George Washington

by David O. Stewart

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  Writing thirty years later, John Adams took credit for Washington’s appointment as commander in chief. According to Adams, within Congress there was a “southern party” that opposed “a New England Army under the command of a New England general.” Artemas Ward of Massachusetts commanded the forces before Boston, but some Massachusetts delegates did not support him as overall commander, while John Hancock hungered to replace him.15 Two leaders of the Massachusetts convention wrote to recommend Washington. Adams decided that only Washington would do.

  “I rose in my place,” Adams recalled, and moved that Congress adopt the army in Massachusetts and appoint a general. “I had no hesitation,” he added, “to declare that I had but one gentleman in my mind for that important command, and that was a gentleman from Virginia who was among us.” At that point, according to Adams, Washington “from his usual modesty darted into the library room.” The Virginian had no wish to be present during a discussion of his merits and demerits. Some worried that a New England army might resent a leader from the South, and praised General Ward. The vote was postponed for a day.16

  Although some delegates harbored doubts about placing Washington in command, each of the leading alternatives had disqualifying characteristics. Ward was a local judge and political figure, but his military experience consisted of garrison duty during the French and Indian War. He had never witnessed a battle, much less fought in one.

  That could not be said of the other prominent alternative, Charles Lee, the former British officer who was hovering around Congress while drilling three independent companies in Philadelphia. Lee had marched with Braddock in 1754, been wounded at Fort Ticonderoga in that war, and fought in the British expedition that captured Montreal. Inclined to quarrel with his commanding officers, he then served with the Portuguese and Polish armies before returning to America. Fluent in French and literate in other languages, Lee was a gifted pamphleteer and critic of George III and his ministers. “He says the king is a fool,” wrote one American, “and his ministers rogues and villains.” Lee attracted controversy, and fumed when others advanced ahead of him.

  Lee also was endlessly peculiar: painfully thin, slovenly, and described by one biographer as having “a nose so startling and so impressive that it won for him . . . the sobriquet ‘Naso.’” His dogs, a pack, followed him everywhere. Even John Adams, who liked Lee, could only shrug at his eccentricities: “You must love his dogs if you love him, and forgive a thousand whims.” Lee, neither born nor raised in America, seemed an unsteady character.17

  With Washington, steadiness was a hallmark. “He seems discreet and virtuous,” a Connecticut delegate wrote, “no harum scarum ranting swearing fellow but sober, steady, and calm.” Another Connecticut delegate reported that Washington’s reputation was of being “as fixed and resolute in having his orders on all occasions executed as he is cool and deliberate in giving them.” A Massachusetts man summed Washington up as “a complete gentleman. He is sensible, amiable, virtuous, modest, and brave.”18

  It was not really a contest. The delegates knew Washington. They had served in Congress with him for the last five weeks and for seven weeks the year before. They had watched his committees wrestle with intractable problems. They had talked with him casually and on serious matters. They knew his dignity and self-possession. He spoke no more than necessary. He did not dazzle, but he won trust. Moreover, Washington had a military reputation, even if a mixed one. Lee looked odd and talked too much, and he had those dogs. Congress did not want a military genius inclined to argue with them.

  Finally, as Adams sensed, the politics were right. New England was already at war, invaded by foreign troops; if Virginia supported New England, other colonies would too. Giving command to a Virginian recognized that colony’s importance. The man in their chamber wearing a militia uniform would be their commander. Like the best-planned battles, this one was over before it began. Only Washington would do.

  Washington stayed away from Congress on June 15, unwilling to be present for his selection. An old friend, Thomas Johnson of Maryland, moved the appointment of a commanding general for all American forces, then nominated Washington. Both motions passed unanimously. By making his selection unanimous, the delegates showed their unity. When Washington arrived for dinner at Burns’s Tavern that afternoon, other delegates greeted him as general. After dinner, he met with his final committee on army regulations.19

  Knowing that his words would be remembered, Washington asked Edmund Pendleton to help draft remarks for the formal presentation of his command. In a few words the next day, Washington acknowledged the high honor given him, adding his distress that “my abilities and military experience may not be equal to the extensive and important trust.” He pledged to “exert every power I possess . . . for support of the glorious cause.” Should his reputation be damaged by “some unlucky event,” he asked that the delegates remember that “I do not think myself equal to the command.” Congress had approved pay of $500, but Washington declined it. He asked only to be reimbursed for his expenses.20

  Washington’s declaration of his inadequacy might seem insincere. If he so doubted himself, why did he so unmistakably seek command? No one forced him to wear that militia uniform day after day. Yet Washington’s message was well matched to the moment, to his audience in Congress and across the colonies. In an age of vainglory, of kings and emperors, he was modest. Americans who resented overbearing British aristocrats would find no arrogance in Washington’s statements. He did not curry favor as a politician, nor did he promise triumph. He spoke as an honest man would speak to friends, confessing his fears and hopes. And then, in stark contrast to the corruption and self-dealing of the British imperial system, he refused to be paid.

