Being George Washington

by Glenn Beck

  And the geography wasn’t all he knew. He also knew the people’s strengths and weaknesses in each area. He knew what made them breathe and tick. He knew what scared and motivated them. He had fought for this land. He had watched men bleed and die here. He had commanded men to die for the soil underneath his feet. Indeed, he had surrendered his own life, every good and every pleasure, in the fight to make this land free.

  But sometimes he wondered, What if it’s not enough?

  These were the moments that brought him the most terror; late at night, when he was alone, waves of panic crashing into him from the darkness and the quiet. Had he done everything he could? Had he paid a price sufficient to purchase the freedom of an entire people, an entire land? Did his people want it enough? Were they willing to pay the ultimate price?

  He thought of his starving army at Valley Forge, his men clothed in rags, many of them shoeless in the bitter winter, eating rats and squirrels, anything for the taste of meat. Eating bark. Dirt. Worms. He thought of the humiliation he had suffered when the French general Rochambeau looked upon his army, and had then written to his superiors, begging them to “send us troops, ships and money, but do not depend upon these people nor upon their means.” He thought of the fact that he had once needed to send an urgent message to Rhode Island, but had no money for the post.

  Considering the frustrations of the last six years, so many dark days and disappointments, so much misery and hunger, he had to wonder if anyone outside of his army was willing to purchase liberty? Did God want this for this people? Had they paid the final price?

  He didn’t know. He really didn’t.

  And that scared him more than any bullet or bayonet on any battlefield.

  The general took a deep breath, looked up at the ragged tent around him, then turned back to the map. Squinting to see, he traced his finger down the seaboard, tapping the primary locations where they’d already had major military engagements. Boston. The miracle at Long Island. Harlem Heights. Fort Lee. The majesty of the surprise victory at Trenton. A dozen more.

  After a series of humiliating defeats, his new commander of the southern army, General Greene, had prosecuted the war with stunning bravery against a much more powerful foe. His throat grew tight with pride when he considered what they had done. The brilliant tactics in a pasture called Cowpens. A two-hundred-mile march though the winter in only fifteen days. A paralyzing siege at Augusta.

  He was so proud of his army. He loved them, each and every man. He had spent the best years of his life in their service. He would spend his last breath, if it were necessary, to see this through—though he fervently prayed that it wouldn’t be, for neither his army nor his people would last that long.

  A war is an existing, living, breathing thing. It is born, it grows, it ripens then it dies. It cannot live forever, though it certainly may seem that way to the men who fight in it. And, like all living things, it changes and adapts, one side finally giving way to the grander will of the other. And this war was growing ripe now. If he knew of anything for sure, he knew that. He could feel it. Both sides were wearing down. It was time for a decisive battle. Time to break away. Time for a victory that would bring this war to an end!

  But where to strike? That was the question, one that he and his war council had been arguing about for weeks with no clear decision.

  Washington traced his finger down the sides of the map, moving along the coastline. The sea. Ah, the sea. It seemed to always come down to the ocean, for that was what carried the British navy and, along with it, a seemingly endless series of defeats.

  No one understood the power of the sea more than he did, or how critical naval superiority was to winning the war. Earlier that year he had virtually begged anyone who would listen for a strong navy—but not even he, as persuasive and single-minded as he was, could create one out of thin air.

  The Continental Congress had ordered the construction of a small navy, mostly through the purchase and conversion of existing ships—frigates, sloops, and schooners—but these were not the kind of vessels that would instill fear or hesitation in the hearts of the British admirals. Knowing they couldn’t compete with the mighty British men-of-war, the colonial vessels instead limited themselves to guerrilla attacks against merchant ships, leaving him with few, if any, real naval forces under his command.

  It was like a band of pirates squaring off against the most powerful navy in the world.

  Washington thought back to the Battle of New York and his chest again grew tight. He couldn’t think of that day in August without feeling slightly sick to his stomach. He could still picture it all as if it had just happened: the terrifying sight of the British armada sailing into New York harbor; mast upon mast and ship upon ship. The enemy warships were packed so tightly together that he thought he could have walked from one shore to the other without getting wet.

  Throughout the previous six years of war, the British had controlled America’s sea-lanes, harbors, and the points of entry into every important waterway or river. If that continued there was no way that the rebels could ever win. That left Washington in the unseemly position of begging the French. And while they always offered critical support, time and again they’d failed to actually deliver on it, leaving his army weakened and exposed, unable to force the hand of the British or to press any advantage they might have otherwise gained.

  He hated the humiliation that came with being stood up by the French! He hated the sense of powerlessness! He hated the fate of war being in the hands of other men!

  But things were turning. He could feel it.

  The gods of war were smiling upon him now. For one thing, the British fleet had been caught in a violent storm, suffering significant damage (a storm that, providentially, spared the French ships). Though the fleet was eventually repaired, the setback had opened up an opportunity for the French to harass the traitor Benedict Arnold and his British troops, who had been pillaging throughout southern Virginia.

