Being George Washington (23 page)

Soon after the British surrender at Yorktown, Cornwallis asked for a meeting with the American general. The two ended up touring the Yorktown defenses and developing a mutual respect. Cornwallis even hosted a dinner for all the general officers—French, American, and British alike—and proposed a toast to Washington: “When the illustrious part that your Excellency has borne in this long and arduous contest,” he said, “becomes a matter of history, fame will gather your brightest laurels rather from the banks of the Delaware and those of the Chesapeake.”

Did Cornwallis already have an inkling of where the world was headed when he gave that toast? Maybe. Like Washington, Cornwallis was one of the most impressive men of his generation—he very well may have realized that the British loss would resonate far beyond this city on the Chesapeake.

By winning over the enemy, and a formidable opponent like Cornwallis, Washington showed no ill will toward a nation he had fought for and nearly died for in the past. How Washington carried himself, and how he represented the nation moving forward, went a long way toward establishing the American ideals that seem almost second nature today.

When President Chester Alan Arthur celebrated the hundredth anniversary of the revolutionary victory at Yorktown, he honored the descendants of Washington, Lafayette, Rochambeau, and many others. But, to close the ceremony, the president saluted the British flag to honor those who had fallen. This might seem a bit strange to outsiders, but Americans, starting with Washington, have fought wars to find peace. Once we do, we harbor no grudges—if you embrace freedom, we embrace you. European nations had a long way to go before they understood this concept. We have never forgotten it. Just ask the Germans, Japanese, Koreans, or Iraqis.

March 14, 1783

General Washington’s Headquarters

Newburgh, New York

For perhaps the very first time, George Washington felt completely alone.

He had always been able to count on the support of his men, the devotion of his staff, the dedication of his army. Through the very worst of times and from the loneliest of days, from the lowliest private to his senior generals, his men had always stood at his side.

But now they did not stand with him; they stood against him.

And that cut him to the core.

Alone, he thought.
I am alone in this.
He slowly shook his head.

A pile of gentle embers glowed below the mantel, but the fire itself had long since burned down, leaving a chill in the air. Though it was late, he was dressed in his uniform and his boots were still on. The room was quiet. He could hear himself breathe. The fire popped and he watched a dying ember grow cold upon the wooden floor. Lifting his eyes, he stared at the writing quill, then at his hands. They were strong and firm, but seemed smaller, and not as thick with muscle as they once used to be. And they were rough now. Rough from work. Rough from cold winters. His knuckles were dark and wrinkled, his palms thick with calluses from holding leather reins.

Washington turned to look at the vile piece of paper that announced the secret meeting. He had thrown it upon the rough wooden table
where it now sat like a poisonous spider, dangerous and menacing. He wanted to slap it aside or throw it into the hot embers; anything to get it out of his sight. But he couldn’t ignore it. He had to deal with it. And it had to be done tonight.

Of all the crises that he had lived through, this one was the worst. Out of every arrow of disappointment that had pierced him, this one cut the deepest.

This wasn’t a passing fancy he was dealing with. These weren’t the rantings of a few disgruntled officers or the common grumblings from the enlisted men. This was something different. Far more dangerous.

This was a conspiracy on the grandest scale.

He had been warning the Congress for years. How many letters had he written! How many leaders had he begged! Now there was no choice; they simply
had
to do something or the situation would explode.

Yes, he understood their reasons. He wasn’t stupid. He understood the politics, the realities of what power they did or did not have. He knew the Congress wasn’t evil; it wasn’t filled with evil or lazy men. Most of them were friends. All of them loved their country. But, through the weak Articles of Confederation, they had made themselves powerless and, in the end, that is what would destroy them.

He also understood that the states felt they’d given all they had. Their cities had been occupied by the hated British soldiers for far too long. All of their citizens had suffered. But that was nothing compared with what his army had endured.

And yet they had won!

It had been more than eighteen months since Yorktown and little meaningful military action had occurred since then. The British fleet had already sailed out of the New York harbor. Some British soldiers remained, but his army had essentially won the war! He had known since watching the white flag rise at Yorktown that they were going to drive the British from their shores. But this thing, this ongoing atrocity that had befallen his army, took all the glory out of their victory.

Staring at the dying fire, he scowled. It was a bitter thing to swallow. A bitter, dangerous thing. But the simple fact was that it had proven easier
to defeat the mighty British than it was to convince his people to pay the very army that had set them free!

He looked at the dreadful bulletin, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

His chair creaked underneath his large frame as he placed his feet atop the rock and mortar hearth. He was close enough to the dying fire that he could feel occasional puffs of heat when a downdraft channeled through the chimney.

We could still lose this! he thought.

His heart slammed inside his chest.

Everything we’ve done could be for nothing!

His mind drifted back across the years of war. He remembered it all: every single day of hunger, every cut of fear, every man he had watched fall upon his chest and die, every night away from Martha, every day without the smell of the pines on his beloved estate—at one time he’d been away from Mount Vernon for six years! He remembered every march in crushing heat, every night in bitter cold, his feet so numb he was certain they had frozen, every patch of thirst, every ounce of blood they’d shed.

He remembered every glorious day of victory and every awful day of defeat.

