ARNOLD'S TREASON, AND THE WAR IN THE SOUTH
The spring of 1780 was the beginning of a period of inactivity and
disappointment, of diligent effort and frustrated plans. During the
months which ensued before the march to the south, Washington passed
through a stress of harassing anxiety, which was far worse than
anything he had to undergo at any other time. Plans were formed, only
to fail. Opportunities arose, only to pass by unfulfilled. The network
of hostile conditions bound him hand and foot, and it seemed at times
as if he could never break the bonds that held him, or prevent or hold
back the moral, social, and political dissolution going on about him.
With the aid of France, he meant to strike one decisive blow, and end
the struggle. Every moment was of importance, and yet the days and
weeks and months slipped by, and he could get nothing done. He could
neither gain control of the sea, nor gather sufficient forces of his
own, although delay now meant ruin. He saw the British overrun the
south, and he could not leave the Hudson. He was obliged to sacrifice
the southern States, and yet he could get neither ships nor men to
attack New York. The army was starving and mutinous, and he sought
relief in vain. The finances were ruined, Congress was helpless, the
States seemed stupefied. Treason of the most desperate kind suddenly
reared its head, and threatened the very citadel of the Revolution.
These were the days of the war least familiar to posterity. They
are unmarked in the main by action or fighting, and on this dreary
monotony nothing stands out except the black stain of Arnold's
treason. Yet it was the time of all others when Washington had most to
bear. It was the time of all others when his dogged persistence and
unwavering courage alone seemed to sustain the flickering fortunes of
the war.
In April Washington was pondering ruefully on the condition of affairs
at the south. He saw that the only hope of saving Charleston was in
the defense of the bar; and when that became indefensible, he saw that
the town ought to be abandoned to the enemy, and the army withdrawn to
the country. His military genius showed itself again and again in
his perfectly accurate judgment on distant campaigns. He seemed to
apprehend all the conditions at a glance, and although his wisdom
made him refuse to issue orders when he was not on the ground, those
generals who followed his suggestions, even when a thousand miles
away, were successful, and those who disregarded them were not.
Lincoln, commanding at Charleston, was a brave and loyal man, but he
had neither the foresight nor the courage to withdraw to the country,
and then, hovering on the lines of the enemy, to confine them to the
town. He yielded to the entreaties of the citizens and remained, only
to surrender. Washington had retreated from New York, and after five
years of fighting the British still held it, and had gone no further.
He had refused to risk an assault to redeem Philadelphia, at the
expense of much grumbling and cursing, and had then beaten the enemy
when they hastily retreated thence in the following spring. His
cardinal doctrine was that the Revolution depended upon the existence
of the army, and not on the possession of any particular spot of
ground, and his masterly adherence to this theory brought victory,
slowly but surely. Lincoln's very natural inability to grasp it, and
to withstand popular pressure, cost us for a time the southern States
and a great deal of bloody fighting.
In the midst of this anxiety about the south, and when he foresaw the
coming disasters, Washington was cheered and encouraged by the arrival
of Lafayette, whom he loved, and who brought good tidings of his
zealous work for the United States in Paris. An army and a fleet were
on their way to America, with a promise of more to follow. This was
great news indeed. It is interesting to note how Washington took it,
for we see here with unusual clearness the readiness of grasp and
quickness of thought which have been noted before, but which are
not commonly attributed to him. It has been the fashion to treat
Washington as wise and prudent, but as distinctly slow, and when he
was obliged to concentrate public opinion, either military or civil,
or when doubt overhung his course, he moved with great deliberation.
When he required no concentration of opinion, and had made up his
mind, he could strike with a terribly swift decision, as at Trenton
or Monmouth. So when a new situation presented itself he seized with
wonderful rapidity every phase and possibility opened by changed
conditions.
The moment he learned from Lafayette that the French succors were
actually on the way, he began to lay out plans in a manner which
showed how he had taken in at the first glance every chance and every
contingency. He wrote that the decisive moment was at hand, and that
the French succors would be fatal if not used successfully now.
