Victory at Yorktown (39 page)

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WASHINGTON COULD NOT
know it when he was at Newburgh, but King George III had issued a proclamation on February 14, 1783, notifying the world that hostilities had ceased between Great Britain, France, Spain, Holland, and the United States of America. It amounted to an armistice, but it went deeper than that: the war was over.

Following that stunning announcement, the Earl of Shelburne—who became prime minister upon the sudden death of Rockingham—initiated talks with the other European belligerents and the Americans, represented by John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, and John Jay. Their negotiations dragged on, seemingly endlessly, until the third day of September, 1783, when the peacemakers gathered to sign the definitive treaty, in which the opening sentence of Article I proclaimed what the Declaration of Independence had resolved seven years earlier: “His Britannic Majesty acknowledges the said United States … to be free, sovereign and independent states.”

The three American delegates, ignoring the instructions of Congress—which would have required them to abide by the wishes of the French foreign ministry—skillfully managed to obtain a settlement that gained the new nation virtually everything they wanted for it. (At the time, it turned out, Vergennes had been secretly informing the government in London that he opposed many of the American claims, including their “pretentious ambitions” concerning boundaries and fisheries.)

What suddenly emerged was a new nation that was unlike any other in the world. In helping to make it so, the delegates had achieved a triumph—made even more remarkable when the ever practical Benjamin Franklin cannily succeeded in persuading Vergennes to grant the newly minted United States of America a loan of yet another 6 million livres.

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FOR A WAR
that yielded such far-reaching consequences for the entire world, it was not easy to fathom how it had been achieved. No one could say with certainty that the rebels—with the inestimably valuable help of France—had won the war, or whether the conflict had been lost by the British.

To begin with, the physical handicaps confronting the British were simply staggering. The awesome logistics of the operation required that every article of clothing and weaponry needed by the army be transported three thousand miles across the unforgiving North Atlantic. Moreover, few Englishmen grasped the fact that the geography of America and the difficulties of communication within and without were at the root of many insurmountable problems. But as one perceptive officer observed, the English supply system was based not only on the Atlantic Ocean but on the rivers flowing into it, a fact of life that “had absolutely prevented us this whole war from going 15 miles from a navigable river.” And of course the effect of those three thousand ocean miles had a paralyzing effect on communications between Whitehall and the front lines in America.

Beyond that, the blundering, slothful British high command deserved much blame for the loss. Take the condescending attitude of British officers toward the rebels, which took its toll on the eventual outcome. From the very beginning they disliked and underestimated Americans, of whom they were contemptuous, and disliked the conflict itself as infra dig. It would be an easy war, they knew, against men they denounced as cowards, scoundrels, rascals, vermin, who made war “like savages,” and were “the poorest mean-spirited scoundrels that ever surely pretended to the dignity of rebellion.”

As General James Murray saw it in July 1776, “we shall beat them this autumn if we know how to set about it,” and in that hint of doubt lies another reason for their ultimate defeat. Senior officers were seen by their juniors, who bore the brunt of the fight, as negligent, inefficient, inactive, and inept, men who did
not
“know how to set about it.” Lord Rawdon complained bitterly about those superiors: “It is not only the lives of many valuable members of society which are risked by the[ir] negligence, but the whole empire of Great Britain in America is hazarded.” In December of 1775 Charles Stuart described the British generals in America as “a pack of the most ordinary men … who give themselves trouble about the merest trifles, whilst things of consequence go unregarded”; three years later he said, “hardly one General Officer … does not declare his intention of going home, the same with officers of all ranks who, could they procure leave, would be happy to leave the Army.”

As the behavior of Clinton and Cornwallis revealed, not only did generals quarrel with one another, but each blamed the other for every reversal.

Behind many of the blunders made by Britain's civilian and military authorities was the king—a not very intelligent man who had no military experience whatever, was an obsessive meddler, and was to blame for much that went wrong. Rigid, moralistic, quick-tempered, he never forgot a grudge and insisted that on every major decision he had the final word and intended to keep it that way, no matter what. Thanks in large measure to His Royal Majesty, the deck was heavily stacked against the British.

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A HAUNTING QUESTION
is whether a true majority of Americans had wanted the Revolution in the first place. Chances are that they did not. If, in John Adams's colorful phrase, “We were about one third Tories, and [one] third timid, and one third true blue,” this suggests that somewhere between a majority and two-thirds may have opposed the war. And if one assumes that Adams was speaking of public opinion as he remembered it at or near the time the Revolution began, what were the figures seven years later when the terrible war weariness had penetrated all levels of society and diminished what enthusiasm had once existed?

Among those uncommitted, many had opposed the war on religious grounds or because they yearned for unity and peace; others—merchants, tradesmen, shipowners, and small farmers—because of its effect on business; still others because they simply wanted nothing to do with a war and refused to take sides. So you might say the American Revolution was fought and won by a determined minority—a minority whose leadership, mercifully, consisted of conservatives who were men of considerable standing and influence.

Unfortunately, by 1783 most of the best minds had left Congress to return to their states, where their hearts lay. Nationhood was unfamiliar, unexplored territory, after all, yet if ever there was a need for leadership by a strong civil authority this was it, for Congress was hopelessly inadequate, a hollow shell of an organization, too often incapable even of mustering a quorum. The army was the only entity with a cadre of leaders—men accustomed to making decisions and acting upon them. And to only one of those men was leadership in the civil area an ingrained habit.

As early as 1777, with the army in winter quarters in Morristown, George Washington had begun operating as a leader of the confederated states, devoting much of his time to members of Congress and state officials, on top of his military duties. Throughout the war he acceded to the wishes of Congress, always seeking its approval of his plans and actions, providing direction when it was sought. But now, when the country needed them most, the majority of those civil authorities were nowhere to be seen, and matters were coming to a head, precipitated by the long-overdue payment of the army.

