The Glorious Cause (75 page)

59. WASHINGTON

To the congress, and most of the people north of Virginia, Yorktown was the victory that had ended the war. But Washington could not enjoy their celebration, cautioned against assuming the British would simply vanish with barely a whimper.

The command in the Southern Department was still Nathanael Greene’s, and the news of Yorktown had not slowed Greene from the enormous task that still confronted him. The names meant little to people in the north, Hobkirk’s Hill and Ninety-Six and Eutaw Springs, but each was a fight worthy of anyone’s comparison to Brandywine, Princeton, or Monmouth. Though Greene claimed none of these extraordinary fights as victories, the British were so bloodied that their commanders were forced to abandon their inland outposts and withdraw the entire British command to the safety of Charleston.

After Yorktown, Anthony Wayne had gone south to reinforce Greene, and by the following spring, Wayne’s ragged army had cleared the British completely out of Georgia. By the summer after Yorktown, the entire British presence in America was reduced to the city of Charleston and the main headquarters at New York.

Though Washington was still hesitant to claim victory, in England, the government there was doing it for him. Henry Clinton had been recalled, replaced as overall commander by Governor Guy Carleton of Canada, the fourth man to hold the command. By all rights, that position should have fallen to Clinton’s second in command, but Cornwallis knew that Yorktown was a catastrophe that no one could overlook. Even worse for King George, the news of Yorktown, and all its implications had reduced Lord North’s cabinet to a shambles. King George had no choice but to accept a new government, run now by the principal voices of his hated opposition.

Throughout the entire war, the most significant and impactful pieces of news that had reached England had been the defeats of their army, from Boston to Saratoga, and now Yorktown. Even the king conceded that his army could no longer hope to prevent American independence. By early 1782, a new peace commission was established, with none of the pretense or arrogance of their predecessors. They would not sail to America with lofty demands, would not pose and preen before the congress. They would go instead to Paris, and they would negotiate the final and humiliating terms of a peace treaty. The man to lead the negotiations for the Americans would, of course, be Ben Franklin.

As with every communication, the distance between Philadelphia and Paris and London would make any process a slow one. Though the negotiations dragged on for more than a year, the outcome was rarely in doubt. Every condition the Americans insisted upon was agreed to. On September 3, 1783, the treaty was signed by delegations from both sides. The following January, it was ratified by the United States Congress. What most Americans had known since the fall of Yorktown was now made official to the entire world. The United States of America had earned its rightful place as an independent nation.

N
EW
Y
ORK,
N
OVEMBER 1783

Washington had waited for the last of the British command to set sail before he would ride into the city. There would be no purpose for meetings or even social gatherings. He had admitted to himself that his hesitation was symbolic as well, something he rarely focused on. He simply didn’t want to be in the city with
those
people, didn’t want to hear sorrowful congratulations for his efforts, no empty platitudes about a war justly won. His deeply sown hatred for the British was muted now, no one in the British camp he could single out with particular prejudice. But the city itself had been the victim, and it was one more symbol of the horror, the despair, so much tragedy that the British had inflicted. He didn’t want to discuss it with anyone. He simply wanted them gone.

As he rode down into the city itself, the crowds had emerged, but they were not a grand and boisterous mob. It was so much like he had seen in Boston, seven years before, the faces of a people scarred by the brutality of their experiences. A fourth of the city was still in black skeletal ruins, naked chimneys rising above cavelike dwellings. Though the crowd was sparse, their suffering was an overpowering sign of what the city had become, a festering sore for those people who were too poor or too crippled to escape, Americans loyal to their cause who had no means, and no other place to go.

There had been a great many more suffering souls, the mass of humanity that had once packed into the city, the Tories who had scampered to the safety of the British guns. He cared little for the suffering of the loyalists, so many refugees with the means and the wealth to escape the wrath of their neighbors. After Yorktown, the loyalists were the only real source of bloodshed in the north, bands of marauding Tories who still sought revenge on the citizenry who had swept them from power. Their violence had infuriated Washington. They were not soldiers at all, were no better than bandits, exacting retribution on the poor and powerless. When Washington responded with violence of his own, they had scurried back to New York, shoving the desperate residents deeper into their holes.

But nearly all the loyalists and Tories were gone, most seeking escape by sailing to England, some going to Canada. The people they had left behind were the people Washington saw.