  General Cornwallis, meanwhile, had been chased from most of the South (God bless General Greene again!), leaving only the areas around Savannah and Charleston under British control. Soon after, Cornwallis had virtually abandoned his southern campaign and instead decided to march his army to Virginia, where he would join forces with Benedict Arnold. But General Lafayette had cut him off, forcing him toward the coast and away from Arnold’s army, making a union of their forces impossible.

  Washington moved his finger two inches to the south, resting it near the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, indicating where General Cornwallis had decided to take refuge.

  It was quiet port city called Yorktown.

  August 3, 1781

  Yorktown, Virginia

  Lord Charles Cornwallis stared at his aide-de-camp. The lesser-ranking officer lowered his eyes in fear. Cornwallis was a distinguished man in every way, imposing, handsome, impatient, and prideful to the core. It bothered him that he had spent so much of his illustrious career fighting an insurrection of these impervious colonial snips. But what had started out as frustration had grown into anger, then exploded into a nearly constant rage, making all of his subordinates toe the line when he was near.

  “You’ve made straight the outer bastions?” the general demanded.

  “Aye, Your Excellency, we have,” the colonel replied smartly.

  “And what have you done. What progress do you report?”

  “As your command, sir, we have now a chain of seven redoubts and batteries. They sweep from the river on the east for two thousand yards to the south. These, sir, are now linked by earthworks. Our men have been digging very proudly. Along with the earthworks, we have batteries that cover from the narrows of the York River down hither to Gloucester Point.”

  Lord Cornwallis smiled in satisfaction. The small city of Yorktown was almost perfectly defensible. Strong walls. Rock and earthen redoubts that could hold under the most intense attacks. Behind him, the banks dropped steeply into the Chesapeake Bay, allowing British ships to
port as needed to bring him additional men or supplies. He had food. Horses. Plenty of ammunition. He could stay the entire fall here, or the winter if he had to, though he hoped it would not come to that.

  Cornwallis turned to the colonel and softened his tone, if only for a moment. “Your men have done good work here. Yorktown is nigh unto impenetrable. It would take an army of ten thousand before we would even feel their presence. I commend you for your efforts. Tell your men to stay sharp, and by half a fortnight we’ll have a new supply of ale.”

  The colonel smiled and offered the slightest bow. Like most British officers, he was a landowner back in England, a man of means and influence, and he was tired of this bloody war. What he wanted was to go home.

  Lord Cornwallis ignored the bow as he moved toward the nearest wall. From where he stood, he could look south and west over most of the fortifications that would protect them.

  “What do you think, colonel? Where will he strike?” he asked.

  The colonel was slow to answer. He hated the uppity colonialists, there was no doubt about that, but he had also learned to respect them, even if it was the kind of respect that a master might offer to a good dog. They were not his equals—and they would never be—but they certainly had put up a devil of a fight! So, he had learned not to underestimate them. And he wouldn’t underestimate them now, especially with General Washington standing at their head.

  “I suppose, Your Excellency,” he finally answered, “that it will be New York. Washington has shown no inclination to come against us here, sir. New York would be the logical target, it would seem.”

  “Which makes me wonder,” Cornwallis replied, “if we are perhaps missing the mark?”

  The colonel nodded slowly. It wouldn’t be the first time, that was for sure.

  Cornwallis leaned against the bulwark and pointed toward the river. “Do you know what I love, colonel?”

  The colonel knew at least half a dozen answers to that question, none of which he was going to mention. “Sir?” was all he answered.

  “I love the British navy! I love our royal fleet. It provides us with security that you might not appreciate. Consider what I tell you, colonel! We stand here, behind these magnificent defenses, yet we still might find ourselves in a roost. And, if that were to be the case, what would we do? Why, we’d call upon our fleet.

  “In three days, they’d be here to repatriate us to the main body of our army. We’d simply sail away on the backs of the British fleet.”

  He stopped and wet his lips. Sweeping his arms across his defenses, he smiled for the first time since arriving in Virginia. “No, colonel, this one thing I know as sure as the sun rises over that ocean each morning: if General Washington is going to defeat us, it is not going to happen here.”

  August 14, 1781

  White Plains, New York

  Two of the most powerful men in the Western Hemisphere stood atop a small hill, looking south. The sun was just coming up, promising another hot and humid summer day. The American general stared through his looking glass, taking a quick appraisal of the scout party that was returning from another probing mission against the British fortifications in New York. He and his army had been in New Jersey for weeks before they headed north, probing and prodding at the British forces in the city, searching for a weakness, trying to determine the best use of his soldiers, the best advantage that could be gained for spilling the blood of his men.

  It was a burden none could understand except those who had commanded men in battle. Every decision that he made determined the life or death of an unknown number of souls. Make a mistake—and he had made plenty of them—and some men died who otherwise might have lived. Do nothing and the war would drag on, costing yet more lives and treasure. The best outcome of the three bad options was to command with elegance, to make the right decision at the right time and prosecute the war with surgical precision and grace. Yes, men still would die, but at least they would give their lives in pursuit of victory.

