George Washington

by David O. Stewart

  Two days later, Lord Dunmore dissolved the assembly, complaining that the resolution for a day of fasting and prayer “reflect(s) highly upon his majesty and the Parliament of Great Britain.” He acted quickly to cut off more aggressive resolutions that were planned for the session’s final days, which likely would have passed easily. Because Dunmore struck before the legislators had enacted bills that would keep the militia functioning and the courts open, Washington grumbled that they had met “22 days for nothing.”5

  Washington was talking to both sides of the confrontation. He dined with the governor on the day before the assembly was dissolved, then rode to Lord Dunmore’s estate the next morning. Their conversation likely focused on the west, where Indians and settlers were fighting again, but the Coercive Acts and the plight of Boston could not have gone unmentioned. According to Washington, Dunmore concealed from him any intention to dissolve the assembly.6

  On the next morning, the senior burgess for Fairfax joined eighty-nine colleagues in the Raleigh Tavern to sign a document denouncing the Coercive Acts and proclaiming a boycott of the East India Company and its tea. Washington’s is the eighth signature, reflecting his continuing high stature. He lingered overnight for an evening ball honoring Lady Dunmore, an occasion that must have been strained. The assembly’s committee of correspondence met the following day to propose that each North American colony send delegates to an annual congress.7

  On the following Monday, Washington and twenty-four other burgesses returned to the Raleigh Tavern. With Speaker Randolph presiding, they reviewed a letter from Sam Adams in Boston, the protest leader there, which enclosed the Coercive Act that shut down Boston’s port, along with defiant public resolutions protesting this “stroke of vengeance.” The Boston resolutions demanded a stop to trade with Britain and its Caribbean colonies until the punitive laws were repealed. Bodies in Philadelphia and Annapolis had been more cautious, and so were the Virginians, who proposed to address the situation at a reconvened session on August 1. Until then, the burgesses agreed to test public sentiment in their home counties. Most expected to adopt another non-importation agreement, perhaps suspending exports at a later date.8

  Washington wrote a fiery letter to George William Fairfax in England, expecting his friend to share it with prominent Englishmen. The British, Washington insisted, “may rely on it that Americans will never be taxed without their own consent.” Though he did not approve of the tea party, he wrote that Boston’s cause “is and ever will be considered as the cause of America.” He also despaired that an Indian war seemed likely in the west, “whilst those from whom we have a right to seek protection are endeavoring by every piece of art and despotism to fix the shackles of slavery upon us.”9

  * * *

  After returning to Mount Vernon, Washington learned that Parliament was considering more repressive legislation. Within Fairfax County, which would provide his political foundation through the gathering crisis, he canvassed public opinion at both Truro and Fairfax Parish churches. His implacable defense of American rights attracted notice. He again drew on the talents of George Mason, although the older man declined Washington’s urging that he seek a vacant House seat in elections scheduled for mid-July.10

  Many communities shook with rage over the treatment of Boston and endorsed a total halt to trade until the Coercive Acts were repealed. A Maryland committee endorsed non-importation and appointed delegates to the continental congress that Virginia had proposed, which was scheduled for Philadelphia on September 20. So did committees in Philadelphia, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and North Carolina.11

  Washington viewed the conflict with Britain as a test of will. In an exchange of letters with Bryan Fairfax, George William’s younger brother, Washington dismissed the idea of another petition to king or Parliament, or both.

  Have we not tried this already? Have we not addressed the Lords, and remonstrated to the Commons? And to what end? Did they deign to look at our petitions? Does it not appear, as clear as the sun in its meridian brightness, that there is a regular, systematic plan formed to fix the right and practice of taxation upon us?

