American Crisis Read online

  Washington was anxious that his dispatches be the first to arrive at Congress with the good news. To be his herald, Washington honored one of his aides, Tench Tilghman, an officer he described as “a zealous servant and slave to the public.”20 Tilghman galloped into Philadelphia shortly before dawn on October 24 and went immediately to the home of President Thomas McKean. At ten in the morning, their usual hour of assembly, members took their seats and sat quietly as the clerk read Washington’s dispatch. Members then rose from their seats. Huzzahs and cheers filled the chamber. Once order was restored, the members voted to “go in procession to the Dutch Lutheran church, and return thanks to Almighty God.”21

  By November 3 most of the American army, aside from two brigades sent south to join General Nathanael Greene, had been ordered north to resume their encampment along the Hudson. Rochambeau’s army remained in Virginia, anticipating a spring departure from North America. Cornwallis left on November 4 for New York City and thence home to England.22 Having sent the captured soldiers off to prison camps and the paroled officers to New York, Washington felt relieved of this “great encumbrance.”23

  Another “encumbrance” was not so easily managed. As the Americans and French took count of their captives, they discovered a considerable number of deserters who had not had the good fortune to escape. Courts-martial were convened to decide the fate of these men. Some who claimed that they were coerced into serving were acquitted. Others were not so lucky. By a General Order on November 3 Washington confirmed death sentences on nine men. A dozen others received one hundred lashes.24

  Never a commander to bask in victories, rare though they had been in the war, Washington was troubled. Barely a week following the surrender he confided to Thomas Nelson, governor of Virginia, that “the late important success, instead of exciting our exertions, as it ought to do, should produce such a relaxation in the prosecution of the War, as will prolong the calamities of it.”25 He knew that the war was not over. The enemy still occupied New York City, Charleston, Savannah, and Wilmington. They controlled a large swath of northern New England, and despite the French naval victory at the Capes no one doubted that the Royal Navy still commanded the seas. Added to the naval and military situation was a stubborn King George III, who had made it clear, repeatedly, that under no circumstances would he surrender his colonies. Washington was equally troubled by his own situation. De Grasse had already left, Rochambeau’s army was likely to leave in the spring, and the Congress was broke.

  While Washington mulled over his nation’s precarious condition, his personal life took a tumble. A message arrived that he must come quickly to Eltham, his brother-in-law’s plantation. Martha’s son Jacky Custis was dying.26

  George Washington was Martha’s second husband. Her first marriage, to Daniel Parke Custis, in 1751 produced four children: Daniel, John, Martha, and Frances. Both Daniel and Frances died before her husband died in 1757. In 1759, when Martha married George, she brought her surviving children, five-year-old John (Jacky) and three-year-old Martha (Patsy), to Mount Vernon, her new husband’s estate. Although Washington never officially adopted the children—they would always retain the Custis name—he welcomed them into his home and loved them as his own. Patsy died at Mount Vernon in 1773, when she was barely seventeen. In 1774, on the eve of the Revolution, Jacky married Eleanor “Nelly” Calvert, a member of a distinguished Maryland family. The couple settled at Abingdon, a plantation not far from Mount Vernon. Within the space of five years they had four children.27

  Success eluded Jacky Custis. He was barely able to manage the estate he inherited from his father. He dabbled in Virginia politics, securing election to burgesses, but legislative duties bored him, and in the fall of 1781 he asked permission of his stepfather to join him at Yorktown. Washington agreed, and Jacky joined the general’s military “family” in an unofficial capacity. During the siege Jacky contracted a “fever,” most likely typhus. Hoping that he would recover away from the pestilence of camp, Washington sent him to nearby Eltham, home of Jacky’s uncle, Burwell Bassett.28

  Washington hurried to Eltham and there met Martha. Together they sat with Jacky until he died on November 5. Martha Washington had outlived all her children.

