Hamilton and Knox made secret plans to call a total of fifteen thousand militiamen, the majority of them from Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, into federal service. These troops would march toward Pittsburgh and use “whatever force was required of them” to put down the disturbances and arrest the ringleaders.
The touchiest question before the President and his advisers was that of naming a military commander. Hamilton knew that the show of force would be deeply resented in the West and South, so he conceived a brilliant idea to soften the blow. At a private meeting with the President he suggested that Governor Harry Lee of Virginia, the South’s most prominent citizen and a known opponent of the excise tax law, be given the post. Washington, thinking in terms of Harry’s loyalty and often-demonstrated military abilities, approved heartily.
Secretary Hamilton wrote Harry the first official letter on the subject, and said that if the governor would take the assignment, he would be given the rank of major general by the Secretary of War. The President himself would ride with the army for some days, he said, and he would accompany the expedition, too, but would consider himself no more than an “aide” to General Lee. What Hamilton did not mention was that, by remaining in relative obscurity in the background, he would escape at least a measure of public disapproval.
Harry was overwhelmed by the proposal, and found it irresistible. He knew of no other officer who had jumped, in a single leap, from the rank of lieutenant colonel to that of major general. The Virginia Assembly was in recess, the state faced no serious problems and Lieutenant Governor James Wood was capable of handling routine business. Harry called the Virginia militia to active service, and even persuaded Brigadier General Dan Morgan to come out of retirement to lead the state’s troops. Morgan, eager to don a uniform again, too, was not reluctant to serve under a man who had been two ranks his junior during the war.
Anne Lee agreed with her husband that it would be inappropriate for her to continue living in the Governor’s Mansion while Harry was on federal duty, so she and her stepchildren moved to Shirley, taking all the family’s personal belongings with her. Then, after Harry returned from a whirlwind tour of mustering centers, she accompanied him to Philadelphia and watched as Secretary Knox administered the oath and gave Harry his commission as a major general. After paying brief calls on the Washingtons and Hamiltons, General and Mrs. Lee returned to Virginia early in August.
For the first time in his life, Harry was wearing the blue-and-buff of the old Continental Line. He had been tempted, he wrote Morgan, to don the green of the Lee’s Legion, now the uniform of his cavalry, but he could not, as he was the head of the entire expedition.
No matter how strong Harry’s personal convictions may have been on the issues at stake, he put them aside. In a message to the Assembly written only a few weeks before his appointment he had thundered against the further usurpation of power by the federal government, but he felt he was no longer in a position to express his own opinions. He had been given a military mission by the commander-in-chief of the United States Army, and it was his duty to fulfill that mission.
Whether he realized he was committing political suicide is debatable. In letters to officers he asked to join his staff he indicated an awareness that the expedition was unpopular in some sections of Virginia. But, deliberately or otherwise, he made light of their numbers. “There are some among us,” he said in one letter, “from the influence of party spirit and from their own ambitious views, who rejoice in national adversity, and gladden when they hear of governmental embarrassment.”
Madison and some of Harry’s other friends expressed the belief in later years that he had been too naïve to realize that he was digging his own political grave by taking the command of an army that most Virginians regarded with either loathing or alarm. But a letter that Harry wrote to the President during this period indicates that he had a firmer grasp on the principles at stake than many of his contemporaries realized.
He himself had been opposed to much the federal government had done, he wrote, but he believed that opposition should be confined to “such methods as are provided under the Constitution.” He expressed his determination to “maintain inviolate our government at the risk of our lives and fortunes,” and he ended the letter by saying, “The awful occasion demands united efforts.”
Hamilton wanted a show of force so great that there would be no other, similar insurrections in the future, and certainly an army of fifteen thousand, the largest ever mustered since the war, was more than enough to disperse a small number of surly, cantankerous farmers in the hills of western Pennsylvania. The President, always one to extend the olive branch with the sword, sent a number of personally appointed commissioners into the area ahead of the troops. It was the mission of these men to use persuasion in the hope that a peaceful capitulation could be achieved.
While the President thought in terms of peace, Major General Harry Lee prepared for war, and was busier — and probably happier — than he had been in years. Early in September, however, shortly before he was scheduled to leave Richmond and take command of his army in the field, Anne and Henry, Jr. fell ill. Both ran high fevers, and neither of the physicians called in to attend them could diagnose their ailment.
Harry was reluctant to leave them. The memory of his elder son’s sudden, unexplained death was still fresh in his memory, and knowing he would never forgive himself if anything happened to wife and child during his absence, he thought of resigning his commission. But Anne, knowing how much the expedition meant to him, wouldn’t hear of it, and insisted that he go. He delayed as long as he could, and finally left, nervous and apprehensive.
The Virginia militia convened from all parts of the state, and marched together to Pennsylvania, where the other militia divisions were waiting. Washington and Hamilton were there, too, both in civilian clothes, and Harry stood beside the commander-in-chief while the corps marched in review before him. Colonel Hamilton found it preferable for his own purposes to remain in the background.