  Washington was fed up. This was the third confrontation in a decade over whether Americans controlled their destinies: first the Stamp Act, then the Townshend duties, and now the Coercive Acts. For Washington, only a firm response would do. The strength of his commitment gave his opinion force in the coming tumult.12

  Fairfax’s public meetings began at the Alexandria courthouse in mid-July. The residents chose a committee, with Washington as chair, to draft resolutions on non-importation, non-export, the proposed congress of the colonies, and American rights. To relieve the suffering of Boston’s “industrious poor,” the meeting approved a public collection totaling £273, thirty-eight barrels of flour, and 150 bushels of wheat. Washington remained in town to confer with the new committee. They started with an energetic draft prepared by Mason.13

  On July 14, 1774, Washington returned to Alexandria for his reelection to the House of Burgesses. The poll, an observer reported, was concluded “with great order and regularity” and celebrated with punch. At an evening ball, coffee and hot chocolate were served, but not tea.14

  Three nights later, Mason came to Mount Vernon to sharpen the twenty-four resolutions Washington would present to an Alexandria meeting the next day. The courthouse filled early for the session, spilling residents into the adjoining square. The attendees approved the resolutions with few changes, then elected Washington chair of a committee of correspondence. The resolutions, called the Fairfax Resolves, appeared in the Virginia Gazette and then in newspapers across America. Though principally composed by Mason, the name at the top was George Washington, chair of the Fairfax meeting. As the resolutions drew enthusiastic praise, Washington’s star rose further.15

  Although the Fairfax Resolves offered a ritual pledge of loyalty to the king, they also insisted that colonists were not subject to any law “to which they have not given their consent, by representatives freely chosen by themselves.” Only the colonial assembly could legislate for them. British claims of power to impose taxes on America, according to two of the resolutions, would “reduce us from a state of freedom and happiness to slavery and misery” and “establish the most grievous and intolerable species of tyranny and oppression that ever was inflicted upon mankind.” The Resolves did not mince words about Parliament’s intent, accusing it of a “premeditated design and system” that included “inflicting ministerial vengeance upon the town of Boston” and protecting and encouraging murderers.

  The eighth resolution disclaimed the goal of independence, but pledged to resist the Coercive Acts with “every means which heaven hath given us.” The twelfth reinforced that threat of violence, calling for a “firm union” of the colonies, who “regard every act of violence or oppression inflicted upon any one of them, as aimed at all.” Resolutions fourteen through seventeen called for a boycott of luxury goods and a ban on British imports, including slaves. They also pledged to stop lumber exports to the West Indies, to cease raising tobacco if the crisis lasted until November 1, 1775, and to support a congress of all the colonies.16

  The power of the resolves flowed not only from Mason’s words but also from the determination of the man who presented them. To Bryan Fairfax, Washington denounced Britain’s actions as “the most despotic system of tyranny that ever was practiced in a free government.” In the face of such outrages, he asked, should Americans “whine and cry for relief”? No, he insisted, they must retaliate: “There is no relief for us but in their [British] distress.” He was resolute: “the voice of mankind is with me.”17

  Washington had known a heady few weeks. Most of his political life had transpired in meeting rooms and the House chamber, talking soberly with other wealthy men. But for many days that summer, Washington moved among Virginians of all types in streets and taverns and churchyards. He listened to their fears and anger. He led public meeti
ngs and won approval from those who welcomed his leadership. Not since the days of the Virginia Regiment had he carried the community’s trust in such an immediate way, nor known the powerful connection between a leader and those joining in a shared cause. In the intoxication of those moments, he had to feel again in his bones how good he was at leading.

  * * *

  Washington brought Jack Custis with him to Williamsburg for the August 1 meeting of the former burgesses, now reconstituted as the Virginia Convention, without any involvement of Governor Dunmore. Washington and his stepson made the usual stops along the way: in Fredericksburg with Washington’s sister and mother, and with Martha’s sister and her husband near the capital. This time, though, there was no dinner with the governor.18

  Washington had never seen such full attendance for a legislative session.19 The principal question was how the delegates would challenge the Coercive Acts. Many counties had called for non-importation and a congress of the colonies. Most stopped short, however, of non-export, which would hit Virginia pocketbooks hard.