  Washington had intended to go on to Philadelphia directly from Yorktown. Jacky’s death changed his plans. He explained to the president of Congress that his journey to Philadelphia was delayed by “an event very distressing to Mrs. Washington.”29 After remaining a few days at Eltham to tidy up family matters, Martha and Nelly returned to Mount Vernon. He would, he told them, join them in a day or two after he visited with his widowed mother, Mary Ball Washington, whom he had not seen since the war began.

  Washington had a strained relationship with his mother. When he arrived at Fredericksburg the town turned out to greet him, but not his mother. She was away “over the Moutins [sic].” He left a bit of money for her and departed for Mount Vernon. A few days later she thanked him. She made no mention in her note of Jacky’s death; nor did she extend any sympathy to Nelly or Martha.30

  After so long an absence from home, and in the midst of family distress, Washington’s strongest desire was to remain at Mount Vernon. Nonetheless, the war was not over, and he had pressing business with Congress in Philadelphia. On Tuesday morning November 20, Washington began his journey north. Martha joined him, leaving Nelly and the children at home.31

  Their first stop was Alexandria, where the “arrival was announced by the discharge of cannon” and “acclamations.” A few Tories, it was reported, “to expiate their crimes … joined in applauding the man, whose late successes had annihilated their hopes.” Annapolis and Baltimore gave equally raucous receptions until finally, on Monday afternoon November 26, 1781, the Washingtons entered Philadelphia, where the Pennsylvania Journal hailed him as “the Saviour of his Country.”32

  A jubilant crowd followed the Washingtons up Third Street to the home of Benjamin Chew between Walnut and Spruce. Chew, the former chief justice of Pennsylvania and a man suspected of loyalist leanings, had prudently left town and taken refuge in the countryside. Chew had rented the rear of his large home to Francisco Rendon, the unofficial emissary from the court of Spain.33 The Washingtons occupied the front. Best known for its elegant garden, the house sat next to an even more grandiose home, the Powel House. Samuel and Elizabeth Willing Powel were the city’s most fashionable couple. During a previous visit to the city Washington had dined and danced at their home on a memorable evening, January 6, 1779, when he and Martha were celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary.34

  Philadelphia was also home to one of America’s most entrepreneurial self-promoters: Charles Willson Peale. Born to an ordinary family in Maryland, Peale originally apprenticed as a saddler. That was a short-lived occupation, and Peale eventually moved on to master a variety of skills, becoming a watchmaker, silversmith, jeweler, modeler in clay, and, most famously, a portraitist working in crayon, oils, and miniatures. Peale first met Washington in 1772, when he painted him at Mount Vernon in the uniform of a Virginia militia officer. In the course of the next nine years Peale painted him again more than a dozen times.35 In Washington’s grand arrival Peale saw an opportunity he could not miss. At his home on the corner of Third and Lombard streets, only a few blocks from the Chew House, he crafted an “Illumination.” According to the Pennsylvania Packet, on the evening of November 27 “people were flocking from all parts of their town to obtain a sight of the beautiful expressions of Mr. Peale’s respect and gratitude to the conquering Hero.” Peale had spent days painting transparencies on his windows. The light from behind the glass enabled spectators to see,

  at the lower window, a ship with the British colours below the French, and the word CORNWALLIS on the stern. At the middle window, above, the portraits of his Excellency General Washington and Count de Rochambeau, with rays of glory and interlaced civic crowns over their heads, framed with palm and laurel branches, and the words in transparent letters, SHINE VALIANT CHI
EFS; the whole encircled with stars and flowers de luce.36

  Whether Washington left his comfortable quarters in the Chew House and ventured into the chill night air of Philadelphia to view Peale’s theatrics is uncertain. Most likely he did not. His time might be better spent preparing for the next day’s event: his visit to Congress.