As he rode farther into the city he looked out across the East River, toward the place where his own horror began, the awful fight on Long Island, the shameful wounds to the confidence of his army. He cared little for the accolades that would have met some grand triumph. He thought instead of all those who had looked to him for leadership, had followed him to that first devastating fight. In every battle, he had borne that weight, the responsibility to the men who followed him, from the officers to the barefoot militiamen, so many who had believed he would lead them to victory over that polished and efficient professional army. For so many, it was never to be, so many of those faithful men still out there, buried somewhere in the fields around Brooklyn. But the river was a harsh reminder of a worse horror, so many thousands stuffed into shallow graves in the mud of the riverbank, those tragic souls who had not survived the rotting hell of the prison ships.

That so many had followed him through it all was a mystery to him. The small victories could not erase the stain of hopelessness he had so often carried, the despair he hid so well. And yet, despite the marches and the starvation and the nakedness, so many still stood tall and faced the awful challenge. Their courage and sacrifice had cleansed him of the disdain for those Americans who had done so little to help their cause. He held no grudge, no thoughts of vengeance against those whose concerns were so petty, whose selfishness threatened to destroy any chance that this nation would survive. Many in the army did not share his generosity, and he had confronted the ugly talk, officers and their men succumbing to the basest emotion of revenge. They had threatened to march upon the congress, to exact punishment on those whose thievery and ambition had done so much to damage the cause, those who did not deserve to be called Americans. But Washington had confronted them, had eased the anger as he had eased their frustrations in the past. He was still no orator, could only offer the soft word, the emotional plea that they return home. No paper, no treaty, no congress could carry their nation into permanence without their hands, the strong, the dedicated, the men who knew so much of sacrifice. It was not his words that calmed them, it was his presence, the large man now bent with exhaustion, beaten down by his own sacrifice, standing before them with little to offer but his own dignity. They had obeyed.

N
EW
Y
ORK,
D
ECEMBER 4, 1783

The gathering had been planned at a tavern close to the waterfront, attended by those few officers still near the city who could join him for some sort of celebration of his final day in New York. It would be a lavishly prepared banquet, white tablecloths and silver, the extraordinary effort of their host, Samuel Fraunces.

They were not many, less than a dozen men, but he would show no disappointment. So many had gone home, so many others were still involved in the business of the army, spread out all through the nation. As he sat at the head of the table, he realized the small number of men was something of a blessing, that he could speak to each of them, try to offer some kind of personal appreciation. As the food was set before him, and the wine goblets filled, he knew it was not to be. There was no appetite, and no conversation. Every man in the room looked down to his plate with emotion too deep for anyone to speak. After a long moment of silence, he said, “I am sorry . . . I had hoped this would be a time of elation. I am fortunate to be allowed to return to my home.”

He saw nods, most of the faces still turned away. He reached for the wine goblet, his hand shaking, and he steadied it on the table, said, “We should have a toast.” He raised the goblet. “With a heart full of love and gratitude, I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable.”

He let out a breath, raised the goblet, took a sip of the wine. The men around the table followed, the goblets now back in place. He had hoped someone would speak, ease the hard emotion he could not escape. He looked around the table, Knox, von Steuben, no response. He looked to the far end, Tench Tilghman sitting beside Benjamin Tallmadge, the man who had organized Washington’s spy network in New York. No one spoke still, and he nodded to Tilghman, the wonderfully reliable young man, thought, Perhaps you can assist me . . . one more time. But Tilghman returned the look with red eyes and a quiver in his lips, and Washington felt the man’s loyalty now in some deep place he tried to hide. It was affection now unembarrassed and pure, and he realized that he loved them all, the men in this one room, and those so far away. Lafayette was already sailing for France, Greene was still in the Carolinas. It is good they are not here. As it is . . . I have no words to give these men. He reached for the goblet, stopped, took a long breath, felt the tightness in his throat.

“I cannot come to each of you, but shall feel obliged if each of you will come and take me by the hand.”

