Blood of Tyrants: George Washington & the Forging of the Presidency

by Logan Beirne

  In the lead-up to the Revolutionary War, the American colonists began to rebel against Britain’s dominion in the 1760s. Following the Seven Years’ War, Britain passed several measures that infuriated the colonists. British taxpayers were fed up with the enormous expense of defending the colonies from the French, the Native Americans, and other aggressors. Thus, the British government sought to force the colonists to share more of the burden for their own defense. The Americans did not take kindly to this new, stricter motherland.

  First, the British forbade the colonies from expanding into the vast, fertile lands west of the eastern seaboard. Britain’s objective was to appease the Native Americans by permitting them to live peacefully on these lands and thereby avoid costly battles. With the Appalachian Mountains between them, the tribes and the colonies were less likely to fight. But the Americans, having long eyed these lands for their own westward expansion, were incensed by such meddling.1 And London was not done antagonizing them.

  Next, London struck closer to home with a law commanding that the Americans quarter British troops in their houses. This Quartering Act seemed fair to the British, since they were merely requiring the colonists to house their own defenders. From the American perspective, however, their military protectors suddenly appeared more like oppressors. At any time, the Americans might face armed British soldiers bursting into their homes and demanding quarter. In light of this perceived threat to their property, family, and liberty, violent rebellion began to seem all the more justified.

  But nothing enraged the Americans as much as London’s encroachment on their wallets. In an effort to increase tax revenues, Parliament passed the Tea Act of 1773.2 This law was intended to induce the Americans to switch from smuggled, untaxed Dutch tea to the British variety. Even though this infamous act reduced the price of legally imported tea, it created a tea monopoly for the British East India Company, thereby threatening to force tea smugglers and other “entrepreneurial” colonists out of business. Although the colonies were not only among the most prosperous but also among the lowest-taxed places on earth, the Americans were nevertheless outraged by the Crown’s intrusion.3 To them, the Tea Act stood “as a mark of Supremacy of [the British] Parliament.”4 In retaliation, bands of protesters throughout the colonies used force and intimidation to drive the British tea from colonial ports. The Connecticut contingent of one such group, called the “Sons of Liberty,” was particularly irked by a certain East Haddam resident’s penchant for British tea.5

  Abner Beebe was a mill owner and physician who remained loyal to the British Crown even as the colonies were beginning to rebel. He was an educated, churchgoing man who gave food to the poor and contributed funds to the local paupers’ cemetery. A middle-aged father, he was born in East Haddam and raised to respect his colony’s mother country. Staunch in his convictions, he “spoke very freely in Favor of [the British] Government” and criticized the tea parties staged by the patriots.6 He publicly argued that the motherland’s “government had a right to make whatever laws they pleased” and refused to join the boycott on British tea.7 The Sons of Liberty viewed Beebe’s obstinacy as a grievous transgression against the patriotic cause.

  Heated with patriotic passion, a mob of young men swarmed towards Beebe’s home, undeterred by the bone-chilling winds of the New England winter. Inside the house on that dreary February night, the unsuspecting family labored to stay warm as they tended to a child who had fallen ill. Their quiet was shattered by a pounding at the door. Abner Beebe unlatched the door to find a mob at his step. As he spoke to them, it quickly became apparent that they were not seeking a gentlemanly political debate. They were lugging hot pitch. As his family watched in horror, Beebe “was assaulted by a Mob, stripped naked, & hot Pitch was poured upon him, which blistered his Skin.”8

  The practice of “tarring and feathering” had originated in 1189 with Richard the Lionheart during the Crusades, but was not used extensively until the colonists revived it during their revolt against Britain. It entailed stripping the victim to his waist or completely naked, and then pouring hot, hissing tar over him. This would burn his bare skin, and, if poured over his head, it would likely render him blind in one or both eyes.9 The tar of the revolutionary era was of such a quality that it melted only at relatively high temperatures, the average being 140°F.10 With painful third-degree burns sustained after just approximately five seconds of contact with material of that temperature, Beebe’s skin was likely heavily damaged as a result of his prolonged exposure.11

  Removing the tar was even more painful. It took hours or even days to peel the hardened tar from the victim’s body, and his flesh often peeled off along with the tar. Infection typically followed, especially in a case like Beebe’s, where the attackers concocted a humiliating covering more creative than feathers.12

  As if being beaten, stripped, and burned with tar were not enough punishment for Beebe, he was then “carried to a Hog Sty & rubbed over with Hogs Dung. They threw the Hog’s Dung in his Face, & rammed some of it down his Throat.” To ensure public disgrace, he was “in that Condition exposed to a Company of Women.” Leaving Beebe’s body virtually lifeless (although he would survive the attack), the mob next turned to his home and family. “His House was attacked, his Windows broke.” So traumatized, “a Child of his went into Distraction upon this Treatment.” Finally, the mob ransacked Beebe’s gristmill and rolled its millstone down into the stream, where for centuries the boulder has remained by the waterfall in East Haddam, largely forgotten, much like the story behind it.13

  Attacks of this kind were rampant during the Revolution. People like Abner Beebe were viewed as a threat to the revolutionary spirit and the emergence of the new nation. For his part, Washington morally abhorred such cruelty. He wished for America to treat her enemies with dignity and humanity. But despite his moral opposition, he came to find harsh measures necessary for victory. In fact, his conversion was swift—he arrived at this conclusion soon after the outbreak of war.

