by John Ferling
Life at headquarters was not all work. The main meal of the day was taken in mid-afternoon, which had been Washington’s practice at Mount Vernon. Washington and what he called his “family”—his aides—were joined on an almost daily basis by several general officers and the officer of the day, usually a young captain. Not infrequently, civilian authorities, including congressmen and governors, showed up. An important businessman might be present from time to time and, later in the war, foreign officials occasionally joined the repast. When the army was in winter quarters, generally between November and April, the families of officers often came for extended stays. At times, twenty or more were at the table. Washington did not play the host. He left that duty to his aides on a rotating basis, so that every two or three days it fell to Hamilton to preside by offering toasts and setting the conversation in motion. Hamilton required little prompting. Even as a young man, his presence filled a room. Charming and loquacious, and possessed of the gift of wit, he often was the dominant force at the table, winning over slight acquaintances and total strangers. One visitor, the wife of a cavalry officer, described Hamilton as “sensible, genteel, polite.” A young Pennsylvania colonel thought he acted with “ease, propriety and vivacity.” General Nathanael Greene was convinced that Hamilton’s affability and good humor were akin to “a bright gleam of sunshine, ever growing brighter as the general darkness thickened.”63 A French envoy who visited the army in 1779 thought Hamilton not just “very pleasant” but also more industrious and conscientious than his cohorts. “If courage, assiduity, and penetration, mingled with a few traces of ambition, can raise a man above his equals, in a nascent republic, some day you will hear of him,” the diplomat predicted.64
Battles were infrequent in the War of Independence, but twice in 1777 Hamilton found himself in harm’s way. London planned a campaign for that summer in which General Howe was to move north from Manhattan while another British army, under General John Burgoyne, invaded northern New York from Canada. The Continentals, forced to defend the Hudson, would be caught in the pincers and destroyed. It was a superb plan, but Howe scuttled it. Envisaging few problems for Burgoyne, Howe chose to invade Pennsylvania. He thought taking Philadelphia, the seat of Congress, would deal a severe blow to American morale. Moreover, Washington would have to abandon his Fabian tactics and defend the city. Howe was convinced that if he could get the Continental army onto a battlefield, he could defeat it.
Howe was partially correct. Washington brought his army into Pennsylvania and posted it at Chadd’s Ford, on the Philadelphia side of Brandywine Creek. Washington may not have believed that he could prevent his adversary from taking Philadelphia, but he intended to make Howe pay a heavy price for gaining his prize. The clash took place on September 11, a hot late-summer day. The contest was a savage, daylong fray, and the British had roughly a 2,000 man advantage. Washington spent most of the battle at a field headquarters a short distance from the battlefield. Hamilton remained at his side. However, late in the engagement, as intelligence flowed in about British movements, the commander sprang on his mount and rode like the wind to take command at the scene of the fighting. One observer said that the general’s powerful charger sprang over “all the fences without difficulty,” and presumably so too did Hamilton’s mount, for he accompanied Washington into the midst of peril. Fighting, sharp and bloody, swirled about them for at least two hours until the sun pitched over the horizon. Mercifully for the rebels, darkness ended the battle. A British sergeant may have exaggerated when he said later that Washington’s army would have faced a “total overthrow” had there been only one more hour of daylight. However, the redcoat was right in implying that things had not gone well for the Continentals. The Americans had lost more than 1,100 men, twice the number of British casualties.65
Washington now knew for certain that he could not prevent the British from taking Philadelphia, and he wisely chose not to risk his army a second time against Howe’s entire force. But Washington remained full of fight. He suspected that some congressmen, who soon would have to flee Philadelphia, would be unhappy with his performance. He also knew that Burgoyne was in deep trouble, unable to fight through a rebel army commanded by Horatio Gates, and probably with little likelihood of retreating to Canada. Washington may have already guessed that Gates was certain to be lionized for his success, and it may have been a factor in is his decision to plan a surprise attack, an operation that might replicate his brilliant Trenton-Princeton campaign.