Knox was first, stood, steadied his wide frame against the table, stepped close to him, stood as straight as he could, held out his hand. The gesture was simple and honest and removed the last hard barrier to Washington’s emotions. Knox was already crying. Washington put his hands on the man’s shoulders, and they came together for a brief, silent embrace. Washington was blinded by his own tears as the men moved close to him in a single line, each one repeating the gesture. The last was Tilghman, and the young man stood frozen for a long moment, tried to speak, and Washington shook his head, no, it is all right. He embraced him as well, could not hold his emotions, felt Tilghman’s sobs matching his own. There were still no words, nothing he could say to any of them. He moved to the door, turned to face them, and von Steuben suddenly snapped hard to attention, the Prussian holding a firm salute for a long moment. Without a word, Washington turned, moved out into the street.

He was compelled to stop in philadelphia, that if he intended to resign his command, there would be a formal ceremony in congress, and most certainly a litany of speeches. He had not expected the congress to respond to him with as much emotion as he had received from his officers. But he could not speak to them without emotion of his own, that after so many years, the controversies, the hostility, he could not ignore that this one body of men was still the genesis of everything he had fought for. For nearly nine years he had been in their service, had suffered and endured and triumphed. The faces were many and different, but the body and all it commanded was still intact.

There had been talk of receptions and balls in his honor, but he would not be detained, that once his resignation had been accepted as official, he had one priority, one destination in his mind.

The horse responded to his every command, carried him in a steady trot through the lush green hills, across the quiet streams and bare wintry trees. He fought the urge to push the animal harder, to make the journey quicker, and the horse seemed to know, brought him along in a steady hard gait on the roads so familiar now. With a hard leap in his chest, he turned the horse up the long drive toward Mount Vernon, studied the grounds through teary eyes, the gardens, the fields, all the precious lands that had missed his caring hand. It would be his again, the very soil beneath him would feel his touch, the house itself would know his strength. He rode up close to the rear entryway, glanced out past the house to the stunning vista of the Potomac, more beautiful now than he had ever remembered. He stopped the horse, sat for a long moment. His mind was already racing forward, all the tasks, the wonderful joy of the work, but his thoughts were halted by the slow motion of the door. He saw her now, the small woman dwarfed by the tall entryway, and she made a small cry, put a hand to her mouth, stepped out onto the porch. He climbed down from the horse, and in one quick sweep was up the short steps, had her firmly in his arms. He could feel her strength again, felt her energy filling him. He had wanted to say so much, tell her of all his plans for the house, the land, so much they would share now, all the sacrifice behind them. She held him tightly still, small soft sounds, and he felt his energy slip away, a broad smile opening up inside of him. Of course, it can wait. There will be time, after all. And, it is Christmas Eve.

AFTERWORD

CHARLES, EARL CORNWALLIS

It may be doubted whether so small a number of men ever employed so short a space of time with greater and more lasting effects upon the history of the world.

—BRITISH HISTORIAN GEORGE TREVELYAN,
ON WASHINGTON’S VICTORY AT TRENTON

I shall never rest my head on my pillow in peace and quiet as long as I remember the loss of my American colonies.

—KING GEORGE III

B
ENJAMIN
F
RANKLIN

He freed men by enlightening them.

—COMTESSE D’HOUDETOT, 1781

He becomes the central figure in the tedious and diplomatically sensitive negotiations with the British for the peace treaty that will officially end the war. Suffering from weakening vision, he confronts the challenges of his new task by fashioning a combination of reading glasses and an aid to distant vision, thus, he invents bifocals.

Suffering from the continuing effects of the gout that has plagued him for so long, and weakening from both age and the strain of the work he must perform, he requests that congress release him from his official responsibilities. He leaves France in July 1785. During his work with the peace treaty, he is stricken by the first symptoms of a bladder stone, the misery of which ends most of his social appearances. Thus the rumors of his lechery and sexual conquests of young French maids is made even more ridiculous. Observing that his critics, including John Adams, seem to assume the worst because of the attention he draws from Frenchwomen, he writes:

This is the civilest nation on earth. . . . Somebody, it seems, gave it out that I loved ladies; and then everybody presented me their ladies (or the ladies presented themselves) to be embraced; that is, have their necks kissed. For as to the kissing of lips or cheeks it is not the mode here; the first is reckoned rude, and the other may rub off the paint. The French ladies have, however, a thousand other ways of rendering themselves agreeable: by their various attentions and civilities and their sensible conversation.

