George Washington

by Stephen Brumwell

  On his return from Philadelphia, Washington revealed his disappointment in a letter to Richard Washington, the London merchant who supplied him with fashionable goods and to whom he had last written back in December 1755. Since then, Washington explained, he had become an “exile,” posted “for twenty months past upon our cold and barren frontiers” and charged with protecting “from the cruel incursions of a crafty savage enemy a line of inhabitants of more than 350 miles extent with a force inadequate to the task.” Returning to his favorite theme, Washington once again emphasized that an attack on Fort Duquesne, that notorious “hold of barbarians” who had become “a terror to three populous colonies,” was the only cure for Virginia’s woes: the continuing failure to launch such an assault was all the more galling because the prospect of a major offensive to the north by Lord Loudoun would distract French attention to that sector.63

  Reluctant to take no for an answer, Washington wasted little time in presenting his pet scheme to Colonel John Stanwix, commanding the first battalion of the newly raised Royal American Regiment, who had been appointed by Loudoun as commander in chief of all the forces—regular and provincial alike—in Pennsylvania and the southern provinces. Based in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, with five companies of his battalion, the experienced Stanwix was now Washington’s immediate superior. Escaped captives from the Ohio Country confirmed that just 300 men garrisoned Fort Duquesne, Washington informed him. Surely the opportunity to reduce Fort Duquesne was too good to be lost? “I do not conceive that the French are so strong in Canada as to reinforce this place, and defend themselves at home this campaign,” he argued.64

  Because the unusually large number of companies—and therefore officers—in the Virginia Regiment made it an expensive unit to pay, in May 1757, Governor Dinwiddie informed Washington that the Assembly had decided to slash its strength. It would now consist of ten companies rather than sixteen.65 However, as each of these was to consist of 100 men and the regiment still only mustered about 650 rank and file, a sum not exceeding £30,000 had been earmarked to raise the manpower needed to bring it up to strength. Given the continuing unpopularity of military service, exactly how the recruits were to be found remained unclear, although the Assembly subsequently approved another draft, targeted even more specifically at the poorest and most vulnerable members of white Virginian society—men considered to be work-shy vagrants or who lacked the property qualifications to vote. This new attempt to swell the Virginia Regiment with reluctant conscripts rather than willing volunteers would create more problems than it solved.

  In the same letter in which he announced the reorganization of the Virginia Regiment, Dinwiddie made another announcement redolent of future difficulties for Washington: as Charleston merchant Edmond Atkin had been appointed superintendent of Indian affairs for the Southern Colonies, Washington was to have no more dealings with Virginia’s Indian allies. Expertise in managing relations with the Indians was badly needed. Some 150 Cherokees who had been gathered at Winchester by Major Andrew Lewis were already disgruntled and disillusioned by their treatment at the hands of the Old Dominion. Captain George Mercer warned that their loyalty was wavering owing to mismanagement: they complained that “the great men of Virginia were liars,” in contrast to the French, who “treated them always like children, and gave them what goods they wanted.”66 But if Washington assumed that Atkin would relieve him of a burden, he was to be sorely disappointed: the new superintendent lacked the tact and diplomacy crucial for his post; by contrast, Atkin had the unfortunate knack of irritating and alienating those he was required to work with, Indians and whites alike.

  Predictably enough, the draft bill passed in the spring of 1757 failed to solve Washington’s manpower problems; the resentful draftees deserted in droves. Lenient treatment of the first to be apprehended merely encouraged others to abscond, so Washington determined to take harsher measures: on July 11, he wrote to Dinwiddie, pleading for a copy of the recently reactivated “mutiny and desertion bill,” along with blank warrants to allow the sentences of courts-martial to be enforced. Just days later, he informed Colonel Stanwix that, of some 400 drafts, no fewer than 114 had promptly gone off. Some of them had been retaken, albeit only after a fight, and Washington had now built a lofty gallows, “near 40 feet high,” on which he intended to “hang two or three . . . as an example to others.”67

  Washington meant what he said: writing to Dinwiddie from Fort Loudoun on August 3, he reported that two of those condemned, Ignatious Edwards and William Smith, had already been strung up. Both were, in Washington’s opinion, beyond redemption: Edwards had deserted twice before, while Smith “was accounted one of the greatest villains upon the continent.” Washington had actually warned Edwards in person that another lapse could not be forgiven; Edwards, described as a “great fiddler and dancer,” may have gambled that his winning ways would save his neck. If so, he misjudged his colonel. Other, less heinous offenders escaped with a severe lashing.68

  Such harsh sentences were mandatory only when colonial troops were actually serving alongside British regulars and fell under their Articles of War. By seeking to impose them upon his own provincial regiment, even though it was acting independently of the redcoats, Washington once again underlined his determination to transform his regiment into an elite unit worthy of joining the regular establishment. In the opinion of an officer who served alongside him in the following year, however, Washington’s reputation as “a tolerably strict disciplinarian” came at the cost of his personal popularity: he was “not then much liked in the army” as his “system” jarred with “the impatient spirits of his headstrong countrymen, who are but little used to restraint.”69

