George Washington

by Stephen Brumwell

  Washington’s wartime reputation landed him the greatest prize of all: the standing and confidence to court and marry a woman who was reputedly the wealthiest widow in Virginia. When he wed Martha Custis it is highly likely that Washington was still in love with Sally Fairfax, the unattainable wife of his friend and neighbor. From that point forward, however, he seemingly suppressed those feelings and focused wholeheartedly upon his bride and the new family she brought with her.

  Among the socially privileged ranks of Anglo-American society in the mid-eighteenth century, financial considerations mattered in marriage. But there was a growing assumption that such unions should also be “companionate,” based upon a genuine affinity that might ripen into love. Soon after her husband’s death, Martha Washington destroyed virtually all of the private correspondence between them, so the precise nature of their relationship is difficult to establish. Yet such evidence as survives suggests that it conformed to the “companionate” model and was characterized by genuine intimacy: after sixteen years of marriage, as he contemplated the daunting task of commanding Congress’s Continental Army against Britain, Washington assured his wife of his “unalterable affection” for her. The fact that the Washingtons had no children of their own need not indicate a lack of passion; it is possible that Martha’s last delivery had left her unable to conceive; as likely, although this, too, is conjecture, “the Father of his Country” was sterile.3

  Without doubt, marriage immediately transformed Washington’s prospects, catapulting him into the front rank of Virginia’s planters. In addition to his existing holdings of 5,000 acres worked by 49 slaves, the Custis connection brought another 17,000 acres, 300 more slaves, and a handsome townhouse in Williamsburg, altogether assessed at £23,000.4 In terms of Washington’s personal fortune and status, therefore, despite the many frustrations and disappointments he had experienced, his decision to follow the lead of his half brother Lawrence and thrust himself forward for a military career had undoubtedly been the right one.

  As the tribute paid him by his regimental officers and the thanks of his fellow Burgesses both made clear, Washington had gained special credit for his determination in seeing the job through from start to finish. Had he retired in 1757, amid the prevailing mood of wrangling, war weariness and defeatism, the story might have been very different, with all his previous efforts squandered. As it was, Washington resigned in the wake of an unexpected and much-trumpeted victory when Virginia’s readiness to support the war effort had been transformed by Pitt’s generosity: in the ensuing mood of euphoria, all the old gripes about Washington’s shortcomings as commander of Virginia’s forces were forgotten.

  While there is no doubt that in 1759 Washington’s standing in Virginia was higher than ever, it is nonetheless true that his celebrity beyond the Old Dominion fell far short of the expectations raised by his high profile in 1754–55. As the war against New France moved toward its climax, the Anglo-Americans had other heroes, both dead and alive, to occupy the limelight. Among the martyrs was Lord Howe, “the darling” of the colonists, killed at Ticonderoga in 1758. Those still living included another young brigadier general, James Wolfe, who had emerged as the popular hero of the victorious siege of Louisbourg that same summer. Howe and Wolfe were both British, of course, but even Freeman’s claim that Washington deserved recognition “as the most conspicuous native-born American provincial who had followed a career of arms” is debatable: by early 1759, if newspaper coverage is any indicator, that title belonged more rightfully to a rough and daring New England frontiersman of humble Scotch-Irish parentage, the ranger Major Robert Rogers.5

  In 1759, Washington apparently turned his back on a military career for good. Nowhere in his writings did he mull over what he had learned during the years since he’d volunteered to carry Lieutenant Governor Dinwiddie’s summons into the Ohio Country; perhaps, as a new life stretched before him, such reflections seemed irrelevant. But given what the future held for Washington, it is worth considering the long-term significance of his experiences during that time.6

  As a veteran officer, Washington now knew that war was not all “charming,” whistling bullets. Soldiers were more likely to die from dysentery or smallpox than the enemy’s lead or steel, while Fort Duquesne had fallen to the methodical chock of felling axes, not shrieking war cries and crashing cannon fire. With hard experience, boldness had given way to caution, manifested in a growing willingness to seek the opinion of others through formal councils of war. Courage and leadership on the battlefield mattered, to be sure, but victory also hinged upon other, less glamorous, factors: discipline, training, planning, logistics, and, not least, the maintenance of harmonious relationships between frontline soldiers and rear-echelon civilians. Though he failed to acknowledge the fact at the time, in all of these areas Washington’s personal experience of command bequeathed invaluable lessons.

