CHAPTER VII

"MALICE DOMESTIC, AND FOREIGN LEVY"

After the "two lucky strokes at Trenton and Princeton," as he himself

called them, Washington took up a strong position at Morristown and

waited. His plan was to hold the enemy in check, and to delay all

operations until spring. It is easy enough now to state his purpose,

and it looks very simple, but it was a grim task to carry it out

through the bleak winter days of 1777. The Jerseys farmers, spurred by

the sufferings inflicted upon them by the British troops, had turned

out at last in deference to Washington's appeals, after the victories

of Trenton and Princeton, had harassed and cut off outlying parties,

and had thus straitened the movements of the enemy. But the main army

of the colonies, on which all depended, was in a pitiable state. It

shifted its character almost from day to day. The curse of short

enlistments, so denounced by Washington, made itself felt now with

frightful effect. With the new year most of the continental troops

departed, while others to replace them came in very slowly, and

recruiting dragged most wearisomely. Washington was thus obliged, with

temporary reinforcements of raw militia, to keep up appearances; and

no commander ever struggled with a more trying task. At times it

looked as if the whole army would actually disappear, and more than

once Washington expected that the week's or the month's end would find

him with not more than five hundred men. At the beginning of March he

had about four thousand men, a few weeks later only three thousand raw

troops, ill-fed, ill-clad, ill-shod, ill-armed, and almost unpaid.

Over against him was Howe, with eleven thousand men in the field, and

still more in the city of New York, well disciplined and equipped,

well-armed, well-fed, and furnished with every needful supply. The

contrast is absolutely grotesque, and yet the force of one man's

genius and will was such that this excellent British army was hemmed

in and kept in harmless quiet by their ragged opponents.

Washington's plan, from the first, was to keep the field at all

hazards, and literally at all hazards did he do so. Right and left

his letters went, day after day, calling with pathetic but dignified

earnestness for men and supplies. In one of these epistles, to

Governor Cooke of Rhode Island, written in January, to remonstrate

against raising troops for the State only, he set forth his intentions

in a few words. "You must be sensible," he said, "that the season is

fast approaching when a new campaign will open; nay, the former is not

yet closed; nor do I intend it shall be, unless the enemy quits the

Jerseys." To keep fighting all the time, and never let the fire of

active resistance flicker or die out, was Washington's theory of the

way to maintain his own side and beat the enemy. If he could not fight

big battles, he would fight small ones; if he could not fight little

battles, he would raid and skirmish and surprise; but fighting of some

sort he would have, while the enemy attempted to spread over a State

and hold possession of it. We can see the obstacles now, but we can

only wonder how they were sufficiently overcome to allow anything to

be done.

Moreover, besides the purely physical difficulties in the lack of men,

money, and supplies, there were others of a political and personal

kind, which were even more wearing and trying, but which,

nevertheless, had to be dealt with also, in some fashion. In order to

sustain the courage of the people Washington was obliged to give out,

and to allow it to be supposed, that he had more men than was really

the case, and so Congress and various wise and well-meaning persons

grumbled because he did not do more and fight more battles. He never

deceived Congress, but they either could not or would not understand

the actual situation. In March he wrote to Robert Morris: "Nor is it

in my power to make Congress fully sensible of the real situation

of our affairs, and that it is with difficulty, if I may use the

expression, that I can by every means in my power keep the life and

soul of this army together. In a word, when they are at a distance,

they think it is but to say, _Presto, begone_, and everything is done.

They seem not to have any conception of the difficulty and perplexity

attending those who are to execute." It was so easy to see what they

would like to have done, and so simple to pass a resolve to that

effect, that Congress never could appreciate the reality of the

difficulty and the danger until the hand of the enemy was almost at

their throats. They were not even content with delay and neglect, but

interfered actively at times, as in the matter of the exchange of

prisoners, where they made unending trouble for Washington, and showed

themselves unable to learn or to keep their hands off after any amount

of instruction.

In January Washington issued a proclamation requiring those

inhabitants who had subscribed to Howe's declaration to come in within

thirty days and take the oath of allegiance to the United States. If

they failed to do so they were to be treated as enemies. The measure

was an eminently proper one, and the proclamation was couched in the

most moderate language. It was impossible to permit a large class

of persons to exist on the theory that they were peaceful American

citizens and also subjects of King George. The results of such conduct

were in every way perilous and intolerable, and Washington was

determined that he would divide the sheep from the goats, and know

whom he was defending and whom attacking. Yet for this wise and

necessary action he was called in question in Congress and accused of

violating civil rights and the resolves of Congress itself. Nothing

was actually done about it, but such an incident shows from a single

point the infinite tact and resolution required in waging war under a

government whose members were unable to comprehend what was meant, and

who could not see that until they had beaten England it was hardly

worth while to worry about civil rights, which in case of defeat would

speedily cease to exist altogether.

Another fertile source of trouble arose from questions of rank.

Members of Congress, in making promotions and appointments, were

more apt to consider local claims than military merit, and they also

allowed their own personal prejudices to affect their action in

this respect far too much. Thence arose endless heart-burnings

and jealousies, followed by resignations and the loss of valuable

officers. Congress, having made the appointments, would go cheerfully

about its business, while the swarm of grievances thus let loose would

come buzzing about the devoted head of the commander-in-chief. He

could not adjourn, but was compelled to quiet rivalries, allay

irritated feelings, and ride the storm as best he might. It was all

done, however, in one way or another: by personal appeals, and by

letters full of dignity, patriotism, and patience, which are very

impressive and full of meaning for students of character, even in this

day and generation.

Then again, not content with snarling up our native appointments,

Congress complicated matters still more dangerously by its treatment

of foreigners. The members of Congress were colonists, and the fact

that they had shaken off the yoke of the mother country did not in the

least alter their colonial and perfectly natural habit of regarding

with enormous respect Englishmen and Frenchmen, and indeed anybody who

had had the good fortune to be born in Europe. The result was that

they distributed commissions and gave inordinate rank to the many

volunteers who came over the ocean, actuated by various motives, but

all filled with a profound sense of their own merits. It is only fair

to Congress to say that the American agents abroad were even more to

blame in this respect. Silas Deane especially scattered promises of

commissions with a lavish hand, and Congress refused to fulfill many

of the promises thus made in its name. Nevertheless, Congress was far

too lax, and followed too closely the example of its agents. Some of

these foreigners were disinterested men and excellent soldiers, who

proved of great value to the American cause. Many others were mere

military adventurers, capable of being turned to good account,

perhaps, but by no means entitled to what they claimed and in most

instances received.

The ill-considered action of Congress and of our agents abroad in

this respect was a source of constantly recurring troubles of a very

serious nature. Native officers, who had borne the burden and heat of

the day, justly resented being superseded by some stranger, unable

to speak the language, who had landed in the States but a few days

before. As a result, resignations were threatened which, if carried

out, would affect the character of the army very deeply. Then again,

the foreigners themselves, inflated by the eagerness of our agents and

by their reception at the hands of Congress, would find on joining the

army that they could get no commands, chiefly because there were none

to give. They would then become dissatisfied with their rank and

employment, and bitter complaints and recriminations would ensue.

All these difficulties, of course, fell most heavily upon the

commander-in-chief, who was heartily disgusted with the whole

business. Washington believed from the beginning, and said over and

over again in various and ever stronger terms, that this was an

American war and must be fought by Americans. In no other way, and

by no other persons, did he consider that it could be carried to any

success worth having. He saw of course the importance of a French

alliance, and deeply desired it, for it was a leading element in the

solution of the political and military situation; but alliance with

a foreign power was one thing, and sporadic military volunteers were

another. Washington had no narrow prejudices against foreigners,

for he was a man of broad and liberal mind, and no one was more

universally beloved and respected by the foreign officers than he; but

he was intensely American in his feelings, and he would not admit for

an instant that the American war for independence could be righteously

fought or honestly won by others than Americans. He was well aware

that foreign volunteers had a value and use of which he largely and

gratefully availed himself; but he was exasperated and alarmed by the

indiscriminate and lavish way in which Congress and our agents abroad

gave rank and office to them. "Hungry adventurers," he called them in

one letter, when driven beyond endurance by the endless annoyances

thus forced upon him; and so he pushed their pretensions aside,

and managed, on the whole, to keep them in their proper place. The

operation was delicate, difficult, and unpleasant, for it seemed to

savor of ingratitude. But Washington was never shaken for an instant

in his policy, and while he checked the danger, he showed in many

instances, like Lafayette and Steuben, that he could appreciate and

use all that was really valuable in the foreign contingent.

