The First Conspiracy

by Brad Meltzer

  The future is uncertain. Was this violence a local Boston skirmish or the start of a larger war? Is peaceful reconciliation still possible—or is it time for the colonies to mobilize and raise arms?

  These are the urgent questions the Second Continental Congress is now convened to face.

  But from England’s perspective, the very meeting of this so-called Congress is itself an act of rebellion. England doesn’t recognize the Congress as legitimate. England never authorized any such gathering of delegates from around the colonies, and in fact forbade it. From the point of view of the British Parliament and the Crown, this Congress has no authority, wields no power, and represents nothing.

  And yet, here they are.

  They have come from Rhode Island, New Jersey, Connecticut, and the far-off northern lands of New Hampshire. They’ve come from Delaware, Maryland, even from the southern swamps of South Carolina. There are sixty-five delegates in all, representing twelve of the thirteen colonies. Only one colony, Georgia, has declined to participate; though soon, it too will send a representative.

  Just the logistical effort of organizing all these delegates to meet at one time and place is a major accomplishment. With the transportation technology of the day—namely, horses—the trip for some delegates from their home cities may take as long as two weeks, not including delays for weather or getting lost. This means eight hours of travel per day, on coach seats or saddles over bumpy roads, with bathroom breaks often taking place in the swamps or brush by the side of the road.

  The invitations themselves were all handwritten letters, also delivered on horseback with long delays. The delegates had to commit to leaving behind businesses, families, and local affairs for what they knew might be a period of many months.

  Adding high drama to the proceedings, two of the delegates from Massachusetts—Samuel Adams and John Hancock—had to hide out in fields and farmhouses during the first part of their journey, for fear of British soldiers who had been sent to detain them for their roles in organizing the Boston revolt. They secretly met up en route with the other Massachusetts delegates—including Samuel Adams’s cousin John Adams—then escaped across the colony line to merge with the Connecticut delegation for the trip to Pennsylvania. Word quickly spread of this dramatic journey, and by the time the group arrived in Philadelphia, they were greeted as heroes—escorted by a band of militiamen and cheered on by crowds as they pass.

  “All ranks and degrees of men are in Arms,” observes Joseph Hewes, the delegate from North Carolina, upon arriving in the city. Even here in normally peace-loving Philadelphia, known for its university and its large population of Quakers, the drums of war are beating.

  Yet some of the delegates sense a consequence even larger than the immediate fate of the colonies. A new idea has slowly been forming, borrowed from philosophers in Europe and filtered through the specific experience of the American colonists. At the heart of it lies a fundamental question: Is it natural and just for people to be ruled by the absolute power of a monarch who claims divine authority? Or, in fact, do people have a right—an inherent right—to choose their own government and therefore rule themselves?

  Such a simple idea today. But back then, this was a radical concept—and a dangerous one. In pamphlets, a new word is being thrown around—“liberty”—and this word represents an incredible threat. It’s not just a challenge to the powerful royal family in England; it’s a challenge to centuries of vested power and authority everywhere, a threat to royal families all over Europe and indeed the world.

  As Thomas Paine will soon write: “We have it in our power to begin the World over again.”

  It’s an exhilarating time, but also terrifying—because in order to exercise that power, the fragile colonies must raise arms against one of the greatest military powers that history has ever known.

  The air is alive in Philadelphia, and the world is about to change.

  2

  They call it the Pennsylvania State House—the designated meeting place for the Continental Congress. It’s on Chestnut Street between Fifth and Sixth Streets in Philadelphia, five or so blocks west of the Delaware River. The State House sits at one end of a broad grassy common that has recently become a regular gathering place for rallies and speeches. The structure, a grand red-brick Georgian with a handsome white steeple and bell tower, is an appropriately august setting for what’s about to happen. The official meeting room, known as the Main Assembly Hall, is just past the foyer through the large white front doors; it’s a two-story space, modest but functional, and just big enough for the assembled delegates.

  This is the room.

  This is where, in daily meetings in the coming weeks and months, the future of America will be decided. As in most meeting rooms of the era, there are a few spittoons placed around the room for those who chew tobacco or pinch a bit of snuff.

  The delegates convened here are, as a group, some of the most educated and respected men in the colonies. Most of them wear the standard breeches, frocks, and waistcoats fashionable at the time, typical for their positions as lawyers, businessmen, or politicians in their home colonies.

  Yet one man stands out from the rest.

  He arrives wearing a full military officer’s uniform, with a long blue coat and brass buttons. At a time when the average height is five feet seven, his over-six-foot stature and perfect posture towers over the group. He has impeccable manners and a quiet but commanding presence.

  This is Col. George Washington, delegate from Virginia. At forty-three years old, he’s a veteran of the French and Indian War two decades earlier, and the former leader of the Virginia militia. Now he’s a wealthy landowner and planter. He hasn’t served the military in almost fifteen years, but for this extraordinary occasion, he wears his uniform as a former officer.