  As colonel of the original Virginia Regiment, Washington gradually created a formation that was, by 1758, as well trained and disciplined as any in the provincial service and, judging by its combat record, worthy of acceptance into the regular British Army. For Washington, the antithesis of his own trustworthy regiment was the unruly and unreliable colonial militia; this preference for the long-service professional soldier and disdain for the short-term amateur—which overturned his countrymen’s ingrained prejudice against “standing armies”—would continue to dominate his attitude toward the waging of war.

  While basing his own standards of military perfection upon those established by the British Army, Washington knew that even the red-coated professionals were not invincible: he had seen them run at Braddock’s defeat, their proverbial discipline eventually dissolved by an alien environment and unfamiliar enemy. Hence, from the outset, his own bluecoats were drilled in regular and irregular tactics; and, in common with the most forward-thinking officers like Henri Bouquet, Washington sought to devise realistic military formations capable of coping with wilderness conditions.

  As commander of his own regiment, Washington had absorbed key lessons in leadership, learning how to motivate officers and men, gaining their respect while maintaining the distance required by rank. He had acquired familiarity with the nuts and bolts of practical soldiering, watching the dense paragraphs of Humphrey Bland’s Treatise of Military Discipline transformed into the reality of files, platoons, and companies drilling and sweating on the parade ground. Washington had not flinched from the responsibility of imposing discipline, depriving miscreants of the skin off their backs and, upon occasion, of their lives.

  From his experience of serving under Generals Braddock and Forbes, Washington had also gained an insight into the mindset of two contrasting British commanders, the first bullish and authoritarian, the second tactful and patient, but no less determined in pursuit of his objectives. For all their differences in temperament, both men had faced the challenge of organizing an army and the logistical nightmare of pushing it across the interior wilderness. Although the final outcome of their campaigns was very different, Braddock and Forbes had each surmounted immense difficulties to come within striking distance of their objective.

  Perhaps the most important lessons of all arose from Washington’s own mistakes. Woefully inexperienced but keen to win a name for himself, in 1754 he had displayed a rashness that looked set to cost him his life and reputation when he stood and fought against the odds at Fort Necessity. After 1755, while in command of the troops defending Virginia’s frontiers, Washington showed poor judgment in spending far too long away from his men; they had endured danger and hardship while he pursued his own selfish career objectives, enjoying the comforts of Williamsburg, Philadelphia, and Boston. In Washington’s absence, morale and discipline had suffered, justifying some of the “Virginia-Centinel’s” barbed criticisms.

  During that same period, Washington regularly clashed with his civilian superior, Lieutenant Governor Dinwiddie, deploying his own political patrons, the powerful Fairfaxes and the Assembly’s speak
er, John Robinson, as allies to outflank him; through this sniping, Washington eventually alienated the long-suffering royal official who had launched his career and shared many of his objectives. Under the command of Forbes, Washington was guilty of further indiscretion, disloyalty, and factionalism; he was lucky to be given a chance to redeem himself. Yet it is significant that Washington seized that opportunity and salvaged his reputation as an officer and gentleman; as will be seen, unlike many young men in his position he learned from his errors, making it difficult to overemphasize the importance of those same years in shaping his character.

