George Washington

by Stephen Brumwell

  In coming weeks, as such initiatives appeared increasingly futile, momentum gathered behind the concept of a truly “American Army,” to be controlled by Congress. When a second committee was formed, to draft plans to distribute ammunition and military stores throughout the colonies, it was once again headed by Washington. On June 3, Congress voted to borrow £6,000 to purchase gunpowder for what was now being styled “the Continental Army.” Another committee was appointed to estimate the cost of a year-long military campaign, with Washington once more called upon to chair it. Congress finally took the plunge on June 14, when it gave orders for the recruitment of ten companies of riflemen—six from Pennsylvania and two each from Virginia and Maryland—to reinforce the “American continental army” at Boston. A fourth committee was responsible for drafting the rules and regulations to govern these riflemen and all other troops to be raised by Congress: as before, Washington took the helm.

  By chairing these key military committees at the very time when Congress was recognizing the need for a Continental Army and considering who should command it, Washington highlighted his qualifications for that job. His decision to attend Congress dressed in full military uniform underlined the same point in striking visual fashion.4

  Working alongside key delegates from almost every colony, Washington impressed them at first hand not only with his military expertise, but with the other essential prerequisite for the post—his credentials as an officer and a gentleman of unimpeachable character. In addition, Washington looked and acted the part: according to Congressman Benjamin Rush, he 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.” Rush added proudly: “There is not a king in Europe that would not look like a valet de chambre by his side.” Anticipating that Washington would make a favorable impression upon her, Abigail Adams discovered that the reality far exceeded expectations, informing her husband John that “the one half was not told me.” Struck by Washington’s dignity and modesty, she observed that “the gentleman and soldier look agreeably blended in him.”5 By contrast, Artemas Ward had a distinctly lackluster military reputation and a homely appearance, prompting Charles Lee to dub him “the churchwarden.” As for Lee himself, despite a sharp intelligence and unrivaled experience of soldiering in both America and Europe, he had an odd, even eccentric character: scrawny, beaky, and disheveled, he preferred the company of dogs to that of his fellow men. Crucially, Lee lacked a critical qualification for the top command: he was not a native-born American.

  Whatever the reality of his role in swaying delegates in Washington’s favor, on June 14 it was John Adams who nominated him, and the next day he was unanimously elected “to command all the Continental forces raised or to be raised for the defense of American liberty.” On June 16, 1775 Washington formally accepted the post. In his address to Congress he acknowledged himself “truly sensible” of the “high honor” done to him but expressed “great distress from a consciousness that my abilities and military experience may not be equal to the extensive and important trust.” However, as Congress desired it, he would exert all his powers “in their service and for the support of the glorious cause.”6

  Washington’s personal correspondence reveals conflicting feelings virtually identical to those he had experienced twenty years before when contemplating command of Virginia’s forces. In 1775, as in 1755, there’s little doubt that Washington actually wanted the job, but that rather than thrusting himself forward with unseemly eagerness, he needed to be asked. As before, when the invitation came, Washington’s determination to pursue his personal quest for honor, as expressed through public duty, left him no option but to accept.

  A variety of evidence nonetheless shows that Washington’s abiding hunger for recognition battled a genuine sense of trepidation at the magnitude of the task ahead. Soon after accepting the command, Washington tearfully informed his fellow Virginian Patrick Henry: “From the day I enter upon the command of the American armies, I date my fall, and the ruin of my reputation.” In a letter to his wife, Martha—one of just three to have survived—Washington solemnly assured her that he had done all in his power to avoid the appointment, “But, as it has been a kind of destiny that has thrown me upon this service, I shall hope that my undertaking of it, is designed to answer some good purpose.” He added that it was beyond his power to refuse “without exposing my character to such censures as would have reflected dishonor upon myself, and given pain to my friends.”7