In late 1783, Franklin witnesses a phenomenon that has all of France in an uproar: the launching of a lighter-than-air balloon, and later, the first such launch that bears human passengers. In response to skepticism that a balloon has no usefulness, he says, “What use is a newborn infant?”

His farewell to France inspires universal sorrow in that country, and he returns to America as the most celebrated and famed private citizen in the world. Arriving in Philadelphia, he is received with all the respect and acclaim appropriate to his long years of extraordinary service and accomplishments. His return is marked by an artillery salute and a continuous ringing of church bells. But his public service is far from concluded. Elected to the Pennsylvania State Assembly, he is voted by that body to be “President of Pennsylvania.” As the new nation begins to feel the pains of creating its first true government, in 1787, at age eighty-one, Franklin is selected as a delegate to the Constitutional Convention. As he suffers the increasing strains of age and the stone that torments him, his presence becomes as much ceremonial as practical. Though he proposes several suggestions as the foundation for the new government, including a single house of legislature, none are adopted. He accepts the diminished stature of his role with grace, regards his presence as a post of honor, and behaves accordingly. Though becoming too frail for the grueling debates required to shape the document, for those who seek him out, he is never without humor, counsel, and wisdom.

Increasingly inactive, he only occasionally attends the convention, and as the particulars of the document continue to be disputed, he offers one final bit of counsel:
“I cannot help expressing a wish that every member of this Convention who may still have objections to it would, with me, on this occasion doubt a little of his infallibility, and, to make manifest our unanimity, put his name to this instrument.”

He is among the first to sign it, and is a key force behind the ratification of the document by the state of Pennsylvania.

He continues to be sharp of mind, but his body’s failures increasingly confine him to his home. He receives friends and noted visitors, and finds enormous pleasure in the company of his grandchildren. To the amused annoyance of his friends in Philadelphia, he disputes the adoption of the bald eagle as the symbol of the new nation, prefers instead the turkey, “a much more respectable bird.”

Despite the tormenting misery he suffers from the bladder stone, he will not consent to an operation. His daughter Sally remains constantly by his side, and when she seeks to comfort him with the wish that his life will yet be long, he replies, “I hope not.” He is stricken with an infection in his lung and lapses into a coma, from which he never awakes. In the presence of his two grandsons, he dies on April 17, 1790. He is eighty-four.

Franklin’s writings are preserved primarily by the efforts of his grandson, Temple, who serves as editor of a definitive six-volume collection of Franklin’s essays, experiments, and witticisms, published in 1818.

Historian Carl Van Doren writes: “Franklin was not one of those men who owe their greatness merely to the opportunities of their times. In any age, in any place, Franklin would have been great. He moved through the world in a humorous mastery of it. Whoever learns about his deeds remembers longest the man who did them. And sometimes, with his marvelous range . . . he seems to have been more than any single man: a harmonious human multitude.”

The portrait of Franklin stolen from the Franklin home by British Major John André remains in possession of the descendants of General Charles Grey until 1906, when Albert, Earl Grey, Governor of Canada, offers its return. The painting hangs today in the White House in Washington, D.C.

All the days of my life I shall remember that a great man, a sage, wished to be my friend.

—M
ADAME
A
NNE-
L
OUISE
B
RILLON

N
ATHANAEL
G
REENE

During 1782, he continues to maintain his post in the Carolinas, and when the British evacuate Charleston, Greene occupies the city as his headquarters. He spends long months assisting the state of South Carolina to rebuild its government. He is thus rewarded with enormous gifts of both land and money from the three states in his department, the Carolinas and Georgia. In August 1783, he travels home to a hero’s welcome in Rhode Island, but returns to the south with prospects for settling into the life of a gentleman farmer.

His personal reputation is severely damaged by a scandal involving the finances he had worked to secure for the feeding of his army, a problem that Washington had eliminated through the support of Robert Morris in Pennsylvania. But the Southern Departments are too far removed from the concerns of congress, and Greene learns that those he trusted to secure the debts necessary to provide for his men have squandered the funds. Despite his reception in the southern states as an heroic savior, he is nonetheless held accountable for the financial pledges, and thus, most of the gifts he has been rewarded are reclaimed by the states as payment.