  Chapter Two

  Since his appointment as commander in chief in June 1775, Washington had attended Congress only once.1 He was, however, no stranger to the body. In September 1774 the Virginia House of Burgesses, where he had sat for many years, sent him and six others to represent the colony in the First Continental Congress.2 Although he played a minor role in this first gathering, Washington did draw notice from members who knew his reputation as an officer in the French and Indian War and as a Whig leader in the House of Burgesses. His reputation as soldier and statesman, complemented by his physical stature—standing approximately six-foot-two and weighing a solid two hundred pounds—gave him an imposing presence. A Connecticut delegate, Silas Deane, described him as a man of a “hard” countenance, “yet with a very young look, and an easy, soldier like air and gesture.”3 Although not a particularly good speaker, nor an affable glad-hander, Washington moved easily among his colleagues and impressed them with his determination to defend American rights, offering “to raise and arm one thousand men himself at his own expense for the defense of the country.”4 Small wonder that when he returned to the Second Continental Congress in May 1775, this time sporting his militia uniform, the body elected him commander in chief.5 More than six years later, his return as the conquering hero of Yorktown was a special event.

  Shortly after noon on Wednesday November 28, Congress convened to welcome Washington. Light spilling in through large sash windows gave the room the deceptive appearance of warmth as two fireplaces labored to ward off the chill. The president, John Hanson of Maryland, sat at the front behind a slightly elevated table.6 To his right the secretary, Charles Thomson, and his assistant sat attentively at a table crowded with documents. On the floor twenty-six delegates, arranged by state, sat in high-backed Windsor chairs. When the commander in chief entered, escorted by two members of the body, all turned to look, but no one stood, as such an act would have shown undue deference. He moved to the front of the room, where the president and secretary sat. As he looked about the chamber many of the faces were new to him. Nearly all of the “old revolutionaries” from the heady days of “ ’75” were absent. Although this was a moment of high drama, the Congress was in a low mood.7

  In the early days of the war cascading events had pushed Congress to dramatic and rapid action under hectic conditions. Within weeks the members had fashioned a national government, sought foreign alliances, raised an army and navy, established a post office, collected money, advised states on their internal matters, and set rules for their own conduct. At first democracy ruled. It was a town meeting–like atmosphere with Congress appointing a seemingly endless number of committees, but in the end every decision came back to the full chamber for deliberation and decision. The immediate threat of the king’s forces drove members together, and a fair degree of conviviality and consensus had prevailed.

  By 1781 much of the early spirit had waned. After six years of struggle Congress found itself overwhelmed with confounding responsibilities. Any issue that came to the floor went almost immediately to committee. Committee reports came back to the body for discussion and action, with each state having a single vote. As factions developed and political schisms widened, the open model of participation that had worked at the beginning of the Revolution began to fail. The notion that everything was everyone’s business resulted in delay, neglect, and inaction. In an effort to expedite matters, Congress established standing committees, among them Commerce, Secret Correspondence, and Marine. Such committees channeled work in more rational directions, but they did nothing to lessen the volume of the flow. Members were drowning in work. During the early part of the war, for example, William Ellery, a delegate from Rhode Island, served on thirty-three special and six standing committees.8 In trying to avoid the Scylla of concentrating power in the hands of too few, Congress was wrecking itself on the Charybdis of legislative committees.9

  Adding to congressional woes was the reality that as the tempo of work increased, the number of members available for committee assignments and general sessions was declining. Increasingly, members did not show up for sessions either because state legislatures lagged in making appointments or because elected delegates simply never arrived in Philadelphia or went home. Those who stayed were discouraged by the workload and were weighed down by the expense of living in Philadelphia.

  Political dissention also played a hand in the decline of Congress. The body had voted unanimously for the appointment of George Washington as commander in chief and for independence. But conflict was inevitable given the nature of Congress itself, which, like any national assembly, represented a wide range of geographic, economic, social, and political viewpoints. In 1778, however, a particularly noxious debate arose, with effects that permanently poisoned the body. The catalyst for the debate was the conduct of Silas Deane.