  In early April 1759, Washington left Williamsburg for Mount Vernon along with his bride, his stepchildren, Jacky and Patsy, and their servants and baggage. In preparation for married life Washington had added an extra storey to the original building. It remained sparsely furnished and simply decorated; it would be Martha’s task as Mount Vernon’s new mistress to transform it into a stylish and comfortable home. Meanwhile, Washington devoted himself to the role of gentleman farmer, taking an unusually keen interest in his plantations and their productivity. While the sprawling Custis domains on the York River were entrusted to a competent overseer, Washington assumed personal responsibility for the five farms, encompassing about 4,000 acres, that composed the Mount Vernon estate. In doing so, he undertook a range of duties as demanding as those expected of a regimental colonel on active service.7

  Like his soldiering, Washington learned his farming on the job. Keen to preserve the land and its fertility, he experimented with alternatives to the Virginian staple crop of tobacco. In his efforts to do so, he ordered the latest books from London, works distilling the techniques that were driving England’s “agricultural revolution.” Drawing upon them, he was prepared to dabble and diversify. By 1765, Washington was also cultivating hemp, wheat, and corn. Although his hemp and flax proved unprofitable, production of the other crops—which could be sold on the domestic market, so avoiding costly shipping fees and commissions for London agents—rose over the next three to four years.

  While Washington pored over his seed catalogs, the war against New France ground on. During 1758, the Anglo-Americans had gained the initiative, but the conflict was far from won. For example, although John Forbes had captured the Forks of the Ohio, the French still held hopes of retaking them. In the spring of 1759, Captain Lignery remained at Venango, where he massed reinforcements for projected counterattacks on Loyalhanna and Fort Pitt; by early July, he commanded some 700 Frenchmen and many more Indians. As it happened, this powerful force was diverted north to Niagara after intelligence arrived that a British army was en route to attack that crucial fort. In late July, Lignery arrived to find Niagara already besieged by the Anglo-Americans and a strong contingent of Iroquois, who had finally been persuaded to abandon their long-standing neutrality. The results of this shift were immediately apparent. Despite dwindling influence within the Ohio Country, in their own backyard on the New York frontier, the Six Nations remained a force to be reckoned with, and all but a handful of Lignery’s tribal allies promptly abandoned him rather than clash with them. When he attempted to break through the siege lines at La Belle Famille, his force was halted by British firepower, then hounded into flight by Six Nations warriors. Fort Niagara surrendered the next day, so marking the real end of Bourbon influence on the Ohio; after burning their contentious forts at Venango, Le Boeuf, and Presque Isle, the French withdrew westward to Detroit.8

  That September, as Washington’s good friend George Mercer reported, the victors were busy securing their gains with a “very respectable” new fort at “Pittsburgh,” built of brick and capable of withstanding bombardment and holding a formidable garrison.9 The region’s Indians, the same Delawares, Shawnees, and Mingos who had recently ravaged the frontiers of Virginia and Pennsylvania, now seemed reconciled to the new regime. As another of Washington’s former officers, Robert Stewart, informed him, they were inclined “to enter into and cultivate a strict and permanent friendship with us,” meekly delivering up the captives they had taken in years of raiding. This change of heart was just as well: both the Delawares and the Shawnees were more numerous and powerful than previously imagined, even after the war casualties they’d suffered. According to Stewart, these same Indians held Washington above all others responsible for their losses: “Both those nations are greatly incensed against you, who they call the Great Knife and look on you to be author of their greatest misfortunes,” he reported.10

  Coming from fellow warriors, Washington’s latest appellation was a compliment of sorts, no less menacing than “Devourer of Towns.” Very similar terms—“Big Knives” and “Long Knives”—were employed by the Ohio Indians as a catchall name for Virginians; this suggests that Washington, through his long stint of frontier service, had come to personify the Old Dominion’s war effort not only in the eyes of his fellow Virginians, but for Indians, too. The name also testifies to Washington’s unusually close acquaintance with the region’s tribes, stretching back to his diplomatic mission in 1753.