Washington returned to Philadelphia almost immediately, leaving Harry a long letter, which regimental adjutants copied and read to the troops. The President thanked the men for the sacrifices they were making, and referred repeatedly to the “hardships and privations of a military life.”
In the next two weeks the army had ample cause to remember that letter. A cold October rain fell day and night as the long columns struggled across the Appalachian Mountains, many of the tents were made of inferior canvas and the men were soaked. Plodding day after day in ankle-deep mud, chilly and hungry, the veterans in the expedition were reminded of their wartime service.
The corps divided into several units, which fanned out over several counties, and Harry continued to march toward Pittsburgh, the seat of the insurrection. Accompanying him were Secretary Hamilton and Federal Judge Richard Peters of Philadelphia, who was prepared to bring the rebel leaders to immediate trial when they were captured.
None of the columns saw much action, but Dan Morgan’s men were, characteristically, busier than any others. A letter sent by General Morgan to General Lee summarizes the campaign — and gives some idea of Morgan’s still-fiery temper. He wrote from the little village of Washington, Pennsylvania:
We arrived here at half past one o’clock this day; the arrangement in getting across the river was a good one; I had the infantry over by eleven, took the two boats to Parkerson’s, I went in one myself, found another on the way, took that.
Boarded a Kentucky-man on the way loaded with apples and cider, and only twelve barrels of flour — let him pass — got to Parkerson’s in time to get the waggons over, which got to camp last night — but was obliged to give the tavern-keeper where we lodged, a knock in the mouth, for selling whiskey to the soldiers at a dollar a gallon — these sales he kept up nearly all night, and when I told him of his fault, he began to treat me with indignity, and I broke his mouth, which closed the business.
I received a line from General Freeli
nghauson last evening — I don’t expect he will be here before tomorrow evening; however, that will be time enough, as I shall get in train by that time.
The people look very sour at us, but I will bring them to by good treatment; the rebuff I gave the tavern-keeper will assist me, as it will show them that they must not be too impertinent. There is no forage or any thing laid in here, nor do I know what has become of the forage-master; however, we must provide for ourselves till these people come on. We have brought all the troops and waggons up, without any sickness or accident.
I shall be ready to execute your orders in two or three days…
I have the honor to be,
Your obt., humble servant,
DANL. MORGAN
P.S. General Biggs will hand you this, to whom I refer you for further intelligence. I saw our friends from Ohio, on their way to you yesterday — God blast them, do handle these fellows very roughly — they are shocking fellows. Fulton is now in this town, I intend to tame him, when I can lay my hands upon him. Nor do I think Bradford is far off. I will thank you to send me the rates of sales and purchases that you have established.
The Fulton and Bradford to whom tough old Dan Morgan referred were two insurrectionist leaders. Harry had ordered his subordinate commanders to let none escape, and they were obeying him diligently. Nowhere had there been organized resistance to the army, and it appeared that the Whiskey Rebellion might collapse. But Harry knew — and privately admired — the independent, stubborn men of the West. He had to make certain the insurrection did not flare up again after he marched his troops back to the seaboard.
The main column arrived in Pittsburgh at sundown one evening, and the quartermaster took Harry to a large, comfortable house that had been requisitioned for his use. He made himself comfortable, and not until he and his staff had dined at his absent host’s table did he ask the identity of the fugitive. He was mortified to learn that the house belonged to his friend, Hugh Brackenridge, who had been a close associate at the College of New Jersey. It was bad enough to be forced to hunt down Brackenridge like a common criminal, but insult was being added to injury, and the following morning Harry insisted on being moved to another house.
Virtually all of the insurrectionist leaders were rounded up within a few days and were lodged in a hastily built stockade outside Pittsburgh. They had no roof over their heads and were forced to sleep in the open, the meager food brought to them by their guards was inedible slop, and they were subjected to mental torture by the sentries, who told them they would be hanged for treason.
When Harry learned of the treatment being accorded the prisoners, he lost his temper. The rebel leaders, most of them men of substance, were moved to more comfortable quarters at Fort Pitt, and strict orders were given to treat them as gentlemen. Then the officers and men responsible for their mistreatment were made to appear before Harry, who gave them a tongue-lashing and directed that official reprimands be lodged in their permanent military records.
At last, early in November, a special courier reached Pittsburgh from Shirley. Anne had written to her husband that she and little Henry were completely recovered and that he need not fear for their health. Harry was able to put his gnawing worry out of his mind and concentrate on the business at hand.
Unfortunately, he had very little to do. Judge Peters had established a court at Fort Pitt, and the leaders of the Rebellion were put on trial. Secretary Hamilton attended every session, but Harry thought it inappropriate for a military commander to appear in the courtroom, and he deliberately stayed away. It was bad enough that the people of the area regarded him as the symbol of tyranny, and that his provost had an almost impossible task trying to prevent daily fights between bored soldiers of the occupation force and surly river bargemen and farmers.
It was not easy to act as a representative of the federal government in a business that was so repugnant to the citizens of the West, Harry was learning. He struggled hard, but in vain, to establish cordial relations with the community. Only once did he and Secretary Hamilton clash. The evidence against Hugh Brackenridge was hazy and circumstantial, and it soon became evident from the testimony of other prisoners that he had counseled moderation rather than open rebellion.