Congress must improve their methods of administration, and for this
purpose must appoint a small committee to coöperate with him. This
step he demanded, and it was taken at once. Fresh from his interview
with Lafayette, he sent out orders to have inquiries made as to
Halifax and its defenses. Possibly a sudden and telling blow might
be struck there, and nothing should be overlooked. He also wrote to
Lafayette to urge upon the French commander an immediate assault on
New York the moment he landed. Yet despite his thought for New York,
he even then began to see the opportunities which were destined to
develop into Yorktown. He had longed to go to the south before, and
had held back only because he felt that the main army and New York
were still the key of the position, and could not be safely abandoned.
Now, while planning the capture of New York, he asked in a letter
whether the enemy was not more exposed at the southward and therefore
a better subject for a combined attack there. Clearness and precision
of plan as to the central point, joined to a perfect readiness to
change suddenly and strike hard and decisively in a totally different
quarter, are sure marks of the great commander. We can find them all
through the correspondence, but here in May, 1780, they come out with
peculiar vividness. They are qualities arising from a wide foresight,
and from a sure and quick perception. They are not the qualities of a
slow or heavy mind.
On June 1 came the news of the surrender of Charleston and the loss of
the army, which was followed by the return of Clinton to New York. The
southern States lay open now to the enemy, and it was a severe trial
to Washington to be unable to go to their rescue; but with the same
dogged adherence to his ruling idea, he concentrated his attention
on the Hudson with renewed vigilance on account of Clinton's return.
Adversity and prosperity alike were unable to divert him from the
control of the great river and the mastery of the middle States until
he saw conclusive victory elsewhere fairly within his grasp. In the
same unswerving way he pushed on the preparations for what he felt to
be the coming of the decisive campaign and the supreme moment of the
war. To all the governors went urgent letters, calling on the States
to fill their lines in the continental army, and to have their militia
in readiness.
In the midst of these anxieties and preparations, the French arrived
at Newport, bringing a well-equipped army of some five thousand men,
and a small fleet. They brought, too, something quite as important,
in the way of genuine good-will and full intention to do all in their
power for their allies. After a moment's hesitation, born of unlucky
memories, the people of Rhode Island gave De Rochambeau a hearty
welcome, and Washington sent him the most cordial greeting. With the
greeting went the polite but earnest request for immediate action,
together with plans for attacking New York; and, at the same time,
another urgent call went out to the States for men, money, and
supplies. The long-looked-for hour had arrived, a fine French army was
in Newport, a French fleet rode in the harbor, and instead of action,
immediate and effective, the great event marked only the beginning of
a period of delays and disappointment, wearing heart and nerve almost
beyond endurance.
First it appeared that the French ships could not get into New York
harbor. Then there was sickness in the French army. Then the British
menaced Newport, and rapid preparations had to be made to meet that
danger. Then it came out that De Rochambeau was ordered to await the
arrival of the second division of the army, with more ships; and after
due waiting, it was discovered that the aforesaid second division,
with their ships, were securely blockaded by the English fleet at
Brest. On our side it was no better; indeed, it was rather worse.
There was lack of arms and powder. The drafts were made with
difficulty, and the new levies came in slowly. Supplies failed
altogether, and on every hand there was nothing but delay, and ever
fresh delay, and in the midst of it all Washington, wrestling with
sloth and incoherence and inefficiency, trampled down one failure and
disappointment only to encounter another, equally important, equally
petty, and equally harassing.
On August 20 he wrote to Congress a long and most able letter, which
set forth forcibly the evil and perilous condition of affairs. After
reading that letter no man could say that there was not need of the
utmost exertion, and for the expenditure of the last ounce of energy.
In it Washington struck especially at the two delusions with which
the people and their representatives were lulling themselves into
security, and by which they were led to relax their efforts. One was
the belief that England was breaking down; the other, that the arrival
of the French was synonymous with the victorious close of the war.
