George Washington

by Stephen Brumwell

  While Howe’s officers clashed sabers under the admiring eyes of Philadelphia’s Loyalist belles, Washington’s men were honing their skills for the serious business of war. That spring the Continental Army underwent a training program that underpinned its emergence as a professional, European-style force. On February 23, 1778, a former officer in the Prussian army, Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben, arrived in camp. Like other foreign officers, he had been recommended to Congress by Benjamin Franklin and his fellow American commissioners in Paris, Silas Deane and Arthur Lee. Aided by Franklin’s celebrity among Europe’s intellectuals for his pioneering work on electricity, they had been lobbying since 1776 to orchestrate French backing for the revolutionaries’ struggle against Britain. Unlike many of the military adventurers who preceded him, Steuben was an asset rather than a liability. Following the lead of Lafayette, the “baron” aspired to the rank and pay of major general, but was willing to serve as a volunteer until he had proved his worth. Washington was impressed by Steuben from the outset. One of his own military heroes was Frederick the Great: in 1759, he’d tried in vain to order a bust of “Old Fritz” to ornament Mount Vernon; here was an officer who had actually fought under the great man in his epic clashes with the Austrians, French, and Russians, encounters dutifully chronicled in the Virginia Gazette.

  To Washington, Steuben’s graduation from “the first military school in Europe” along with “his former rank” made him “peculiarly qualified” to fill the post of inspector general left vacant by Conway’s resignation. Steuben’s daunting task was to impose a single, uniform method of drill—what Washington characterized as “a well combined general system”—upon an army within which each battalion followed its own inclinations. Just months after Steuben’s arrival at Valley Forge, a delighted Washington was singing his praises to Henry Laurens. Indeed, Steuben’s “knowledge of his profession added to the zeal which he has discovered since he began upon the functions of his office” led Washington to “consider him as an acquisition to the service” and to recommend that Congress forthwith ratify his rank and appointment.33

  At Valley Forge, Steuben found an army already steeped in British military traditions, which he was reluctantly obliged to accommodate within his own system of drill. Writing to his patron Franklin, after his Regulations for the Order and Discipline of the Troops of the United States—the famous “Blue Book”—had been published, the baron apologized that “circumstances have obliged me to deviate from the principles” typically used in European armies. “Young as we are,” he explained, “we have already our prejudices as [have] the most ancient nations; the prepossession in favor of the British service, has obliged me to comply with many things which are against my principles.” Regrettably, these included the redcoats’ characteristic “formation in two ranks,” rather than the three used by other nations, including the Prussians. Another veteran of European warfare, Sir Henry Clinton, also disapproved of “the open, flimsy order of two deep in line” adopted by the British in America. Yet when he succeeded William Howe as commander in chief, he kept it all the same: not only had it proved effective enough on the battlefield, but the rebels used it too.34

  While falling short of his own Germanic ideals, Steuben’s training methods, which concentrated upon the essential skills required to maneuver and fight in a disciplined fashion, had a profound impact upon the confidence and effectiveness of the Continental Army; crucially, by exploiting his knowledge of a radically new French drill, Steuben trained his men in a simplified approach to the notoriously tricky business of deploying from column of march to line of battle: to achieve this, unflustered, in the face of the enemy, was the acid test of the true veteran.35

  An opportunity for the troops to demonstrate their new proficiency on the drill field came in early May, when confirmation arrived that France had formally entered into alliance with the United States. A great parade was staged to celebrate an event that promised to establish American “liberty and Independence upon lasting foundations.” On the morning of May 6, all the brigades assembled for a thanksgiving service and general inspection before marching off to form two long lines. After thirteen cannon fired a salute, the infantry began a continuous fire of musketry that rippled along the battalions. Twice repeated, this feu de joie was punctuated by “huzzas” to the “King of France, the friendly European powers,” and “the American states.” Each man was issued a gill of rum to celebrate the occasion. Daniel Morgan’s veteran riflemen missed the party: they were ordered to patrol through the night to make sure the redcoats didn’t arrive uninvited.36