While planning his move, Washington ordered Hamilton to join an operation to destroy flour mills along the Schuylkill River before the enemy could take them. It was a dangerous undertaking. At one mill, redcoat dragoons attacked as Hamilton and his four comrades were crossing the river on a flat-bottomed boat. One rebel soldier was killed and another wounded, as was the boatman. Hamilton dove off the vessel into the dark, numbingly cold water and swam for safety. When he disappeared from view in the swift river current, the survivors in his party reported that Hamilton was presumed dead. Later that day, in the chilly autumn darkness of early evening, Hamilton, shivering in his wet uniform, appeared at headquarters, touching off a passionate celebration.66
Soon after Hamilton reported, Washington directed him to alert Congress to abandon Philadelphia “immediately without fail, for the enemy have the means of throwing a party this night into the city.”67 The congressmen were awakened in the wee hours of the morning. They fled so rapidly, and in such a state of alarm, that in his haste one New Englander forgot to saddle up before he spurred his horse.68
As it turned out, the British waited eight more days before marching into Philadelphia, a period when Washington once again sent Hamilton into the field. This time, Hamilton was ordered into Philadelphia to requisition blankets, clothing, and horses from the civilian population. So desperate was the situation—the commander said that without these materials “the ruin of the army, and perhaps the ruin of America” might be at hand—that Washington vested Hamilton with authority to seize that which the residents would not willingly surrender. Hamilton was put in command of upwards of 150 infantrymen and cavalry troops, and over two days the soldiers garnered a treasure trove of precious goods.69
Soon after Philadelphia fell, Washington struck at Germantown, north of the city, where Howe had posted about half of his army. As at Trenton, Washington had a numerical superiority, but on this occasion he failed to score a sensational victory. Unlike the Hessians, the British were not caught off guard, and that was only the start of Washington’s problems. A thick morning fog shrouded entire divisions, sowing confusion among the battalion commanders. As Washington directed operations in one sector of the battlefield, Hamilton remained at his side. The fighting was intense. In three hours, both sides lost about the same number of men as at Brandywine, but at day’s end the Continentals could point to no gains from their attack.70
A month after Germantown, Washington sent Hamilton on another mission. The American commander needed men if he was to undertake any further major initiatives before going into winter quarters. Washington knew that the victorious Gates had a surplus of manpower, for he had indeed scored a huge victory at Saratoga. (Burgoyne had surrendered 5,900 men, the so-called Convention Army that eventually would be sent into captivity in Charlottesville.) At the end of October, Washington selected Hamilton as his emissary to ride to Albany, New York, and request that Gates relinquish three brigades to the main Continental army.71
Choosing Hamilton for the undertaking was ill-advised. This was an errand that might require delicate negotiations, a realm in which Hamilton had no experience. Furthermore, Gates was unpopular with many New Yorkers, who loathed him for having connived with Congress to overthrow the initial Continental commander of the northern theater, Albany’s General Philip Schuyler. Hamilton not only was close to many of those New Yorkers, but he was also anxious not to alienate Schuyler, who remained a powerful political figure in the state. In fact, in the midst of his talks with Gates, Hamilt
on slipped away and dined with Schuyler at the general’s mansion, and probably reassured this possible benefactor of his loyalty. What is more, in European armies it was standard practice to send only a senior officer on a mission of this sort. Gates, who had served in the British army for years before immigrating to the colonies, was all-too-familiar with Europe’s protocol. He was offended when Hamilton appeared at his door.