Washington demonstrated that England still commanded the sea, and that
as long as she did so there was a great advantage on her side. She
was stronger, on the whole, this year than the year before, and her
financial resources were still ample. There was no use in looking for
victory in the weakness of the enemy, and on the other hand, to rely
wholly on France was contemptible as well as foolish. After stating
plainly that the army was on the verge of dissolution, he said: "To me
it will appear miraculous if our affairs can maintain themselves much
longer in their present train. If either the temper or the resources
of the country will not admit of an alteration, we may expect soon
to be reduced to the humiliating condition of seeing the cause of
America, in America, upheld by foreign arms. The generosity of our
allies has a claim to all our confidence and all our gratitude, but
it is neither for the honor of America, nor for the interest of the
common cause, to leave the work entirely to them."
It must have been bitter to Washington above all men, with his high
dignity and keen sense of national honor, to write such words as
these, or make such an argument to any of his countrymen. But it was a
work which the time demanded, and he did it without flinching. Having
thus laid bare the weak places, he proceeded to rehearse once more,
with a weariness we can easily fancy, the old, old lesson as to
organization, a permanent army, and a better system of administration.
This letter neither scolded, nor bewailed, nor desponded, but it told
the truth with great force and vigor. Of course it had but slight
results, comparatively speaking; still it did something, and the final
success of the Revolution is due to the series of strong truth-telling
letters, of which this is an example, as much as to any one thing done
by Washington. There was need of some one, not only to fight battles
and lead armies, but to drive Congress into some sort of harmony, spur
the careless and indifferent to action, arouse the States, and kill
various fatal delusions, and in Washington the robust teller of
unwelcome truths was found.
Still, even the results actually obtained by such letters came but
slowly, and Washington felt that he must strike at all hazards.
Through Lafayette he tried to get De Rochambeau to agree to an
immediate attack on New York. His army was on the very eve of
dissolution, and he began with reason to doubt his own power of
holding it together longer. The finances of the country were going
ever faster to irremediable ruin, and it seemed impossible that
anything could postpone open and avowed bankruptcy. So, with his army
crumbling, mutinous, and half starved, he turned to his one unfailing
resource of fighting, and tried to persuade De Rochambeau to join
him. Under the circumstances, Washington was right to wish to risk a
battle, and De Rochambeau, from his point of view, was equally so in
refusing to take the offensive, unless the second division arrived or
De Guichen came with his fleet, or the English force at New York was
reduced.
In these debates and delays, mingled with an appeal to De Guichen in
the West Indies, the summer was fast wearing away, and, by way of
addition, early in September came tidings of the battle of Camden,
and the utter rout of Gates's army. Despite his own needs and trials,
Washington's first idea was to stem the current of disaster at the
south, and he ordered the fresh Maryland troops to turn back at once
and march to the Carolinas, but Gates fled so fast and far that it
was some time before anything was heard of him. As more news came of
Camden and its beaten general, Washington wrote to Rutledge that he
should ultimately come southward. Meantime, he could only struggle
with his own difficulties, and rack his brains for men and means to
rescue the south. It must have seemed to Washington, in those lovely
September days, as if fate could not have any worse trials in store,
and that if he could only breast the troubles now surging about him,
he might count on sure and speedy success. Yet the bitterest trial of
all was even then hanging over his head, and with a sort of savage
sarcasm it came upon him in one of those rare moments when he had an
hour of rest and sunshine.
The story of Arnold's treason is easily told. Its romantic side
has made it familiar to all Americans, and given it a factitious
importance. Had it succeeded it would have opened opportunities of
disaster to the American arms, although it would not have affected
the final outcome of the Revolution. As it was it failed, and had no
result whatever. It has passed into history simply as a picturesque
episode, charged with possibilities which attract the imagination, but
having, in itself, neither meaning nor consequences beyond the two
conspirators. To us it is of interest, because it shows Washington in
one of the sharpest and bitterest experiences of his life. Let us see
how he met it and dealt with it.
From the day when the French landed, both De Rochambeau and
Washington had been most anxious to meet. The French general had been
particularly urgent, but it was difficult for Washington to get away.