  For British strategists, the Franco-American alliance altered the focus of the war: already struggling to suppress a colonial insurrection, they now faced a far wider conflict against the old Bourbon enemy. Its impact upon Germain’s priorities was immediate and profound. In late March 1778, Clinton was directed that the main war effort must now be against the French rather than the Americans and therefore switched from the mainland to the Caribbean. He was to send 5,000 redcoats to St. Lucia, and another 3,000 to Florida, which seemed a likely objective for France’s traditional ally, Spain, who was soon expected to join the fight against Britain. Meanwhile, Clinton must evacuate Philadelphia and withdraw what was left of his army to New York. In another sure sign of the radical shift in London’s objectives, a fresh set of peace commissioners, headed by the Earl of Carlisle, were sent across the Atlantic to open negotiations with the rebels. Empowered to concede anything short of total independence, it only compounded the soldiers’ sense of humiliation and betrayal. Jotting in his journal on June 10, a disgusted John Peebles commented: “Alas Britain how art thou fallen.”37 Congress likewise saw the initiative for what it was—a sign of British weakness and desperation—and ignored it.

  Although Philadelphia had proved of precious little strategic value to the British, its evacuation after so much hard fighting was a glum prospect for officers already depressed by the resignation of Howe. For all his faults and errors, brave, lazy, uncomplicated Sir William had remained popular with the army’s rank and file and most of the officer corps. Clinton was a very different proposition: arrogantly intelligent yet fundamentally insecure. A man who could characterize himself as a “shy bitch” was unlikely to work well with colleagues and subordinates of different temperaments.38

  Clinton viewed his inherited command as a poisoned chalice but resolved to make the best of things. While obliged to abandon Philadelphia, he decided to delay the dispatch of the detachments earmarked for other fronts until he had reached New York, keeping his seasoned army together for the risky march across New Jersey. Some 3,000 Loyalists who feared the reprisals of returning revolutionaries were put aboard ship, along with stores and German troops deemed too unfit, or unreliable, to complete the punishing cross-country trek. On the morning of June 18, Clinton’s army crossed the Delaware River and headed east. Encumbered by a lengthy wagon train, its progress was sluggish. Six days found it no farther than Allentown, just thirty-five miles from Philadelphia. There, in order to avoid a hazardous passage of the Raritan River at Brunswick, Clinton veered northeast, heading for Sandy Hook.

  Clinton’s lumbering column was shadowed at a respectful distance by Washington’s reformed and reinvigorated army. Most of its senior officers were so delighted to see their enemies quit Philadelphia that they felt inclined to let them go unmolested. This group included Charles Lee, who had recently rejoined the army following an exchange of prisoners and resumed his place as senior major general. While still a captive, Lee had sent Washington a detailed plan for reorganizing the “American Army” and simplifying its drill. The latter task had already been undertaken, during Lee’s prolonged absence, by Baron Steuben. But Lee’s paper also included a pessimistic assessment that was utterly at odds with Washington’s vision of his revamped army and its capabilities. To claim that the Americans were now disciplined enough to risk a “decisive action in fair ground” was “talking nonsense,” Lee maintained. Rather than subs
cribe to the “insanity” of seeking battle, they should put their faith in a defensive strategy of “harassing and impeding” the enemy and, if necessary, falling back behind the Susquehanna River. Lee continued to promote his plan when he reached Valley Forge; he was convinced that the British in Philadelphia would soon take the offensive, so obliging the Continental Army to fight on “very disadvantageous” terms; he couldn’t credit that the enemy would “pass through the Jerseys to New York.”39