The service rendered by Washington in this matter has never been

justly understood or appreciated. If he had not taken this position,

and held it with an absolute firmness which bordered on harshness, we

should have found ourselves in a short time with an army of American

soldiers officered by foreigners, many of them mere mercenaries,

"hungry adventurers," from France, Poland or Hungary, from Germany,

Ireland or England. The result of such a combination would have been

disorganization and defeat. That members of Congress and some of our

representatives in Europe did not see the danger, and that they were

impressed by the foreign officers who came among them, was perfectly

natural. Men are the creatures of the time in which they live, and

take their color from the conditions which surround them, as the

chameleon does from the grass or leaves in which it hides. The rulers

and lawmakers of 1776 could not cast off their provincial awe of

the natives of England and Europe as they cast off their political

allegiance to the British king. The only wonder is that there should

have been even one man so great in mind and character that he could

rise at a single bound from the level of a provincial planter to the

heights of a great national leader. He proved himself such in all

ways, but in none more surely than in his ability to consider all men

simply as men, and, with a judgment that nothing could confuse, to

ward off from his cause and country the dangers inherent in colonial

habits of thought and action, so menacing to a people struggling for

independence. We can see this strong, high spirit of nationality

running through Washington's whole career, but it never did better

service than when it stood between the American army and undue favor

to foreign volunteers.

Among other disagreeable and necessary truths, Washington had told

Congress that Philadelphia was in danger, that Howe probably meant to

occupy it, and that it would be nearly impossible to prevent his doing

so. This warning being given and unheeded, he continued to watch his

antagonist, doing so with increased vigilance, as signs of activity

began to appear in New York. Toward the end of May he broke up his

cantonments, having now about seven thousand men, and took a strong

position within ten miles of Brunswick. Here he waited, keeping

an anxious eye on the Hudson in case he should be mistaken in his

expectations, and should find that the enemy really intended to go

north to meet Burgoyne instead of south to capture Philadelphia.

Washington's doubts were soon to be resolved and his expectations

fulfilled. May 31, a fleet of a hundred sail left New York, and

couriers were at once sent southward to warn the States of the

possibility of a speedy invasion. About the same time transports

arrived with more German mercenaries, and Howe, thus reinforced,

entered the Jerseys. Washington determined to decline battle, and if

the enemy pushed on and crossed the Delaware, to hang heavily on their

rear, while the militia from the south were drawn up to Philadelphia.

He adopted this course because he felt confident that Howe would never

cross the Delaware and leave the main army of the Americans behind

him. His theory proved correct. The British advanced and retreated,

burned houses and villages and made feints, but all in vain.

Washington baffled them at every point, and finally Sir William

evacuated the Jerseys entirely and withdrew to New York and Staten

Island, where active preparations for some expedition were at once

begun. Again came anxious watching, with the old fear that Howe meant

to go northward and join the now advancing Burgoyne. The fear was

groundless. On July 23 the British fleet set sail from New York,

carrying between fifteen and eighteen thousand men. Not deceived by

the efforts to make him think that they aimed at Boston, but still

fearing that the sailing might be only a ruse and the Hudson the real

object after all, Washington moved cautiously to the Delaware, holding

himself ready to strike in either direction. On the 31st he heard that

the enemy were at the Capes. This seemed decisive; so he sent in

all directions for reinforcements, moved the main army rapidly to

Germantown, and prepared to defend Philadelphia. The next news was

that the fleet had put to sea again, and again messengers went north

to warn Putnam to prepare for the defense of the Hudson. Washington

himself was about to re-cross the Delaware, when tidings arrived that

the fleet had once more appeared at the Capes, and after a few more

days of doubt the ships came up the Chesapeake and anchored.

Washington thought the "route a strange one," but he knew now that he

was right in his belief that Howe aimed at Philadelphia. He therefore

gathered his forces and marched south to meet the enemy, passing

through the city in order to impress the disaffected and the timid

with the show of force. It was a motley array that followed him. There

was nothing uniform about the troops except their burnished arms and

the sprigs of evergreen in their hats. Nevertheless Lafayette, who had

just come among them, thought that they looked like good soldiers, and

the Tories woke up sharply to the fact that there was a large body of

men known as the American army, and that they had a certain obvious

fighting capacity visible in their appearance. Neither friends nor

enemies knew, however, as they stood on the Philadelphia sidewalks

and watched the troops go past, that the mere fact of that army's

existence was the greatest victory of skill and endurance which

the war could show, and that the question of success lay in its

continuance.

Leaving Philadelphia, Washington pushed on to the junction of the

Brandywine and Christiana Creek, and posted his men along the heights.

August 25, Howe landed at the Head of Elk, and Washington threw out

light parties to drive in cattle, carry off supplies, and annoy the

enemy. This was done, on the whole, satisfactorily, and after some

successful skirmishing on the part of the Americans, the two armies

on the 5th of September found themselves within eight or ten miles of

each other. Washington now determined to risk a battle in the field,

despite his inferiority in every way. He accordingly issued a

stirring proclamation to the soldiers, and then fell back behind the

Brandywine, to a strong position, and prepared to contest the passage

of the river.

Early on September 11, the British advanced to Chad's Ford, where

Washington was posted with the main body, and after some skirmishing

began to cannonade at long range. Meantime Cornwallis, with the main

body, made a long détour of seventeen miles, and came upon the right

flank and rear of the Americans. Sullivan, who was on the right, had

failed to guard the fords above, and through lack of information was

practically surprised. Washington, on rumors that the enemy were

marching toward his right, with the instinct of a great soldier was

about to cross the river in his front and crush the enemy there, but

he also was misled and kept back by false reports. When the truth was

known, it was too late. The right wing had been beaten and flung back,

the enemy were nearly in the rear, and were now advancing in earnest

in front. All that man could do was done. Troops were pushed forward

and a gallant stand was made at various points; but the critical

moment had come and gone, and there was nothing for it but a hasty

retreat, which came near degenerating into a rout.

The causes of this complete defeat, for such it was, are easily seen.

Washington had planned his battle and chosen his position well. If he

had not been deceived by the first reports, he even then would have

fallen upon and overwhelmed the British centre before they could

have reached his right wing. But the Americans, to begin with, were

outnumbered. They had only eleven thousand effective men, while the

British brought fifteen of their eighteen thousand into action. Then

the Americans suffered, as they constantly did, from misinformation,

and from an absence of system in learning the enemy's movements.

Washington's attack was fatally checked in this way, and Sullivan

was surprised from the same causes, as well as from his own culpable

ignorance of the country beyond him, which was the reason of his

failure to guard the upper fords. The Americans lost, also, by the

unsteadiness of new troops when the unexpected happens, and when

the panic-bearing notion that they are surprised and likely to be

surrounded comes upon them with a sudden shock.

This defeat was complete and severe, and it was followed in a few days

by that of Wayne, who narrowly escaped utter ruin. Yet through all

this disaster we can see the advance which had been made since the

equally unfortunate and very similar battle on Long Island. Then, the

troops seemed to lose heart and courage, the army was held together

with difficulty, and could do nothing but retreat. Now, in the few

days which Howe, as usual, gave his opponent with such fatal effect to

himself, Washington rallied his army, and finding them in excellent

spirits marched down the Lancaster road to fight again. On the eve of

battle a heavy storm came on, which so injured the arms and munitions

that with bitter disappointment he was obliged to withdraw; but

nevertheless it is plain how much this forward movement meant. At the

moment, however, it looked badly enough, especially after the defeat

of Wayne, for Howe pressed forward, took possession of Philadelphia,

and encamped the main body of his army at Germantown.