No formal charges had been placed against him, and Harry thought it a miscarriage of justice for him to be held at Fort Pitt with the other prisoners. Hamilton thought him too dangerous to be released, but Harry stubbornly insisted that he be given his parole, and held his ground so firmly that the usually strong-minded Secretary of the Treasury was compelled to back down. “General Lee,” Hamilton said when Judge Peters signed the order for Brackenridge’s release, “represents the Executive here.”
Soon thereafter Brackenridge was given a clean slate, and even Hamilton, who sought the maximum penalty against everyone connected with the Rebellion, was forced to admit that Brackenridge had been loyal to the United States and that his role had been misunderstood. Harry’s victory in the affair was minor, and failed to compensate for the long hours of boredom he was forced to endure.
Late in November he received some mail from Virginia that included a number of documents requiring his signature as governor. He had not resigned his office when he had accepted his commission, and Wood had acted in his stead. By now, however, a new governor had been elected, so Harry thought it appropriate to return the papers for his successor’s signature. He extended his best wishes to the new governor for a happy and successful term, and commented lightly that he was so far removed from state politics that he literally didn’t know the new governor’s identity.
By December 10 the last of the trials had been completed. Several of the ringleaders in the conspiracy had been found guilty of treason, and were sentenced to be hanged, but President Washington, whose chief concern was national unity, granted them pardons.
The army was recalled, and the troops marched back across the mountains, now snow-covered, hoping to reach their homes by Christmas. They did not arrive until early January 1795, and Harry was given the power to release them from federal service. His own term of active duty expired, too, and he went off to Shirley as a private citizen.
On his arrival there he was astonished to find himself the object of a furious campaign being waged by the Jeffersonians. Inasmuch as he had been Governor of Virginia, they claimed, his appointment as a major general had been illegal, and he himself had violated his oath to serve the people of Virginia when he had accepted the commission.
Harry realized that he was a convenient instrument for attacks by Thomas Jefferson and his adherents on Hamilton, and believed himself on insecure legal ground. He wrote a private letter to Secretary Hamilton in which he admitted his vulnerability. What he did not include was his shock at discovering that he had lost the support of most Assembly members — and of the people of Virginia.
On the long march through Virginia at the head of the state’s contingent of troops, he had been dismayed to find that the citizens of the state were either apathetic to him — or openly hostile. In every village and town people had lined the roads to watch the militia march through, and everywhere the regiments had been greeted by that most devastating of welcomes, silence. Not one cheer had been raised for General Lee, and even the tavernkeepers at whose inns he had slept had treated him with indifference.
For a time it appeared that he would become involved in a legal fight, but the Jeffersonians were not certain of their Constitutional grounds, and decided to wait for another occasion. Had President Washington not been personally involved in the matter, it is likely that Harry would have been charged with violating his oath of office as governor. But no one, not even the most ardent anti-Federalist, wanted a direct confrontation with the one man who stood above politics and had kept the affections of a vast majority of the people.
Harry, deeply confused by the subtleties of the situation, took his wife and children home to the estate at Stratford, and was glad to escape, for a time, from the political arena at Richmond. He h
ad done his duty, accepting a high military command at the request of the President of the United States. And no matter how unpopular the cause he had represented, he had fulfilled his mission: all Americans had learned to respect the authority and power of the federal government.
Harry could see that far more than his own reputation was at stake, but couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that Jefferson was only too happy to use him for purposes of personal vengeance.
Regardless of his previous opinions of the federal government, he was being pushed closer to the Hamiltonians — because he had nowhere else to go. But the advocates of a strong central government regarded him with jaundiced eyes and would not make him welcome. There was a significant difference between a purely military federal appointment and a civilian political association. After all, he had been one of Freneau’s sponsors, and at no time had he completely disavowed his attacks on the federal system. Most important, perhaps, was that he had no political following of consequence, having used up his credit with the people. A political leader without troops was no asset.
Harry had become that lowest of creatures, a discredited politician.
XVI: THE PART-TIME STATESMAN
With less than two years still to serve, President Washington was counting the months until his retirement and return to his peaceful acres in Virginia. Under no circumstances would he consider accepting a third term, in part because he believed that no man should serve for more than two terms as President, in part because he was heartily sick of the backbiting of associates who put personal ambition before public welfare.
In 1795 a new storm broke that widened the cleavage between the Hamiltonian Federalists and the Jeffersonian anti-Federalists. John Jay, perhaps the ablest of American diplomats, had negotiated a new treaty with Great Britain that settled — at least on paper — a number of issues that had remained unresolved twelve years earlier. The Federalists claimed the treaty a triumph of international diplomacy, and Harry Lee, who believed that friendly relations with England were essential to American security, heartily agreed with them, both in his private correspondence and in the Virginia Assembly, to which he returned as a lowly delegate from Westmoreland County.
Light-Horse Harry: A Biography of Washington’s Great Cavalryman, General Henry Lee (Heroes and Villains from American History) Page 23