  It was a responsibility that General Washington took very seriously. It had caused him to be excessively cautious on more than one occasion. But he was getting better, more determined, more willing to take calculated risks. And he had proven an uncanny ability to bounce back from his mistakes: the stunning evacuation across the East River in New York; the glorious victory at Trenton; the war in the South. He had learned, and while no one would ever mistake him for the great generals in history, he knew now when to pounce and when to run.

  And something was saying in his gut that he should wait a little longer. Let things develop. Let things turn. With less experience he might have made a snap decision but now he knew that timing was everything. He wasn’t ready to pounce, or to run. Not yet.

  Yet he also knew that they were approaching a critical juncture in the war. Where he and his army attacked next could decide everything—and they would have only one chance to get it right. He needed—no, all of them: his staff, the men in his army, the leaders who sat in Congress, the families and patriots who supported their mighty cause—desperately needed hope. He had to show them all that the war was not only going to soon end, but that when it did, they might actually find themselves on the winning side.

  The French general Rochambeau stood beside Washington and watched the approaching reconnaissance party. The sounds of the military camp were just starting to build behind them. With more than forty years of combat experience, and with thousands of French soldiers under his command, General Rochambeau was the epitome of a European officer and gentleman, always deferential to his American counterpart. “I have come to serve,” he often reminded the man whom he occasionally referred to as his adoptive father, “not to command.”

  Rochambeau was quite fond of Washington—but the two of them had been disagreeing for weeks now. The Frenchman turned toward his friend. “You know, of course, Your Excellency, that the scouts will have found nothing new in their probes of the British defenses.” He struggled a bit with the words, having spoken not a word of English when he had first arrived to help the colonies a little more than a year before.

  Washington stared through his spyglass, but did not respond.

  Rochambeau leaned in closer. “It is time, sir, for you to decide what we should do.”

  Washington put the spyglass aside. “I will wait for the report from the reconnaissance party.”

  Rochambeau suppressed a smile. He knew that once Washington heard what he was about to tell him, the report of the scouts about the buttress being built around New York City would suddenly seem much less important.

  “Your Excellency,” he said, “I’ve been trying to convince you for weeks now that New York should not be our next target. We should be marching our armies south tow—”

  Washington did not let him finish. “We outnumber the British three to one here! If we strike at their headquarters while we are strong …”

  “Yes, sir, I understand. We have heard your wise reasoning before. Yet all of your senior generals have tried to convince you that we should march south and move on toward Yorktown. General Cornwallis is huddled there, licking his wounds from his defeat in the South. We have him trapped. If we move quickly—and yes, Excellency, time is running out—but if we move our forces quickly we can—”

  “We can what, General? What exactly will we do there? We put siege upon the town? We put the lives of our men and the reputation of our army on the line there?”

  Washington paused and gathered himself before continuing. “No, I can tell you exactly what will happen there, General. We siege the city at the cost of hundreds of my men. Cornwallis waits us out. In the best case, we defeat his defenses and surround him there.

  “And then what? Clinton has ordered him to maintain the deepwater port. Being there upon his order, Clinton will do whatever it takes to protect General Cornwallis and his army. The British navy will ensure that Cornwallis receives a constant string of supplies. Fresh men and reinforcements. Food. Artillery. Ammunition. Perhaps even
ale to celebrate their victory!

  “Even if we keep up the siege and move forward, even if things become intolerable for the British, our adversary simply calls for his navy to rescue him out of the jaws of defeat. That is precisely what will happen, General Rochambeau. We do not have him if he has a navy and a means of escape. And if we can’t defeat him, then why do we make the march in the first place? We only end up chasing ghosts.

  “It pains me to say it, but it is better to stay here, rest our army, gather our forces, and fight them while we are able to negotiate the terms of the engagement. Better to fight them here, where we might actually defeat them, rather than box them up at Yorktown only to watch them sail down the Chesapeake to fight another day!”

  The two men fell into silence. Behind them, a bugle and drum roll sounded the reveille.

  Washington looked away. “I know what you think,” he said quietly. “All of my staff agrees with you. But I cannot do it. Against all the winds that push me, I must do what I must do. And as long as the British have their navy, I know what little at Yorktown we can do.”

  Rochambeau let the moment simmer. Then he smiled. “Tell me, General Washington,” he said expectantly, “what if we had a navy that could stop them from fleeing?”

  Washington turned to look at him. His face remained passive. He was afraid to gather any hope.

  Rochambeau lifted a piece of dirty paper from his satchel. The wax seal of the French navy commander, Comte de Grasse, was clearly visible.

  Washington’s eyes grew wide.

  The French officer smiled again. “Comte de Grasse has set sail from the West Indies. He will bring the French fleet with him. Twenty-nine warships. Three thousand men.

  “He is sailing for the Chesapeake, where he will put himself at our disposal. But we only have him for a few weeks so we must strike now, General Washington! We must move our troops and strike at Cornwallis while we have him up against what is now an inescapable wall!”