  Clearly, this man means business.

  The other delegates take notice. “[Colonel] Washington appears at Congress in his uniform and, by his great experience and abilities in military matters, is of much service to us,” John Adams writes. “He has so much martial dignity in his deportment that you would distinguish him to be a general and a soldier from among ten thousand people,” the Pennsylvania delegate Benjamin Rush gushes in a letter to a friend.

  It’s not just Washington’s appearance that makes him stand out, though. The Congress is full of highly educated talkers who use ornate, flowery language. Washington never went to college. He speaks simply or, more often, he listens. As the other delegates compete to talk as much as possible, Washington exerts a gravity and power by withholding opinions. He has, as John Adams later puts it, the “gift of silence.” But when he does speak, the words have conviction.

  That Washington would make such a strong impression is in some ways a surprise, given that he is not really a new face to the other delegates, or at least that he shouldn’t be. He also attended the First Continental Congress, held in this same room less than a year earlier and comprised of many of the same delegates. At that earlier session, however, Washington was barely noticed—he wore civilian clothes, didn’t give a single speech, and generally made little impression.

  But so much has changed in a year. Last time, the idea of independence from England had been just that—a vague notion. It was abstract, an article of political theory to debate in coffeehouses and taverns.

  This time, the stakes are higher. Lives have been lost. Now all the fancy oratory in the world means less than the real-world experience of someone who understands the actuality of war. Washington is selected to be on multiple committees at the Congress related to military affairs, and the other delegates soon consider his opinion vital to every decision.

  Simply put, people want someone who knows how to fight.

  Still, the Congress’s position on war is complicated. On the one hand, most delegates agree that they need to pursue some sort of peaceful solution before plunging headlong into an armed conflict against England’s massively superior armed forces. Maybe they can negotiate more
favorable policies and more autonomy without resorting to bloodshed—or, for starters, at least persuade England to recognize the authority of their Congress. Maybe then a compromise can be reached. Either way, these debates will take time, and any potential negotiation with the British Parliament could take months if not years to resolve.

  But in the meantime, there’s the situation in Boston. Every day the delegates receive new reports: British troops have occupied the major forts in the city, imposing strict martial law. They’ve confiscated some two thousand firearms from the citizens, who now live in fear if they haven’t already fled. Trade has mostly ceased, cutting off the food supply. Any day now, the British soldiers could march to surrounding towns.

  In response, loose-knit rebel militias have gathered outside Boston, having marched there from all over Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and New Hampshire. These militiamen are ready to raise arms against British soldiers if necessary and, if nothing else, prevent their movement to other cities.

  So even as the delegates in Philadelphia begin to debate the larger political questions, they still need an immediate plan to coordinate the scattered militias on the ground in New England into a coherent fighting force, in the event they need to confront the British troops. In other words, the colonies need to form a national army, a Continental army.

  These realizations come swiftly in the first few weeks of the Congress, and sorting through the details of how to create such an army quickly becomes the first critical task.

  Once you have an army, you need someone to lead it. Choosing who among them should command this new army will be the next critical task.

  There are several candidates. But one clearly stands out: How about the guy from Virginia who showed up in the uniform? On June 14, 1775, John Adams calls a session to formalize the creation of a Continental army, and to debate which of the candidates should lead it. On the first point everyone agrees: A national army will be created. On the second, Adams reads several names aloud as contenders. Naturally, Washington is one of them.

  There’s only one problem: George Washington has disappeared.

  3

  Honor, honor, honor.

  So much in George Washington’s life has been centered around the pursuit of this ideal. It’s perhaps the greatest lesson from his youth, learned when his older brother Lawrence first introduced him to Virginia society: A reputation for integrity and honor is something you can take anywhere, and it will never let you down.

  George may not have come from wealth, he may not have come from a noble family, but he would always have character—an unimpeachable code of personal honor that could not be taken from him.

  It’s a subject that will come up again and again in his letters—a reflection upon the values of integrity, duty, and trust. “I hope I shall possess firmness and virtue enough to maintain what I consider the most enviable of all titles, the character of an honest man,” he once wrote to Alexander Hamilton; and, in a moment of reflection to his aide Joseph Reed: “I have but one capital object in view, I could wish to make my conduct coincide with the wishes of mankind, as far as I can consistently.”

  He could sometimes judge others harshly for failing to live up to his high standards of virtue, but he often reserved the toughest judgment for himself.

  It started when he was young. One of the few remaining documents from George Washington’s boyhood is a list of 110 “rules of civility” he carefully transcribed by hand, probably in his early teens. They’re from a well-known book of the time, Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation. Originally written by French Jesuits in 1595, it was later translated into English and became popular both in Britain and the colonies.

  Some of the rules provide an amusing take on basic manners, like Rule 5: “If you cough, sneeze, sigh, or yawn, do it not loud but privately; and speak not in your yawning, but put your handkerchief or hand before your face and turn aside,” or another, Rule 7, which still provides good advice today: “Put not off your clothes in the presence of others, nor go out [of] your chamber half dressed.”