As he wrote on August 21: "We are about ten miles from the enemy. Our
popular government imposes a necessity of great circumspection. If
any misfortune should happen in my absence, it would be attended with
every inconvenience. I will, however, endeavor if possible, and as
soon as possible, to meet you at some convenient rendezvous." In
accordance with this promise, a few weeks later, he left Greene in
command of the army, and, not without misgivings, started on September
18 to meet De Rochambeau. On his way he had an interview with Arnold,
who came to him to show a letter from the loyalist Colonel Robinson,
and thus disarm suspicion as to his doings. On the 20th, the day when
André and Arnold met to arrange the terms of the sale, Washington was
with De Rochambeau at Hartford. News had arrived, meantime, that De
Guichen had sailed for Europe; the command of the sea was therefore
lost, and the opportunity for action had gone by. There was no need
for further conference, and Washington accordingly set out on his
return at once, two or three days earlier than he had intended.
He was accompanied by his own staff, and by Knox and Lafayette with
their officers. With him, too, went the young Count Dumas, who has
left a description of their journey, and of the popular enthusiasm
displayed in the towns through which they passed. In one village,
which they reached after nightfall, all the people turned out, the
children bearing torches, and men and women hailed Washington as
father, and pressed about him to touch the hem of his garments.
Turning to Dumas he said, "We may be beaten by the English; it is
the chance of war; but there is the army they will never conquer."
Political leaders grumbled, and military officers caballed, but
the popular feeling went out to Washington with a sure and utter
confidence. The people in that little village recognized the great and
unselfish leader as they recognized Lincoln a century later, and from
the masses of the people no one ever heard the cry that Washington was
cold or unsympathetic. They loved him, and believed in him, and such a
manifestation of their devotion touched him deeply. His spirits rose
under the spell of appreciation and affection, always so strong upon
human nature, and he rode away from Fishkill the next morning at
daybreak with a light heart.
The company was pleasant and lively, the morning was fair, and as they
approached Arnold's headquarters at the Robinson house, Washington
turned off to the redoubts by the river, telling the young men that
they were all in love with Mrs. Arnold and would do well to go
straight on and breakfast with her. Hamilton and McHenry followed his
advice, and while they were at breakfast a note was brought to Arnold.
It was the letter of warning from André announcing his capture, which
Colonel Jameson, who ought to have been cashiered for doing it, had
forwarded. Arnold at once left the table, and saying that he was going
to West Point, jumped into his boat and was rowed rapidly down the
river to the British man-of-war. Washington on his arrival was told
that Arnold had gone to the fort, and so after a hasty breakfast he
went over there himself. On reaching West Point no salute broke the
stillness, and no guard turned out to receive him. He was astonished
to learn that his arrival was unexpected, and that Arnold had not been
there for two days. Still unsuspecting he inspected the works, and
then returned.
Meantime, the messenger sent to Hartford with the papers taken on
André reached the Robinson house and delivered them to Hamilton,
together with a letter of confession from André himself. Hamilton read
them, and hurrying out met Washington just coming up from the river.
He took his chief aside, said a few words to him in a low voice, and
they went into the house together. When they came out, Washington
looked as calm as ever, and calling to Lafayette and Knox gave them
the papers, saying simply, "Whom can we trust now?" He dispatched
Hamilton at once to try to intercept Arnold at Verplanck's Point, but
it was too late; the boat had passed, and Arnold was safe on board the
Vulture. This done, Washington bade his staff sit down with him at
dinner, as the general was absent, and Mrs. Arnold was ill in her
room. Dinner over, he immediately set about guarding the post, which
had been so near betrayal. To Colonel Wade at West Point he wrote:
"Arnold has gone to the enemy; you are in command, be vigilant." To
Jameson he sent word to guard André closely. To the colonels and
commanders of various outlying regiments he sent orders to bring up
their troops. Everything was done that should have been done, quickly,
quietly, and without comment. The most sudden and appalling treachery
had failed to shake his nerve, or confuse his mind.