Meantime Washington, who had not in the least given up his idea of

fighting again, recruited his army, and having a little more than

eight thousand men, determined to try another stroke at the British,

while they were weakened by detachments. On the night of October 3 he

started, and reached Germantown at daybreak on the 4th. At first the

Americans swept everything before them, and flung the British back

in rout and confusion. Then matters began to go wrong, as is always

likely to happen when, as in this case, widely separated and yet

accurately concerted action is essential to success. Some of the

British threw themselves into a stone house, and instead of leaving

them there under guard, the whole army stopped to besiege, and a

precious half hour was lost. Then Greene and Stephen were late in

coming up, having made a circuit, and although when they arrived all

seemed to go well, the Americans were seized with an inexplicable

panic, and fell back, as Wayne truly said, in the very moment of

victory. One of those unlucky accidents, utterly unavoidable, but

always dangerous to extensive combinations, had a principal effect on

the result. The morning was very misty, and the fog, soon thickened by

the smoke, caused confusion, random firing, and, worst of all, that

uncertainty of feeling and action which something or nothing converted

into a panic. Nevertheless, the Americans rallied quickly this time,

and a good retreat was made, under the lead of Greene, until safety

was reached. The action, while it lasted, had been very sharp, and the

losses on both sides were severe, the Americans suffering most.

Washington, as usual when matters went ill, exposed himself

recklessly, to the great alarm of his generals, but all in vain. He

was deeply disappointed, and expressed himself so at first, for he saw

that the men had unaccountably given way when they were on the edge

of victory. The underlying cause was of course, as at Long Island

and Brandywine, the unsteadiness of raw troops, and Washington felt

rightly, after the first sting had passed, that he had really achieved

a great deal. Congress applauded the attempt, and when the smoke of

the battle had cleared away, men generally perceived that its having

been fought at all was in reality the important fact. It made also

a profound impression upon the French cabinet. Eagerly watching the

course of events, they saw the significance of the fact that an army

raised within a year could fight a battle in the open field, endure

a severe defeat, and then take the offensive and make a bold and

well-planned attack, which narrowly missed being overwhelmingly

successful. To the observant and trained eyes of Europe, the defeat

at Germantown made it evident that there was fighting material among

these untrained colonists, capable of becoming formidable; and that

there was besides a powerful will and directing mind, capable on

its part of bringing this same material into the required shape and

condition. To dispassionate onlookers, England's grasp on her colonies

appeared to be slipping away very rapidly. Washington himself saw the

meaning of it all plainly enough, for it was but the development of

his theory of carrying on the war.

There is no indication, however, that England detected, in all that

had gone on since her army landed at the Head of Elk, anything more

than a couple of natural defeats for the rebels. General Howe was

sufficiently impressed to draw in his troops, and keep very closely

shut up in Philadelphia, but his country was not moved at all. The

fact that it had taken forty-seven days to get their army from the

Elk River to Philadelphia, and that in that time they had fought two

successful battles and yet had left the American army still active

and menacing, had no effect upon the British mind. The English were

thoroughly satisfied that the colonists were cowards and were sure to

be defeated, no matter what the actual facts might be. They regarded

Washington as an upstart militia colonel, and they utterly failed to

comprehend that they had to do with a great soldier, who was able to

organize and lead an army, overcome incredible difficulties, beat and

outgeneral them, bear defeat, and then fight again. They were unable

to realize that the mere fact that such a man could be produced and

such an army maintained meant the inevitable loss of colonies three

thousand miles away. Men there were in England, undoubtedly, like

Burke and Fox, who felt and understood the significance of these

things, but the mass of the people, as well as the aristocracy, the

king, and the cabinet, would have none of them. Rude contempt for

other people is a warming and satisfying feeling, no doubt, and the

English have had unquestionably great satisfaction from its free

indulgence. No one should grudge it to them, least of all Americans.

It is a comfort for which they have paid, so far as this country is

concerned, by the loss of their North American colonies, and by a few

other settlements with the United States at other and later times.

But although Washington and his army failed to impress England, events

had happened in the north, during this same summer, which were so

sharp-pointed that they not only impressed the English people keenly

and unpleasantly, but they actually penetrated the dull comprehension

of George III. and his cabinet. "Why," asked an English lady of an

American naval officer, in the year of grace 1887--"why is your ship

named the Saratoga?" "Because," was the reply, "at Saratoga an English

general and an English army of more than five thousand men surrendered

to an American army and laid down their arms." Although apparently

neglected now in the general scheme of British education, Saratoga

was a memorable event in the summer of 1777, and the part taken by

Washington in bringing about the great result has never, it would

seem, been properly set forth. There is no need to trace here the

history of that campaign, but it is necessary to show how much was

done by the commander-in-chief, five hundred miles away, to win the

final victory.

In the winter of 1776-77 reports came that a general and an army were

to be sent to Canada to invade the colonies from the north by way

of Lake Champlain. The news does not seem to have made a very deep

impression generally, nor to have been regarded as anything beyond

the ordinary course of military events. But there was one man,

fortunately, who in an instant perceived the full significance of this

movement. Washington saw that the English had at last found an idea,

or, at least, a general possessed of one. So long as the British

confined themselves to fighting one or two battles, and then, taking

possession of a single town, were content to sit down and pass their

winter in good quarters, leaving the colonists in undisturbed control

of all the rest of the country, there was nothing to be feared. The

result of such campaigning as this could not be doubtful for a moment

to any clear-sighted man. But when a plan was on foot, which, if

successful, meant the control of the lakes and the Hudson, and of a

line of communication from the north to the great colonial seaport,

the case was very different. Such a campaign as this would cause

the complete severance of New England, the chief source for men and

supplies, from the rest of the colonies. It promised the mastery, not

of a town, but of half a dozen States, and this to the American cause

probably would be ruin.

So strongly and clearly did Washington feel all this that his

counter-plan was at once ready, and before people had fairly grasped

the idea that there was to be a northern invasion, he was sending,

early in March, urgent letters to New England to rouse up the militia

and have them in readiness to march at a moment's notice. To Schuyler,

in command of the northern department, he began now to write

constantly, and to unfold the methods which must be pursued in order

to compass the defeat of the invaders. His object was to delay the

army of Burgoyne by every possible device, while steadily avoiding a

pitched battle. Then the militia and hardy farmers of New England and

New York were to be rallied, and were to fall upon the flank and

rear of the British, harass them constantly, cut off their outlying

parties, and finally hem them in and destroy them. If the army and

people of the North could only be left undisturbed, it is evident from

his letters that Washington felt no doubt as to the result in that

quarter.

But the North included only half the conditions essential to success.

The grave danger feared by Washington was that Howe would understand

the situation, and seeing his opportunity, would throw everything else

aside, and marching northward with twenty thousand men, would make

himself master of the Hudson, effect a junction with Burgoyne at

Albany, and so cut the colonies in twain. From all he could learn,

and from his knowledge of his opponents' character, Washington felt

satisfied that Howe intended to capture Philadelphia, advancing,

probably, through the Jerseys. Yet, despite his well-reasoned judgment

on this point, it seemed so incredible that any soldier could fail to

see that decisive victory lay in the north, and in a junction with

Burgoyne, that Washington could not really and fully believe in such

fatuity until he knew that Howe was actually landing at the Head

of Elk. This is the reason for the anxiety displayed in the

correspondence of that summer, for the changing and shifting

movements, and for the obvious hesitation of opinion, so unusual with

Washington at any time. Be it remembered, moreover, that it was an

awful doubt which went to bed and got up and walked with him through

all those long nights and days. If Howe, the dull and lethargic,

should awake from his dream of conquering America by taking now and

again an isolated town, and should break for the north with twenty

thousand men, the fortunes of the young republic would come to their

severest test.