  After years of smoldering discord between the government of King George III and the American “rabble in arms,” war erupted on April 19, 1775, at 5:00 A.M., in the small town square of Lexington, Massachusetts. 14 The British had placed neighboring Boston under martial law in an attempt to subdue the surging patriot defiance. They quartered troops in private homes and turned the freedom-loving city into an occupied zone. The Massachusetts legislature had been stripped of its political power and the people were now subjected to edicts from the royal governor and the occupying military forces.

  The New Englanders were not the sort to be suppressed without a fight. Hearing the British drumbeat at sunrise on that brisk spring morning, the American militiamen emerged from a local tavern to defy the occupiers. The colonists had long relied on such groups of townsmen for defense. However, while their original purpose was to protect the towns from a Native American or perhaps French attack, the colonists now saw their former protectors as the threat.

  The British troops were on their way to confiscate the rebellious Massachusetts colony’s munitions, but the patriots would not stand for another such affront. As the first rays of morning light illuminated the village, Lexington’s stout little wooden bell tower continued—almost pathetically—to sound the alarm while British soldiers poured into the town square.15 They were surprised by what they found. About seventy bold American farmers and shopkeepers stood tall on the small, dewy town green, boldly facing a well-trained column of approximately one thousand British regulars.16

  The British—derisively called “redcoats” or, more colorfully, “lobster back sons-a-bitches” by the Americans in a scornful nod to their well-tailored red uniforms—were in sour spirits. They had marched all night and waded up to their waists through a swamp that blocked their route. Enraged by the insolence of the colonists before them, the British demanded: “You damned rebels, lay down your arms!”17 This remark was particularly offensive because the Americans did not see themselves as treasonous rebels,
but as honorable men courageously defending their families and property. When the defiant colonists scoffed at the demand, the British shouted “huzza!” and raced towards the Crown’s unruly subjects with sharp bayonets affixed to the end of their muskets.18

  Terrified by the enormous mass of red and metal rapidly nearing, some of the Americans decided to go home. But suddenly, just as the Americans began to disperse, the confused scene was pierced by the boom of a gun. While each side blamed the other, reports of that fateful moment indicated that an unknown man had been secretly watching the events unfold from afar.19 He peered down his Scottish flintlock pistol at the advancing redcoats and, pulling the trigger, unleashed a deafening thunder and spray of pungent, singeing gunpowder.20 The explosion sent the lead ball hurling erratically through the barrel of the gun towards the startled British. And with this “shot heard round the world,” all hell broke loose.

  Redcoats and patriots flinched at the sound. They squeezed their trigger fingers, sending simultaneous blasts hurling in every direction. Before the British officers could regain control of their units, blood flew and men on both sides fell to the ground, yelping in pain. The British shot a volley of fire towards the startled colonists, killing ten and injuring ten others before the Americans scattered in terror.21

  Word of the bloodbath spread like wildfire throughout New England. One patriot reported, “there was a general Uproar through the Neighboring Colonies; the Echo of which soon extended through the Continent.”22 Rage militaire engulfed the region as men grew impassioned in defense of their families and homes.23 Militiamen responded to the call to arms by the thousands. The war for America had begun not with an eloquent speech or a noble declaration but with one unauthorized shot from a lone sniper.24

  8

  Exitus Acta Probat

  At the outset of hostilities, America’s Continental Congress met to plan a strategy for the patriotic cause. This group was composed of political and intellectual leaders from throughout the colonies, with Washington attending as a representative of Virginia. Having gained approximately twenty-five pounds of muscle since the Jumonville scandal in 1754, the matured man carried his formidable two-hundred-pound frame with the majesty of a natural-born athlete. When ordering from his tailor, he described himself as “a Man full 6 feet high & proportionably made; if any thing, rather slender than thick for a person of that highth with pretty long Arms and thighs.”1 Many history books describe him as taller, but Washington was not one to misinform his tailor—he took his appearance quite seriously.

  Washington arrived at Independence Hall in 1775 looking the part of a military expert. In a not-so-subtle reminder of his previous military service during the Seven Years’ War, he shrewdly wore his blue Virginia militia uniform. This was complemented by his hair, which was powdered white and tied in the back with a satin bow. Such a style was considered very masculine and militaristic, thereby serving as yet another indication of his soldier status.

  Ironically, Washington had in fact been retired from military life for fifteen years. His only military experience after the Jumonville disaster had been predominantly in backwoods warfare, and he had done poorly by most standards. He had never commanded anything larger than a regiment, let alone an army, in battle. Due to his limited success, Washington had been unable to obtain a commission in the British Army and had resigned from the Virginia militia.

