Had Washington failed to defuse the “Newburgh Conspiracy” and instead endorsed its objectives, a group of officers might have menaced Congress into meeting their demands, thereby establishing a precedent for military interference in American government. The more drastic scenario of a full-blown coup d’état seems highly unlikely, not least because of a clear lack of solidarity between the officers and the enlisted men, whose mass support would have been essential to any takeover bid. While both groups had grievances in common, they never acted together. The unbridgeable social gulf between them was clear in 1780 and 1781, when mutinying soldiers turned wrathfully upon unpopular superiors. On their part, officers had shown no hesitation in implementing the harsher floggings ordered by Washington from December 1779 to combat marauding, even though these exceeded the army’s Articles of War. Hierarchy and punishment only reinforced the traditional antipathy between the ranks that runs through the recollections of Joseph Plumb Martin: while he and his comrades might admire individual officers for their bravery, many others, like his own captain, David Bushnell, were heartily disliked and considered fair game for potentially lethal pranks: it was only with difficulty that Sergeant Martin persuaded several “young hotheads” to abandon their plan to frighten “the old man” by igniting a wooden canteen packed with enough gunpowder to blow him sky high.94 Significantly, this conspicuous absence of the kind of fellow feeling that might have generated and sustained a coup was itself a consequence of Washington’s own vision of the Continental Army as a formation in which officers would be “gentlemen” like him, distinct in background and ethos from the humble rank and file.
The upheaval at Newburgh had scarcely subsided when news arrived that a treaty signed in January had ended hostilities between Great Britain and the United States; although the definitive Peace of Paris was not ratified until September, as Washington announced in his General Orders of April 18, the initial proclamation had closed a “long and doubtful contest” and promised “the approach of a brighter day than hath hitherto illuminated the Western Hemisphere.” Having now accomplished their “glorious task,” it only remained for the actors in the drama to exit the stage with applause. Washington was confident that the men who had enlisted for the war—“who ought to be considered as the pride and boast of the American Army”—would be honorably discharged as soon as possible.95
Because the British still garrisoned Charleston, Savannah, and New York City, Congress decided that its troops should be put on “furlough,” for recall if required, and released in batches to minimize the impact upon civilian society. Each veteran received three months’ pay in the form of “final settlement certificates”; their furlough papers could also be used to claim warrants for the 100 acres of bounty land that every “three-year or the duration” enlistee had been promised. Desperate for food and clothing to see them home, many men swiftly sold their papers for a fraction of their face value. As Joseph Plumb Martin recalled in old age, while there was talk of bounty lands, nothing was done to help the soldiers secure them: the only interest came from speculators “driving about the country like so many evil spirits,” who promptly fleeced the veterans. He added bitterly: “When the country had drained the last drop of service it could screw out of the poor soldiers, they were turned adrift like old worn-out horses, and nothing said about land to pasture them upon.”96
Like Sergeant Martin, George Washington had signed up “for the duration.” Despite their vastly different prospects, he, too, faced the challenge of adjusting to peace. That process began with Washington’s farewell address to his army, delivered in his General Orders of November 2. Preparing “to take his ultimate leave . . . of the military character,” he thanked all of his men, from the generals, “for their counsel on many interesting occasions, as for their ardor in promoting the success of the plans he had adopted,” to the noncommissioned officers and privates, “for their extraordinary patience in suffering, as well as their invincible fortitude in action.” What this “band of brothers” had achieved during eight long years of conflict, Washington maintained, “was little short of a standing miracle.”97
A month later, there was a more intimate parting scene in New York City. The last redcoats were finally evacuated on November 25, 1783; Washington rode in that same afternoon to a hero’s welcome from cheering crowds. On December 4, at Fraunces Tavern on Pearl Street, Washington bid farewell to his general officers and staff. Of his closest companions, only Henry Knox, Baron Steuben, and a few others were present, but it was an emotionally charged occasion for all that, with Washington embracing each man in turn. The last links were severed on December 23, when Washington broke his homeward journey to Mount Vernon and paused at Annapolis, Maryland, where Congress had convened. Having completed the task entrusted to him back in 1775, Washington delivered his formal resignation, taking his “leave of all the employments of public life.”98
Of course, Washington’s retirement from what he had styled “the great theater of action” was temporary. Given his standing as the man who had done more than anyone else to win American independence, it was inevitable that there would be further calls upon his guidance and leadership as the young Republic struggled to stamp its credentials and construct a strong national government. In spring 1787, Washington was unanimously elected to chair the convention that hammered out the US Constitution; on April 30, 1789, he was inaugurated first president of the United States; reelected, he would hold the post until 1797. His retirement was all too short, and he died on December 14, 1799, aged sixty-seven, from an inflammation of the throat contracted while inspecting his farms on horseback during a snowstorm.
