Washington's General

by Terry Golway

  Washington dispatched similar hosannas to his protégé. From his headquarters outside Yorktown, where Franco-American armies and the French fleet had Cornwallis trapped, the commander in chief wrote an elegant letter of congratulations.

  How happy I am dear Sir ... to congratulate you upon a victory as splendid as I hope it will prove important. Fortune must have been coy indeed had she not yielded at last to so persevering a pursuer as you have been. I hope now she is yours [and] she will change her appellation of fickle to that of constant.

  It hardly mattered to Greene what the British thought of his claims to victory. George Washington believed them.

  Thanks to Greene’s strategic victories, civil administration under American governors and legislators was being restored to a region that, only months before, had been under British occupation. Nathanael Greene had, in fact, fought, been beaten, risen, and fought again.

  Nathanael Greene was the hero of the moment. Congress, a body Greene regularly infuriated and that would have welcomed his resignation a year earlier, awarded him a gold medal “emblematical of the battle and victory” at Eutaw Springs. The medal featured a heroic profile of Greene, looking quite a bit thinner than in most portraits. On the back, in Latin, was an inscription: “The Safety of the Southern Department. The Foe conquered at Eutaw ...” A congressional resolution continued the fiction that Greene had won a “decisive” victory with a “force inferior in number to that of the enemy.”

  The recognition Greene so desperately wanted, and needed, finally was his. His old friend and former aide Thomas Paine sent him a congratulatory letter that spoke to Greene’s standing as a hero and savior of the Revolution. “How you have contrived without money to do what you have done I have scarcely a conception of,” Paine wrote.

  I am inclined to suppose you have acted like a judicious and honest Physician in desperate cases, that is, you have cut the matter short, and in order to save and serve the Country, have made people do what they otherwise would not have done tho’ their own good was the object. ... I think we are now in the fairest way we have ever yet been.

  Like the generals whose stories he read by candlelight as a child, Nathanael Greene wore the laurels of a famous victory. If the praise was exaggerated and the achievement less than advertised, perhaps it made up for all of his bad luck in previous battles, and all of his unappreciated drudge work as quartermaster general. Henry Knox summed up Greene’s campaign in the South in language that was beyond debate: “[Without] an army, without Means, without anything, [Greene] has performed Wonders.”

  There were more wonders to come, and although they would take place in the southern theater, the commander of the Southern Department, Major General Nathanael Greene, would have to watch them from afar.

  Communications between Greene and Washington had been spotty through the summer of 1781, to Greene’s surprise and annoyance. He certainly knew about the astonishing developments under way in Virginia–Lafayette was a constant correspondent–but Washington had told him nothing. Or so Greene thought. In fact, Washington had been writing dilgently, but his letters never reached Greene. (Letters between the two men took anywhere from a week to about a month to make their way back and forth.) “This failure,” Washington told Greene on September 28, “gives me Reason to fear some foul Play on the Route.” The messages must have been intercepted.

  Not that it mattered. For at two o’clock on the afternoon of October 19, the British army of Lord Cornwallis–the man who had spent the spring trying to crush Nathanael Greene and his ill-supplied band of rebels–filed out of its camp in Yorktown, stacked its arms, and surrendered.

  Greene learned of the great victory on the evening of October 27, and he and his men celebrated with a daylong feast beginning the following morning. Greene received letters of congratulations from friends, politicians, and army colleagues, and he dispatched letters of his own to his brilliant subordinates in the South, like Francis Marion. His friend James Varnum, who had commanded the Kentish Guards so long ago when they were playing at war, wrote to express his “peculiar Pleasure . . . that the Brows of my worthy Friend were encircled with unfading Laurels.”

  On November 2, Nathanael Greene sent a short letter to the man who had sent him to the South when all seemed lost. “I beg leave to congratulate your Excellency upon the glorious and important success of your Arms,” he wrote. “Nothing can equal the joy that it gives to this country, and I contemplate the consequences with infinite pleasure.”

  A few days later, a letter arrived from Henry Knox, who was with Washington in Yorktown. Greene and Knox had known each other since the days when British troops patrolled the common in Boston and revolution was far from the minds of most Americans. They were young men, and they shared an amateur soldier’s fascination with war and a radical American’s belief in liberty. When war came, they both impressed their commander in chief with their passion for the cause, their competency, and their loyalty. Through the difficult winter camps, through candlelit councils of war in Washington’s headquarters, and through hard and often disappointing campaigns, they became not just colleagues but friends.

  And now, in places like Yorktown and Eutaw Springs, these two New Englanders were among the most improbable victors in military history. “It was a happy fight for America,” Knox wrote Greene. Soon, he promised, reinforcements would be sent to the Carolinas, which, he said, would “[relieve] Greene from many perplexities.” Knox said he wished he could be among the troops joining his friend: “I would fly to you with more rapidity than most fat men.” But the war was not over; there still were battles to fight. “[I am] so linked in with the cursed cannon that I know not how to tear myself from them,” Knox complained.

  Someday, he promised, there would be peace, and they would see each other again. “I sigh for domestic felicity,” he wrote, “and I know you do the same.”