As the year wound down and the British army prepared to leave, it was increasingly evident that leadership of the American people would be the next great challenge the states would have to face.

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FOR MORE THAN
seven years, Manhattan had been occupied by a British army. So by the autumn of 1783, when the time came at last for the Americans to reclaim the city, little remained of the rebel presence that had once been so important.

The two generals—for the Americans, George Washington; for the British, Sir Guy Carleton, who had replaced Sir Henry Clinton—had agreed that the British would evacuate New York City on November 25, 1783.

The day dawned crisp and sparkling, with the wind out of the northwest, and as Washington and his troops approached Manhattan Island from their camp on the Hudson, they saw no autumn foliage as one might expect. Everything that could be used for fuel had been cut by the British—forests, orchards, fences, outbuildings—everything. In this wasteland, mansions belonging to patriot leaders, which had been used by British officers, were run-down, deserted, unpainted, and overrun by weeds.

One-third of New York's buildings—including Trinity Church—had been destroyed by fire in 1776 and never rebuilt, so what remained of a huge area of town was charred timbers and blackened, freestanding chimneys. This was a shabby, unloved city of filthy streets and deserted houses with shattered windows, derelict remains of what had once been a vibrant seaport town.

As Washington and his men entered Manhattan, clusters of citizens came out to cheer them, but they were few in number.

The small American army—each man with a union cockade on his left breast and a sprig of laurel in his hat—marched as far as the Battery and halted, broke ranks, and sat down on the grass to wait for the British to withdraw. At one o'clock the redcoats formed up and headed for the wharves on the East River, where they were rowed out to the waiting transports.

In their footsteps came the American military: General Washington, mounted on a magnificent gray horse, accompanied by Governor George Clinton, escorted by troops under General Henry Knox, a corps of dragoons, the light infantry, artillery, and a battalion of Massachusetts men. Years later a New York woman who had been an eyewitness of the scene wrote that she and her friends had been accustomed for a long time to the British military display of finery, troops in scarlet uniforms and burnished arms, whereas the American troops that marched into town that day were “ill-clad and weather beaten and made a forlorn appearance; but then they were
our
troops, and as I looked at them and thought upon all they had done and suffered for us, my heart and my eyes were full, and I admired and gloried in them the more, because they were weather beaten and forlorn.”

Then came civilians, some mounted and riding eight abreast, many more of them on foot, also marching eight abreast, and as the marchers passed the people lining the streets, cheering and clapping, everyone's eyes were on George Washington, the hero of the Revolution, who had kept the cause alive even in the darkest days of suffering and defeat.

For the next few days, while British ships remained in the harbor, taking on the last soldiers and some loyalists, surrounded by American and French vessels—all of them flying their country's colors—a succession of dinners was given, all of them with speeches eulogizing Washington. Each speech called for a response from the General and fortunately his aide David Humphreys was on hand to compose a more or less standard reply, thanking the speaker for the tribute while acknowledging the aid of Providence in all that happened, and expressing his faith in the future of America.

At last it was time to say farewell before he and his aides were taken by barge from Whitehall in lower Manhattan to Paulus Hook in New Jersey, where horses would be waiting for them. It was Friday, December 4, and the General had arranged for his officers to convene with him at Fraunces' Tavern at noon. Shortly after the clock struck the hour, he entered the long room and saw those officers who had entered the city with him on the 25th, plus a few others who lived nearby and returned to the city. But it was a disappointing turnout, since many failed to appear because of their anger over his failure to obtain payment they had expected from Congress. Of twenty-nine major generals, only three were present: Knox, Steuben, and McDougall. Of forty-four brigadiers, only one: James Clinton. A handful of colonels and majors was there, along with more junior officers, some of them unknown to the commander in chief, but whether or not these officers thought of it in such terms, they represented to Washington the men who had stood at his side throughout the desperate years of poverty and suffering while their own families scraped by at home, pinching their pennies, seeing men who had refused to serve remain comfortable and prosper.

The proprietor had laid out a collation in the room, and Washington tried to eat something, thought better of it, and filled a glass with wine, passing the decanter on to the others. When bottles had gone around the room and everyone had a drink in his hands, the General raised his glass and, in a voice choked with emotion, said, “With a heart full of love and gratitude, I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your later days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable.”

The response was an awkward chorus of thanks and words of appreciation, as the men drank the wine in what was almost a communion gesture.

Washington looked out at them, his eyes filled with tears, and said in a halting voice, “I cannot come to each of you, but shall feel obliged if each of you will come and take me by the hand.”

As it happened, the officer standing closest to the General was Henry Knox, the self-taught master artillerist who in eight years had been a pillar of strength for his leader. Now he stepped forward with his hand outstretched, and Washington held out his own, then realized, as he looked into his friend's eyes, all that Knox had meant to him, threw his arms around the big man, and kissed him. And so it went with everyone in the room, from Steuben down to the youngest officer, one after the other stepping up to embrace the General, their eyes streaming tears and no one trusting himself to say a word. As Benjamin Tallmadge, the daring dragoon, wrote years later, “The simple thought that we were then about to part from the man who had conducted us through a long and bloody war, and under whose conduct the glory and independence of our country had been achieved, and that we should see his face no more in this world seemed to me utterly insupportable.”

The room was silent as the tall, uniformed figure raised his arm in a farewell gesture, walked over to the door and out of the tavern into the cobbled street where a guard of honor waited, then down the way toward the waterfront.