Detailed examination of these years falls beyond the scope of this study, but a brief overview makes it possible to revisit key themes from Washington’s long military career. As president, Washington showed no more inclination to don the mantle of military dictator than he had when commander in chief of the Continental Army. Yet neither did he lose his faith in the kind of professional standing army that had been crucial to achieving American independence, but which remained anathema to many of his countrymen.
At the close of the Revolutionary War, the Republic’s permanent military establishment had been axed. By January 1784 America’s regular army amounted to a small unit of artillery and a single regiment of infantry: just 600 men guarding stores at West Point and Springfield, Massachusetts, and supervising the reoccupation of New York City. Mindful of civilian fears of a strong military, but aware of the need for national security, Washington had put forward his “Sentiments on a Peace Establishment” while his veterans were still disbanding: this scheme, which reflected his own experience and the advice of his general officers, envisaged a small regular force of just 2,600 troops, backed up by a properly trained and regulated militia, subject to Congress rather than to the individual states; a cohort of the youngest militiamen, aged eighteen to twenty-five, would drill more intensively, forming elite units like the minutemen companies of 1775. Washington had promoted a compromise solution in which some militia would be shaped to resemble regulars, but Congress rejected his plan. Instead, the tiny remnant of the old Continental Army was slashed further, to just eighty men.99
The same Republican suspicions that scotched Washington’s “Sentiments” fueled the furor that followed the foundation of the Society of the Cincinnati in 1783. Promoted by Henry Knox and Baron Steuben, this was an exclusive fraternity for senior Continental Army officers, intended to commemorate and perpetuate the brotherhood forged during the hardships and dangers of the Revolutionary War. Its title was inspired by the Roman citizen-soldier Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus, who had famously left his plow to serve the republic in its hour of need, only to relinquish power and return to farming once the crisis was over; the obvious parallels with Washington’s own experience would earn him the title of the “American Cincinnatus”; with his liking for agriculture, it was a tag he did nothing to discourage. Despite such symbolism, given its elitist, martial character,
it was scarcely surprising that the society immediately provoked howls of outrage from civilians who detected sinister purposes behind its worthy facade: membership was hereditary, descending through eldest sons, which hinted at the establishment of an American “nobility,” while the payment of contributions into a fund for needy members suggested a war chest that might be tapped for other, less charitable purposes, perhaps even to topple the confederation. Washington’s acceptance of the society’s presidency offered evidence that his own motives were harmless, not least because he had no son to inherit his membership, but the public criticism of what looked like a militaristic organization, steeped in the traditions of standing armies, was unabated.100
Such entrenched attitudes ensured that in the years following the Peace of Paris the burden of national defense would fall upon the state militias, the same feckless amateurs who had frequently driven Washington to distraction during two wars. After 1789, the president’s enduring belief in the superiority of regulars, which was shared by Alexander Hamilton and other leading nationalists, was only reinforced by events on the western frontier. There, the festering troubles with the fiercely independent nations of the “Old Northwest” beyond the Ohio River finally erupted in a bloody war.