  Before leaving Philadelphia for Boston, Washington received “instructions” from Congress for his “better direction.” These authorized him to recruit an army as large as he thought fit, although it must be no more than double the enemy’s force; this limitation was dictated by cost and the old suspicion of standing armies. Washington was subject to the wishes of Congress, but, as the man on the spot, had discretion to exercise his own initiative: as events unfolded, many decisions must inevitably be left to his “prudent and discreet management.” Using his “best circumspection” and consulting with his council of war when appropriate, General Washington would discharge the “great trust” committed into his hands and thereby ensure “that the liberties of America receive no detriment.”8

  By emphasizing the importance of advisory councils, Washington’s instructions reflected a tried and trusted feature of eighteenth-century warfare, one that he had already encountered while serving under British generals Braddock and Forbes and regularly employed during his own time in command of Virginia’s frontier defenders. Washington’s willingness to adopt this “collegiate” approach and to heed his subordinates’ views would prove crucial for the survival of the revolutionaries’ armed struggle by putting a brake on his own natural aggressiveness. Yet the council of war was a double-edged sword: too much reliance upon it could breed indecision in a commander, particularly as it had become customary to heed a majority vote. It was a rare general who overturned the consensus of his officers: when James Wolfe rejected his brigadiers’ advice at Quebec in 1759 and went ahead with his own plan for a last-ditch attack on the city, he was very much the exception to the rule. Washington apparently interpreted his “instructions” as an obligation to comply with a council’s prevailing opinion: it was only in early 1777, after receiving clarification from Congress, that he realized that a majority vote was not binding and that he had the right to overrule it.9

  Heading north via New Jersey, Washington and his escort reached New York City on the afternoon of June 25. There he received an enthusiastic welcome from prominent local patriots accompanied by nine companies of smartly uniformed militia. The next day, the New York Provincial Congress delivered an address that left no doubt of how it interpreted Washington’s role: while hailing him and his generals as champions of “the glorious struggle for American liberty,” its members felt sure that, once the contest had been decided, “by that fondest wish of each American soul, an accommodation with our Mother Country,” Washington would “cheerfully resign” his command “and reassume the character of our worthiest citizen.”10

  In his response, Washington sought to allay fears—implied, if not committed to paper—that he might be tempted to abuse his trust, using his powers to become a military dictator in the mold of a Caesar or Cromwell: “When we assumed the soldier,” he declared, “we did not lay aside the citizen, and we shall most sincerely rejoice with you in that happy hour, when the establishment of American liberty on the most firm, and solid foundations, shall enable us to return to our private situations in the bosom of a free, peaceful, and happy country.”11

  Washington echoed the New Yorkers’ hopes for the reestablishment of “peace and harmony between the Mother Country and the Colonies,” but even as he wrote, the prospects for rapprochement were dwindling. On June 17—the day after he accepted command of the Continental Army—the conflict had escalated with a ferocious battle outside Boston.

  Since the fighting at Lexington and Concord, the tow
n’s British garrison had been hemmed in by swarming New England militia. Starved of fresh provisions and dominated by high ground within comfortable artillery range, the redcoats were in an increasingly precarious position. Never an aggressive commander, Lieutenant General Thomas Gage initially refused to sally out and seize the crucial heights on the Charlestown Peninsula and Dorchester Neck. Spurred on by the arrival of a trio of more combative major generals—William Howe, Henry Clinton, and John Burgoyne—Gage finally decided to act. Warned of Gage’s intention to break out on June 18, General Ward forestalled him during the night of June 16–17 by constructing a redoubt on Breed’s Hill on the Charlestown Peninsula.

  Now facing bombardment, the British lashed out. The combat-hardened Howe was given 2,200 men and ordered to eject the rebels from their fresh earthworks. William Howe had missed the garrison’s costly jaunt to Lexington and back, an experience that had led Hugh, Lord Percy, the intelligent and highly professional commander of the 5th Foot, to concede that whoever looked upon the rebels as “an irregular mob” would be “much mistaken.” Indeed, his Lordship continued, they had “men among them who know very well what they are about,” having served as rangers against the Indians and Canadians during the previous war.12

