Washington: A Life (11 page)

On June 28 Washington ordered his exhausted men, who had been dispersed building roads, to retreat within the flimsy confines of Fort Necessity. At a war council that day, the outlook seemed pretty bleak. Intelligence reports, only slightly exaggerated, warned that the French would attack with eight hundred French soldiers and four hundred Indians, or several times Washington’s own strength. And their army was commanded by a Frenchman with a fiercely personal mission. Captain Louis Coulon de Villiers was the older brother of the fallen Jumonville and was bent upon avenging his death. To worsen matters, Washington’s depleted men had lacked meat or bread for six days and munched on withered corn as they dragged ponderous cannon across hilly terrain. Yet despite his vulnerable position, Washington remained sanguine that, with only three hundred men, he could defeat the superior French force. According to the Half King’s mocking account, Washington thought the French soldiers would pop up conveniently in the open field and allow themselves to get shot.
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In choosing Fort Necessity, Washington opted for a spot poorly situated to withstand an incursion. He always refused to concede its demerits and years later still defended the Great Meadows as a place “abounding in forage” and convenient for a stockade.
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An uncouth backwoods structure, covered with bark and animal skins, the fort was primarily defended by nine small cannon that spun on pivots. Because it could contain only sixty or seventy men, Washington had three-foot trenches dug around its perimeter to protect additional men and threw up earthen breastworks to bolster their position. Despite such precautions, Fort Necessity stood on low-lying grassland that was soft and boggy and would form stagnant ponds in the rain. It was also surrounded by woods and high ground that could protect marksmen within easy musket range of the fort. Significantly, the fort was open to the sky, affording no shelter from the elements.

On the morning of July 3, 1754, Washington and his men had hunkered down at the fort when frantic scouts reported that “a heavy, numerous body” of French soldiers had drawn within four miles of their camp.
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They had stopped by the glen where Jumonville was killed and discovered the unburied bodies of dead compatriots, further inflaming their rage. Later that morning, while Washington’s men scooped out trenches, this invisible force took on a sudden, terrifying shape, descending on Fort Necessity in three columns. Bullets rained down from everywhere. French and Indian soldiers “advanced with shouts and dismal Indian yells to our entrenchments,” Washington recalled, but were greeted by a “warm, spirited and constant” fire that scattered them to the woods.
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What Washington didn’t recall was that the British regulars under Mackay had stood steadfast under French fire, while the ranks of his own Virginia Regiment had broken and dived for cover.

Washington received a costly lesson in frontier fighting as swarms of French and Indians kept up a scalding fire “from every little rising, tree, stump, stone, and bush.”
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Their well-protected marksmen took clear shots from woods as little as sixty yards away. Then late in the afternoon, a torrential rain began to fall—“the most tremendous rain that can be conceived,” in Washington’s words—and it soaked both his men and their weapons, turning the fort’s floor into a treacherous mud bowl.
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Worst of all, the water pooled in the ditches, trapping soldiers in their own defenses. Exposed to the sky, the men couldn’t keep their cartridges and fire-locks dry, rendering their muskets useless. By the end of the day, the rain-drenched stockade was a horrific swamp of mangled bodies, lying in blood and rain. The appalling casualty toll—a hundred men dead or wounded—represented a full third of Washington’s soldiers. The pitiless French also butchered every cow, horse, and even dog in sight. So one-sided was the outcome that the French suffered only three dead and seventeen wounded. To put a better gloss on the bloodshed, Washington and Mackay magnified the scale of French casualties, pegging the figure as high as three hundred, as if the two sides had fought to an even draw.

The debacle was compounded by the surrender. It was nearly nightfall when the French commander signaled a willingness to talk. By that point, Washington’s men had pounced on the fort’s rum supply, and half of them had gotten drunk—perhaps leaving Washington with a lifelong detestation of alcohol, especially among soldiers. Lacking dry gunpowder and food, Washington and Mackay had no choice but to submit; their troops were down to their last bags of flour and a little bacon, with their fresh food spoiling in the summer heat.
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The person picked to convey the terms of surrender was Jacob Van Braam, their French interpreter. The translation of those terms caused a brouhaha that engulfed Washington in yet another international controversy. As he shuffled between the two sides, Van Braam relayed an article of capitulation that said the French assault had been in retaliation for the
assassination
of Jumonville—a provocative word indeed. When Washington and Mackay signed the agreement around midnight, they imagined that the term used was the more neutral
death
or
loss
of Jumonville.
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Their inadvertent confession supplied the French with a major propaganda victory.