  Washington brought with him the Fairfax Resolves, which set the convention’s course. If the Coercive Acts were not repealed by November 1, the delegates agreed, Virginians should import no goods or slaves from Britain or its colonies. They totally banned imports of tea, “the detestable instrument . . . of the present sufferings” in Boston. If the Coercive Acts were still in effect on August 1, 1775, Virginians should stop exports to Britain. The county committees should enforce the resolutions through public shaming of violators.20

  By ballot, the convention chose Washington and six others to attend the Continental Congress in Philadelphia. Washington commanded the third highest vote total, only six behind Speaker Randolph and trailing Richard Henry Lee by two. He easily exceeded the totals of Edmund Pendleton and Richard Bland, as well as Patrick Henry. All were more gifted in debate, better at crafting legislation and public statements. Yet, in that time of passion, Washington’s blend of determination and steadiness exerted powerful appeal, as did his military experience.

  Washington’s rise was stunning. By diligent effort, by building relationships with his colleagues, the awkward backbencher of 1759 stood near the pinnacle of a world that was not his natural habitat. The neophyte who had stumbled with simple legislation had developed into a leader of the first rank in the largest American colony, twice providing the blueprint for responding to the crisis with Britain.21

  To anticipate the issues he would face in Philadelphia, Washington sought data on Virginia’s tax patterns, population, and exports and imports. He read pamphlets about non-importation, along with Jefferson’s Summary View of the Rights of British America. He also addressed mundane matters, attending a sale of Belvoir’s household goods and showing that estate to a potential tenant. He could only mourn the sight of the empty mansion, its contents picked over by bargain hunters, a harbinger of Virginia’s uncertain future.22

  Washington had much to reflect on through those late summer days, as the Virginia heat came and went and came again. He expressed no second thoughts about confronting Britain. “An innate spirit of freedom first told me,” he wrote to Bryan Fairfax, that British policies were “repugnant to every principle of natural justice.” Submitting to oppression, he insisted, “will make us as tame, and abject slaves, as the blacks we rule over with such arbitrary sway.”23 But with attitudes hardening on both sides, Washington might also have reflected on his ties with the mother country. His father and older brothers had been educated there. His best friend was there now. He had worked with the last four royal governors. For four grim years, he had fought for the king. Would he now help plunge his neighbors into war against Britain?

  Parliament adopted more punitive laws in June 1774, this time aiming at Virginia and its westward ambitions. The Quebec Act extended Canada’s southern boundary to the Ohio River, calling into question previous grants of western lands. Virginians recoiled at having lands they viewed as part of their domain wrested from their control and lumped together with Roman Catholic, French-speaking Quebec.24

  On August 30, Edmund Pendleton and Patrick Henry reached Mount Vernon on their way to the Philadelphia congress. Mason joined them for a night of talk. They knew not how the congress would go, whether other colonies would share Virginia’s views, or what actions the delegates would consider. Pendleton recalled the visit fondly. “I was much pleased with Mrs. Washington and her spirit,” he wrote. “She seemed ready to make any sacrifice and was cheerful though I knew she felt anxious. She talked like a Spartan mother to her son on going to battle.” She told Pendleton and Henry, “‘I hope you will stand firm—I know George will.’”

  After dinner the next day, the three delegates readied themselves in the yard before the mansion house. “‘God be with you gentlemen,’” Martha called from the doorway.25

  Chapter 28

  A Continental Character

  Washington joined the Continental Congress in September 1774, though that body had legal authority over nothing. It could order no action. It commanded neither revenue nor employees. The state and local bodies that selected the fifty-six delegates also had no legal authority. The congress in Philadelphia was a singularly audacious act born of years of frustration and conflict, which is how revolutions begin.