In that event, Washington knew well enough what he meant to do. He

would march his main army to the Hudson, unite with the strong body

of troops which he kept there constantly, contest every inch of the

country and the river with Howe, and keep him at all hazards from

getting to Albany. But he also knew well that if this were done the

odds would be fearfully against him, for Howe would then not only

outnumber him very greatly, but there would be ample time for the

British to act, and but a short distance to be covered. We can

imagine, therefore, his profound sense of relief when he found that

Howe and his army were really south of Philadelphia, after a waste of

many precious weeks. He could now devote himself single-hearted to the

defense of the city, for distance and time were at last on his side,

and all that remained was to fight Howe so hard and steadily that

neither in victory nor defeat would he remember Burgoyne. Pitt said

that he would conquer Canada on the plains of Germany, and Burgoyne

was compelled to surrender in large measure by the campaign of

Washington in New Jersey and Pennsylvania.

If we study carefully Washington's correspondence during that eventful

summer, grouping together that relating to the northern campaign, and

comparing it with that which dealt with the affairs of his own army,

all that has just been said comes out with entire clearness, and it is

astonishing to see how exactly events justified his foresight. If

he could only hold Howe in the south, he was quite willing to trust

Burgoyne to the rising of the people and to the northern wilderness.

Every effort he made was in this direction, beginning, as has been

said, by his appeals to the New England governors in March. Schuyler,

on his part, was thoroughly imbued with Washington's other leading

idea, that the one way to victory was by retarding the enemy. At the

outset everything went utterly and disastrously wrong. Washington

counted on an obstinate struggle, and a long delay at Ticonderoga, for

he had not been on the ground, and could not imagine that our officers

would fortify everything but the one commanding point.

The loss of the forts appalled the country and disappointed

Washington, but did not shake his nerve for an instant. He wrote to

Schuyler: "This stroke is severe indeed, and has distressed us much.

But notwithstanding things at present have a dark and gloomy aspect,

I hope a spirited opposition will check the progress of General

Burgoyne's army, and that the confidence derived from his success will

hurry him into measures that will, in their consequences, be favorable

to us. We should never despair; our situation has before been

unpromising, and has changed for the better; so I trust it will again.

If new difficulties arise we must only put forth new exertions, and

proportion our efforts to the exigency of the times." Even after this

seemingly crushing defeat he still felt sure of Burgoyne, so long as

he was unsupported. Suiting the action to the word, he again bent

every nerve to rouse New England and get out her militia. When he was

satisfied that Howe was landing below Philadelphia, the first thing he

did was to send forth the same cry in the same quarter, to bring out

more men against Burgoyne. He showed, too, the utmost generosity

toward the northern army, sending thither all the troops he could

possibly spare, and even parting with his favorite corps of Morgan's

riflemen. Despite his liberality, the commanders in the north

were unreasonable in their demands, and when they asked too much,

Washington flatly declined to send more men, for he would not weaken

himself unduly, and he knew what they did not see, that the fate of

the northern invasion turned largely on his own ability to cope with

Howe.

The blame for the loss of the forts fell of course upon Schuyler,

who was none too popular in Congress, and who with St. Clair was

accordingly made a scape-goat. Congress voted that Washington should

appoint a new commander, and the New England delegates visited him to

urge the selection of Gates. This task Washington refused to perform,

alleging as a reason that the northern department had always been

considered a separate command, and that he had never done more than

advise. These reasons do not look very weighty or very strong, and it

is not quite clear what the underlying motive was. Washington never

shrank from responsibility, and he knew very well that he could pick

out the best man more unerringly than Congress. But he also saw

that Congress favored Gates, whom he would not have chosen, and he

therefore probably felt that it was more important to have some one

whom New England believed in and approved than a better soldier who

would have been unwelcome to her representatives. It is certain that

he would not have acted thus, had he thought that generalship was an

important element in the problem; but he relied on a popular uprising,

and not on the commander, to defeat Burgoyne. He may have thought,

too, that it was a mistake to relieve Schuyler, who was working in the

directions which he had pointed out, and who, if not a great soldier,

was a brave, high-minded, and sensible man, devoted to his chief and

to the country. It was Schuyler indeed who, by his persistent labor in

breaking down bridges, tearing up roads, and felling trees, while he

gathered men industriously in all directions, did more than any one

else at that moment to prepare the way for an ultimate victory.

Whatever his feelings may have been in regard to the command of the

northern department, Washington made no change in his own course after

Gates had been appointed. He knew that Gates was at least harmless,

and not likely to block the natural course of events. He therefore

felt free to press his own policy without cessation, and without

apprehension. He took care that Lincoln and Arnold should be there to

look after the New England militia, and he wrote to Governor Clinton,

in whose energy and courage he had great confidence, to rouse up the

men of New York. He suggested the points of attack, and at every

moment advised and counseled and watched, holding all the while a firm

grip on Howe. Slowly and surely the net, thus painfully set, tightened

round Burgoyne. The New Englanders whipped one division at Bennington,

and the New Yorkers shattered another at Oriskany and Fort Schuyler.

The country people turned out in defense of their invaded homes and

poured into the American camp. Burgoyne struggled and advanced,

fought and retreated. Gates, stupid, lethargic, and good-natured, did

nothing, but there was no need of generalship; and Arnold was there,

turbulent and quarrelsome, but full of daring; and Morgan, too,

equally ready; and they and others did all the necessary fighting.

Poor Burgoyne, a brave gentleman, if not a great general, had

the misfortune to be a clever man in the service of a stupid

administration, and he met the fate usually meted out under such

circumstances to men of ideas. Howe went off to the conquest of

Philadelphia, Clinton made a brief burning and plundering raid up the

river, and the northern invasion, which really had meaning, was left

to its fate. It was a hard fate, but there was no escape. Outnumbered,

beaten, and caught, Burgoyne surrendered. If there had been a

fighting-man at the head of the American army, the British would have

surrendered as prisoners of war, and not on conditions. Schuyler, we

may be sure, whatever his failings, would never have let them off

so easily. But it was sufficient as it was. The wilderness, and the

militia of New York and New England swarming to the defense of their

homes, had done the work. It all fell out just as Washington had

foreseen and planned, and England, despising her enemy and their

commander, saw one of her armies surrender, and might have known, if

she had had the wit, that the colonies were now lost forever. The

Revolution had been saved at Trenton; it was established at Saratoga.

In the one case it was the direct, in the other the indirect, work of

Washington.

Poor Gates, with his dull brain turning under the impression that this

crowning mercy had been his own doing, lost his head, forgot that

there was a commander-in-chief, and sending his news to Congress, left

Washington to find out from chance rumors, and a tardy letter from

Putnam, that Burgoyne had actually surrendered. This gross slight,

however, had deeper roots than the mere exultation of victory acting

on a heavy and common mind. It represented a hostile feeling which

had been slowly increasing for some time, which had been carefully

nurtured by those interested in its growth, and which blossomed

rapidly in the heated air of military triumph. From the outset it had

been Washington's business to fight the enemy, manage the army,

deal with Congress, and consider in all its bearings the political

situation at home and abroad; but he was now called upon to meet a

trouble outside the line of duty, and to face attacks from within,

which, ideally speaking, ought never to have existed, but which, in

view of our very fallible humanity, were certain to come sooner or

later. Much domestic malice Washington was destined to encounter in

the later years of political strife, but this was the only instance in

his military career where enmity came to overt action and open speech.

The first and the last of its kind, this assault upon him has much

interest, for a strong light is thrown upon his character by studying

him, thus beset, and by seeing just how he passed through this most

trying and disagreeable of ordeals.

The germ of the difficulties was to be found where we should expect

it, in the differences between the men of speech and the man of

action, between the lawmakers and the soldier. Washington had been

obliged to tell Congress a great many plain and unpleasant truths.

