who had stood at Fort Necessity, who repeatedly had urged an assault on Fort Duquesne, who had carped incessantly at the “string of forts” concept. Always he longed to execute a brilliant stroke, always he thought in terms of the grand and audacious gesture. To imagine George Washington thinking any other way is not only to fail to understand the man but to fail to comprehend that it was his inescapable quest for esteem that governed and dictated the life-and-death choices he made.

  What of his relations with his principal officers? When Charles Lee remarked that Washington was a “dark designing” man bent upon the destruction of every man whom he considered to be a threat to his station, he may have come closer to the truth than most historians have cared to admit. Washington perhaps put it most succinctly. While he sought talent and dedication in his officers, he also wanted “attachment” and the “purest affection” from those about him. He valued the sort of behavior perhaps best exemplified by Lafayette, who acted, in the commander’s opinion, “upon very different principles” from those of men like Lee and Gates. But one did not have to be servile to win Washington’s support. Lafayette and Reed, and, one suspects, Greene and probably Hamilton, among others, were not above playing that role. A man like Arnold was not so inclined, however, and Washington respected him. Washington’s relationships with his general officers worked on several levels. Some men provided the adoration and support that he required. Some officers—Lafayette and Arnold, and probably Sullivan, Hamilton, and Reed—served almost as models, embodying the virtues that Washington longed to manifest, whether it was intelligence, education, urbanity, eloquence, courage, or daring. But finally, and most importantly, General Washington had to be in total control, or, at least, he needed to believe that his powers of control were in no way jeopardized. From the very outset his control over Ward, for example, was questionable, and Washington immediately was cool, even hostile, toward him. When he discovered that Reed had questioned his judgment, he turned implacably cold. When he grew to believe that his control of Gates and Lee had diminished, he ruthlessly turned against them.24

  Washington’s personality and temperament were that of a self-centered and self-absorbed man, one who since youth had exhibited a fragile self-esteem. His need for admiration and affirmation was considerable, for only thus could his nagging doubts about his capabilities and his competence be overcome. Lest his imagined inadequacies be discovered, he adopted an aloof and formal manner. The result was that he had no friends in the real sense of the word, and he was at ease with—and closest to—only those who accommodated his needs, principally aspiring young men who basked in his presence and women who, in the custom of the times, treated him with deference. His attitude was a prescription for judging all men as either threatening or amicable.

  Many contemporaries seemed unable to understand Washington. Some observers ascribed almost superhuman virtues to him, and they fretted over America’s fate should his presence be lost. He came to be regarded as the indispensable man of the War of Independence, the one person upon whom the success—indeed, the very continuation—of the war depended. Washington’s absence would lead to “the ruin of our Cause,” the president of Congress, Henry Laurens, told his son, whereas the commander’s “magnanimity, his patience, will save the Country. . . .” Lafayette, more characteristically, expressed the same thoughts directly to Washington. If “you were lost for America, there is nobody who could keep the army and the Revolution [intact] for six months.”25 But was General Washington truly the linchpin of the Revolution?

  Washington’s continued presence as commander of the Continental army was important, if only for symbolic reasons. By 1778, as Laurens and Lafayette had said, Washington already had come to symbolize the Revolution. To a degree that was unrivaled, Washington continued to embody those noble traits that had comprised the Revolutionary outlook at the outset of the war. His honesty, courage, and selfless service seemed beyond question, and even after three years as the commander of the Continental army, he continued to be seen, not as a hardened soldier, but as a trustworthy civilian who had been called to arms. In addition, it was crucial for the success of the war effort that no attempt be made to remove Washington from command. Had Congress deposed Washington in 1777 or 1778—or had that body even attempted to remove him—the act surely would have been seen as venal and narrowly factious, indeed as an antirevolutionary blow. Any move against Washington would have resulted in an atmosphere of ill-feeling and uncertainty that would surely have jeopardized the war effort.

  But was Washington’s continued presence essential only for symbolic and political reasons? The Washington who had ridden to Cambridge to assume command was a man of many talents. His earlier soldiering had helped prepare him for the administrative responsibilities he would bear, no small matter when it is remembered that the management of the military machine was a constant concern, whereas the army actually was thrust into battlefield situations only infrequently. Washington’s years as a Virginia soldier also provided him with valuable experience in dealing with politicians, teaching him how to get his way, when to push and when it was expedient to let matters lie. He was wise enough not to ally himself with one faction in Congress, and he knew that it would be counterproductive to appeal over that body’s head to the general public. He additionally knew better than to revert to the whining, petulant behavior that had tarnished his relationship with Dinwiddie, and after his experience with Forbes and Bouquet he was careful to avoid the folly of pushing for ends that were narrowly self-serving. Since boyhood Washington had been a careful student of behavior, watching to see what fashion dictated, then striving to shape his own conduct to conform. By the war years his plain, sober, vigilant, hard-working life style was too deeply rooted in his temperament to have been superficial or contrived. Even so, he understood the public temper in a way that leaders such as Schuyler or Lee could never have fathomed, and that intuitive genius led him to disdain a salary, to jettison certain pastimes—hunting and gaming, for instance—that long had been his habit as a Virginia planter, and scrupulously to avoid the public appearance of indulgences that smacked of intemperance or indifference toward his responsibilities.

  On the other hand, there was little in Washington’s back
ground to prepare him for the strategic and tactical decisions he would have to make, and he was even more a greenhorn when it came to commanding under fire. As a Virginia soldier he never had commanded more than a thousand men, nor had he ever led his men against a professional European army. His combat experience consisted of three engagements: the ten-minute ambush of Jumonville, and the one-day fights at Fort Necessity and alongside Braddock on the Monongahela.

  Nevertheless, by 1778 he had survived—and succeeded—on the battlefield. In part, Washington’s achievements were due to luck. Four times in 1776 his inexperience, his penchant for standing and fighting, and his early inability to resist the demands of powerful politicians, led him into nearly fatal traps. On Long Island, at Manhattan, at Fort Washington, and when Cornwallis had him pinioned between the Assunpink and the Delaware, Washington seemingly had blundered into fighting in areas from which retreat would be difficult, perhaps impossible. But only at Fort Washington did he suffer for his errors. From the other traps he escaped, largely through fortuitous occurrences: sudden rainstorms, unanticipated fog, felicitous nightfalls that seemed to come on when he most needed them, although Washington was also sufficiently resourceful to seize the good fortune that fate offered. Between 1775 and 1778, however, his best stroke of luck was not only to have had an adversary such as the indolent, cautious Howe, but to have been fighting an enemy that entered the conflict unprepared for the kind of war this was certain to be, a struggle that would require a huge commitment of manpower, men that would have to be supplied against almost insurmountable obstacles.