Yet the strong and silent man was wrung to the quick, and when
everything possible had been done, and he had retired to his room, the
guard outside the door heard him marching back and forth through all
the weary night. The one thing he least expected, because he least
understood it, had come to pass. He had been a good and true friend to
the villain who had fled, for Arnold's reckless bravery and dare-devil
fighting had appealed to the strongest passion of his nature, and he
had stood by him always. He had grieved over the refusal of Congress
to promote him in due order and had interceded with ultimate success
in his behalf. He had sympathized with him in his recent troubles
in Philadelphia, and had administered the reprimand awarded by the
court-martial so that rebuke seemed turned to praise. He had sought
to give him every opportunity that a soldier could desire, and had
finally conferred upon him the command of West Point. He had admired
his courage and palliated his misconduct, and now the scoundrel had
turned on him and fled. Mingled with the bitterness of these memories
of betrayed confidence was the torturing ignorance of how far this
base treachery had extended. For all he knew there might be a brood of
traitors about him in the very citadel of America. We can never know
Washington's thoughts at that time, for he was ever silent, but as we
listen in imagination to the sound of the even footfalls which the
guard heard all through that September night, we can dimly guess the
feelings of the strong and passionate nature, wounded and distressed
almost beyond endurance.
There is but little more to tell. The conspiracy stopped with Arnold.
He had no accomplices, and meant to deliver the post and pocket the
booty alone. The British tried to spread the idea that other officers
had been corrupted, but the attempt failed, and Washington's prompt
measures of defense checked any movement against the forts. Every
effort was made by Clinton to save André, but in vain. He was tried
by a court composed of the highest officers in the American service,
among whom was Lafayette. On his own statement, but one decision was
possible. He was condemned as a spy, and as a spy he was sentenced to
be hanged. He made a manly appeal against the manner of his death, and
begged to be shot. Washington declined to interfere, and André went to
the gallows.
The British, at the time, and some of their writers afterwards,
attacked Washington for insisting on this mode of execution, but there
never was an instance in his career when he was more entirely right.
André was a spy and briber, who sought to ruin the American cause
by means of the treachery of an American general. It was a dark and
dangerous game, and he knew that he staked his life on the result. He
failed, and paid the penalty. Washington could not permit, he would
have been grossly and feebly culpable if he had permitted, such an
attempt to pass without extreme punishment. He was generous and
magnanimous, but he was not a sentimentalist, and he punished this
miserable treason, so far as he could reach it, as it deserved. It is
true that André was a man of talent, well-bred and courageous, and of
engaging manners. He deserved all the sympathy and sorrow which he
excited at the time, but nothing more. He was not only technically a
spy, but he had sought his ends by bribery, he had prostituted a flag
of truce, and he was to be richly paid for his work. It was all hire
and salary. No doubt André was patriotic and loyal. Many spies have
been the same, and have engaged in their dangerous exploits from
the highest motives. Nathan Hale, whom the British hanged without
compunction, was as well-born and well-bred as André, and as patriotic
as man could be, and moreover he was a spy and nothing more. André
was a trafficker in bribes and treachery, and however we may pity his
fate, his name has no proper place in the great temple at Westminster,
where all English-speaking people bow with reverence, and only a most
perverted sentimentality could conceive that it was fitting to erect a
monument to his memory in this country.
Washington sent André to the gallows because it was his duty to do so,
but he pitied him none the less, and whatever he may have thought of
the means André employed to effect his end, he made no comment upon
him, except to say that "he met his fate with that fortitude which was
to be expected from an accomplished man and gallant officer." As to
Arnold, he was almost equally silent. When obliged to refer to him he
did so in the plainest and simplest way, and only in a familiar letter
to Laurens do we get a glimpse of his feelings. He wrote: "I am
mistaken if at this time Arnold is undergoing the torment of a mental
hell. He wants feeling. From some traits of his character which have
lately come to my knowledge, he seems to have been so hackneyed in
villainy, and so lost to all sense of honor and shame, that, while his
faculties will enable him to continue his sordid pursuits, there will
be no time for remorse." With this single expression of measureless
contempt, Washington let Arnold drop from his life. The first shock
had touched him to the quick, although it could not shake his steady
mind. Reflection revealed to him the extraordinary baseness of
Arnold's real character, and he cast the thought of him out forever,
content to leave the traitor to the tender mercies of history. The
calmness and dignity, the firmness and deep feeling which Washington
exhibited, are of far more interest than the abortive treason, and
have as real a value now as they had then, when suspicion for a moment
ran riot, and men wondered "whom they could trust."