This new conflict opened badly for the young republic, reflecting both the feebleness of its truncated military establishment and the emergence of a powerful pan-Indian confederacy galvanized by fear of American encroachment and the growing influence of spiritual leaders preaching a return to native values. During 1790–91, two expeditions met with humiliating defeat. The first, led by Brigadier General Josiah Harmar, escaped relatively lightly. It involved about 1,500 men; just 300 were regulars, the balance poor-quality Kentucky and Pennsylvania militia. Sent to “chastise” the Miamis and Shawnees along the Maumee and Wabash Rivers, they were themselves roughly handled by tribal warriors under the skillful Miami leader Little Turtle. Harmar’s debacle merely served notice of a greater disaster to come.
In 1791, a second force was sent, this time to establish a fort in the heart of hostile territory. It was commanded by the revolutionary war veteran Major General Arthur St. Clair, now aging and gout ridden. St. Clair’s campaign revealed no hint of strategic flair: poorly organized and supplied and lacking intelligence of its enemy, his undisciplined army blindly blundered its way into Indian country. On November 4, 1791, near the Wabash River, it was expertly ambushed by a tribal force embracing Shawnees, Delawares, Mingos, Wyandots, Ottawas, Miamis, Chippewas, and Cherokees and virtually annihilated. In scenes that recalled Braddock’s defeat in 1755, some 650 of St. Clair’s 1,400-strong command were slaughtered and hundreds more wounded; it was the bloodiest reverse ever suffered by the United States at the hands of Indians. The victors’ spoils included 1,200 muskets and eight cannon, two of them howitzers reputedly captured from Cornwallis at Yorktown. During both expeditions the small contingents of regulars had fought bravely before being overwhelmed; but the militia fled in shameful panic, just as they had done at Kip’s Bay in 1776 and Camden in 1780.101
The shocking carnage of “St. Clair’s Defeat” and the unchecked frontier raiding that followed strengthened Washington’s renewed calls for a larger regular army capable of tackling the tribes and restoring the Republic’s dented martial reputation. Congress swiftly agreed to increase the size of the military establishment from two to five regiments of infantry, a total of 5,168 rank and file. Soon after, Washington realized another goal, a reformed and federally controlled militia. To pay for these new forces, Congress introduced a heavy and extremely unpopular tax on spirits.102
There remained the vexing question of who should inherit St. Clair’s frontier command. Like the president himself, most of the surviving generals who had fought and won the Revolutionary War were past their prime; yet if passed over for a younger, more vigorous man of lower rank, like Colonel “Light Horse Harry” Lee for example, they could be counted upon to object on grounds of seniority. The selection process showed Washington at his most grudging; old comrades were summarily dismissed for real or perceived faults: rifleman Daniel Morgan was “intemperate,” “illiterate,” and often incapacitated by palpitations; Charles Scott and George Weedon were both overly fond of a drink; Steuben was competent enough, and both “sober and brave,” but sadly a foreigner. After fifteen candidates were eliminated, the choice finally fell upon Major General “Mad Anthony” Wayne, although he, too, scarcely received a hearty endorsement from his former commander, being “open to flattery—vain—easily imposed upon—and liable to be drawn into scrapes.” As for Wayne’s drinking habits, Washington was unsure whether he was sober “or a little addicted to the bottle.”103
Picked as the best of a bad bunch, Wayne was an excellent choice, proving himself an energetic trainer, firm disciplinarian, and resolute combat commander. Instead of filling five regiments, his 5,000 men were formed into the “Legion of the United States.” This reorganization was approved by Washington and his secretary at war, Henry Knox, on the advice of Steuben. Besides conjuring up the spirit of Julius Caesar, it followed the recommendations of French military theorists like Maurice de Saxe and Turpin de Crissé and also the example of the highly effective legions led by men like Banastre Tarleton, John Graves Simcoe, and “Light Horse Harry” Lee during the Revolutionary War. Wayne’s force was split into four “sublegions”: each of them was a flexible, self-contained formation fielding infantry armed with muskets and bayonets, and also riflemen, cavalry, and field artillery.104
Over the next two years, while fitful efforts were made to negotiate with the Indians, Wayne recruited and trained his legionaries. Those who still favored a peaceful settlement with the tribes were dissuaded by the outbreak of war between Great Britain and France in 1793. Britain’s policy of boarding American vessels and pressing their crews to man the Royal Navy sparked fresh resentment against the old enemy; it was only intensified by the revelation that a continued British presence in the Old Northwest, which flouted the terms of the 1783 peace, was inciting the Republic’s Indian enemies.
