Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  Forty minutes and we start the morning session. How many others got a copy of this? What are they thinking? How do I tell my people in Virginia that we can’t pay their soldiers? We have to muster them out with Continental dollars that are not worth the paper we printed them on. We can’t give them the land we promised because we don’t have it—never did. We don’t have anything, and we can’t get it.

  His head dropped forward, chin on his chest.

  How do I tell those Virginia regiments that I deceived them? I and the rest of us in Congress. How do we do that?

  The sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs and then in the hallway brought his head up, and he rose at the loud knock on his door. He swung the door open to face Charles Thomson, Secretary of the United States in Congress Assembled, who was knocking snow from his tricorn and cape.

  “Come in, come in,” Jones said, and stepped aside. “Have some hot chocolate against the cold.”

  Thomson shook his head. “No time.” He reached inside his coat and drew out a document sealed with royal blue wax bearing the impression of General George Washington.

  “This was delivered in chambers ten minutes ago. Addressed to you from General Washington. I brought it over.”

  Jones seized the document and with trembling fingers broke the seal. He turned it toward the fireplace for light and silently read.

  My Dear Friend, Congressman, and fellow Virginian:

  I write hastily since my duties here spare little time for other than the most pressing business. As you know, under the direction of Congress General Greene has remained in the Southern Department; I took the liberty of moving the Newburgh camp to Verplanck to be closer to New York, affording closer surveillance of the movements of General Carleton and his command. You will recall I received a second message from Gen. Carleton expressing great desire to enter into negotiations, which I forwarded to Congress for their deliberations. I trust the matter is proceeding rapidly.

  However, the real purpose of this brief letter is to advise that I am aware there is an increasing spirit of rebellion among the officers of the Continental Army. I have just learned that a lengthy document was forwarded to Congress that includes several pages of extreme complaints and demands, which document bears the signatures of some of our most able and worthy officers, including General Alexander McDougall.

  The temper of the Army is much soured, and has become more irritable than at any period since the commencement of the war. What Congress can or will do in the matter does not belong to me to determine; but policy, in my opinion, should dictate soothing measures.

  I entrust this opinion to you in the sure knowledge that as a friend to myself, and to Virginia, you will give it every consideration as Congress faces the very difficult task of addressing the document you should have by now received from General McDougall and his associates. Should you conceive of any way in which I can help, you have but to give me due notice.

  Your ob’dt servant,

  G. Washington.

  Jones’s head snapped up. “Did anyone else receive such a letter from the general?”

  Thomson shook his head emphatically. “No, sir, not that I know of. Only yourself. I’m aware of your friendship with General Washington.”

  Jones pointed to the thick document on his desk. “You know that very early this morning most of us in Congress received a copy of a document from General McDougall?”

  “I’m aware of it, sir. I’ve read it.”

  “Have you heard anything over at the hall about McDougall’s demands? How others in Congress view this thing?”

  “Only that they’re absolutely desperate about what to do.”

  “You understand what is happening?”

  “Yes, sir, I think so.”

  Jones’s voice rose as he spoke and paced. “We promised those men their pay, and they’ve waited two years or more to get it. The war is essentially over, and we’re about to muster them out, and we can’t pay them! Congress has no power to tax, to raise money, and no power to force the separate states to contribute either money or land. Congress is a toothless wolf!”

  Jones paused in his pacing and threw his hands in the air, his voice high, loud. “No one—not the states, not Congress—hesitated when we needed those men so desperately. We made the promises, and they believed them and stayed to win the peace.”

  He swung around to face Thomson squarely. “Now they’ve won the peace, and suddenly everyone—everyone—seems to have forgotten how everything depended on those men and how freely we made the promises we had to make to hold them. Every state has printed its own money! So has Congress. And what do we have? Fourteen separate issues of paper money, most of it worthless. Almost no hard money in the entire country to back it up. Bankruptcy rampant. Business closures in record numbers. Employment plummeting. States turning on their neighbors with border tariffs on all goods crossing state lines. Border disputes rampant. And no chance—no chance—to keep our promises to those men.”

  He drew and exhaled a great breath. “Now we have the Continental Army threatening revolt! The very men who saved the Confederation.”

  He glanced at the clock and forced himself to cool.

  “You’ll forgive me for raising my voice to you about all this. It certainly was none of your doing.”

  He walked hastily to the small closet in the corner nearest the window and drew his heavy cape from its peg. “We have to go. It won’t do to be late for the morning session. Not this morning.”

  He threw the cape about his shoulders, closed the clasp at his throat, fastened the first two large buttons, then jammed his tricorn on his head.

  “Somehow we’re going to have to go through a charade that gives the appearance of an earnest effort to meet the demands of Mr. McDougall and his associates, and hope the passing of time will dull their anger.”

  He gestured toward the door. “After you, Mr. Thomson.” As they passed out into the hallway Jones muttered, “I’d rather be in the hottest corner of purgatory with my back broken than go face what is surely coming this morning across the way in those hallowed halls of Congress.”

