Blood of Tyrants: George Washington & the Forging of the Presidency (42 page)

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Authors: Logan Beirne

Tags: #American Revolution, #Founding Fathers, #George Washington, #18th Century

BOOK: Blood of Tyrants: George Washington & the Forging of the Presidency
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In a strange twist of fate, a failure of communication between Washington and his Southern Army proved crucial to winning the war. The Southern Army sent a message to Washington requesting that he support their Yorktown assault, while Washington simultaneously sent a message outlining his objective of retaking New York City. Only one reached its intended recipient. Fortuitously, Washington’s plan was intercepted, putting Clinton on high alert for an attack on New York and thus unwilling to divert troops to reinforce Cornwallis. But while Clinton was fretting over the north, Washington had received the Southern Army’s request for support. Having grown highly adaptable, he quickly devised another sneak attack back in his home state.
3
Before he left his perch outside New York, Washington concocted a “judiciously concerted stratagem” to throw Clinton into alarm and prompt him to call back part of his forces from Virginia in order to defend his New York garrison.
4
Washington—this time intentionally—began cultivating false information about a fake plan to attack Manhattan via Staten Island. He left a small skeleton army behind in order to create the illusion of an invasion force, ordering his men to pitch tents, keep the fires burning, and lay pontoons so that Clinton might believe they were preparing for an amphibious assault.
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His ruse set, Washington then ordered as many men as he could spare to march southward.
His designs were so secret that his own army was flummoxed. A doctor attending to the Continental Army described the situation as being like “some theatrical exhibition, where the interest and expectations of the spectators are continually increasing, and where curiosity is wrought to the highest point. Our destination has been for some time a matter of perplexing doubt and uncertainty.”
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That is exactly what Washington wanted.
However confused they were by his intentions, the troops held Washington in such high esteem that they placed “the fullest confidence” in his “capacious mind, full of resources.” The soldiers marching south had no idea where they were going or where they would fight, but they would follow their commander unquestioningly, trusting in the plans he held “under an impenetrable veil of secrecy.”
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Many of them believed they were preparing for an amphibious assault on New York rather than a 550-mile march down to Virginia—and so did Clinton.
Soon, Washington’s caravan of men, weapons, wagons, and camp wives and children streamed through New Jersey. Keeping step to the unusually swift beat of the fife and drum on those dry summer days, the soldiers kicked up a cloud of blinding dust into the hot air. His men were happy to follow their esteemed leader blindly (at times literally so, due to the dust) in order to fulfill his secret plan. As they raced, the ragged soldiers were “cheered with enthusiasm by the populace, who hailed them as the war-torn defenders of the country.”
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Clinton had no idea of Washington’s true intentions until the Continental Army had already marched all the way through New Jersey and crossed the Delaware River. He had duped his old adversary, but Washington worried that his plan would still fall apart. He was very much dependent on French naval support to block both Clinton’s reinforcements and Cornwallis’s retreat. Therefore, he and his officers had lobbied hard to get the French ships to leave their posts defending France’s interests in the Caribbean and come to assist in the American siege. The American Revolution had become a world war, with the French forces harassing the British from the Caribbean to Egypt to India. While such far-flung warfare indirectly aided the Americans by diverting British power, the Americans viewed the situation more myopically: they wanted the French to be directly involved in
their
fight. With only a small window of opportunity, the French agreed to make a detour to the waters surrounding Yorktown. Washington could only hope they would hold true to their word.
As the days ticked by without any sign of the French, Washington grew increasingly nervous that Cornwallis would slip away before his forces were positioned. He was “distressed beyond expression,” questioning whether the French warships would arrive before the British fleet could “frustrate all our flattering prospects.”
9
When masts were spotted out over the water, both sides watched in great suspense to see which flags they flew. To the Americans’ jubilation—and Cornwallis’s dread—the summer horizon filled with fleurs-de-lis.
Winning the race, twenty-four French ships took up defensive positions in time to repel the nineteen British rescue warships that had finally been sent from New York City.
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“So unexpected a naval superiority on the side of the enemy—which far exceeded everything we had in prospect—was not a little alarming,” wrote a stunned Clinton, “and seemed to call for more than common exertion to evade the impending ruin.”
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When the aggressive French cannon sent the British ships recoiling back to New York, the Americans knew they finally had the upper hand. An officer informed Greene that they had gotten Cornwallis “handsomely in a pudding bag.”
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Another said, “Cornwallis may now tremble for his fate, for nothing but some extraordinary interposition of his guardian angels seems capable of saving him and his whole army from captivity.”
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Washington began pounding Cornwallis with a terrifying artillery barrage. He sent his French troops and a contingent of Americans under his trusty protégé Hamilton to confront British defensive positions. The allied forces trounced the British, and Cornwallis grew desperate to escape with what was left of his men. His guardian angels did not save him after all. Once again, the elements came to the Americans’ aid, as a sudden storm prevented Cornwallis from fleeing northward into the night.
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The allied American and French forces had sealed him in.
Riding to the front line, Washington appeared almost godlike as he fearlessly dismounted his horse amidst the British fire. One of his aides, “solicitous for his safety,” suggested nervously, “Sir you are exposed here. Had you not better step a little back?” To which Washington replied, “if you are afraid, you have liberty to step back.”
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Washington struck a few ceremonial blows into the ground with a pickax and the Americans dug in for a siege. Finally, they were the ones attacking.
As Cornwallis and his men hunkered down within the city praying for Clinton to rescue them, the American and French forces rained metal upon their prostrate bodies. One patriot described the ships as “enwrapped in a torrent of fire . . . spreading with vivid brightness among the combustible rigging” against the night sky, “while all around was thunder and lightning from our numerous cannon and mortars.” In his eyes, it was “one of the most sublime and magnificent spectacles which can be imagined.” The Americans marveled at the magnitude of the cannon fire hitting the town and the river beyond, sending up “columns of water like the spouting of monsters of the deep.”
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Cornwallis found the spectacle far less entertaining. He realized that reinforcements would not arrive in time, and “thus expired the last hope of the British army.”
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Thinking it “wanton and inhuman to the last degree to sacrifice the lives of [his] small body of gallant soldiers,” Cornwallis drafted his surrender in October 1781.
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Washington, expressing his “Ardent Desire to spare the further Effusion of Blood,” accepted the surrender on generous terms: Britain’s army at Yorktown would surrender to Washington and its navy to the French.
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The Americans would take the common soldiers prisoner, but allow Cornwallis and his officers to retain their private property and return home. Washington thus came off as not only triumphant, but magnanimous.
The surrendering British, on the other hand, were not viewed so positively. One New Jersey officer wrote that “the British officers in general behaved like boys who had been whipped at school. Some bit their lips; some pouted; others cried. Their round, broad-brimmed hats were well-adapted to the occasion, hiding those faces they were ashamed to show.”
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Cornwallis, who had so often “appeared in splendid triumph at the head of his army,” now sailed in disgrace back to England, where only his wife’s grave was awaiting him.
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When news of Yorktown reached Congress, they did not even have enough money to pay the messenger. But, after taking up a collection from among themselves to settle the tab, the congressmen—and the rest of America—could rejoice. Washington had finally humbled the British Empire.
Word of America’s great victory took over a month to sail across the Atlantic. When news arrived on the British Isles in late November 1781, it was met with shock and humiliation. The prime minister of the British Parliament, Lord North, took the news like “a ball in his breast.” He “opened his arms, exclaiming wildly, as he paced up and down[,] ‘O God! it is all over!’”
22
And it was. After suffering 25,000 military deaths and losing more battles than they had won, the American forces had humbled the mightiest empire on earth.
33
 