  However, some of the rules that Washington carefully copied speak to a deeper sense of graciousness toward others, like the very first: “Every action done in company, ought to be with some sign of respect, to those that are present,” or Rule 43: “Do not express joy before one sick or in pain for that contrary passion will aggravate his misery.”

  We still don’t know if the task of writing out these rules was a mandatory schoolhouse exercise assigned by a teacher or whether young George chose to do so for his own use, but the emphasis on decorum and courtesy seems to have made an impact. George Washington may not have been born into nobility, but he could learn to be a gentleman; he could work hard to improve himself; he could, through his character alone, earn the respect of anyone he might meet.

  But for Washington, this personal code of honor and integrity was not something to brag about or put on display. Later in life, after he had become one of the most famous people in the world, those who met him were often surprised by his quiet modesty. As the French nobleman Prince de Broglie wrote after first meeting him, “He is a foe to ostentation and to vainglory.… Modest even to humility, he does not seem to estimate himself at his true worth. He receives with perfect grace all the homages which are paid him, but he evades them rather than seeks them.” No matter the circumstance, he was almost always deferential, always gracious. After all, bragging and boasting aren’t honorable; what’s honorable is doing one’s duty and sacrificing oneself for a noble cause.

  It’s as if, after losing his father and his brother, Washington learned to cling fiercely to these personal ideals of honor and integrity. This way, he had something he could rely on within himself.

  Certainly, Washington’s carefully cultivated reputation will serve him well as a young adult. It’s what led Virginia’s Governor, Robert Dinwiddie, to entrust twenty-one-year-old George Washington to lead one of the first crucial expeditions of the French and Indian War—a highly unusual assignment for someone so young. It’s what later led to his appointment as a personal aide to Gen. Edward Braddock, one of the most prominent British generals in the war; and, when Braddock was mortally wounded in battle, it was Washington’s sense of duty that led him to brave a hail of bullets to secure the dying officer’s body and provide his superior officer a proper burial.

  Washington’s reputation also served him well after the war, when he pursued the hand of the young widow Martha Custis, a woman of far greater wealth than himself. And, once he was married and established as a prosperous landowner, his reputation got him elected to a seat in Virginia’s House of Burgesses, a body that then appointed him as one of the delegates to represent the colony at the Continental Congress.

  Now, here in Philadelphia, it is George Washington’s sense of honor that makes him literally flee the room when John Adams stands before the Congress and announces Washington’s name as a candidate for the command of the Continental army.

  Why does he flee? Washington doesn’t want it to look in any way as if he is hoping to win the position out of vanity or arrogance, or that he is somehow suggesting his own superiority over the others. Even the appearance that he might be coveting the role for personal reasons—rather than for the greater good—would be immodest, and not worthy of the sacred duty of the command.

  So, while the other contenders try to lobby and jockey to obtain the position, Washington simply disappears.

  After the Congress considers the candidates and puts the matter before the floor, the delegates vote unanimously that George Washington should receive the command. Washington doesn’t learn of his appointment until later that night, when he runs into a few congressmen on the street and they stop to give him a salute.

  “General,” they call him.

  Honor, honor, honor.

  4

  Just like that, everything has changed.

  The colonies officially have an army—or at least they have a pla
n to create one—and George Washington from Virginia will lead it.

  “This Congress doth now declare that they will maintain and assist and adhere to him, the said George Washington, with their lives and fortunes,” John Hancock announces to the delegates the next day, in a session to formalize the decision and allow the new Commander to speak.

  Washington is seemingly overwhelmed by the weight of the responsibility he now bears. When he advances to the podium to accept the command, his speech is brief and almost painfully modest. He expresses gratitude for the “high honor” of the position, declines the offered payment, and concludes on the humblest possible note: “Lest some unlucky event should happen unfavorable to my reputation … I beg it may be remembered by every Gentleman in this room, that I this day declare with the utmost sincerity, I do not think myself equal to the command I am honored with.”

  The other delegates are moved by Washington’s words, although a few, like Eliphalet Dyer from Connecticut, are almost taken aback by his humility: “He is clever, and if any thing too modest.… He seems discreet and virtuous, no harum-scarum ranting swearing fellow, but sober, steady, & calm.”

  Washington’s modesty is not just a display for the Congress. In the next few days, he echoes the same humble tone in personal correspondence to family members. In a private letter to his wife he calls the new position “a trust too great for my capacity,” and in a letter to his brother-in-law, Burwell Bassett, he writes this:

  I am now embarked on a tempestuous ocean from whence, perhaps, no friendly harbor is to be found.… I can answer but for three things: a firm belief of the justice of our cause—close attention to the prosecution of it—and the strictest integrity. If these cannot supply the places of ability & experience, the cause will suffer.