  Underestimating the willingness of the Yankee militia to face regulars in a formal engagement, Howe launched most of his command in an unsubtle frontal assault up Breed’s Hill. The first attack was repelled by devastating close-range musketry, obliging the shocked Howe to regroup and try again. Reinforced by another 400 troops from Boston, he led his shattered battalions back up the hill, sustaining further heavy casualties before the defenders ran out of ammunition and the surviving redcoats stormed in with the bayonet. The British had “won” the battle, but at crippling cost: a staggering 40 percent of them were killed or wounded; spattered with the blood of his men, Howe was miraculously unscathed. The physical damage of this “Battle of Bunker Hill” (as it was misnamed after an adjoining height), was real enough, its psychological impact greater still. The rebels had proved their mettle once again, making it clear to British generals that they were far from despicable and that future attacks on fortified positions were likely to incur equally prohibitive losses.

  The creditable performance of the New England militia in April and June 1775 reflected intensive drilling for a year or more prior to the first shots. For example, Jonathan Brigham, of Marlborough, Massachusetts, who fought at Lexington and Bunker Hill, joined his local company of minutemen in April 1774. This rapid-reaction force “met punctually through the year two days a week for the purpose of military exercise and improvement.” Another Lexington veteran, Sylvanus Wood of Woburn, Massachusetts, had spent fifteen months training with his minuteman company before hostilities commenced, being “disciplined with activity” by a former British regular “who was in the fight on Abrahams Plains with the brave General Wolfe.”13 Not surprisingly, if somewhat ironically, this training regime followed official British Army drill: the published 1764 Regulations prompted no fewer than twenty-six North American imprints between 1766 and 1780, with demand ominously peaking in 1774–75.14 The Massachusetts minutemen of 1775 were therefore far better trained and motivated than most colonial militia, and their sterling performance surprised British officers accustomed to the unenthusiastic and inefficient New England provincials of the previous war.

  But amid all the talk of British casualties another hard lesson of Bunker Hill was overlooked. The redcoats, many of them raw recruits, had marched over the riddled bodies of their comrades to seize their objective. These were not the feeble parade-ground soldiers so recently derided by Charles Lee. British regiments that fought at Bunker Hill took an enduring pride in having done so. Ten years later, the officers of the 43rd Foot presented a gold medal to Thomas Loftus, a humble private on June 17, 1775, “to perpetuate the memory” of his distinguished conduct on that day of carnage.15 Often depicted by patriot propaganda as hapless minions of a tyrannical ministry, men like Loftus were no less determined to hazard their lives than the defenders of American liberty. It would be a bitter and bloody contest.

  Washington arrived at Cambridge, outside Boston, on July 2, 1775, and established his headquarters there. The following day, he assumed command from Artemas Ward, who became the army’s senior major general. The third-ranking general, appointed with Washington’s blessing, was the maverick Englishman Charles Lee. There were two other major generals: Connecticut’s Israel Putnam was a burly survivor of hair-raising exploits as a ranger during the French and Indian War who had garnered fresh fame for his leadership at Bunker Hill; Philip Schuyler of New York hailed from an old and wealthy Dutch family and was another veteran of the previous American war. Horatio Gates, Washington’s fellow survivor of the Monongahela, was appointed to the staff post of adjutant general, with the rank of brigadier. Another eight brigadier generals were appointed for field service: they included Richard Montgomery of New York, yet another former British Army officer who’d helped to conquer New France; Nathanael Greene of Rhode Island, whose Quaker upbringing had done nothing to discourage a passion for soldiering; and John Sullivan, a lawyer from New Hampshire.

  Washington’s army was weaker than expected, at about 16,000 men. Rumor reckoned the British at 12,000; their real strength was barely half that, but they were solidly fortified and controlled the sea. It was unclear to Washington whether the redcoats would attempt to break out, staging another Bunker Hill–style assault on the besiegers’ lines, or use their fleet to “carry their arms . . . to some other part of the continent.” A third option—to “relinquish the dispute”—would never be accepted by the ministry in London “unless compelled” by force of arms.16

  As commander in chief, Washington immediately set about the task of forging a viable and genuinely “American” army from the “mixed multitude of people . . . under very little discipline, order or government” that he had inherited. His General Orders issued on July 4 emphasized the need for unity among this motley crowd:

  They are now the troops of the United Provinces of North America; and it is hoped that all distinctions of colonies will be laid aside; so that one and the same spirit may animate the whole, and the only contest be, who shall render, on this great and trying occasion, the most essential service to the great and common cause in which we are all engaged.