The treason of Arnold swept like a black cloud across the sky, broke,
and left everything as before. That such a base peril should have
existed was alarming and hateful. That it should have been exploded
harmlessly made all men give a deep sigh of relief. But neither the
treason nor its discovery altered the current of events one jot. The
summer had come and gone. The French had arrived, and no blow had
been struck. There was nothing to show for the campaign but
inaction, disappointment, and the loss of the Carolinas. With the
commander-in-chief, through it all, were ever present two great
questions, getting more portentous and more difficult of solution with
each succeeding day. How he was to keep his army in existence was one,
and how he was to hold the government together was the other. He
had thirteen tired States, a general government almost impotent, a
bankrupt treasury, and a broken credit. The American Revolution had
come down to the question of whether the brain, will, and nerve of one
man could keep the machine going long enough to find fit opportunity
for a final and decisive stroke. Washington had confidence in the
people of the country and in himself, but the difficulties in the way
were huge, and the means of surmounting them slight. There is here
and there a passionate undertone in the letters of this period, which
shows us the moments when the waves of trouble and disaster seemed to
sweep over him. But the feeling passed, or was trampled under
foot, for there was no break in the steady fight against untoward
circumstances, or in the grim refusal to accept defeat.
It is almost impossible now to conceive the actual condition at that
time of every matter of detail which makes military and political
existence possible. No general phrases can do justice to the situation
of the army; and the petty miseries and privations, which made life
unendurable, went on from day to day in ever varying forms. While
Washington was hearing the first ill news from the south and
struggling with the problem on that side, and at the same time was
planning with Lafayette how to take advantage of the French succors,
the means of subsisting his army were wholly giving out. The men
actually had no food. For days, as Washington wrote, there was no meat
at all in camp. Goaded by hunger, a Connecticut regiment mutinied.
They were brought back to duty, but held out steadily for their pay,
which they had not received for five months. Indeed, the whole army
was more or less mutinous, and it was only by the utmost tact that
Washington kept them from wholesale desertion. After the summer had
passed and the chance for a decisive campaign had gone with it, the
excitement of expected action ceased to sustain the men, and the
unclothed, unpaid, unfed soldiers began again to get restive. We can
imagine what the condition of the rank and file must have been when
we find that Washington himself could not procure an express from
the quartermaster-general, and was obliged to send a letter to the
Minister of France by the unsafe and slow medium of the post. He was
expected to carry on a war against a rich and powerful enemy, and he
could not even pay a courier to carry his dispatches.
With the commander-in-chief thus straitened, the sufferings of the
men grew to be intolerable, and the spirit of revolt which had been
checked through the summer began again to appear. At last, in January,
1781, it burst all the bounds. The Pennsylvania line mutinied and
threatened Congress. Attempts on the part of the English to seduce
them failed, but they remained in a state of open rebellion. The
officers were powerless, and it looked as if the disaffection would
spread, and the whole army go to pieces in the very face of the enemy.
Washington held firm, and intended in his unshaken way to bring them
back to their duty without yielding in a dangerous fashion. But the
government of Pennsylvania, at last thoroughly frightened, rushed into
the field, and patched up a compromise which contained most perilous
concessions. The natural consequence was a fresh mutiny in the New
Jersey line, and this time Washington determined that he would not be
forestalled. He sent forward at once some regiments of loyal troops,
suppressed the mutiny suddenly and with a strong hand, and hanged
two of the ringleaders. The difficulty was conquered, and discipline
restored.
To take this course required great boldness, for these mutinies were
of no ordinary character. In the first place, it was impossible to
tell whether any troops would do their duty against their fellows, and
failure would have been fatal. In the second place, the grievances
of the soldiers were very great, and their complaints were entirely
righteous. Washington felt the profoundest sympathy with his men, and
it was no easy matter to maintain order with soldiers tried almost
beyond endurance, against their comrades whose claims were just. Two
things saved the army. One was Washington's great influence with the
men and their utter belief in him. The other was the quality of
the men themselves. Lafayette said they were the most patient and
patriotic soldiers the world had seen, and it is easy to believe him.