  As to the sincerity of Washington’s self-doubts, he would hardly be the last person to find that—after eagerly seeking a position—its demands were intimidating. Failure, as Washington wrote after the war, would “have consigned the neck of the American general . . . to the block.” Moreover, Washington had only once commanded more than a few hundred soldiers. The patriot effort would involve immense supply and recruitment problems, was an organizational shambles, and would face the British military. The challenges would have sobered most people.21

  The complexity of Washington’s feelings emerged in a letter to his brother-in-law, Burwell Bassett, with whom he had little motive to dissimulate. Three days after accepting the generalship, Washington wrote that he had “embarked on a tempestuous ocean from whence perhaps no friendly harbor is to be found.” Claiming he had hoped to avoid the position, which was not entirely true, he pledged to bring three qualities to his duties: “a firm belief of the justice of our Cause—close attention in the prosecution of it—and the strictest Integrity.” Acknowledging that “reputation derives its principal support from success,” he added the hope that if matters turned out badly, he would have the solace “of having acted to the best of my judgment.”22

  The day before, Washington had sent word of his appointment to Martha with his “inexpressible concern” that the news would make her unhappy. That he had anticipated becoming general, and had discussed it with her, appears from his enclosure of a will drafted for him by Pendleton. Washington said he had intended to prepare one before leaving Mount Vernon. Soldiers going off to war often prepare wills; delegates departing for legislative sessions rarely do.

  Describing his appointment as “a kind of destiny,” he protested that he could not refuse it without “reflect[ing] dishonor upon myself,” which “could not . . . be pleasing to you, and must have lessened me considerably in my own esteem.” He included a tender passage:

  I should enjoy more real happiness and felicity in one month with you, at home, than I have the most distant prospect of reaping abroad, if my stay was to be seven times seven years.

  Worried that Martha would be lonely with her daughter dead, her son married, and her husband gon
e, he encouraged her to visit family on the Pamunkey River, or to move to a house they kept in Alexandria. He wrote separately to encourage Jack Custis to care for her, and sent the same message to his brother Jack.23

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  Regional politics, as Adams suggested, figured in Washington’s selection. A Connecticut delegate explained that Washington’s appointment “more firmly cements the southern to the northern” colonies, and removed Southerners’ fear that “an enterprising eastern New England” might presume to dictate to the South.24

  Regional factors also drove the appointments of Washington’s generals, who were either Northerners or former British officers. Congress named Artemas Ward and Charles Lee to be major generals, along with Philip Schuyler of New York and Israel Putnam of Connecticut. Eight brigadier general positions were sprinkled among New Hampshire, Rhode Island, Connecticut (two), New York, and Massachusetts (three). Charles Lee insisted that Congress indemnify him if British troops should injure his property, a condition Washington evidently never thought of.25

  Washington’s commission as commander in chief made clear that Congress intended to control him and his army. After noting its “especial trust and confidence in your patriotism, conduct, and fidelity,” the document enjoined him “punctually to observe and follow such orders and directions from time to time as you shall receive from this or a future Congress.” His commission would continue until Congress revoked it. He would start, however, with wide discretion over military matters.26

  Before leaving Philadelphia with his generals, Washington bought five new horses and a carriage so he would not always have to travel on horseback. Also, he ordered a new uniform based on his design for the Fairfax militia: a blue coat with yellow buttons and epaulettes. He always wanted to look good.27

  Chapter 31

  “One of the Most Important Characters in the World”

  As Washington and his senior generals prepared to leave Philadelphia for Boston, many delegates gathered to see them off. Some continued alongside the general for the first six miles, accompanied by a troop of light horse, militia officers, and a band. In towns on the way to Boston, crowds acclaimed Washington and his generals, but especially Washington. News of his appointment had instantly made him the focus of Americans’ hopes and fears. He was, as John Adams said, “one of the most important characters in the world” because “the liberties of America depend upon him.” Writing after reaching Boston, Washington laconically observed that his trip was “a good deal retarded” because every town wished to show “respect to the general of your armies.”1

  Tall, graceful, and mounted on a fine horse, Washington made a stirring impression. Equally important, though, was the political sensitivity he had learned as a burgess, judge, and vestryman. When the New York Provincial Congress pointedly announced its expectation that when the war ended, “you will cheerfully resign . . . and reassume the character of our worthiest citizen,” Washington’s reply was calculated to reassure:

  When we assumed the soldier, 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 . . . shall enable us to return to our private stations.2

  Washington’s dignified, sober manner persuaded people that he meant those words. Landon Carter, a politician who usually took a dim view of his colleagues, celebrated Washington’s integrity and sincerity. “I never knew but one man who resolved not to forget the citizen in the soldier or ruler,” Carter noted, “and that man is G[eorge] W[ashington].”3

  The glorification of Washington happened at high speed, long before he took the field against the British. Only a day after the Continental Congress appointed him commander in chief, a Connecticut delegate wrote about Washington to his wife: “Let our youth look up to this man as a pattern to form themselves by, who unites the bravery of the soldier, with the most consummate modesty and virtue.” From Boston to Richmond, Americans began naming their babies for the Virginian. A New York couple named their twins “George Washington” and “Martha Dandridge.” A ship was renamed for him. Before the war ended, his name would adorn a frigate, two galleys, two brigantines, a schooner, five sloops, and four other ships; another was called Lady Washington.4