In the summer of 1785, he moves Kitty and his now four children to the one remaining property he holds in Georgia, called Mulberry Grove. His years of frustration in dealing with the congress, both as Washington’s subordinate and as quartermaster general, give him considerable insight into politics, and he writes often about the critical need for a central government. His principles and suggestions mirror many of those eventually written into the Constitution. Though he is considered a likely candidate for several political offices, he refuses any offers, has had enough of life so far removed from his family. He settles well into the pleasant life on his farm, surprises himself that he shares Washington’s enthusiasm for the soil. He is surprised even more when he learns his passion is shared by a new neighbor, “Mad Anthony” Wayne.

But Greene’s New England upbringing has given him a weakness he cannot predict, and despite so many campaigns and so much physical distress in war, it is the summer sun that strikes him down. Accompanied by Kitty, he journeys to Savannah in an unsheltered carriage, and the oppressive heat gives him a fever from which he never recovers. On June 19, 1785, attended by Kitty and Anthony Wayne, Greene dies. He is forty-four.

He is one of only two general officers who serve in the army continuously from the first siege of Boston through the surrender. The other is Washington, who, after the British surrender, salutes Greene with what is now an ironic note: “I congratulate you on the glorious end you have put to hostilities in the Southern States. The honor and advantage of it I hope you will live long to enjoy.”

Strangely, Greene is often overlooked by early historians, and his greatest notoriety emerges first from the pens of the British. Sir John Fortescue writes: “Greene’s reputation stands firmly on his campaign in the Carolinas. His keen insight into the heart of the blunders of Cornwallis and his skillful use of his troops are the most notable features of his work. He is a general of profound common sense.”

Greene’s friend and subordinate, Henry “Light-Horse Harry” Lee, proposes to congress a resolution that a monument to Nathanael Greene be constructed in the nation’s capital. The motion passes with no controversy, but the matter is strangely forgotten. In 1875, the issue is reopened by Rhode Island’s two senators, and ninety years late, the monument is finally constructed in Washington, D.C.

As long as the enterprises of Trenton and Princeton shall be regarded as the dawning of that bright day which afterward broke forth with such resplendent luster, so long ought the name of Greene to be revered by a grateful country.

—A
LEXANDER
H
AMILTON
, 1789

M
ARIE DU
M
OTIER,
T
HE
M
ARQUIS DE
L
AFAYETTE

Upon his return to France in early 1782, he finally begins to receive the respect due him from the “veterans” of the French service. His close acquaintance with King Louis XVI ensures a prominent position in French foreign affairs, and when Thomas Jefferson is sent to Paris as United States minister to France, Lafayette becomes his invaluable liaison in the often dark halls of French government.

In 1789, he is named commander of the National Guard, the elite troops close to King Louis. He continues to serve his king during the early months of the French Revolution, and single-handedly rescues Louis and Marie Antoinette from one notable explosion of mob violence.

He is promoted to lieutenant general in the French army in 1791, is prominent as commander of the French forces when war with Austria erupts in 1792. Swept out of power by the outcome of the French Revolution, he flees the country, only to be captured and imprisoned by the Austrians. Freed by Napoleon in 1797, he returns to France to find a very different land, under the control of a dictator whom Lafayette respects but will not serve. Napoleon continues to offer him positions in his government, including the prestigious post as representative to the United States. But Lafayette refuses, chooses instead to pursue a peaceful life as a civilian. He settles into the farm country outside Paris until 1818, then succumbs to pressure to return to politics. He serves in the French Chamber of Deputies for six years, but resigns to accept an invitation from President James Monroe to tour the United States as an honored guest of a grateful nation.

In 1824–25, his yearlong parade through America is met by an extraordinary show of affection and admiration from a people to which he had been so dedicated. He returns to France every bit the hero who has captured the love of the American people.

He writes his memoirs, describing himself in the third person and making no attempt at modesty. But few can deny that the accounts are among the most accurate of those set into writing by one who was so centrally involved in the struggle for American independence.

Nearly bankrupted by the French Revolution, he never seeks reimbursement of his considerable expenses during the war in America. Congress awards him a small fraction of what he is due, but provides him a sizable grant of land, mostly in the new territory that is Louisiana.

He returns to politics, but never enjoys the prestige and power of his early years. He lives out his life as a beloved man of modest means and dies from a flulike ailment in May 1834. He is seventy-seven.