  13 Forging a Nation

  When he heard about the disaster in faraway Yorktown, Lord North, the British prime minister, threw out his arms and exclaimed, “Oh, God! It is all over!”

  While there could be little doubt how the war would end, it was not, in fact, over. The British held Savannah and Charleston, along with New York. Bitterness and hatred still ruled the southern backcountry, where no diplomats in powdered wigs and fine clothes could broker peace between Tories and patriots. Rumors of British reinforcements on their way to the South occasionally made their way to Greene’s headquarters, and though they proved false, they could not be discounted.

  The war was not over.

  For some, it would never be over, for they would bear scars, mental as well as physical, for the rest of their days. Greene was particularly concerned about the hundreds of wounded soldiers in his camp, some of them suffering terribly. The autumn of 1781 brought not only the joyous news of Cornwallis’s surrender but disease as well. Even in their relative repose in the High Hills of the Santee, Greene’s men, wounded and healthy alike, fell ill with dysentry and malaria, while those who had been carried off the field at Eutaw Springs literally rotted away for lack of proper medicine and care. Their plight was all the more heartbreaking with victory so close.

  Greene pleaded with Congress to help him relieve the suffering he heard, smelled, and saw every day in his army’s rudimentary hospitals: “Numbers of brave fellows, who have bled in the Cause of their country, have been [eaten] up with maggots & perished. . . . Hospital Stores & medicine have been exceeding scarce. . . . To afford the sick & wounded all the relief in my power, I visited the hospitals from Camp to Charlotte.”

  Neither Congress nor the states had money to buy the supplies Greene needed. Steuben, writing from Virginia, told Greene that “Paper money had no longer a Currency.” The self-styled baron was forced to sell some personal possessions–a collection of silver forks–to help pay for the care of a wounded aide.

  After pleading in vain for help from Congress and individual governors, Greene was forced to rely on barter for goods and services.
Militiamen were offered discharges if they agreed to make two canteens a day and five hundred horseshoes during the remainder of their tour of duty. The system worked, but it was not without flaws; one of Greene’s aides noted that “[men] of property are above undertaking such work.” On other occasions, goods like tobacco and indigo were exchanged for army necessities like clothing. These measures won the attention of the government’s new superintendent of finance, Robert Morris, who praised Greene for his “Genius” in making due despite “the want of Men, Money, Cloaths, Arms and Supplies.”

  Morris’s praise, however, could not be traded for a pair of shoes or a gill of rum or a barrel of gunpowder. Suffering and deprivation remained a southern soldier’s lot, and Greene continued to remind political leaders that the army was in dire straits despite the great victory at Yorktown. “We are in the greatest distress ... for want of shoes,” he told the Board of War in November, a month after Cornwallis surrendered. “We cannot march without Shoes nor can we fight without Ammunition.” Local officials, too, were on the receiving end of Greene’s lobbying. Greene asked North Carolina to provide the army with a “quantity of good hams and bacon.”

  This tireless dedication to the men who marched and fought with him was one factor among several that led Greene to turn down a new honor that Congress seemed prepared to offer. As part of a reorganization of the government’s executive functions, Congress had called for the appointment of a secretary of war to oversee the army on its behalf. Months had passed without an appointment while Congress tried to find a candidate acceptable to all. Among those advocating for Greene was Gouverneur Morris, who told Greene on the sly, “Some Persons . . . think of you for that Office.” Greene’s reputation truly had been transformed. When he resigned as quartermaster general in the summer of 1780, members of Congress sputtered their denunciations of him, condemned him for his impudence, and made it clear that they would like nothing better than to be rid of a general who failed to show due deference to civilian leaders. Now, however, Congress was considering the very same Nathanael Greene to join the government.

  If Greene sought cheap vindication, the opportunity was there for the asking. But the Nathanael Greene of late 1781 was wiser, more mature, and more accomplished than the Greene of even a year earlier. He had vindicated himself on the battlefield, with soldiers who had marched and suffered through the steamy heat of a southern summer. He was not about to leave them. Besides, he had dealt with politicians before and rarely was happy with the exchange. “The more I am in the Army and the more I am acquainted with human Nature the less fond I am of political life,” Greene told Morris on November 21. Besides, he had every intention of making money once the war ended–or even before it did–and he did not want jealous critics watching his every move.

  You say that the appointment of a Minister or Secretary of war is in contemplation and that among the many I have been thought of and proposed by your self and others. ... To tell you the truth, my dear Sir, I am poor and I wish not to climb to stations where I have neither fortune or friends to support me. Eminence always begets envy and it is much more difficult to support our selves in high places than to arrive at them.

  A congressional salary, he wrote, would hardly support “a growing family.” And, of course, there still was fighting ahead. This was no time to relax, and no time to leave an important command: “[If] we fold our Arms and set our selves down at ease, [Britain] will rally her force, and come on to a fresh attack. God grant we not spend the winter in idle amusements.”

  Congress took the hint and eventually appointed Benjamin Lincoln, who had been at Washington’s side when the British surrendered at Yorktown.