The wonder is, not that they mutinied when they did, but that the
whole army had not mutinied and abandoned the struggle years before.
The misfortunes and mistakes of the Revolution, to whomever due, were
in no respect to be charged to the army, and the conduct of the troops
through all the dreary months of starvation and cold and poverty is
a proof of the intelligent patriotism and patient courage of the
American soldier which can never be gainsaid. To fight successful
battles is the test of a good general, but to hold together a
suffering army through years of unexampled privations, to meet endless
failure of details with unending expedients, and then to fight battles
and plan campaigns, shows a leader who was far more than a good
general. Such multiplied trials and difficulties are overcome only by
a great soldier who with small means achieves large results, and by a
great man who by force of will and character can establish with all
who follow him a power which no miseries can conquer, and no suffering
diminish.
The height reached by the troubles in the army and their menacing
character had, however, a good as well as a bad side. They penetrated
the indifference and carelessness of both Congress and the States.
Gentlemen in the confederate and local administrations and
legislatures woke up to a realizing sense that the dissolution of the
army meant a general wreck, in which their own necks would be in very
considerable danger; and they also had an uneasy feeling that starving
and mutinous soldiers were very uncertain in taking revenge.
The condition of the army gave a sudden and piercing reality to
Washington's indignant words to Mathews on October 4: "At a time when
public harmony is so essential, when we should aid and assist each
other with all our abilities, when our hearts should be open to
information and our hands ready to administer relief, to find
distrusts and jealousies taking possession of the mind and a party
spirit prevailing affords a most melancholy reflection, and forebodes
no good." The hoarse murmur of impending mutiny emphasized strongly
the words written on the same day to Duane: "The history of the war is
a history of false hopes and temporary expedients. Would to God they
were to end here."
The events in the south, too, had a sobering effect. The congressional
general Gates had not proved a success. His defeat at Camden had
been terribly complete, and his flight had been too rapid to inspire
confidence in his capacity for recuperation. The members of Congress
were thus led to believe that as managers of military matters they
left much to be desired; and when Washington, on October 11, addressed
to them one of his long and admirable letters on reorganization, it
was received in a very chastened spirit. They had listened to many
such letters before, and had benefited by them always a little,
but danger and defeat gave this one peculiar point. They therefore
accepted the situation, and adopted all the suggestions of the
commander-in-chief. They also in the same reasonable frame of mind
determined that Washington should select the next general for the
southern army. A good deal could have been saved had this decision
been reached before; but even now it was not too late. October 14,
Washington appointed Greene to this post of difficulty and danger, and
Greene's assumption of the command marks the turning-point in the
tide of disaster, and the beginning of the ultimate expulsion of the
British from the only portion of the colonies where they had made a
tolerable campaign.
The uses of adversity, moreover, did not stop here. They extended to
the States, which began to grow more vigorous in action, and to show
signs of appreciating the gravity of the situation and the duties
which rested upon them. This change and improvement both in Congress
and the States came none too soon. Indeed, as it was, the results of
their renewed efforts were too slow to be felt at once by the army,
and mutinies broke out even after the new spirit had shown itself.
Washington also sent Knox to travel from State to State, to see the
various governors, and lay the situation of affairs before them; yet
even with such a text it was a difficult struggle to get the States to
make quick and strong exertions sufficient to prevent a partial mutiny
from becoming a general revolt. The lesson, however, had had its
effect. For the moment, at least, the cause was saved. The worst
defects were temporarily remedied, and something was done toward
supplies and subsistence. The army would be able to exist through
another winter, and face another summer. Then the next campaign might
bring the decisive moment; but still, who could tell? Years, instead
of months, might yet elapse before the end was reached, and then no
man could say what the result would be.