It was part of his duty, and he did it accordingly. He was always

dignified, calm, and courteous, but he had an alarmingly direct way

with him, especially when he was annoyed. He was simple almost to

bluntness, but now and then would use a grave irony which must

have made listening ears tingle. Congress was patriotic and

well-intentioned, and on the whole stood bravely by its general,

but it was unversed in war, very impatient, and at times wildly

impracticable. Here is a letter which depicts the situation, and the

relation between the general and his rulers, with great clearness.

March 14, 1777, Washington wrote to the President: "Could I accomplish

the important objects so eagerly wished by Congress,--'confining the

enemy within their present quarters, preventing their getting

supplies from the country, and totally subduing them before they are

reinforced,'--I should be happy indeed. But what prospect or hope can

there be of my effecting so desirable a work at this time?"

We can imagine how exasperating such requests and suggestions must

have been. It was very much as if Congress had said: "Good General,

bring in the Atlantic tides and drown the enemy; or pluck the moon

from the sky and give it to us, as a mark of your loyalty." Such

requests are not soothing to any man struggling his best with great

anxieties, and with a host of petty cares. Washington, nevertheless,

kept his temper, and replied only by setting down a few hard facts

which answered the demands of Congress in a final manner, and with all

the sting of truth. Thus a little irritation had been generated

in Congress against the general, and there were some members who

developed a good deal of pronounced hostility. Sam Adams, a born

agitator and a trained politician, unequaled almost in our history as

an organizer and manager of men, able, narrow, coldly fierce, the man

of the town meeting and the caucus, had no possibility of intellectual

sympathy with the silent, patient, hard-gripping soldier, hemmed with

difficulties, but ever moving straight forward to his object, with

occasional wild gusts of reckless fighting passion. John Adams, too,

brilliant of speech and pen, ardent, patriotic, and high-minded,

was, in his way, out of touch with Washington. Although he moved

Washington's appointment, he began almost immediately to find fault

with him, an exercise to which he was extremely prone. Inasmuch as he

could see how things ought to be done, he could not understand

why they were not done in that way at once, for he had a fine

forgetfulness of other people's difficulties, as is the case with most

of us. The New England representatives generally took their cue from

these two, especially James Lovell, who carried his ideas into action,

and obtained a little niche in the temple of fame by making

himself disagreeably conspicuous in the intrigue against the

commander-in-chief, when it finally developed.

There were others, too, outside New England who were discontented, and

among them Richard Henry Lee, from the General's own State. He was

evidently critical and somewhat unfriendly at this time, although the

reasons for his being so are not now very distinct. Then there was Mr.

Clark of New Jersey, an excellent man, who thought the General was

invading popular rights; and to him others might be added who vaguely

felt that things ought to be better than they were. This party,

adverse to Washington, obtained the appointment of Gates to the

northern department, under whom the army won a great victory, and they

were correspondingly happy. John Adams wrote his wife that one

cause of thanksgiving was that the tide had not been turned by the

commander-in-chief and southern troops, for the adulation would have

been intolerable; and that a man may be wise and virtuous and not a

deity.

Here, so far as the leading and influential men were concerned, the

matter would have dropped, probably; but there were lesser men like

Lovell who were much encouraged by the surrender of Burgoyne, and who

thought that they now might supplant Washington with Gates. Before

long, too, they found in the army itself some active and not

over-scrupulous allies. The most conspicuous figure among the military

malcontents was Gates himself, who, although sluggish in all things,

still had a keen eye for his own advancement. He showed plainly how

much his head had been turned by the victory at Saratoga when he

failed to inform Washington of the fact, and when he afterward delayed

sending back troops until he was driven to it by the determined energy

of Hamilton, who was sent to bring him to reason. Next in importance

to Gates was Thomas Mifflin, an ardent patriot, but a rather

light-headed person, who espoused the opposition to Washington for

causes now somewhat misty, but among which personal vanity played no

inconsiderable part. About these two leaders gathered a certain number

of inferior officers of no great moment then or since.

The active and moving spirit in the party, however, was one Conway, an

Irish adventurer, who made himself so prominent that the whole affair

passed into history bearing his name, and the "Conway cabal" has

obtained an enduring notoriety which its hero never acquired by any

public services. Conway was one of the foreign officers who had gained

the favor of Congress and held the rank of brigadier-general, but this

by no means filled the measure of his pretensions, and when De Kalb

was made a major-general Conway immediately started forward with

claims to the same rank. He received strong support from the factious

opposition, and there was so much stir that Washington sharply

interfered, for to his general objection to these lavish gifts of

excessive rank was added an especial distrust in this particular

case. In his calm way he had evidently observed Conway, and with his

unerring judgment of men had found him wanting. "I may add," he wrote

to Lee, "and I think with truth, that it will give a fatal blow to

the existence of the army. Upon so interesting a subject I must speak

plainly. General Conway's merit then as an officer, and his importance

in this army, exist more in his own imagination than in reality."

This plain talk soon reached Conway, drove him at once into furious

opposition, and caused him to impart to the faction a cohesion and

vigor which they had before lacked. Circumstances favored them. The

victory at Saratoga gave them something tangible to go upon, and the

first move was made when Gates failed to inform Washington of the

surrender, and then held back the troops sent for so urgently by the

commander-in-chief, who had sacrificed so much from his own army to

secure that of the north.

At this very moment, indeed, when Washington was calling for troops,

he was struggling with the utmost tenacity to hold control of the

Delaware. He made every arrangement possible to maintain the forts,

and the first assaults upon them were repulsed with great slaughter,

the British in the attack on Fort Mercer losing Count Donop, the

leader, and four hundred men. Then came a breathing space, and then

the attacks were renewed, supported by vessels, and both forts were

abandoned after the works had been leveled to the ground by the

enemy's fire. Meanwhile Hamilton, sent to the north, had done his

work; Gates had been stirred, and Putnam, well-meaning but stubborn,

had been sharply brought to his bearings. Reinforcements had come, and

Washington meditated an attack on Philadelphia. There was a good deal

of clamor for something brilliant and decisive, for both the army and

the public were a little dizzy from the effects of Saratoga, and with

sublime blindness to different conditions, could not see why the same

performance should not be repeated to order everywhere else. To oppose

this wish was trying, doubly trying to a man eager to fight, and with

his full share of the very human desire to be as successful as his

neighbor. It required great nerve to say No; but Washington did not

lack that quality, and as general and statesman he reconnoitred the

enemy's works, weighed the chances, said No decisively, and took up an

almost impregnable position at White Marsh. Thereupon Howe announced

that he would drive Washington beyond the mountains, and on December

4 he approached the American lines with this highly proper purpose.

There was some skirmishing along the foot of the hills of an

unimportant character, and on the third day Washington, in high

spirits, thought an attack would be made, and rode among the soldiers

directing and encouraging them. Nothing came of it, however, but more

skirmishing, and the next day Howe marched back to Philadelphia. He

had offered battle in all ways, he had invited action; but again, with

the same pressure both from his own spirit and from public opinion,

Washington had said No. On his own ground he was more than ready to

fight Howe, but despite the terrible temptation he would fight on no

other. Not the least brilliant exploit of Wellington was the retreat

to the shrewdly prepared lines of Torres Vedras, and one of the most

difficult successes of Washington was his double refusal to fight as

the year 1777 drew to a close.

Like most right and wise things, Washington's action looks now, a

century later, so plainly sensible that it is hard to imagine how any

one could have questioned it; and one cannot, without a great effort,

realize the awful strain upon will and temper involved in thus

refusing battle. If the proposed attack on Philadelphia had failed, or

if our army had come down from the hills and been beaten in the fields

below, no American army would have remained. The army of the north, of

which men were talking so proudly, had done its work and dispersed.

The fate of the Revolution rested where it had been from the

beginning, with Washington and his soldiers. Drive them beyond the

mountains and there was no other army to fall back upon. On their

existence everything hinged, and when Howe got back to Philadelphia,

there they were still existent, still coherent, hovering on his flank,

cooping him up in his lines, and leaving him master of little more

than the ground his men encamped upon, and the streets his sentinels

patrolled. When Franklin was told in Paris that Howe had taken

Philadelphia, his reply was, "Philadelphia has taken Howe."