When Wayne’s offensive finally opened in the summer of 1794, he belied his reputation for rashness, leaving nothing to chance. Like John Forbes in 1758, Wayne anchored his advance on fortified camps. His regulars were screened by effective scouts—allied Chickasaw and Choctaw warriors, and also highly mobile mounted riflemen from Kentucky, the same type of fighters who had ruthlessly eliminated Major Ferguson’s command on King’s Mountain in 1780. At Fallen Timbers on August 20, Wayne’s disciplined regulars proved their worth, routing their opponents under Shawnee war leader Blue Jacket with a close-range volley and bayonet charge that recalled Bouquet’s tactics at Bushy Run. One Ottawa chief remembered how he and his warriors “were driven by the sharp ends of the guns of the Long Knives,” while Wayne assured Henry Knox that the enemy had been “taught to dread, and our soldiery to believe in, the bayonet.”105 He consolidated his battlefield success with another tried and tested element of frontier warfare, the deliberate devastation of Indian crops. Wayne’s victorious campaign and the marked reluctance of the British to intervene on behalf of their allies shattered the Indian confederacy.
Its mission fulfilled, the Legion was swiftly dismantled. Once again, the Republic would put its faith in a citizen militia. In fact, at the very time Wayne was leading his legionaries against Blue Jacket’s warriors, no fewer than 15,000 militiamen from four states had been summoned to deal with a grave internal security issue in western Pennsylvania. The insurrection was dubbed the Whiskey Rebellion after the farmers who refused to pay the steep federal tax on the liquor they distilled to maximize profits from their grain. Part of the huge militia army was camped near Fort Cumberland, Maryland, a spot familiar to Washington from his first military career as a soldier of the king. Escorted by three troops of leather-capped light dragoons, Washington arrived on October 16, 1794 to find every regiment “drawn up in excellent order to receive him.” According to Dr. Robert Wellford of Fredericksburg, as W
ashington reviewed the long line of infantry “he deliberately bowed to every officer individually.”106 Prepared to lead the militiamen in person, the sixty-two-year-old president was immaculate once more in a fashionably cut version of his old blue-and-buff Continental Army uniform and spurring another impressive white steed. Daunted by the sheer numbers mobilized against them and the awesome reputation of the man at their head, the whiskey rebels wisely dispersed without a fight.
Events across the Atlantic raised the prospect that Washington might be obliged to buckle on his sword again, this time in conflict with his former enemies and allies, the French. By 1794, the revolution that dethroned Louis XVI was already into its fifth year and had long since degenerated into the bloody terror that made the Americans’ rejection of George III seem mild and restrained. The crippling debts incurred by France in helping to strip Britain of her North American colonies had done much to cause the upheavals; before they had run their course, most of Europe had been dragged into a cycle of wars that would last for decades, only ending in 1815 with Emperor Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo. Many Frenchmen who had fought alongside Washington’s Continentals played prominent roles in their own country’s revolution. For example, veterans of the sieges of Savannah and Yorktown led the storming of another strongpoint, the notorious Bastille; Lafayette was carried along on the tumult, experiencing its unpredictable currents; at the outset, his military fame gained him command of the Republican National Guard, and he achieved immense popularity before being forced into flight by the rise of the Jacobin extremists. Many others were less fortunate: unlucky as ever, the Comte d’Estaing went to the guillotine in 1794, marked down for death by his loyalty to Marie-Antoinette.107
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