Washington saw plainly enough that the relief and improvement were
only temporary, and that carelessness and indifference were likely to
return, and be more case-hardened than ever. He was too strong and
sane a man to waste time in fighting shadows or in nourishing himself
with hopes. He dealt with the present as he found it, and fought down
difficulties as they sprang up in his path. But he was also a man of
extraordinary prescience, with a foresight as penetrating as it was
judicious. It was, perhaps, his most remarkable gift, and while
he controlled the present he studied the future. Outside of the
operations of armies, and the plans of campaign, he saw, as the
war progressed, that the really fatal perils were involved in the
political system. At the beginning of the Revolution there was no
organization outside the local state governments. Congress voted and
resolved in favor of anything that seemed proper, and the States
responded to their appeal. In the first flush of revolution, and the
first excitement of freedom, this was all very well. But as the
early passion cooled, and a long and stubborn struggle, replete with
sufferings and defeat, developed itself, the want of system began to
appear.
One of the earliest tasks of Congress was the formation of articles
for a general government, but state jealousies, and the delays
incident to the movements of thirteen sovereignties, prevented their
adoption until the war was nearly over. Washington, suffering from all
the complicated troubles of jarring States and general incoherence,
longed for and urged the adoption of the act of confederation. He saw
sooner than any one else, and with more painful intensity, the need of
better union and more energetic government. As the days and months of
difficulties and trials went by, the suggestions on this question in
his letters grew more frequent and more urgent, and they showed the
insight of the statesman and practical man of affairs. How much he
hoped from the final acceptance of the act of confederation it is not
easy to say, but he hoped for some improvement certainly. When at last
it went into force, he saw almost at once that it would not do, and in
the spring of 1780 he knew it to be a miserable failure. The system
which had been established was really no better than that which had
preceded it. With alarm and disgust Washington found himself flung
back on what he called "the pernicious state system," and with worse
prospects than ever.
Up to the time of the Revolution he had never given attention to the
philosophy or science of government, but when it fell to his lot to
fight the war for independence he perceived almost immediately the
need of a strong central government, and his suggestions, scattered
broadcast among his correspondents, manifested a knowledge of the
conditions of the political problem possessed by no one else at that
period. When he was satisfied of the failure of the confederation, his
efforts to improve the existing administration multiplied, and he soon
had the assistance of his aide-de-camp, Alexander Hamilton, who then
wrote, although little more than a boy, his remarkable letters on
government and finance, which were the first full expositions of the
political necessities from which sprang the Constitution of the United
States. Washington was vigorous in action and methodical in business,
while the system of thirteen sovereignties was discordant, disorderly,
and feeble in execution. He knew that the vices inherent in the
confederation were ineradicable and fatal, and he also knew that it
was useless to expect any comprehensive reforms until the war was
over. The problem before him was whether the existing machine could be
made to work until the British were finally driven from the country.
The winter of 1780-81 was marked, therefore, on his part, by an urgent
striving for union, and by unceasing efforts to mend and improve the
rickety system of the confederation. It was with this view that he
secured the dispatch of Laurens, whom he carefully instructed, to get
money in Paris; for he was satisfied that it was only possible to tide
over the financial difficulties by foreign loans from those interested
in our success. In the same spirit he worked to bring about
the establishment of executive departments, which was finally
accomplished, after delays that sorely tried his patience. These two
cases were but the most important among many of similar character, for
he was always at work on these perplexing questions.
It is an astonishing proof of the strength and power of his mind that
he was able to solve the daily questions of army existence, to deal
with the allies, to plan attacks on New York, to watch and scheme for
the southern department, to cope with Arnold's treason, with mutiny,
and with administrative imbecility, and at the very same time consider
the gravest governmental problems, and send forth wise suggestions,
which met the exigencies of the moment, and laid the foundation of
much that afterwards appeared in the Constitution of the United
States. He was not a speculator on government, and after his fashion
he was engaged in dealing with the questions of the day and hour. Yet
the ideas that he put forth in this time of confusion and conflict and
expedients were so vitally sound and wise that they deserve the most
careful study in relation to after events. The political trials
and difficulties of this period were the stern teachers from whom
Washington acquired the knowledge and experience which made him the
principal agent in bringing about the formation and adoption of the
Constitution of the United States. We shall have occasion to examine
these opinions and views more closely when they were afterwards
brought into actual play. At this point it is only necessary to trace
the history of the methods by which he solved the problem of the
Revolution before the political system of the confederation became
absolutely useless.