Predictably, that meeting, and a second session four days later, went badly. Gates had no desire to give up any of his men, especially as Congress had ordered him to retake Fort Ticonderoga, which had fallen to Burgoyne at the start of his campaign. For his part, Hamilton was apprehensive that he would fail as an envoy, and in the course of the talks he anxiously wrote to Washington: “Perhaps you will think me blameable” for not persuading Gates to relinquish the men. He argued forcefully, he said later, telling Gates that his reasons for refusing to comply with Washington’s request were “unsubstantial.” Gates responded “warmly,” causing Hamilton to subsequently admit that at times he was “at a loss how to act.” In the end, Hamilton pried loose only one brigade from Gates. He departed Albany with bitter feelings toward the hero of Saratoga.72
The day after Hamilton left Albany, he fell ill. He recovered quickly, only to relapse later in November with symptoms that sound like influenza, perhaps complicated by sheer exhaustion. He was bedridden for days with a high fever, chills, and aches, and more than a month passed before he regained his strength and could make the long ride in the midst of winter to rejoin his commander. Hamilton did not see Washington again until mid-January, when they were reunited at Valley Forge.73
A month earlier the army had taken up winter quarters there, a site at the juncture of Valley Creek and the Schuylkill River a few miles northwest of Philadelphia. By the time Hamilton arrived, all the men were housed and the horrendous scarcity of food of the first days in camp had passed, but misery remained rampant. The winter of 1777–1778 was not the coldest of the war, but it was cold enough to torment the Continentals. It snowed now and again, but more often a cold rain lashed the area. Like “a family of Beavers,” as Thomas Paine put it, the soldiery had been put to constructing housing for themselves and the lower-ranking officers. Forty days passed before the last soldier was finally housed, and their quarters, as Lafayette remarked, were “scarcely gayer than dungeon cells.” Twelve enlisted men were crowded into each leaky, drafty wooden hut; few of the jerry-built fireplaces drew properly and many of the men lacked a blanket. The junior officers had it a bit better. Not only were they more adequately supplied, but no more than five had to share similarly sized cabins. Nevertheless, officers and men experienced the miasmic conditions of Valley Forge. The place was a sea of mud, and the fetid reek of the stockyards and slaughter pens perpetually hung over the cantonment.
About ten days after Hamilton’s arrival, food suddenly was in short supply once again. For two weeks the soldiers had only bread and water for nourishment. Washington labeled it a “fatal crisis,” potentially ruinous for the survival of the army and literally lethal for many men. Still another food crisis occurred in late February, brought on, as were its predecessors, by bad weather and poor roads, shortages of wagons and teamsters, corruption in the supply system, and the proclivity of local farmers to do business with a British army that paid in specie rather than with the Continental army that paid in depreciated paper currency. The deplorable conditions spawned disease, resulting in the death of 2,500 men in about ninety days, one-seventh of those who had entered Valley Forge. The enlisted men were stranded, unless they deserted, and “desertions have been immense,” Hamilton acknowledged that February. However, the officers could resign their commissions and go home, and they did so by the hundreds.74
The field officers, and the aides who dwelled with them, escaped the harsh deprivation suffered by the men. Washington—and Hamilton—spent the Valley Forge winter in a comfortable two-story stone house that was conveniently removed from the always-present stench that pervaded the area where the men were housed. Washington had his own bedroom on the second floor and a private office downstairs. Hamilton shared a lower floor room with his fellow aides. All officers who held ranks of major or higher succeeded in finding snug accommodations. None appears to have ever gone without meat and vegetables, and wine was always served at the main mess at headquarters, though some complained of the privation they faced. General Nathanael Greene, for instance, grumbled that he and his cohorts faced a “hard fare for people that have been accustomed to live tolerable.”75
If Hamilton faced greater hardships than he had endured during his initial thirty months in the army, or if he carped about what he endured that winter, he never committed his feelings to paper. But Valley Forge left its indelible mark on many who survived its abhorrent conditions. For Hamilton, it was eye-opening. Beginning that winter, he struggled to learn how such misery could occur and to understand what could be done to prevent it from ever happening again. The torments and heartbreak of Valley Forge also led some who endured them, Hamilton included, to see themselves as singularly distinct from those who had not experienced that winter’s travail. One day, it would be a factor in coloring how Hamilton looked at Jefferson.
