by Logan Beirne
The surrendering British, on the other hand, were not viewed so positively. One New Jersey officer wrote that “the British officers in general behaved like boys who had been whipped at school. Some bit their lips; some pouted; others cried. Their round, broad-brimmed hats were well-adapted to the occasion, hiding those faces they were ashamed to show.”20 Cornwallis, who had so often “appeared in splendid triumph at the head of his army,” now sailed in disgrace back to England, where only his wife’s grave was awaiting him.21
When news of Yorktown reached Congress, they did not even have enough money to pay the messenger. But, after taking up a collection from among themselves to settle the tab, the congressmen—and the rest of America—could rejoice. Washington had finally humbled the British Empire.
Word of America’s great victory took over a month to sail across the Atlantic. When news arrived on the British Isles in late November 1781, it was met with shock and humiliation. The prime minister of the British Parliament, Lord North, took the news like “a ball in his breast.” He “opened his arms, exclaiming wildly, as he paced up and down[,] ‘O God! it is all over!’”22 And it was. After suffering 25,000 military deaths and losing more battles than they had won, the American forces had humbled the mightiest empire on earth.
33
Winning the Peace
The British people sued for peace. Anticlimactically for him, Clinton lost his post as British commander in a whimper rather than a grand battle with Washington. His legacy was mixed: some described him as “an honourable and respectable officer” and others as “fool enough to command an army when he is incapable of commanding a troop of horse.”1 In his own defense, Clinton attempted to pin the blame on Cornwallis, who shot back by publicly reciting the strategic blunders of his former commander. Clinton would continue to serve his country as a soldier and a politician. But when he departed New York for London in the spring of 1782 and resumed his seat in Parliament, this body was much different from the one he had left at the beginning of the war.
The British Parliament was deeply shaken by the loss at Yorktown. Antiwar factions took over, and Lord North, saying that “the fatal day has come,” resigned as prime minister.2 King George III accepted his resignation with dread. While he had previously enjoyed control over Parliament, he now faced a legislature that not only wanted to end his war, but also declared that “the power of the Crown has increased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished.”3 Now even his throne was in question.
The king had closely identified his own honor with winning the war. He was said to have aspired to “keep the rebels harassed, anxious, and poor, until the day when, by a natural and inevitable process, discontent and disappointment were converted into penitence and remorse.”4 But the will of his people had changed, thus making his continued crusade impossible. And so he drafted his abdication.
George III was convinced that the shift in Parliament had “totally incapacitated Him from either conducting the War with effect, or from obtaining any Peace but on conditions which would prove destructive” to Britain. Therefore, he felt obliged to take “the painful step of quitting . . . for ever.”5 Although he never submitted the abdication and even managed to fend off major changes to the monarchy, he suffered emotionally and endured bouts of insanity.6 He nevertheless retained the thrown until his death in 1820, becoming the longest-ruling British monarch up to that time.7 But he spent the rest of his days knowing that he would go down in history as the king who lost the American colonies.
After Yorktown, the Americans had not won yet, however. They still needed to navigate the treacherous peace process, which proved to be an international diplomatic struggle of colossal magnitude and deep intrigue. As former allies secretly turned against one another and bitter foes joined forces, it appeared probable that the American novices would be diplomatically outmaneuvered by the shrewd old European powers. They were rabbits in a fox den. But as they had shown throughout the war, the wily Americans could outfox just about anyone.
The peace talks would fundamentally shape the future of the new nation, but America’s great leader was not at the table. Instead, Washington held down the home front while Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and John Jay, a thirty-five-year-old congressman, took the helm in Europe.8 These three men, all brilliant, could not have been any more different in temperament. Franklin was cunning and reserved, while Adams was direct and irascible, and Jay suspicious and isolationist.9 Together they made a formidable team.
And all their skills would be needed to navigate the tangled web of old alliances and grudges. The European powers were prepared to step all over the United States in pursuit of their own interests. In fact, America’s closest ally, France, intended to hijack the peace process in order to obtain the spoils for its Crown. After all, the French had entered the war more out of hatred for the British than any grand love of liberty. And the American peace delegation was not under any illusions otherwise. John Jay was particularly distrustful of French motives. “They are interested in separating us from Great Britain,” he surmised, “and on that point we may, I believe, depend upon them; but it is not their interest that we should become a great and formidable people, and therefore they will not help us to become so.”10
Jay was correct. As long as it meant more leverage for their Crown, the French were willing to allow Britain to hold on to the Midwest, Savannah, Charleston, Maine, and even New York City, thus leaving the United States a not-so-peaceful piece of Swiss cheese.11 To add to their treachery, the French conspired with the Spanish to block the United States’ territorial expansion. For a time, they were even willing to permit the British to deny recognition of the United States’ independence at the outset of the talks!12
It appeared likely that the duplicitous French would succeed in their plans. They not only possessed money, power, and diplomatic expertise, but had influence in the American Congress. “I can do what I please with them,” wrote one French agent in the United States.13 There was even speculation that the French had bribed General Sullivan, who was a congressman at the time. Whether this was true or not, they successfully lobbied Congress to grant them the lead in the peace talks.14 The hoodwinked congressmen decided to place the French court “in possession of sufficient power to make a peace”15 and instructed Franklin, Adams, and Jay to make “no step without the approbation of His Majesty,” the king of France.16 However, Franklin, Adams, and Jay were not men to follow another’s lead.