  In the spring of 1776 Congress had sent Deane, a Connecticut delegate, on a secret mission to France with instructions to obtain military supplies. Deane was clever and devious. His activities in Paris included clandestine meetings, bribes, embezzlement, and even murder. He quickly accumulated a legion of enemies in France and in America. Responding to allegations of misconduct, Congress recalled him in 1778. His arrival in Philadelphia ignited a fierce battle in Congress between those who supported Deane and those who condemned him. Never a man to mind his tongue or pen, Deane fanned the flames of controversy and counterattacked with venomous publications and sharp verbal assaults.10 Among Deane’s attackers was the old Virginia revolutionary Arthur Lee, joined by his New England allies, including Samuel Adams. In Silas Deane they saw the personification of a revolution gone astray; cupidity and a loss of public virtue had displaced true and simple republicanism. Deane’s supporters rejected the charges against him and accused Lee and others of a vile conspiracy. Whatever the merits of the charges and countercharges, the Deane affair pushed Congress into partisan warfare. Congress became, as John Adams later recounted, “a theatre of parties and feuds.”11

  This political “theatre” did not play well in the countryside. Bickering, political paralysis, and lack of attendance all contributed to Congress’s declining national reputation. State authorities, sensing how little regard their constituents had for the men in Philadelphia, felt at ease reneging on promises to supply money to the body, leaving the assembly increasingly powerless, penniless, and leaderless.12

  The struggle to locate political power in an increasingly confused galaxy of authority was a natural outcome of the Revolution itself. At a time when thirteen states were rebelling against arbitrary political authority in London, it was natural that they should be wary of passing similar power to men in Philadelphia. Fear of concentrating power in the hands of a select few prevented administrative reform and kept rule by committee intact. Nonetheless, by 1781 the crisis in Congress was too compelling to be ignored.

  Since the beginning of the war Congress had functioned without de jure authority, exercising limited power without any formal consent of the governed; nor did the body have a recognized governmental structure such as each colony had enjoyed under the authority of the king. Anxious to legitimize its existence, in November 1777 Congress approved a national frame of government, the Articles of Confederation, which created a weak central government and left most power in the hands of the states. For the moment this was as far as the states were willing to share power, but even then the states took more than three years to ratify the document.13 In the meantime, in an effort to establish coherent lines of authority, Congress created four executive departments—Foreign Affairs, War, Treasury, and Marine—under individual heads elected by the members of Congress and reporting to them. Robert
R. Livingston took the post of secretary of foreign affairs; General Benjamin Lincoln accepted the job at War; Robert Morris took the reins at Treasury (he was better known as the superintendent of finance). Alexander McDougall was offered and then refused the office of secretary of marine. Since there was virtually no navy left in Continental service, McDougall’s refusal gave Congress an excuse to relegate what few duties were left in the office to the superintendent of finance.14

  Notwithstanding ratification of the Articles, and attempts at reform, Congress was sinking lower. National finances in 1781 were in a mess. “Not worth a Continental” was the common expression to describe the popular attitude toward paper money issued by Congress. Inflation was running wild. The news from Yorktown was a welcome tonic, but the victory had done nothing to fill the coffers of Congress or persuade the states to support a national government. In the midst of this gloom Washington’s triumphal arrival gave respite from the doldrums and offered a rare occasion for celebration.

  President Hanson called for order. He then addressed Washington with words that the general may have found less than comforting. After offering congratulations, he assured the commander that the Congress would exhort “the states in the strongest terms to the most vigorous and timely exertions” to send money and men. For this purpose it had appointed a committee! He asked Washington to remain “for some time in Philadelphia” so that he might confer with these gentlemen. Washington replied with thanks to the gentlemen. With appropriate deference he congratulated the Congress on its promise to “exhort the states.” He would, he assured the members, “give every assistance … to their committee.” On the other hand, the commander in chief was equally clear that his first responsibility was to his army, and he would return to them as soon as “duty calls.”15