  Despite his lackluster record, Washington still had more military experience than most Americans in 1775. To the group of military novices in the Continental Congress, he was the relative expert. And defer to him they did. When military questions arose, their natural reaction was to turn to the man in uniform standing with a militaristic posture “as straight as an Indian.”2 Although he preferred to remain silent, Washington provided thoughtful contributions if asked for his opinion. Unsurprisingly, when time came to decide who would lead the new American army, Washington catapulted to the shortlist of candidates.

  The southern gentleman’s impeccable manners, humble demeanor, and almost aristocratic dignity endeared him to the congressmen. Cited for his “handsome face,” “graceful attitude and movements,” “self command,” and willingness to risk his personal fortune, he embodied the noble new “American Commander in Chief ” that Congress aimed to create.3 One delegate observed that Washington had “so much martial dignity in his deportment that you would distinguish him to be a general and a soldier from among ten thousand people.”4 On top of all these attributes, Washington humbly exuded a je ne sais quoi that the Revolution badly needed. And so, after much deliberation and argument, dominated by north-south tensions, the Virginian was unanimously appointed as America’s first commander in chief.

  In all of these deliberations, however, Congress neglected to address the matter of how to treat their foes. They passed not one resolution concerning the treatment of captured British and Loyalist fighters. Congress’s first mere mention of the subject on record was in Washington’s commission as commander in chief of the Continental Army: You shall take every method in your power consistent with prudence, to destroy or make prisoners of all persons who now are or who hereafter shall appear in Arms against the good people of the united colonies.

  And whereas all particulars cannot be foreseen, nor positive instructions for such emergencies so before hand given but that many things must be left to your prudent and discreet management, as occurrences may arise upon the place, or from time to time fall out, you are therefore upon all such accidents or any occasions that may happen, to use your best circumspection and (advising with your council of war) to order and dispose of the said Army under your command as may be most advantageous for the obtaining the end for which these forces have been raised, making it your special care in discharge of the great trust committed unto you, that the liberties of America receive no detriment.5

  With this resolution, the Continental Congress empowered their new commander to decide whether to destroy or imprison enemies of the fledgling nation. They immediately followed this grant of authority with a further declaration leaving much to Washington’s discretion, or “best circumspection,” in how to deploy the Continental Army in defense of the emerging states.6 In so doing, Congress indicated that decisions regarding prisoner treatment would be the commander’s prerogative.7

  With these powers, Washington set out for Boston. His mission was to defeat the British who were besieged within the city by enraged New Englanders. The city had been transformed into a virtual military camp as nearly 14,000 British troops poured in and the townsfolk fled. Boston’s civilian population had plummeted by more than 60 percent, to a mere 6,753 American inhabitants.8 With the town largely emptied, the redcoats had certainly made themselves at home, living in the stately brick and wooden homes of Boston, making use of its tidy shops and churches, helping themselves to its bountiful fish stocks, and patrolling the cobblestone and dirt roads for spies loyal to the patriot cause. But however comfortable the redcoats were, the fact of the matter was that they were dangerously trapped—pinned by the tens of thousands of American militiamen from Massachusetts and surrounding colonies who had joined the cause after the opening battle on Lexington’s town green.

  Before things escalated further, Congress attempted to negotiate peace during the summer of 1775. They presented the British with an “Olive Branch Petition” in which the colonies agreed to cease their uprising if King George III and Parliament revoked their oppressive new laws and withdrew their troops. But by August, the king had had enough insolence.

  The first in a line of British kings of German descent to have actually been born in Britain, George III proudly declared, “Born and educated in this country, I glory in the name of Britain.”9 And he was certainly ready to place Britain’s interests before those of the American colonies. Thirty-seven years old at the time, he had already ruled for fifteen years and had supported certain efforts to tax the colonies. This did not win him fans in America. Washington captured the sentiment of many when he
said, “Great Britain hath no more right to put their hands into my pocket . . . than I have to put my hands into yours.”10 As the conflict escalated, the colonists came to vilify George III as a ruthless tyrant, who “has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.”11

  In reality, the king was a reserved, thoughtful man, willing to endure pains to do what he thought was right—and he expected others to do the same. For example, when his bid to marry his true love was opposed, he broke off the relationship, writing, “I am born for the happiness or misery of a great nation and consequently must often act contrary to my passions.”12 He eventually married, and even though he did not meet the bride chosen for him until their wedding day, he nevertheless enjoyed a happy marriage—and a remarkably faithful one for monarchs of the era—fathering fifteen children. But this happy twist of fate did not erase his “grin and bear it” mentality. So when the colonists rebelled against the burdens placed on them by Parliament, the king was not particularly sympathetic.

  With large bulging eyes and cheeks, George III possessed a high forehead and thick, carefully groomed hair. He was so well coifed, in fact, that the arsenic used in the hair products of the time may have contributed to his bouts of insanity.13 He was very lucid, however, when the patriots began to rebel. Infuriated by their attack against British power, he declared war on the “dangerous and ill designing” patriots.14 Although a pious Anglican, he was not particularly forgiving and vowed to crush these “wicked and desperate persons within [his] Realm.”15 Britain scoffed at America’s olive branch. The fight was on.