But, with the exception of Franklin, contemporary opinion in the month

of December, 1777, was very different from that of to-day, and the

cabal had been at work ever since the commander-in-chief had stepped

between Conway and the exorbitant rank he coveted. Washington, indeed,

was perfectly aware of what was going on. He was quiet and dignified,

impassive and silent, but he knew when men, whether great or small,

were plotting against him, and he watched them with the same keenness

as he did Howe and the British.

In the midst of his struggle to hold the Delaware forts, and of his

efforts to get back his troops from the north, a story came to him

that arrested his attention. Wilkinson, of Gates's staff, had come to

Congress with the news of the surrender. He had been fifteen days on

the road and three days getting his papers in order, and when it was

proposed to give him a sword, Roger Sherman suggested that they had

better "give the lad a pair of spurs." This thrust and some delay

seem to have nettled Wilkinson, who was swelling with importance, and

although he was finally made a brigadier-general, he rode off to the

north much ruffled. In later years Wilkinson was secretive enough; but

in his hot youth he could not hold his tongue, and on his way back to

Gates he talked. What he said was marked and carried to headquarters,

and on November 9 Washington wrote to Conway:--

"A letter which I received last night contained the following

paragraph,--'In a letter from General Conway to General Gates he

says, "_Heaven has determined to save your country, or a weak

general and bad counsellors would have ruined it_" I am, sir, your

humble servant,'" etc.

This curt note fell upon Conway with stunning effect. It is said that

he tried to apologize, and he certainly resigned. As for Gates, he

fell to writing letters filled with expressions of wonder as to who

had betrayed him, and writhed most pitiably under the exposure.

Washington's replies are models of cold dignity, and the calm

indifference with which he treated the whole matter, while holding

Gates to the point with relentless grasp, is very interesting. The

cabal was seriously shaken by this sudden blow. It must have dawned

upon them dimly that they might have mistaken their man, and that the

silent soldier was perhaps not so easy to dispose of by an intrigue as

they had fancied. Nevertheless, they rallied, and taking advantage of

the feeling in Congress created by Burgoyne's surrender, they set to

work to get control of military matters. The board of war was enlarged

to five, with Gates at its head and Mifflin a member, and, thus

constituted, it proceeded to make Conway inspector-general, with the

rank of major-general. This, after Conway's conduct, was a direct

insult to Washington, and marks the highest point attained by his

opponents.

In Congress, too, they became more active, and John Jay said that

there was in that body a party bitterly hostile to Washington. We know

little of the members of that faction now, for they never took the

trouble to refer to the matter in after years, and did everything that

silence could do to have it all forgotten. But the party existed none

the less, and significant letters have come down to us, one of them

written by Lovell, and two anonymous, addressed respectively to

Patrick Henry and to Laurens, then president, which show a bitter and

vindictive spirit, and breathe but one purpose. The same thought is

constantly reiterated, that with a good general the northern army had

won a great victory, and that the main army, if commanded in the same

way, would do likewise. The plan was simple and coherent. The cabal

wished to drive Washington out of power and replace him with Gates.

With this purpose they wrote to Henry and Laurens; with this purpose

they made Conway inspector-general.

When they turned from intrigue to action, however, they began to fail.

One of their pet schemes was the conquest of Canada, and with

this object Lafayette was sent to the lakes, only to find that no

preparations had been made, because the originators of the idea were

ignorant and inefficient. The expedition promptly collapsed and was

abandoned, with much instruction in consequence to Congress and

people. Under their control the commissariat also went hopelessly to

pieces, and a committee of Congress proceeded to Valley Forge and

found that in this direction, too, the new managers had grievously

failed. Then the original Conway letter, uncovered so unceremoniously

by Washington, kept returning to plague its author. Gates's

correspondence went on all through the winter, and with every letter

Gates floundered more and more, and Washington's replies grew more

and more freezing and severe. Gates undertook to throw the blame on

Wilkinson, who became loftily indignant and challenged him. The two

made up their quarrel very soon in a ludicrous manner, but Wilkinson

in the interval had an interview with Washington, which revealed an

amount of duplicity and perfidy on the part of the cabal, so shocking

to the former's sensitive nature, that he resigned his secretaryship

of the board of war on account, as he frankly said, of the treachery

and falsehood of Gates. Such a quarrel of course hurt the cabal, but

it was still more weakened by Gates himself, whose only idea seemed

to be to supersede Washington by slighting him, refusing troops, and

declining to propose his health at dinner,--methods as unusual as they

were feeble.

The cabal, in fact, was so weak in ability and character that the

moment any responsibility fell upon its members it was certain to

break down, but the absolutely fatal obstacle to its schemes was the

man it aimed to overthrow. The idea evidently was that Washington

could be driven to resign. They knew that they could not get either

Congress or public opinion to support them in removing him, but they

believed that a few well-placed slights and insults would make him

remove himself. It was just here that they made their mistake.

Washington, as they were aware, was sensitive and high-spirited to

the last degree, and he had no love for office, but he was not one of

those weaklings who leave power and place in a pet because they are

criticised and assailed. He was not ambitious in the ordinary personal

sense, but he had a passion for success. Whether it was breaking a

horse, or reclaiming land, or fighting Indians, or saving a state,

whatever he set his hand to, that he carried through to the end. With

him there never was any shadow of turning back. When, without any

self-seeking, he was placed at the head of the Revolution, he made

up his mind that he would carry it through everything to victory, if

victory were possible. Death or a prison could stop him, but neither

defeat nor neglect, and still less the forces of intrigue and cabal.

When he wrote to his brother announcing Burgoyne's surrender, he had

nothing to say of the slight Gates put upon him, but merely added in

a postscript, "I most devoutly congratulate my country and every

well-wisher to the cause on this signal stroke of Providence." This

was his tone to every one, both in private and public. His complaint

of not being properly notified he made to Gates alone, and put it in

the form of a rebuke. He knew of the movement against him from the

beginning, but apparently the first person he confided in was Conway,

when he sent him the brief note of November 9. Even after the cabal

was fully developed, he wrote about it only once or twice, when

compelled to do so, and there is no evidence that he ever talked about

it except, perhaps, to a few most intimate friends. In a letter to

Patrick Henry he said that he was obliged to allow a false impression

as to his strength to go abroad, and that he suffered in consequence;

and he added, with a little touch of feeling, that while the

yeomanry of New York and New England poured into the camp of Gates,

outnumbering the enemy two to one, he could get no aid of that sort

from Pennsylvania, and still marvels were demanded of him.

Thus he went on his way through the winter, silent except when obliged

to answer some friend, and always ready to meet his enemies. When

Conway complained to Congress of his reception at camp, Washington

wrote the president that he was not given to dissimulation, and that

he certainly had been cold in his manner. He wrote to Lafayette that

slander had been busy, and that he had urged his officers to be

cool and dispassionate as to Conway, adding, "I have no doubt that

everything happens for the best, that we shall triumph over all our

misfortunes, and in the end be happy; when, my dear Marquis, if you

will give me your company in Virginia, we will laugh at our past

difficulties and the folly of others." But though he wrote thus

lightly to his friends, he followed Gates sternly enough, and kept

that gentleman occupied as he drove him from point to point. Among

other things he touched upon Conway's character with sharp irony,

saying, "It is, however, greatly to be lamented that this adept in

military science did not employ his abilities in the progress of the

campaign, in pointing out those wise measures which were calculated to

give us 'that degree of success we could reasonably expect.'"

Poor Gates did not find these letters pleasant reading, and one more

curt note, on February 24, finished the controversy. By that time the

cabal was falling to pieces, and in a little while was dispersed.

Wilkinson's resignation was accepted, Mifflin was put under

Washington's orders, and Gates was sent to his command in the north.