  Those first exultant weeks blessed Washington with a reservoir of public trust. Americans craved a hero. That blazing first impression would survive through repeated military setbacks and years of political strife, then through centuries after his death. In 1781, after three years in which Washington won no battles, a Frenchman marveled at Americans’ devotion to their commander:

  Through all the land he appears like a benevolent god; old men, women, children they all flock eagerly to catch a glimpse of him when he travels and congratulate themselves because they have seen him. People carrying torches follow him through the cities; his arrival is marked by public illuminations.5

  Of the senior army officers appointed by Congress in 1775, only Washington would last the war with his reputation intact—nay, burnished to a bright shine. Artemas Ward quickly returned to obscurity. Charles Lee would stumble from mishap to blunder to failure. Political backbiters drove Philip Schuyler from military office. Israel Putnam ended his service as a garrison commander. Washington, despite battlefield losses, rose above them all—indeed, above every figure in North America and most in the Atlantic world. His political talents were central to that ascendancy.

  His failures and mistakes seemed to fade from popular memory, a phenomenon already evident in 1775. After all, at Fort Necessity his forces lost a battle in which he chose his ground poorly and applied worse tactics. With Braddock, he was on the losing side of a catastrophe. During the Forbes expedition, he led troops into a friendly-fire debacle and was a prideful, contentious subordinate, offending his superiors after alienating his civilian benefactor, Governor Dinwiddie.

  That Congress still chose him as commander in chief was partly a tribute to the human ability to forget, and also to how uninspiring the other candidates were. It also demonstrated Washington’s extraordinary talent for winning the confidence of others, even when objective evidence might not justify such confidence.

  But, even more, the forty-three-year-old commander had observed, learned, and grown since his days in the Virginia Regiment. His time in public office had schooled him in the complexities and crosscurrents of collegial decision-making. His time as husband and stepfather had deepened his empathy. He knew more about the world and about himself. He listened more than he spoke, and tried never to speak, even privately, without being certain what he thought about the subject. He understood how government worked on people, how to influence others, how to sense public opinion and something as ephemeral, yet real, as the spirit of the time. He had sensed that spirit the year before, when the Fairfax Resolves drove his political ascent into a steep climb.

  That final propulsion came from the powerful forces within Washington that made him a near-perfect figure to carry America’s cause forward. His boyhood dreams of military glory were now essential to America’s future, which would be won by fighting, not debating. His mastery of the arts of political leadership and persuasion, which had seemed almost a pastime for a man so dedicated to financial success, would serve as the essential balance wheel of the nation for the next two decades, keeping a revolution from sliding into tyranny or anarchy. Most important, those skills were yoked to his fundamental decency and his high moral purpose of securing liberty.

  Washington had ample reason to fear how fortune would treat him in his new role. He had never commanded a large army, and the forces he led might evaporate if the volunteers chose to go home rather than face British grapeshot and bayonets. A significant share of the populace did not support the rebellion. Money would be scarce. Having watched Governor Dinwiddie arm-wrestle Virginia’s legislators for war financing, and having served as a burgess, he knew that legislators would be slow to levy taxes, especially for armie
s that did not win. Worse, the thirteen colonies, with their separate histories and competing interests, might descend into rivalry or disunion.

  Against those risks, the certainty was that the war would be brutal. Washington had no illusions about war’s horrors. Before him lay months and years of slaughter, heartache, and hardship. He knew what it was like to lead men who were overmatched, who lacked food, arms, and clothing, who would desert as soon as their officers looked away.

  But that dangerous moment in history also presented Washington with extraordinary opportunities, which he also understood. It was not merely the opportunity to achieve martial glory, which the British Army had refused to grant him. Far more was at stake.

  Washington believed in his cause. Few Americans spoke yet for independence, but all knew that the fight was for control over their lives, for self-government, the core idea wrapped up in the ideal of liberty that dominated patriot writings. That ideal would create an irresistible push toward independence. Americans—white male Americans, that is—demanded the right to govern themselves, and for Washington that was a sacred purpose. He could place himself at the center of his epoch by leading this movement for self-government, liberty, and freedom of conscience.

  He had prepared himself for this moment, his body and his mind and his heart. His chance to reach for great achievements, to champion human liberty, came from the acts of irascible Americans who hated to pay taxes, and from his shrewd political judgments and power to inspire trust. To steer this audacious movement past the dangers of mob rule at one extreme and strongman rule at the other would require astonishing luck, unrivaled fortitude and vision, and unusual political acumen that produced steady, measured judgments. Washington’s public career would become an excruciating balancing act, translating the passion and idealism of rebellion into a military victory and then into a working government that still respected the Revolution’s ideals. Revolutions are combustible things; they rarely lead to the destination proclaimed at their outset. Few people in human history had, or ever would have, the opportunity Washington held in his hands. Fewer still could take advantage of that opportunity with such mastery.