  Few delegates were planning for revolution. Each had thrived under British rule, but their assertion of rights as British subjects was being denied. Now they had to redefine themselves, perhaps as something more true to the rights Britain denied to them. Many hoped for reconciliation, but the prospects for harmony were mixed, at best. They faced an ill-tempered adversary while hotheaded Americans filled the streets.

  Twelve colonies (not Georgia) sent delegates. Roughly one-third were lawyers, trained to support the status quo. Many were Southern slaveholders, like Washington. Almost all had belonged to colonial assemblies; thirteen had served as Speaker. All were wealthy and prominent. Henry Middleton of South Carolina owned nearly 800 slaves and 50,000 acres. Samuel Ward of Rhode Island was the son of a governor and governor himself; James Duane had been New York’s attorney general and Indian commissioner. Only the well-to-do could leave their livelihoods on such an uncertain mission.1

  A special celebrity surrounded the four Massachusetts delegates, veterans of the front-line struggle against British power. Sam Adams, sometimes called America’s first professional politician, led the delegation. John Adams, who left the best account of the congress, joined his second cousin and two others in a carriage bound for Philadelphia.

  The Massachusetts men stopped frequently along the way, testing public attitudes toward Boston’s plight. They feared being labeled as dangerous radicals, but mostly found support. Church bells rang as they entered New Haven, people crowding the streets and windows to gawk. New Yorkers were more ambivalent. At a farewell ceremony for one New York delegate, a band played “God Save the King,” while onlookers waved flags reading “The Congress and Liberty” on one side and “The King” on the other.2

  A few miles from Philadelphia, delegates from other colonies met the Massachusetts men and escorted them to an elegant dinner at the City Tavern, which would be the social hub of the congress. John Adams, who alternated between self-satisfaction and insecurity, found the welcome reassuring. “The spirit, the firmness, the prudence of our province are vastly applauded,” he wrote to his wife Abigail, “and we are universally acknowledged the saviors and defenders of American liberty.”3

  The Virginians also commanded attention. Arriving the day before the congress convened, Washington and his two companions rode a crest of enthusiasm for Virginia’s resolutions and its non-importation association. A cheering crowd greeted them at the City Tavern. Two Virginians brought star power. Patrick Henry’s reputation as a dazzling orator preceded him, while many eyes strayed to tall George Washington, his reputation built on the last French war and the tough-minded Fairfax Resolves.4

  M
ost delegates hoped to agree on unified action against the British. Benjamin Franklin had once predicted that differences in culture, economic interests, and even speech would keep the colonies from uniting.5 Ward of Rhode Island noted divisions based on “the different forms of government in the several colonies, different educations, books, and company.” The Connecticut men reported that their colleagues, with distinct “modes of transacting public business, . . . must take some time to become so acquainted with each one’s situations.” After several weeks, John Adams described the problem to his wife: “Fifty gentlemen meeting together, all strangers, are not acquainted with each other’s language, ideas, views, designs. They are therefore jealous of each other—fearful, timid, skittish.”6

  Bridging differences was more difficult because, as Adams noted, few knew each other. Two Virginia delegates (Henry and Benjamin Harrison) had never ventured beyond that colony’s borders. Washington, in contrast, knew the Marylanders well, had traveled five times to Philadelphia, also to Boston and New York, and had fought the French alongside Pennsylvanians and Carolinians. He had entertained Pennsylvania’s Joseph Galloway at Mount Vernon. Even if he did not know a particular delegate, they often shared mutual acquaintances.7

  In the early days, the Massachusetts men held back, fearful that stridency would alienate others. Some delegates, Sam Adams confided, thought “that as we are a hardy and brave people we shall in time over run them all.” John Adams agreed that they had to “keep ourselves out of sight, and to feel pulses, and sound the depths—to insinuate our sentiments, designs and desires by means of other persons, sometimes of one province and sometimes of another.” The Massachusetts strategy yielded center stage to delegates from Virginia and South Carolina, who seemed unexpectedly radical.8