  As Stewart realized, for all their apparent tranquility, the Ohio Indians remained a dangerous enemy if angered. This fact had been clear to General Forbes. In February 1759, as he lay dying in Philadelphia, he summoned his dwindling strength to warn the new commander in chief, Jeffery Amherst, of the importance of treating the Indians fairly and with respect. Forbes, who was by now reduced to a “most shocking and deplorable” sight, believed that Indian affairs were not generally understood, while those with the necessary expertise—men like Sir William Johnson, Britain’s superintendent of the northern Indians—used it for their own selfish ends. Forbes pleaded: “I beg in the mean time that you will not think triflingly of the Indians or their friendship; when I venture to assure you that twenty Indians are capable of laying half this province waste, of which I have been an eye witness.”11

  Amherst would have done well to heed Forbes’s advice, but in 1759 he was preoccupied with the ongoing conquest of Canada. Besides Niagara, by August his troops had captured the Champlain Valley fortresses of Ticonderoga and Crown Point. The most significant—and famous—success came in September, when a detached force, under the command of the fiery young Major General Wolfe, seized Quebec. The decisive battle before the walls of the city on September 13 cost Wolfe his life, adding poignancy to an unexpected victory that sparked unprecedented celebrations on both sides of the Atlantic and providing a dramatic emotional highpoint for what became known as the annus mirabilis.

  Unlike Amherst’s forces, which included thousands of provincials, Wolfe’s Quebec army had been composed almost entirely of veteran redcoats. Nominally British units, they also mustered a significant minority of officers and rank and file recruited in America, including both men born in the colonies and recent immigrants. For example, the 48th Foot had received an influx of local manpower both before and after its blooding under Braddock; returns compiled in 1757 show that some 12 percent of its rank and file were “Natives of America”; the number of men recruited on that continent among former indentured servants and transports from Britain would undoubtedly have been higher. The 48th’s lieutenant colonel in 1759 remained Ralph Burton, who had been wounded in command of the regiment while fighting alongside Washington on the Monongahela. Another survivor of Braddock’s defeat, and a former ensign in the Virginia Regiment who went on to distinguish himself at Louisbourg and Quebec as a lieutenant in the Royal American Regiment, was Alexander Stephen, the brother of Washington’s tough right-hand man, Adam Stephen.12

  Both the joint British-American nature of Wolfe’s victory and its cost in human terms were brought home to Mount Vernon by the fate of William Henry Fairfax, for whom Washington had helped to secure an ensign’s commission in the 28th Foot. Young “Billy” came through the siege of Louisbourg unhurt but was mortally wounded at Quebec during the climactic battle on the Plains of Abraham; Wolfe had been leading Billy’s regiment in a bayonet charge when he received his own fatal injuries. There was
a sad footnote in 1761, when the fifty guineas that Washington had loaned Billy three years earlier toward his expenses were repaid by his brother, Bryan.13

  At the close of the annus mirabilis, patriotic Britons on both sides of the Atlantic were drawn more closely together than ever before, anticipating a glorious future for a mighty Protestant empire.14 Blood shed by men like Billy Fairfax and James Wolfe had helped to cement the bond. The spirit of joint endeavor and shared sacrifice was epitomized by the decision of the colony of Massachusetts Bay to vote £250 to pay for a monument to young Lord Howe in Westminster Abbey. It was unveiled on July 14, 1762, in testimony, as its inscription stated, of “his services and military virtues” and of the affection he had inspired among the officers and soldiers of Massachusetts. Work on the monument was supervised by the late Lord Howe’s younger brother Richard, now Fourth Viscount Howe, who’d distinguished himself for his fighting spirit as a captain in the Royal Navy. Deeply touched, “Black Dick” Howe intended to erect an obelisk as a reciprocal gesture of affection for his dead sibling and of gratitude to those Americans who cherished his memory; this was no less dear to another hard-fighting brother, Colonel William Howe, who had led Wolfe’s light infantry in a daring commando-style assault up the cliffs above Quebec on the memorable September 13, 1759. In coming years, as military opponents of George Washington, both Richard and William Howe were destined to play as important a role in British-American affairs as their much-lamented brother, George Augustus.15