  The army’s ability to uphold that cause would hinge upon two qualities that Washington had demanded of his Virginia Regiment: “exact discipline” and “due subordination.” Failure to address these “most essential points” would inevitably cause “hazard, disorder and confusion,” leading to “shameful disappointment and disgrace.”17

  In his official report to John Hancock, the president of Congress, Washington delivered a positive verdict on the manpower he must work with. Despite the presence of too many “boys, deserters and negroes” among the troops of Massachusetts, he was pleased to find “materials for a good army,” with “a great number of able-bodied men, active [and] zealous in the cause and of unquestionable courage.” Writing more candidly to fellow Virginians, Washington was less flattering, characterizing the New Englanders as “an exceedingly dirty and nasty people.” For all that, he felt the men would “fight very well”—provided they were led by good officers. Here was the real problem in Washington’s opinion: contrary to newspaper reports, in general the Yankee officers were “the most indifferent kind of people” he had ever seen. Too many of them shared the “unaccountable kind of stupidity” shown by the ordinary soldiers. Plainly, they were not gentlemen. Because the officers were virtually “of the same kidney with the privates,” they were reluctant to exercise their authority, preferring to “curry favor with the men” who had chosen them, and upon “whose smiles possibly they may think they may again rely.” In consequence, Washington had “made a pretty good slam” among those officers who fell short of his own exacting standards and shown themselves unworthy of their commissions.18

  This cull began within a
week of Washington’s arrival in camp. Confirming the verdict of a general court-martial on July 7, which sentenced Captain John Callender to be cashiered for cowardice, the commander in chief took the opportunity to warn of the “fatal consequences of such conduct,” both to the army and to the cause it was defending. Officers must show a courageous example to their men. Those who did their duty “as brave and good officers” would earn “every mark of distinction and regard.” Shirkers, by contrast, could expect punishment “with the utmost martial severity,” irrespective of “connections, interest or intercessions.” Callender had been accused of failing to bring forward his artillery piece at Bunker Hill by none other than General Putnam. Yet in his case at least, the judgment was dubious, the resulting opprobrium unjust. At his trial, Callender plausibly maintained that he had lacked ammunition of the correct caliber for his cannon; he subsequently cleared his name by reenlisting as a volunteer cadet in the artillery, fighting so bravely that he was reinstated as an officer within the year.19

  While those considered unsuitable officer material were cashiered in disgrace, other men who had shown leadership potential received recognition. For example, William Lee, an orderly sergeant in the 3rd New Hampshire Regiment, had not only fought bravely at Bunker Hill but given “good advice to the men, to place themselves in right order and stand their ground well.” No fewer than forty-one members of Lee’s company, including his captain, Levi Spaulding, had testified to his “conduct and undaunted courage” and recommended him for a vacant ensign’s commission. He was duly promoted.20

  Washington was also keen to exploit the talents of proven fighters from the previous war. When a vacancy for a brigadier arose in August, he felt obliged to mention two veterans to Congress. Both Joseph Frye of Massachusetts and John Armstrong of Pennsylvania had served as colonels of their colonies’ provincials during the French and Indian War. While quick to emphasize that he would accept either man “with the utmost deference and respect,” Washington left no doubt of his own preference: while Frye enjoyed “the character of a good officer,” he was not “distinguished by any peculiar service”; Armstrong, by contrast, had not only exhibited a conduct and spirit that won the approval of “all who served with him”—including Washington himself—but he had also led the 1756 attack against the Ohio Indians at Kittanning, an enterprise “which he planned with great judgment, and executed with equal courage and success.” Frye was a solid, respectable officer, but Armstrong had the warrior’s dash and fire that were central to Washington’s concept of leadership.21