  Notes

  In 1783, Joseph Jones was a congressman from Virginia who enjoyed a personal and friendly relationship with George Washington. General McDougall and many others did draft a lengthy document, voicing their anger and listing out their complaints and demands and forwarded it to Congress. General Washington wrote a letter to Congressman Jones warning that the Continental Army was in its sourest mood since the beginning of the war. A large part of Washington’s letter is quoted verbatim in this chapter. Congress was without power to raise money by taxes or in any other manner, or to acquire land from the states. The United States was entering into a period of bankruptcy for many citizens, many states, and the United States itself. Most states, as well as the United States Confederation government, were printing their own paper money. Most of the paper money became worthless. The country was facing an unprecedented economic crisis (Freeman, Washington, pp. 498–500; Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation?, pp. 8, 9; Morris, The Forging of the Union, pp. 36–46).

  Verplanck, New York

  Monday, March 10, 1783

  CHAPTER IX

  * * *

  Sergeant Turlock reached to clamp his tricorn on his head against the blustery, raw March wind that swept north up the Hudson River Valley beneath low, rolling, slate-colored clouds, moaning in the bare trees, prying at every tent flap, every door, every window in the Confederation Army camp at Verplanck. He carried his musket in his right hand as he walked toward the officers’ quarters, hunched forward, favoring his right leg, nose dripping, coattails flapping. He passed the great, crudely built, log assembly hall and turned west, headed to the row of small huts hastily constructed during the winter for the officers. He had gone ten yards when the first mix of freezing rain and hail came whistling horizontal to sting the left side of his face and beard and soak his coat. Twenty yards later he passed the first officer walking east, head
down, cloak billowing out behind, and he passed six more officers in the next eighty yards. He was twenty feet from the familiar tiny cabin near the end of the row when the door opened and Billy Weems walked out into the sleet, head ducked, holding his tricorn in place with one hand, his coat closed with the other. Billy was five feet from Turlock before he raised his head, squinting against the sleet, and saw him approaching.

  He spoke loudly, above the wind. “You coming to see me?”

  Turlock shouted back, “I was. Where you going?”

  “Assembly hall up at Newburgh.”

  Turlock nodded his head vigorously. “You heard about that Stewart thing?”

  “Yes. A few of the officers are gathering up there.”

  “I heard. That’s why I come to see you. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. Something about Congress—telling Congress their grievances.”

  “I heard they figger to write it all out.”

  Billy nodded vigorously. “Want to come along?”

  “I’m not an officer.”

  “I’ll get you in.” They leaned into the wind, gritting their teeth against the gale that drove the sleet through their coats as they made their way down the incline to the Hudson River where a barge waited for the next load of officers going upstream. There was no talk as they sat hunched on the benches for the rough, rocking, hour-long trip twelve miles upstream, then made the slippery climb to the nearly deserted Newburgh camp. Billy and Turlock joined a cluster of officers at the door and shuffled forward as the group filtered into the chill twilight of the huge assembly hall. Inside, some of the officers of the Verplanck camp milled about while a few others found seats on the rough pine, backless benches. Wind moaned at the large fireplace on the west wall and leaked, whistling, through the gaps where windows did not fit their frames. The bearded men wiped at their noses, and turned their coat collars up, saying little as they waited. The big rear door creaked open one more time, and the last cluster of officers entered with a blast of freezing wind that fluttered the fire and moved the single American flag on the pole behind the rough-hewn lectern at the head of the hall. Seated near the flag were Major John Armstrong and Timothy Pickering, once adjutant general to General Washington.

  After a time, the door to a small room in the left corner, behind the flag, squeaked as it swung open, and Colonel Walter Stewart, recently appointed Inspector General of the Northern Army, and a former personal aide to General Horatio Gates, entered. Every man present knew all too well the history of Gates, the pseudo-hero of the battle of Saratoga and the great coward of the later battle of Camden, South Carolina, in which he deserted his command under fire and was found two days later, two hundred ten miles distant from the disastrous defeat his men suffered when he abandoned them. Average size, round faced, receding chin, Stewart approached the lectern in a fresh uniform, erect, self-assured, and every officer came to attention. Stewart surveyed them for a moment.

  “Be seated.”

  Benches creaked as the officers sat down.

  Stewart’s voice came loud to be heard above the sounds of the wind and the pelting sleet hammering at the few windows on the east wall.

  “First, I wish to thank you for your presence here today. This assembly is not an officially convened meeting with a military purpose. Rather, it is a voluntary assembly for purposes which have been too long neglected by our military commander and by the Confederation Congress.”

  The room fell into dead silence. No one moved or spoke. Stewart raised his voice, and he swept his hand toward the assembly in a grand gesture.

  “As you know, I stand before you following my return from my recent visit to Congress in Philadelphia. You will recall that in January, two months ago, a writing was delivered to Congress stating in strong terms the dissatisfactions and grievances of this corps of officers. The purpose of my visit was to determine what action Congress had taken in response. While there I had the privilege of entering into deep and meaningful discussions with various leaders of that august group, and I became aware of the crisis that is rapidly approaching.”