  Not only did Lee totally misread Clinton’s intentions, but his cautious, “Fabian,” mentality was now badly out of step with the mood of Washington and his more hawkish acolytes—Greene, Wayne, Hamilton, and Lafayette—for whom the enemy’s extended column offered a target too tempting to resist. With opinion within the high command divided, however, a vague and potentially dangerous compromise was reached. At a council of war held at Hopewell Township on June 24, it was decided to avoid “a general action.” Instead, a corps of 1,500 men would shadow the British, menacing their flanks and rear and reinforcing “the other Continental troops and militia” who were “already hanging about them.” A disgusted Alexander Hamilton identified Lee as the prime mover behind that “sage plan,” which “would have done honor to the most honorable society of midwives, and to them only.” 40

  That same day, Greene, Lafayette and Wayne all wrote to Washington, making it clear that the council’s decision did not truly reflect their own opinions. While agreeing that an unnecessary battle should be avoided, all felt that more should be done than simply harassing Clinton’s army. Greene wrote: “I am clearly of opinion for making a serious impression with the light troops—and for having the army in supporting distance.” Like Washington, Greene was aggressive by instinct, and keen to fight. If they allowed the enemy to pass through New Jersey without “attempting any thing upon them,” he added, they would always regret it. Lafayette agreed, pushing for the advance detachment to be reinforced to 2,000 or 2,500 “selected men”—enough to engage part of the enemy’s force and even beat their “tremendous grenadiers.” Wayne also wanted to bolster the detachment, while keeping the main army close enough to the enemy’s rear to act swiftly, although not to provoke a major engagement contrary to Washington’s wishes. Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton underlined another, and equally pressing, justification for more decisive action: “We feel our personal honor as well as the honor of the army and the good of the service interested, and are heartily desirous to attempt whatever the disposition of our men will second and prudence authorize.”41

  Washington was receptive to these arguments: the vanguard was therefore tripled to more than 5,000 men and placed under Lafayette. Major General Lee, who had been happy to relinquish command of the original, far smaller force to the young Frenchman, now changed his mind: as second in command of the army, he must assume what was “undoubtedly the most honorable command” next to Washington’s.42 On June 27, when the baking sun forced both armies to rest, it was agreed that this swollen vanguard should chivvy Clinton as soon as his march resumed.

  Early the next morning, June 28, 1778, the British moved out in two divisions: the first consisting of about 4,000 men and the baggage under General Knyphausen; the second, which followed an hour or so later, numbered another 6,000 troops led by Clinton. Alerted to this movement, Lee’s detachment crossed a series of three ravines to attack the British rear guard near Monmouth Court House. The Americans were soon in trouble. The tail of the snaking British column, commanded by the omnipotent and ever-aggressive Cornwallis, delivered a lethal sting. It comprised the army’s best units: Guards, grenadiers, light infantry, and light dragoons. These crack troops riposted effectively, and as Clinton swiftly reinforced them, Lee’s outnumbered force was pushed back. Those who grudgingly retreated included Private Joseph Plumb Martin. As he and his comrades were taking a breather while the artillery negotiated a muddy defile, Washington suddenly rode up on his “old English charger,” surrounded by his staff. Martin heard him ask “by whose orders the troops were retreating.” When told that Lee was responsible, Washington said something else, but, as he was riding forward, Martin didn’t catch his words. Men nearer to the general heard him say “damn him.” Mild as this might seem, it was an unusual outburst from the typically restrained Washington: Private Martin remarked that such language was certainly “very unlike” him, although, as he “seemed at the instant to be in a great passion,” his looks conveyed exactly the same sentiments.43 Moving on toward the enemy, Washington soon encountered Lee in person. In a rare explosion of temper, he apparently subjected him to a verbal flaying, then, regaining his composure, calmly set about restoring order; for once, Lee was lost for words, cowed by the Virginian’s uncharacteristic rage.44

  Besides Lee’s advance guard there were about 6,000 men in the main body of Washington’s army, so the odds remained even—provided they would stand and fight. Now, as at Princeton, Washington’s inspiring, personal leadership was crucial in ensuring that they did. His aide Alexander Hamilton wrote admiringly: “By his own good sense and fortitude he turned the fate of the day.” In a dig at Horatio Gates, whose victory at Saratoga was attributed by many to the courageous battlefield leadership of Benedict Arnold, Hamilton added that Washington had not let another man win his laurels for him, “but by his own presence, he brought order out of confusion, animated his troops and led them to success.” Another Washington devotee, Major General Greene was equally certain that his intervention was decisive: “The commander-in-chief was every where, his presence gave spirit and confidence and his command and authority soon brought everything into order and regularity.”45