Conway resigned one day in a pet, and found his resignation accepted

and his power gone with unpleasant suddenness. He then got into a

quarrel with General Cadwalader on account of his attacks on the

commander-in-chief. The quarrel ended in a duel. Conway was badly

wounded, and thinking himself dying, wrote a contrite note of apology

to Washington, then recovered, left the country, and disappeared from

the ken of history. Thus domestic malice and the "bitter party" in

Congress failed and perished. They had dashed themselves in vain

against the strong man who held firmly both soldiers and people.

"While the public are satisfied with my endeavors, I mean not to

shrink from the cause." So Washington wrote to Gordon as the cabal

was coming to an end, and in that spirit he crushed silently and

thoroughly the faction that sought to thwart his purpose, and drive

him from office by sneers, slights, and intrigues.

These attacks upon him came at the darkest moment of his military

career. Defeated at Brandywine and Germantown, he had been forced from

the forts after a desperate struggle, had seen Philadelphia and the

river fall completely into the hands of the enemy, and, bitterest of

all, he had been obliged to hold back from another assault on the

British lines, and to content himself with baffling Howe when that

gentleman came out and offered battle. Then the enemy withdrew to

their comfortable quarters, and he was left to face again the harsh

winter and the problem of existence. It was the same ever recurring

effort to keep the American army, and thereby the American Revolution,

alive. There was nothing in this task to stir the blood and rouse the

heart. It was merely a question of grim tenacity of purpose and of the

ability to comprehend its overwhelming importance. It was not a work

that appealed to or inspirited any one, and to carry it through to a

successful issue rested with the commander-in-chief alone.

In the frost and snow he withdrew to Valley Forge, within easy

striking distance of Philadelphia. He had literally nothing to rely

upon but his own stern will and strong head. His soldiers, steadily

dwindling in numbers, marked their road to Valley Forge by the blood

from their naked feet. They were destitute and in rags. When they

reached their destination they had no shelter, and it was only by the

energy and ingenuity of the General that they were led to build huts,

and thus secure a measure of protection against the weather. There

were literally no supplies, and the Board of War failed completely to

remedy the evil. The army was in such straits that it was obliged

to seize by force the commonest necessaries. This was a desperate

expedient and shocked public opinion, which Washington, as a

statesman, watched and cultivated as an essential element of success

in his difficult business. He disliked to take extreme measures, but

there was nothing else to be done when his men were starving, when

nearly three thousand of them were unfit for duty because "barefoot

and otherwise naked," and when a large part of the army were obliged

to sit up all night by the fires for warmth's sake, having no blankets

with which to cover themselves if they lay down. With nothing to eat,

nothing to burn, nothing wherewith to clothe themselves, wasting away

from exposure and disease, we can only wonder at the forbearance which

stayed the hand of violent seizure so long. Yet, as Washington had

foreseen, there was even then an outcry against him. Nevertheless, his

action ultimately did more good than harm in the very matter of public

opinion, for it opened men's eyes, and led to some tardy improvements

and some increased effort.

Worse even than this criticism was the remonstrance of the legislature

of Pennsylvania against the going into winter-quarters. They expected

Washington to keep the open field, and even to attack the British,

with his starving, ragged army, in all the severity of a northern

winter. They had failed him at every point and in every promise, in

men, clothing, and supplies. They were not content that he covered

their State and kept the Revolution alive among the huts of Valley

Forge. They wished the impossible. They asked for the moon, and then

cried out because it was not given to them. It was a stupid, unkind

thing to do, and Washington answered their complaints in a letter to

the president of Congress. After setting forth the shortcomings of the

Pennsylvanians in the very plainest of plain English, he said: "But

what makes this matter still more extraordinary in my eye is that

these very gentlemen should think a winter's campaign, and the

covering of these States from the invasion of an enemy, so easy and

practicable a business. I can answer those gentlemen, that it is a

much easier and less distressing thing to draw remonstrances in a

comfortable room, by a good fireside, than to occupy a cold, bleak

hill, and sleep under frost and snow, without clothes or blankets.

However, although they seem to have little feeling for the naked and

distressed soldiers, I feel superabundantly for them, and from my soul

I pity those miseries which it is neither in my power to relieve or

prevent."

This was not a safe man for the gentlemen of Pennsylvania to cross too

far, nor could they swerve him, with all his sense of public opinion,

one jot from what he meant to do. In the stern rebuke, and in the

deep pathos of these sentences, we catch a glimpse of the silent and

self-controlled man breaking out for a moment as he thinks of his

faithful and suffering men. Whatever happened, he would hold them

together, for in this black time we detect the fear which haunted

him, that the people at large might give way. He was determined on

independence. He felt a keen hatred against England for her whole

conduct toward America, and this hatred was sharpened by the efforts

of the English to injure him personally by forged letters and other

despicable contrivances. He was resolved that England should never

prevail, and his language in regard to her has a fierceness of tone

which is full of meaning. He was bent, also, on success, and if under

the long strain the people should weaken or waver, he was determined

to maintain the army at all hazards.

So, while he struggled against cold and hunger and destitution,

while he contended with faction at home and lukewarmness in the

administration of the war, even then, in the midst of these trials, he

was devising a new system for the organization and permanence of his

forces. Congress meddled with the matter of prisoners and with the

promotion of officers, and he argued with and checked them, and still

pressed on in his plans. He insisted that officers must have better

provision, for they had begun to resign. "You must appeal to their

interest as well as to their patriotism," he wrote, "and you must give

them half-pay and full pay in proper measure." "You must follow the

same policy with the men," he said; "you must have done with short

enlistments. In a word, gentlemen, you must give me an army,

a lasting, enduring, continental army, for therein lies

independence."[1] It all comes out now, through the dust of details

and annoyances, through the misery and suffering of that wretched

winter, through the shrill cries of ignorance and hostility,--the

great, clear, strong policy which meant to substitute an army for

militia, and thereby secure victory and independence. It is the burden

of all his letters to the governors of States, and to his officers

everywhere. "I will hold the army together," he said, "but you on all

sides must help me build it up."[1]

[Footnote 1: These two quotations are not literal, of course, but give

the substance of many letters.]

Thus with much strenuous labor and many fervent appeals he held his

army together in some way, and slowly improved it. His system began to

be put in force, his reiterated lessons were coming home to Congress,

and his reforms and suggestions were in some measure adopted. Under

the sound and trained guidance of Baron Steuben a drill and discipline

were introduced, which soon showed marked results. Greene succeeded

Mifflin as quartermaster-general, and brought order out of chaos. The

Conway cabal went to pieces, and as spring opened Washington began to

see light once more. To have held on through that winter was a great

feat, but to have built up and improved the army at such a time was

much more wonderful. It shows a greatness of character and a force of

will rarer than military genius, and enables us to understand better,

perhaps, than almost any of his victories, why it was that the success

of the Revolution lay in such large measure in the hands of one man.

After Howe's withdrawal from the Jerseys in the previous year, a

contemporary wrote that Washington was left with the remnants of an

army "to scuffle for liberty." The winter had passed, and he was

prepared to scuffle again. On May 11 Sir Henry Clinton relieved Sir

William Howe at Philadelphia, and the latter took his departure in

a blaze of mock glory and resplendent millinery, known as the

Mischianza, a fit close to a career of failure, which he was too dull

to appreciate. The new commander was more active than his predecessor,

but no cleverer, and no better fitted to cope with Washington. It was

another characteristic choice on the part of the British ministry, who

could never muster enough intellect to understand that the Americans

would fight, and that they were led by a really great soldier. The

coming of Clinton did not alter existing conditions.

Expecting a movement by the enemy, Washington sent Lafayette forward

to watch Philadelphia. Clinton and Howe, eager for a victory before

departure, determined to cut him off, and by a rapid movement nearly

succeeded in so doing. Timely information, presence of mind, and

quickness alone enabled the young Frenchman to escape, narrowly but

completely. Meantime, a cause for delay, that curse of the British

throughout the war, supervened. A peace commission, consisting of the

Earl of Carlisle, William Eden, and Governor Johnstone, arrived. They

were excellent men, but they came too late. Their propositions three

years before would have been well enough, but as it was they were

worse than nothing. Coolly received, they held a fruitless interview

with a committee of Congress, tried to bribe and intrigue, found that

their own army had been already ordered to evacuate Philadelphia

without their knowledge, and finally gave up their task in

angry despair, and returned to England to join in the chorus of

fault-finding which was beginning to sound very loud in ministerial

ears.