In a stunning turn of events, the three American peace commissioners ignored this congressional directive and began separate talks with the British. Adams felt, “amidst all these doublings and windings of European politics,” that the Americans should “have opinions, principles, and systems of [their] own.”17 In a coded letter, Jay explained, “Had I not violated the instructions of Congress their dignity would have been in the dust,” for the French were not seeking America’s best interests.18 Suspecting that the French were trying to stall the talks until they captured British territory in Europe, the Americans ignored French opposition to the move and demanded that the British acknowledge American independence as a preliminary to any discussions.
The British proved surprisingly compliant. Because Britain was now engaged in a world war with their arch enemies, the “rebellious colonies” were no longer as high a priority as they had been just a few years prior. In fact, the British were most anxious to drive a wedge between the Americans and the French, fearing that a lasting alliance between them would effectively counter their power for as long as it endured. And so they looked for cracks in the “friendship of convenience.” Those cracks were easy to find—a rift between the allies became readily apparent to the British when the French sent a secret envoy to Britain in an attempt to block the Americans’ demands for fishing rights off Nova Scotia. John Jay intercepted a ciphered French letter on the matter and likewise wrote to the British requesting that they not allow the French and Spanish to wield too much influence in the peace talks. The Briti
sh smelled blood. They needed only to take advantage of the “profound feud [that] had sprung up between the Americans and their European allies.”19 Luckily for the Americans, the British saw a quick peace with the United States as the best means of doing so.
Leveraging the British agenda, Franklin, Adams, and Jay negotiated a sweetheart deal. They won recognition of American independence, doubled the nation’s landmass by extending it west to the Mississippi River, and gained fishing “liberties” off the coasts of New England and Canada. While the British pushed for the Americans to restore the Loyalists’ confiscated property, Congress agreed only to recommend that the states do so—a recommendation they were very likely to ignore. Instead, the United States would stick the British with the bill. If they wanted those Americans who supported their cause to be compensated, the Parliament would have to dig into its own coffers.
Franklin informed the French of America’s separate peace. They were not pleased. “The English buy peace rather than make it,” one Frenchman seethed, adding, “Their concessions exceed all that I could have thought possible.” The French saw this “dream” treaty as a blatant ploy by the British for “the defection of the Americans.”20 A breach between the allies seemed inevitable.
Like a stern father, the French diplomat Charles Gravier, comte de Vergennes, scolded Franklin, “I am at a loss, sir, to explain your conduct and that of your colleagues on this occasion. You have concluded your preliminary articles without any communication between us, although the instructions from Congress prescribe that nothing shall be done without the participation of the King.”21 A sixty-five-year-old member of the French aristocracy, Vergennes had been instrumental in convincing France to aid the Americans. He had helped persuade the Crown to throw its army and navy into the battle and even loan the Americans $31 million. Now it was becoming clear that the French had been duped out of their chance to obtain territory and other spoils. Instead, Americans reaped the rewards of the French investment.
The cunning Franklin delicately replied that the Americans, as novices, had blundered and had not intended to cut out the French.22 “But as this was not from want of respect to the King, whom we all love and honor, we hope it will be excused,” he wrote, and he hoped that what the two nations had accomplished together would “not be ruined by a single indiscretion of ours.”23 Franklin dissembled, of course. Appealing to France’s self-interest, he aimed to close the public breach by concluding with a wily suggestion: “The English, I just now learn, flatter themselves they have already divided us. I hope this little misunderstanding will therefore be kept a secret, and that they will find themselves totally mistaken.”24 The befuddled French could do little to fix the situation. Making the most of bad circumstances, they decided to mend the rift in order to avoid handing the British their objective of splitting their enemies.
Jefferson summed up America’s reception of the treaty when he wrote to Jay, “The terms obtained for us are indeed great, and are so deemed by your country.”25 Washington’s protégé, Hamilton, remarked that the peace terms exceeded “the expectations of the most sanguine.”26 But despite this grand diplomatic victory, all was not well for America. While Franklin was outsmarting Europe, Washington was busy trying to stop a brewing insurrection.
34
Spectacles & Speculation
Even as the Americans were nearing “the greatest achievement in the history of American diplomacy” by scoring such a favorable peace treaty, their republic was far from safe.1 Its own military nearly toppled it. From Washington’s perspective, the war was still on until the treaty was signed and the British were removed. Because of “their former infatuation with duplicity and [the] perverse system of British policy,” he said, he was “induced to doubt everything, to suspect everything.” 2 He even suspected that the peace talks were a ruse and was certain that “the King will push the war as long as the nation will find men or money.”3 Thus, after his victory over Cornwallis at Yorktown in October 1781, he returned with his wearied army to corner the British troops holed up in New York City. Many saw this move as a power play.