He drifted further back. Another memory; more pain. June 14, 1775. His good friend, John Adams, had introduced a motion in the Congress to adopt the army of Massachusetts and to appoint a commander in chief to lead it. Everyone knew who it would be. George Washington knew it, too. Despite the sincerity of his protests, despite the fact that he had begged a fellow Virginian to oppose his appointment, the motion to name him supreme commander was taken forward. As he had listened to his fellow delegates begin the debate, and not wanting to put them in the uncomfortable position of having to discuss him while he was in their midst, he had stood and walked out of the room.

The following day, he was given word: The vote had been unanimous. He was commander in chief of the continental army. To show their enormous gratitude for his service, the Congress had stipulated the ridiculously high salary of five hundred dollars a month.

Put in charge of an army that didn’t exist, given a salary he’d never accept, with few resources behind him and a violent enemy in his path, he accepted the task with a solemn sense of duty but not much optimism. All that Congress had asked him to do was to take a ragtag group of undisciplined and inexperienced farmers and craftsmen, men who had virtually no combat experience or military training, many of whom were without supplies or even weapons, men who were hungry, without uniforms or, in some cases, boots on their feet, and turn them into a fighting force that could defeat the most frightening army in the world.

It was an impossible task. Yet he knew he had no choice.

He thought back to the letter that he had sent to Martha soon after the commission had been placed on his shoulders. He didn’t remember every word, but the tone of his letter was impossible to forget.
I do not want this! Far from seeking this appointment, I have used every power to avoid it! I would rather be home with you! I have been given a trust that is too great for me. But as it has been a kind of destiny that has thrown me in this service, then I must serve.

Unlike the letter he’d sent to Martha, he remembered with perfect clarity the words he had said to Congress upon his appointment, for he believed them with every ounce of his being: “I do not think myself equal to the command I am honored with.”

He reviewed in his mind the terrible price they had already paid: 4,400 American men killed in battle; 6,200 wounded. Maybe ten thousand killed on British prison ships anchored in New York’s Hudson River.

Then, the most discouraging statistic of them all: sixty thousand American soldiers dead from hunger, exposure, or disease.

Sixty thousand soldiers!
Dead from causes that could have been avoided if their civilian leaders had only done their jobs.

If they only had kept their promises.

It was, in fact, those broken promises that had brought them to this point; the most dangerous moment his infant nation might ever face. Another burden thrown upon his shoulders. Another crisis to navigate.

The general opened his eyes. How much time had passed, he did not know, but the red and orange embers had turned black, leaving white and gray rims around the charcoal’s edges. The room was dark, the
night quiet. Knowing he had but one chance to change the outcome, he picked up a piece of paper and started writing.

Colonel Lewis Nicola, commander of a group of wounded soldiers known as the Invalid Regiment, had had enough. The army had gone without adequate food and clothing for far too long. Starvation. Cold. Disease. Beyond the horrors of the battlefield, these were the indignities his men had been forced to suffer.

As hostilities were winding down, it became painfully obvious to Nicola that, once the army was disbanded, Congress would have little incentive to fulfill the promises they had once made: payment for their service, land, and a pension for the wounded. Every day that passed, the entire army—but especially the Invalid Regiment—found themselves less and less likely to be paid. Without help from Congress, his wounded soldiers would live a life of poverty and devastation.

The war would end, but their suffering would continue. His soldiers would be nothing but a footnote to history.

He would not let that happen. He
could
not let that happen. Not while there was a single breath inside his chest.

Nicola sat at his desk and began to write. The words came slowly at first, but soon they flowed out of him like blood from a dying soldier. He could not stop them even if he’d wanted to—this was his duty.

When he was done, he sealed the letter and called for a messenger. “For His Excellency, General Washington,” he directed as he placed the letter into the messenger’s hand.

The messenger stood quietly in the corner, his head down, his feet together, as if he were afraid to take up too much space.

George Washington glanced at him, then looked away. He was in a foul mood. But he could not blame the poor man who stood before him. It was not his fault.

Closing his eyes, he shook his head. What was Colonel Nicola thinking?

He tried to hide his anger, but the emotion burned like boiling water through his fingers and he quickly looked away.

If there’s one thing he had learned by sad experience it was the unpredictability of war. The constant uncertainty tossed his emotions about like a leaf in the wind. Up and down he was thrown, the smallest dose of good news filling his day with great pleasure, bad news tossing his heart into despair. Yet, because he understood that the long run was the only thing that mattered, he kept his emotions tightly contained, letting his men see him neither celebrate nor despair.

But he was growing tired now. The war was dragging on, its ending prolonged, its final passage painful and slow. He wanted it finished! He wanted to go home! He wanted to get on with the life that he had put on hold.

Washington glanced down at the letter once again, jumping quickly from paragraph to paragraph, wanting to make certain that he had not misread or misunderstood Nicola’s words.

Sir
:

The injuries the troops have received in their pecuniary rights have been, & still continue to be too obvious to require a particular detail, or to have escaped your Excellencies notice.

This gives us a dismal prospect for the time to come, & much reason to fear the future provision promised to officers by Congress.

We who have born the heat & labour of the day will be forgot and neglected by such as reap the benefits without suffering any of the hardships.

We have no doubt of Congresses intention to act uprightly, but greatly fear that, by the interested voices of others, their abilities will not be equal to the task.

I own I am not that violent admirer of a republican form of government as numbers in this country are; this is not owing to caprice, but reason & experience.