Meanwhile, Washington waited and watched, puzzled by the delay, and

hoping only to harass Sir Henry with militia on the march to New York.

But as the days slipped by, the Americans grew stronger, while the

British had been weakened by wholesale desertions. When he finally

started, he had with him probably sixteen to seventeen thousand men,

while the Americans had apparently at least thirteen thousand, nearly

all continental troops.[1] Under these circumstances, Washington

determined to bring on a battle. He was thwarted at the outset by his

officers, as was wont to be the case. Lee had returned more whimsical

than ever, and at the moment was strongly adverse to an attack, and

was full of wise saws about building a bridge of gold for the flying

enemy. The ascendancy which, as an English officer, he still retained

enabled him to get a certain following, and the councils of war

which were held compared unfavorably, as Hamilton put it, with the

deliberations of midwives. Washington was harassed of course by all

this, but he did not stay his purpose, and as soon as he knew that

Clinton actually had marched, he broke camp at Valley Forge and

started in pursuit. There were more councils of an old-womanish

character, but finally Washington took the matter into his own

hands, and ordered forth a strong detachment to attack the British

rear-guard. They set out on the 25th, and as Lee, to whom the command

belonged, did not care to go, Lafayette was put in charge. As soon as

Lafayette had departed, however, Lee changed his mind, and insisted

that all the detachments in front, amounting to five thousand men,

formed a division so large that it was unjust not to give him the

command. Washington, therefore, sent him forward next day with two

additional brigades, and then Lee by seniority took command on the

27th of the entire advance.

[Footnote 1: The authorities are hopelessly conflicting as to the

numbers on both sides. The British returns on March 26 showed over

19,000 men. They had since that date been weakened by desertions, but

to what extent we can only conjecture. The detachments to Florida

and the West Indies ordered from England do not appear to have taken

place. The estimate of 16,000 to 17,000 seems the most reasonable.

Washington returned his rank and file as just over 10,000, which would

indicate a total force of 13,000 to 14,000, possibly more. Washington

clearly underestimated the enemy, and the best conclusion seems to be

that they were nearly matched in numbers, with a slight inferiority on

the American side.]

In the evening of that day, Washington came up, reconnoitred the

enemy, and saw that, although their position was a strong one, another

day's unmolested march would make it still stronger. He therefore

resolved to attack the next morning, and gave Lee then and there

explicit orders to that effect. In the early dawn he dispatched

similar orders, but Lee apparently did nothing except move feebly

forward, saying to Lafayette, "You don't know the British soldiers;

we cannot stand against them." He made a weak attempt to cut off a

covering party, marched and countermarched, ordered and countermanded,

until Lafayette and Wayne, eager to fight, knew not what to do, and

sent hot messages to Washington to come to them.

Thus hesitating and confused, Lee permitted Clinton to get his baggage

and train to the front, and to mass all his best troops in the rear

under Cornwallis, who then advanced against the American lines. Now

there were no orders at all, and the troops did not know what to do,

or where to go. They stood still, then began to fall back, and then to

retreat. A very little more and there would have been a rout. As it

was, Washington alone prevented disaster. His early reports from the

front from Dickinson's outlying party, and from Lee himself, were all

favorable. Then he heard the firing, and putting the main army in

motion, he rode rapidly forward. First he encountered a straggler, who

talked of defeat. He could not believe it, and the fellow was pushed

aside and silenced. Then came another and another, all with songs of

death. Finally, officers and regiments began to come. No one knew why

they fled, or what had happened. As the ill tidings grew thicker,

Washington spurred sharper and rode faster through the deep sand, and

under the blazing midsummer sun. At last he met Lee and the main body

all in full retreat. He rode straight at Lee, savage with anger, not

pleasant to look at, one may guess, and asked fiercely and with a deep

oath, tradition says, what it all meant. Lee was no coward, and did

not usually lack for words. He was, too, a hardened man of the world,

and, in the phrase of that day, impudent to boot. But then and there

he stammered and hesitated. The fierce question was repeated. Lee

gathered himself and tried to excuse and palliate what had happened,

but although the brief words that followed are variously reported to

us across the century, we know that Washington rebuked him in such a

way, and with such passion, that all was over between them. Lee had

committed the one unpardonable sin in the eyes of his commander. He

had failed to fight when the enemy was upon him. He had disobeyed

orders and retreated. It was the end of him. He went to the rear,

thence to a court-martial, thence to dismissal and to a solitary life

with a well-founded suspicion of treason hanging about him. He was an

intelligent, quick-witted, unstable man, much overrated because he

was an English officer among a colonial people. He was ever treated

magnanimously by Washington after the day of battle at Monmouth, but

he then disappeared from the latter's life.

When Lee bowed before the storm and stepped aside, Washington was left

to deal with the danger and confusion around him. Thus did he tell the

story afterwards to his brother: "A retreat, however, was the fact, be

the causes what they may; and the disorder arising from it would have

proved fatal to the army, had not that bountiful Providence, which has

never failed us in the hour of distress, enabled me to form a regiment

or two (of those that were retreating) in the face of the enemy, and

under their fire; by which means a stand was made long enough (the

place through which the enemy were pressing being narrow) to form the

troops, that were advancing, upon an advantageous piece of ground in

the rear." We cannot add much to these simple and modest words, for

they tell the whole story. Having put Lee aside, Washington rallied

the broken troops, brought them into position, turned them back, and

held the enemy in check. It was not an easy feat, but it was done, and

when Lee's division again fell back in good order the main army was in

position, and the action became general. The British were repulsed,

and then Washington, taking the offensive, drove them back until he

occupied the battlefield of the morning. Night came upon him still

advancing. He halted his army, lay down under a tree, his soldiers

lying on their arms about him, and planned a fresh attack, to be made

at daylight. But when the dawn came it was seen that the British had

crept off, and were far on their road. The heat prevented a rapid

pursuit, and Clinton got into New York. Between there and Philadelphia

he had lost at least two thousand men by desertions in addition to

nearly five hundred who fell at Monmouth.

It is worth while to pause a moment and compare this battle with the

rout of Long Island, the surprise at the Brandywine, and the fatal

unsteadiness at Germantown. Here, too, a check was received at the

outset, owing to blundering which no one could have foreseen. The

troops, confused and without orders, began to retreat, but without

panic or disorder. The moment Washington appeared they rallied,

returned to the field, showed perfect steadiness, and the victory

was won. Monmouth has never been one of the famous battles of the

Revolution, and yet there is no other which can compare with it as an

illustration of Washington's ability as a soldier. It was not so much

the way in which it was fought, although that was fine enough, that

its importance lies as in the evidence which it gives of the way

in which Washington, after a series of defeats, during a winter

of terrible suffering and privation, had yet developed his ragged

volunteers into a well-disciplined and effective army. The battle was

a victory, but the existence and the quality of the army that won it

were a far greater triumph.

The dreary winter at Valley Forge had indeed borne fruit. With a

slight numerical superiority Washington had fought the British in the

open field, and fairly defeated them. "Clinton gained no advantage,"

said the great Frederic, "except to reach New York with the wreck of

his army; America is probably lost for England." Another year had

passed, and England had lost an army, and still held what she had

before, the city of New York. Washington was in the field with a

better army than ever, and an army flushed with a victory which had

been achieved after difficulties and trials such as no one now can

rightly picture or describe. The American Revolution was advancing,

held firm by the master-hand of its leader. Into it, during these days

of struggle and of battle, a new element had come, and the next step

is to see how Washington dealt with the fresh conditions upon which

the great conflict had entered.