Some Americans believed that Washington would take control of the country after the war. His insistence on maintaining the army at full strength despite the looming peace appeared to signal that he was unwilling—or perhaps unable, considering Congress’s ineptitude—to relinquish his quasi-monarchical power.4 Adding credence to this theory, reports abounded that Hamilton, possibly while intoxicated, expressed his belief that the nation would be far better off if Washington marched with his troops into Philadelphia and disbanded Congress.5 In fact, Washington’s leadership during the war was so highly regarded by the American people that many welcomed the idea—especially his troops.
“Great discontents prevailed” in the Continental Army, even as the end of the war was in sight. By the spring of 1782, Washington’s men had been rendered nearly destitute, and on some days “they were absolutely in want of provisions.” Congress and the states could barely feed the troops, let alone keep up with their salaries. Many soldiers doubted they would ever see even half the pay they had been promised, and “fears began to be expressed that, in the event of peace, they would all be disbanded with their claims unliquidated and themselves cast upon the community penniless, and unfitted, by long military habitudes, for gainful pursuits of peace.”6 Such fears were justified, as some state legislatures indeed discussed abolishing the Continental Army so that they might void their responsibility to pay the troops.7
The soldiers turned to their commander for help. One who directly approached Washington was Colonel Lewis Nicola. Born to a British officer in Ireland, Nicola had followed his father’s footsteps into the British Army. He served for decades in Irish garrisons before leaving the army and emigrating to Philadelphia, where he ran a dry goods store and founded a library. Some saw him as “feather-headed and irresponsible,” a claim that may be supported by his avid job-hopping: he also tried his hand as an author, pub owner, and teacher before returning to military life as an American soldier. Having developed a professional, but not particularly friendly, relationship with Washington, he wrote his commander in May 1782 to convey his ideas for the future of the country.8
In his carefully crafted letter, Nicola reminded Washington that the soldiers were growing restless and resentful of the government, which they saw as inefficient and ineffective. In fact, the troops were so desperate to obtain their rightful pay that they were willing to fight for their “pecuniary rights.” Nicola explained, “God forbid we should ever think of involving that country we have, under your conduct & auspices, rescued from oppression, into a new scene of blood & confusion; but it cannot be expected we should forego claims on which our future subsistance & that of our families depend.”9 Even more alarming was Nicola’s proposed solution.
Admitting that he did not favor “a republican form of government,” Nicola suggested that the country experiment with a constitutional monarchy in the image of Great Britain. He outlined a “scheme” in which Congress would compensate the soldiers and then delineate a “tract in some of the best of those fruitful & extensive countries to the west of our frontiers” that might be “formed into a distinct State under such mode of government as those military who choose to remove to it may agree on.” Since the wartime experience “must have shown to all, but to military men in particular the weakness of republics,” he predicted that this new state would adopt a monarchical government.10
Nicola pointed to the Continental Army’s successes “under a proper head,” meaning Washington himself. It was “uncontroverted,” he believed, that “the same abilities which have lead us [sic], through difficulties apparently insurmountable by human power, to victory and glory, those qualities that have merited and obtained the universal esteem and veneration of an army, would be most likely to conduct and direct us in the smoother paths of peace.”11 Many inferred from this letter that Nicola, and possibly a growing chorus in the army, wished for Washington to be king.1
2
Whatever the letter’s precise intent, Washington was appalled. He shot back that very same day, “you could not have found a person to whom your schemes are more disagreeable.” Viewing Nicola’s proposals “with abhorrence,” Washington remonstrated, “no occurrence in the course of the War, has given me more painful sensations than your information of there being such ideas existing in the Army as you have expressed.” He was offended by the suggestion that he might participate in such a scheme, saying, “I am much at a loss to conceive what part of my conduct could have given encouragement to an address which to me seems big with the greatest mischiefs that can befall my Country.”13
Washington was willing to help alleviate the plight of the soldiers, but only via the existing republican system. Although he himself had criticized Congress, he staunchly opposed the establishment of a monarchy in the likeness of the one he had fought against for so many years. He would play no part in ending the republic that he played a pivotal role in creating. Sounding like the strict stepfather that he was, Washington ordered Nicola “to banish these thoughts from your Mind, and never communicate, as from yourself, or any one else, a sentiment of the like Nature.”14 He considered this response to Nicola so momentous that he demanded—for the only time during the war—that his aides provide proof that it had been sealed and posted.15
Nicola indeed received the scathing rebuke and promptly replied with three repentant letters. Despite Nicola’s mea culpa, discontent continued to seethe within the army, however. If the soldiers were compensated, wrote one officer, they would be “the lambs and bees of the community,” but if not, they were likely to become “its tigers and wolves.”16 By the start of 1783, those wolves began to growl.