  While Washington was whipping his men into shape, a fresh campaign was unfolding far from the Ohio. As Washington had anticipated, it involved a major assault upon Canada. In line with specific instructions from William Pitt, the new secretary of state for the Southern Department with responsibility for American affairs, Loudoun concentrated the bulk of his regulars at Halifax, Nova Scotia, poised for an amphibious thrust against the fortress of Louisbourg on Cape Breton Island. Loudoun had originally planned to strike first at Quebec, the capital of New France, but Pitt preferred Louisbourg. This interference from afar clearly unsettled the commander in chief, and when subsequent orders arrived granting him discretion over which objective to attack first, he now plumped for Louisbourg rather than Quebec. It was a disastrous choice. Stormy weather and the appearance of a superior French fleet in North American waters thwarted Loudoun’s great expedition before a gun was even fired.

  Anglo-American embarrassment at this misadventure was soon compounded by horror and rage after Montcalm exploited the conspicuous absence of Loudoun and the bulk of his troops, and the removal of any immediate danger to Quebec, to assault the lightly defended New York frontier. In August 1757, after a short siege, the marquis captured Fort William Henry at the foot of Lake George. The garrison, which, like Washington’s command at Fort Necessity, surrendered upon condition of receiving the “honors of war,” fell victim to France’s tribal allies. Montcalm had secured his own military objective, yet these warriors deemed themselves cheated of the legitimate prizes—scalps, prisoners, and booty—for which they had fought. Perhaps 200 prisoners, including soldiers’ wives and children, were killed before order was restored.70

  The massacre, bad enough in reality but further exaggerated in gory newspaper reports on both sides of the Atlantic, had an even greater psychological impact, marking a low point in the war and in the reputation of Britain’s soldiers and their leadership. Together with the total failure of Loudoun’s Louisbourg expedition and his brusque, imperious treatment of the touchy colonial assemblies, this latest disaster left the earl facing mounting criticism, not only in America, but also in London. There, Loudoun’s patron, the British Army’s commander, the Duke of Cumberland, had likewise suffered a dramatic fall from grace after failing to preserve his father’s prized continental territory of Ha
nover from the French. That defeat, allied with the emergence of a viable coalition ministry combining the financial gifts of Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle, and the vigorous war leadership of Pitt, ushered in a radically new approach to the war in North America and ultimately sealed Loudoun’s fate.

  While Loudoun’s strategy for 1757 was clearly flawed, placing too much emphasis upon a single front, his troubled tenure as commander in chief laid the foundations for ultimate victory over New France. The unglamorous but essential logistical infrastructure for a concerted war effort had laboriously been put in place; and far from ignoring the realities of local conditions that had contributed to Braddock’s defeat, Loudoun had taken pains to train his redcoats to fight in the bewildering American woods, exploiting the hard-earned experience of irregulars like the tough New England ranger Robert Rogers, who had spent the past two years waging a vicious guerrilla conflict in the Champlain Valley.

  The war’s axis shifted northward during 1757, but the frontiers of Pennsylvania and Virginia continued to face sporadic raids by war parties fitted out at Fort Duquesne. In consequence, the Virginia Regiment’s detachment to South Carolina was halved to 200 men. Including the new drafts, this gave Washington eight companies, or about 700 men, to protect Virginia’s lengthy frontier. As ever, the regiment’s manpower was insufficient for the job. In mid-June, when intelligence suggested that a large body of French and Indians, complete with artillery, were heading hotfoot for Fort Cumberland, a council of war at Fort Loudoun reluctantly resolved that the scarcity and dispersal of the troops ruled out any relief expedition. Instead, vulnerable garrisons should be concentrated at Winchester, the enemy’s next likely objective. Alerted by Washington, Colonel Stanwix prepared to march there at the head of his Royal Americans and as many Pennsylvanian provincials as could be assembled. The alarm proved false, and Stanwix never moved from Carlisle, but his response to the emergency highlighted the professional reputation that Washington had established: Stanwix—a veteran of half a century of regular service—readily deferred to the Virginian’s local knowledge, trusting to his “judgment and experience in the operations in this country.” Washington exploited his standing with Stanwix to drum home a favorite theme: the unreliability of the colonial militia. “No dependence is to be placed upon them,” he warned. Indeed, militiamen were “obstinate and perverse” and too often egged on to disobedience by their own officers.71

  While obliged to remain on the strategic defensive, Washington was keen to exploit any opportunity for low-level aggressive action. His instructions to his company commanders emphasized that, although their main objective was to protect the inhabitants, “and to keep them if possible easy and quiet,” one-third of available manpower should be pushed out in “constant scouting parties” capable of intercepting raiders before they could strike: rather than simply waiting for the enemy, Washington’s men were to seek them out. Once again, Washington stressed the need for his captains to “neglect no pains or diligence” in training their men and to devote some of their own leisure hours to studying the finer points of their chosen profession. The captains’ instructions included a statement that underpinned Washington’s own creed as a soldier: “Discipline is the soul of an army. It makes small numbers formidable, procures success to the weak, and esteem to all.”72