  He paused, and every officer present except Armstrong and Pickering fell into a puzzled silence, glancing at each other with the unspoken question in their eyes: What crisis? Turlock turned to Billy, questioning, and Billy silently shook his head.

  “I refer to the crisis that now threatens each man in this room! You have answered the call of General Washington and the Congress to serve your country. You left hearth and home and all that mankind holds dear and sacred, to accept starvation, freezing, sickness, and the cannon and musketry of the greatest military force on earth! Through the dark hours of death and defeat, you stood steadfast in your quest for liberty. Liberty! Patriots all! Each and every of you, patriots as never before seen.”

  Still, no one on the benches moved or spoke.

  “Yours is the sure knowledge that you have wrought a victory without comparison in the written history of civilized nations.”

  Stewart paused for a time, and a low wave of murmuring went through the officers and stopped.

  “It is now my duty to tell you the manner in which you are to be repaid by our commander and our Congress. While in Philadelphia, I learned that it is their intent to disband this army in the next short period of time, without the reward which you have so nobly earned and to which you are so richly entitled.”

  Open talk broke out, and Stewart raised a hand to silence it.

  “The reward promised by General George Washington . . .”

  Talk erupted.

  “The reward promised by Congress itself! . . .”

  The officers turned to exclaim among themselves.

  “You will not be given the back pay promised you. You will not be given the pensions promised you. You will not receive the land promised you. You will return to your wives and families, to your farms and businesses, to your homes, penniless! Unable to provide the simplest of life’s necessities. Paupers! Disgraced! Dismissed like flotsam!”

  Turlock started to rise, and Billy pushed him back onto the bench.

  Stewart plowed on.

  “Fellow officers, you are the ones who placed this nation in the chain of independency, and what have our leaders done? Shown their ingratitude by betrayal! Deceit! Delay! Unkept promises! And now, dismissal with nothing! Nothing!”

  Billy sat motionless, hand on Turlock’s trembling shoulder, listening, sensing the temper of the officers around him as they raised their voices in anger. None had been told the purpose of the meeting. None had come expecting to hear the terrifying claim by the Inspector General of the Northern Army that they were to be dismissed without the pay or the land or the pensions they had repeatedly been promised and which would be so desperately needed when they returned to their homes and families. Had Stewart’s statement come from a lesser officer as a matter of casual mess hall banter, they would have laughed and forgotten it. But they were not listening to a lesser officer flippantly tossing out a dining hall absurdity intended to provoke a passing moment of levity. They were in the great assembly hall, listening to stunning, shocking, unbelievable charges being made by the inspector general against their commander in chief and the Continental Congress!

  Again Stewart raised a hand for silence, and his voice rang off the walls.

  “I am calling for a formal convening of all general and field officers tomorrow, March eleventh, at ten o’clock a.m. The purpose of the meeting is to receive their unanimous approval of a document which is to be hand-carried to Congress. A document which reminds our Congress, and our commander in chief, of all their promises, and requires of them that they deliver to each of us what we so justly deserve!”

  He paused to draw a deep breath and order his thoughts.

  “There will also be a second document. This document shall advise Congress and our commander that should they continue in their course of delay and denial, the army shall withdraw to a new location outside the United States, and there the army shall
establish a new state of its own, beyond the reach and authority of either Congress or our commander. Then wait and see how quickly they come to us on their knees, pleading!”

  A breathless hush settled, and then the hall erupted in a deafening din. Officers came to their feet in disbelief, fumbling to understand that the inspector general of their army should utter such blasphemy.

  Abandon the United States?

  Leave our homeland defenseless?

  A new state? Under military authority?

  Billy sat transfixed, brain numbed. Turlock was white-faced, frozen, unable to speak or move.

  Stewart shouted them into silence, hand raised, finger pointed to the ceiling.

  “A new state, but only if we must. There is another way, and I give it to you as an alternative. Rather than form a new state in the wilderness, let them make the peace with England, and then we shall refuse to lay down our arms when ordered by Congress. Maintain our arms. Continue as an army. An army with the power and authority to require Congress and our commander to accept our just demands and requests.”

  The tumult continued while the officers tried to force their shocked minds to tell them whether the proposals of their inspector general were a plan to achieve justice, or treason. Stewart dropped his hand to the lectern and waited. The uproar continued and Stewart let it run—one minute, two, three. The officers turned to each other, shouting above the drumming of the wind and the sleet to repeat what they had heard, and to listen to themselves to see if it had the flavor of patriotism or the stench of rank blasphemy. Billy remained silent, his hand still on Turlock’s shoulder, while the wiry little soldier shook with rage.

  The shouting lessened, and Stewart finally called, “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” All eyes turned to him, and they quieted.

  “I have prepared and printed written notices of tomorrow’s meeting for all officers in this camp. I have also prepared a written statement of the plan which I have briefly explained to you, by which we will demand and receive that which we were promised. That document shall be delivered to Congress. Printed copies of both the notice and the plan will be given to you as you leave this hall, and others will be delivered to the remainder of our officer corps throughout the day. You will be expected to attend the meeting tomorrow morning.”