Winning the Peace
 
T
he British people sued for peace. Anticlimactically for him, Clinton lost his post as British commander in a whimper rather than a grand battle with Washington. His legacy was mixed: some described him as “an honourable and respectable officer” and others as “fool enough to command an army when he is incapable of commanding a troop of horse.”
1
In his own defense, Clinton attempted to pin the blame on Cornwallis, who shot back by publicly reciting the strategic blunders of his former commander. Clinton would continue to serve his country as a soldier and a politician. But when he departed New York for London in the spring of 1782 and resumed his seat in Parliament, this body was much different from the one he had left at the beginning of the war.
The British Parliament was deeply shaken by the loss at Yorktown. Antiwar factions took over, and Lord North, saying that “the fatal day has come,” resigned as prime minister.
2
King George III accepted his resignation with dread. While he had previously enjoyed control over Parliament, he now faced a legislature that not only wanted to end his war, but also declared that “the power of the Crown has increased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished.”
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Now even his throne was in question.
The king had closely identified his own honor with winning the war. He was said to have aspired to “keep the rebels harassed, anxious, and poor, until the day when, by a natural and inevitable process, discontent and disappointment were converted into penitence and remorse.”
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But the will of his people had changed, thus making his continued crusade impossible. And so he drafted his abdication.
George III was convinced that the shift in Parliament had “totally incapacitated Him from either conducting the War with effect, or from obtaining any Peace but on conditions which would prove destructive” to Britain. Therefore, he felt obliged to take “the painful step of quitting . . . for ever.”
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Although he never submitted the abdication and even managed to fend off major changes to the monarchy, he suffered emotionally and endured bouts of insanity.
6
He nevertheless retained the thrown until his death in 1820, becoming the longest-ruling British monarch up to that time.
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But he spent the rest of his days knowing that he would go down in history as the king who lost the American colonies.
After Yorktown, the Americans had not won yet, however. They still needed to navigate the treacherous peace process, which proved to be an international diplomatic struggle of colossal magnitude and deep intrigue. As former allies secretly turned against one another and bitter foes joined forces, it appeared probable that the American novices would be diplomatically outmaneuvered by the shrewd old European powers. They were rabbits in a fox den. But as they had shown throughout the war, the wily Americans could outfox just about anyone.
The peace talks would fundamentally shape the future of the new nation, but America’s great leader was not at the table. Instead, Washington held down the home front while Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and John Jay, a thirty-five-year-old congressman, took the helm in Europe.
8
These three men, all brilliant, could not have been any more different in temperament. Franklin was cunning and reserved, while Adams was direct and irascible, and Jay suspicious and isolationist.
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Together they made a formidable team.
And all their skills would be needed to navigate the tangled web of old alliances and grudges. The European powers were prepared to step all over the United States in pursuit of their own interests. In fact, America’s closest ally, France, intended to hijack the peace process in order to obtain the spoils for its Crown. After all, the French had entered the war more out of hatred for the British than any grand love of liberty. And the American peace delegation was not under any illusions otherwise. John Jay was particularly distrustful of French motives. “They are interested in separating us from Great Britain,” he surmised, “and on that point we may, I believe, depend upon them; but it is not their interest that we should become a great and formidable people, and therefore they will not help us to become so.”
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