  That summer the viability of the small-scale patrols that Washington recommended was enhanced by the presence of significant numbers of Cherokees and Catawbas. The value of such warriors had been demonstrated when Lieutenant James Baker of the Virginia Regiment and some Cherokees penetrated about 100 miles beyond Fort Cumberland, then tracked and ambushed ten Frenchmen. The skirmish epitomized the ferocity of frontier warfare. After opening fire, Baker and his allies rushed in with their tomahawks. They killed three and took prisoner three others, all of them officers. Of these, one was too badly wounded to march and was therefore slain on the spot; another was “served in the same manner soon after” in vengeance for the death of the Indians’ leader, “the truly brave” Swallow Warrior, and the wounding of his son. It was only after a punishing march, during which they had no “morsel” to eat for four days, that the party came in to Fort Cumberland with five scalps and the surviving officer.73

  Baker’s raid gave a rare cause for celebration but had unforeseen consequences. When the French officer was brought down to Winchester, some of Washington’s officers invited him and one of his Cherokee captors to join them for a convivial glass of wine. Atkin, the Indian superintendent, took umbrage: he had not yet had a chance to interrogate the prisoner and complained to Washington. This provoked a feisty response from the Virginians: “as our officers and men risked their lives in [the] taking of the prisoner, we are entitled to speak to him when we please,” they informed their colonel. Indeed, whatever command Atkin enjoyed over the Indians, he had none over them—“gentlemen who from their station in life, their births and education ought to be treated with respect.”74

  The squall blew over, but Atkin was soon at the center of a fresh storm, which caused Washington far greater concern. As he knew from hard-earned experience, allied Indians didn’t fight for nothing: they required endless gifts and careful nurturing. Far from managing matters at Winchester, in early July Atkin alienated the Indians by jailing ten Cherokees and Mingos he suspected of spying. Not surprisingly, as the exasperated Washington reported to Stanwix, this had “greatly alarmed” the prisoners’ friends. They sent runners to inform their people “that the English had fallen upon their brethren.” Irate warriors managed to force the release of the prisoners; they refused to even talk to Atkin until Washington had reassured them that a mistake had been made.75

  All that was bad enough, but when Atkin left Winchester in mid-August, he took his deputy—Washington’s old frontier companion Christopher Gist—and his Indian interpreter, Richard Smith, with him, along with the essential supply of presents, thereby exacerbating Washington’s problems when more Cherokees turned up demanding the customary largess. The consequence, as Washington warned Dinwiddie, was that while the “warlike, formidable” Cherokees seemed to have a “natural, strong attachment” to the English, the treatment they had received was now inclining them toward the French, who were “making them vastly advantageous offers.” The present system of managing Indian affairs risked losing allies who were crucial to the English colonies in general and to Virginia in particular.76

  That summer, Washington’s myriad frustrations—with Atkin, with deserters, and, above all, with the futility of the defensive policy he was forced to follow—fed into increasing tensions with Dinwiddie, by now a sick man and heading for retirement. Not least, Washington believed that his reputation was being unfairly traduced and that he had been condemned without the chance to defend it. Washington had been incensed by malicious gossip, passed on by one of his former captains, William Peachey, that the great scare of spring 1756, when the frontier reeled under the prospect of Indian attack, was simply a “scheme” by which he, as Virginia’s commander in chief, hoped to enhance his own influence by extracting men and money from the gullible Assembly. He denied such slanders with a passion:

  It is uncertain in what light my services may have appeared to Your Honor—But this I know, and it is the highest consolation I am capable of feeling; that no man that ever was employed in a public capacity has endeavored to discharge the trust reposed in him with greater honesty, and more zeal for the country’s interest, than I have done: and if there is any person living, who can say with justice that I have offered any intentional wrong to the public, I will cheerfully submit to the most ignominious punishment that an injured people ought to inflict!77

  Dinwiddie knew nothing of such stories and advised Washington to ignore them. Looking back over their sometimes troubled four-year relationship, however, the long-suffering Scot was adamant that any blame for the recent breakdown lay with Washington: “My conduct to you from the beginning was always friendly,” he wrote, “but you know I had great reason t
o suspect you of ingratitude.” Dinwiddie had the king’s leave to sail for England in November; he could only wish that his successor as incoming lieutenant governor would show Washington as much friendship as he had done.78

  Washington’s touchiness was exacerbated by his own declining health. Attempting the impossible had stretched him to the limit, mentally and physically. Under the continuous strain, even his formidable constitution began to crack. By August 1757, Washington was suffering from the “bloody flux,” the graphically descriptive slang for the pre-twentieth-century soldier’s all-too-frequent companion, dysentery. When fever ensued, his friend, regimental officer, and personal physician James Craik resorted to the era’s customary response and bled him copiously: applied three times in two days, this drastic treatment not surprisingly left him weaker than ever and incapable of even walking. On November 9, it was Washington’s close friend and aide-de-camp Robert Stewart who informed Dinwiddie that his colonel had reluctantly followed Dr. Craik’s strong recommendation to seek a change of air and “some place where he can be kept quiet” as offering the best chance of recovery.79