  Arraying his Continentals in a strong defensive position on high ground behind the most westerly ravine, and with powerful support from well-sited artillery, Washington rebuffed a succession of determined but poorly coordinated British assaults. With casualties mounting and dozens of men dropping dead from heat exhaustion alone, Clinton broke off the fight. Washington’s soldiers were exultant at facing “the flower of the British army” in open battle. Their discipline had prevented Lee’s withdrawal from escalating into a general rout and vindicated Steuben’s training regime at Valley Forge. That fair-minded professional Captain Ewald conceded: “Today the Americans showed much boldness and resolution on all sides during their attacks.”46

  In his General Orders of June 29, Washington congratulated his army “on the victory obtained over the arms of his Britannic Majesty yesterday,” while a brief dispatch to Henry Laurens reported how the enemy had been “forced . . . from the field.”47 Yet the Battle of Monmouth Court House was an indecisive affair, in which neither side could truly claim a clear-cut success: Washington had failed to destroy or even deflect Clinton’s column, and on June 29, it continued on its way without further interruption, reaching Sandy Hook on July 1 to rendezvous with Lord Howe’s fleet. By July 6, Clinton’s troops were all safely inside the fortifications of Manhattan.

  If Monmouth—the last major engagement to be fought in the war’s northern theater—failed to deliver the unambiguous battlefield victory that Washington still wanted, it was decisive in another sense, by eliminating his sole remaining rival within the Continental Army. In the immediate aftermath of the battle, while still smarting from Washington’s stinging public rebuke, General Lee penned three notes to him in quick succession, the last of them demanding a court-martial to clear his name. Washington acquiesced and, given Lee’s intemperate choice of language, added a charge of disrespect to counts of failing to engage the enemy and “making an unnecessary, disorderly and shameful retreat.”48 Evidence was heard over several weeks as the army marched toward a new position on the Lower Hudson. The court’s verdict, delivered on August 12, was unanimous: Lee was found guilty on all three charges. Although the first could have brought a death sentence, he was merely suspended from service for a year.49

  While Lee was clearly guilty of disrespect toward Washington, the other two crimes laid to his charge were by no means proven. Yet, as hi
storian John Shy has pointed out, an acquittal on them would have been tantamount to a vote of no-confidence in Washington;50 the surprising leniency of Lee’s sentence certainly supports this interpretation. Interestingly, vindication for Lee’s withdrawal at Monmouth came from his opponent. Henry Clinton did not doubt that, if Lee had stood his ground, “his whole corps would probably have fallen into the power of the King’s army,” long before Washington’s force could have succored him.51

  Incensed at what he considered to be unjust treatment, Lee refused to accept his fate and keep quiet, instead attacking Washington and his inner circle in the press. This so incensed Washington’s aide John Laurens that he challenged Lee to a duel. The Englishman had already shrugged off similar invitations from Wayne and Steuben, who both felt that he had disparaged them while publicly defending his own conduct at Monmouth. But Laurens was more persistent, and Lee finally agreed to accept. When they fought with pistols in a field outside Philadelphia, Lee sustained a flesh wound; both combatants were ready to continue, but their seconds persuaded them that honor had been satisfied.52 Lee never returned to the Continental Army. On balance, this was just as well: as his behavior after Monmouth confirmed, whatever his merits as a general officer—and these are by no means clear from his service record—Lee was disqualified from high command by his cantankerous character. Even Lee’s most ardent admirers, men like Benjamin Rush, conceded that his “knowledge and experience” was offset by “his oddities or vices.” Given his volatile personality, it is hard to imagine him ever working loyally under Washington, let alone providing an alternative figurehead for a concerted revolutionary war effort.53