  Greene had no intention of allowing his army, or himself, to indulge in “idle amusements.” The still-volatile political situation in the South required his constant attention. Brazen Tories had captured Greene’s friend and ally Thomas Burke, the patriot governor of North Carolina, and a number of state officials and turned them over to the British. It was a desperate gambit to inspire terror and bring about the collapse of civil government in North Carolina, but it failed. An acting governor, Alexander Martin, quickly filled Burke’s spot, stabilizing American control over the state. Nevertheless, the incident inspired an upsurge in Tory activity, reminding Greene that the South remained home to thousands of Americans who remained his enemies.

  Dealing with the Tories would test Greene’s abilities as a politician, regardless of how much he said he loathed politics. If he were to guide the South from war to peace and from conflict to nation-building, he must first bring to an end the brutality of the South’s war between fellow Americans. To do that, he decided, he would have to treat his antagonists with moderation. When reports reached Greene of outrages committed against Tories by troops under the command of General Griffith Rutherford–his men reportedly burned houses and mistreated civilians–Greene sent a letter that made his views clear. While patriots had “good reason to be offended” by the Tories, revenge was not the answer: “[In] national concerns as well as in private life passion is a bad [counselor] and resentment an unsafe guide. ... If we [pursue] the Tories indiscimininately and drive them to a state [of] desperation we shall make them from a weak and feeble force [to] a sure and determined enemy.”

  It turned out that Rutherford’s men probably were innocent of some of the more serious charges. Still, Greene was determined to live by his advice to Rutherford. He understood, too, that while the South’s split between Tory and patriot was particularly bitter and complicated, the problem was not limited to the backwoods of the Carolinas and Georgia. There were Tories in New York, in Pennsylvania, and in New Jersey. It was a national problem, and it required a national solution. Greene recommended that “the Governors of every state . . . adopt nearly a similar policy with respect to the proper mode of treating the disaffected.” Otherwise, he wrote, “punishment has more the appearance of resentment and persecution than a common measure of justice.”

  This shrewd observation demonstrated not only Greene’s nationalism but his political skills as well. Although he held little regard for the Tories, he would oppose “cruelty” because it was “dishonorable,” and “persecution” because it would increase “the number and force of our enemies.” There was, as he indicated, a cold calculation to this spirit of reconciliation. While it would be dishonorable to attack the Tories, it would also be a tactical mistake. He told the militia commander Thomas Sumter that it was better “to forgive than to persecute” the Tories because, in part, persecution might lead to even more bloodshed.

  So Greene approved of conciliatory gestures, such as a pardon offered to some Tories by South Carolina governor John Rutledge. Greene hoped North Carolina would do the same, but when the state’s acting governor, Alexander Martin, refused to issue such a pardon, Greene did not force the issue. “We Military men can only advise and not dictate in these matters,” he wrote. While Greene disagreed with Martin’s decision, he knew that his men had died for republican ideals, among them the notion that the military was beholden to the people’s representatives. He would grumble, but he would not overturn civilian decisions, even though he certainly had the power to do so.

  Caty Greene left Rhode Island in early November, soon after hearing the news of the American victory at Yorktown. Winter was approaching, an end to the war was in sight, and the Greenes had not seen each other since Morristown in early 1780. Unlike the winter of 1780-81, when Nathanael was trying to save the Revolution in the South, there was no good reason for the ever restless Caty to remain in Rhode Island. She longed to be at the side of her husband, the war’s new hero.

  After a four-day ride from Rhode Island, Caty and young George Washington Greene arrived in a joyous, celebratory Philadelphia. Politicians and civilians alike considered the war all but over and were acting accordingly, much to the chagrin of a visitor, General George Washington, who told Greene: “I am apprehensive that the States, elated by the late success, and taking it for granted tha
t Great Britain will no longer support so losing a contest, will relax in their preparations for the next Campaign.” Washington was in Philadelphia, in fact, to persuade political leaders that “the most vigorous exertions” still were necessary before America celebrated final victory. Washington had read reports that the British might send thousands of reinforcements to South Carolina, which, if true, promised a bloody reengagment in the South. Washington prudently ordered about a thousand Continentals to march south to join Greene.

  None of Washington’s cautions, however, would deny Philadelphia its chance to celebrate. Caty was invited to a series of the social engagements she loved, and though she had planned to stay in the city only briefly, her visit stretched into weeks. Poor weather had something to do with her change in plans, but so did the parties and balls. Caty’s vivacious presence and her incorrigible flirting worked its charms on Washington, as usual. When Caty finally left Philadelphia to make her way to South Carolina, Washington told Greene that he would make certain to “strew the way over with flowers.”

  As the celebrations went on, and even as Washington planned for the following year’s campaign, Nathanael Greene was on the march. Determined to complete his reconquest of the South, Greene ordered his men to move out of the High Hills of the Santee toward British positions outside Charleston.

  Greene had no intention of forcing a pitched battle, like that at Eutaw Springs. Instead, through the judicious use of his cavalry and of local militia, he planned to bleed the British to death in small, hit-and-run engagements until the units outside Charleston had no choice but to withdraw to the garrison inside the city. There, cut off by land, demoralized by recent events, they might simply sail away, leaving another outpost in American hands.