Chapter 4
“If we are saved, France and Spain must save us”
The Forge of War
During the forty months after he returned to headquarters, Hamilton’s daily routine hardly differed from that during his initial year as an aide-de-camp. Nevertheless, substantial changes occurred in his life, the conduct of the war, and the infant American nation, and each led young Hamilton in new directions.
The great American victory at Saratoga changed the war forever. France, which so far had only clandestinely aided the rebels, entered the war, concluding treaties of alliance and commerce with the United States and committing a large fleet to the conflict. London responded by sending half of its army in North America to the Caribbean to defend vital sugar islands, forcing it to adopt a new strategy for the North American theater. Largely writing off the provinces above the Potomac, the British after 1778 focused on retaking their four southern colonies, Georgia, North and South Carolina, and Virginia. If Britain succeeded, it might come out of the war with a large American empire that included Canada; the territory west of the Appalachians; the profitable tobacco and rice colonies in the south; Florida, which it had held since 1763; and sugar islands in the Caribbean.
General Washington changed as well. Thinking that the French alliance “chalk[s] out a plain and easy road to independence,” Washington grew more cautious. He was willing to fight, but only to retake New York, and only then if the French fleet participated. But the French squadron that arrived in the summer of 1778 remained in American waters only briefly before departing for the Caribbean. No other French fleet was seen north of Georgia for three long years. During all that time, Washington remained inactive, convinced that time was on the side of the allies. He was certain that a stalemated war would sooner or later compel Great Britain to make peace and recognize American independence. Year in and year out, Washington kept his army on the periphery of Manhattan to prevent the enemy from seizing control of the Hudson, but also to be in position to campaign for New York should the French navy return.
Hamilton saw action in only one major engagement between 1778 and 1781. It came when the British army abandoned Philadelphia in June 1778 and retreated to New York. Washington, with an army about equal in size, shadowed the redcoats across New Jersey, looking for an opportunity to engage. From the start, Washington was uncertain whether to hazard another full-scale battle, as at Brandywine, or something smaller and in line with the Fabian strategy he had off and on espoused. As the British neared New York, Washington convened a council of war to consider the options. With abundant French assistance thought to be imminent, nearly all the dozen general officers who were present opposed risking a full-scale clash. Instead, they recommended that a small force of some 1,500 men—less than a tenth of th
e rebel army—“annoy” the British rear. Washington consented. However, when Generals Nathanael Greene and Anthony Wayne begged him to do more, the commander waffled. Hamilton, who had taken minutes at the council of war, sided with those who favored a bolder, riskier action. In private, he sneered at the wariness of the majority of generals, saying that the course they advocated “would have done honor” to a “society of midwives.” Though he did not lack in effrontery, it is unlikely that Hamilton made known his feelings to the commander. Nevertheless, Washington, after some deliberation, quadrupled his attack force—to 5,340 men—and ordered it to strike the British rear on both its right and left flanks.1
The Battle of Monmouth, was fought on June 28, 1778. The British commander, Sir Henry Clinton, may have been even more eager than Washington for a major encounter. He rushed in reinforcements. By mid-morning, what had been a three-to-one numerical advantage for the Americans had vanished. Not only were the numbers now on Clinton’s side, but also the British were taking the fight to their enemy. General Charles Lee, who commanded the American strike force, ordered a retreat. His plan was to find advantageous terrain where he could make a defensive stand. Hamilton was soon in the thick of things. Sent by Washington to the battlefield to see what was occurring, Hamilton discovered the retreat. Although he later acknowledged that Lee’s men were falling back “in tolerable good order,” Hamilton claimed to have beseeched Lee to stop the withdrawal. “I will stay here with you, my dear general, and die with you! Let us all die rather than retreat,” he reportedly told Lee.2 If so, General Lee, who had been a soldier for twenty years, must have been startled to be confronted by a twenty-three-year-old who had never commanded anything larger than a company of artillery.