How could this profound misunderstanding have arisen? The night of the negotiation was dark and rainy, and when Van Braam brought back the terms of surrender, Washington and the other officers strained to read the blurry words in a dim light. “We could scarcely keep the candlelight to read them,” recalled one officer. “They were wrote in a bad hand, on wet and blotted paper, so that no person could read them but Van Braam, who had heard them from the mouth of the French officer.”
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Not expert in English, Van Braam might have used
death
or
loss
interchangeably with
assassination
, yet it’s hard to imagine that he botched the translation deliberately. What is clear is that Washington was adamant that he never consented to the loaded word
assassination
. “That we were willfully, or ignorantly, deceived by our interpreter in regard to the word
assassination,
I do aver and will to my dying moment,” Washington insisted.
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In other respects, the French treated Washington and his men more honorably. They wanted to characterize their military confrontation as an act of reprisal instead of war and to show due mercy to the vanquished after they had “confessed.” Instead of being taken prisoner, the British soldiers would be allowed to retreat with the full honors of war, “our drums beating and our colors flying,” as Washington phrased it.
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Nevertheless, the next morning one hundred Indian allies of the French ransacked the British baggage, completing their humiliation. On the road back to Wills Creek, the Indians taunted and harassed Washington’s men. The Virginia Regiment began to crumble from wholesale desertions, and the hapless Washington felt powerless to stop it.

In the rifled baggage, the French stumbled upon the diary that Washington had kept, and it was duly passed along to Governor Duquesne, who devoured its contents. “There is nothing more unworthy and lower and even blacker than the sentiments and the way of thinking of this Washington,” Duquesne gloated after perusing the diary.
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To Washington’s mortification, it was published in Paris two years later to a jeering public. The French had a field day with the articles of capitulation, brandishing them as proof that Washington had murdered Jumonville, a man on a peaceful mission. In this manner, they cast the British as the first belligerents in the French and Indian War. The sudden celebrity that Washington had attained in Virginia turned to instant notoriety abroad. One English writer, in high dudgeon, lambasted the articles of surrender as “the most infamous a British subject ever put his hand to.”
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The Fort Necessity debacle pointed up Washington’s inexperience. Historians have rightly faulted him for advancing when he should have retreated; for fighting without awaiting sufficient reinforcements; for picking an indefensible spot; for the slapdash construction of the fort; for alienating his Indian allies; and for shocking hubris in thinking that he could defeat an imposing French force. Yet the major blame must lie with Governor Dinwiddie and the Virginia legislators, who had failed to fund the campaign properly and sent an insufficient force. Some Washington virtues stood out amid the temporary wreckage of his reputation. With unflagging resolution, he had kept his composure in battle, even when surrounded by piles of corpses. He had a professional toughness and never seemed to gag at bloodshed; a born soldier, he was curiously at home with bullets whizzing about him. Even in the wilderness, there was no doubt that he would faithfully execute orders. He was always tenacious and persevering and never settled for halfway measures. Utterly fearless, he faced down dangers and seemed undeterred by obstacles. Washington knew he had shown personal courage, contending that he had “stood the heat and brunt of the day and escaped untouched in time of extreme danger.”
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It’s also worth noting that Washington had received an invaluable education in frontier warfare. European conventional warfare stressed compact masses of troops, arrayed on open battlefields. In the New World, by contrast, the Indians had perfected a mobile style of warfare that relied on ambushing, sniping from trees, and vanishing into the forest. That June Washington noted that “the French all fight in the Indian method,” and the Fort Necessity defeat demonstrated how lethal this could be .
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Washington had seen how soldiers could defeat an enemy through speed and cunning. Two other lessons informed his later experience in the American Revolution. One was the futility of trying to hold posts that could become death traps for soldiers cooped up inside—a lesson Washington would have to relearn in the subsequent war. The other lesson, as President Washington repeated it to Indian fighters in his administration, was the resounding dictum “Beware of surprise!”
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George Washington always demonstrated a capacity to learn from missteps. “Errors once discovered are more than half amended,” he liked to say. “Some men will gain as much experience in the course of three or four years as some will in ten or a dozen.”
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It was this process of subtle, silent, unrelenting self-criticism that enabled him to rise above his early defeats.

When Washington rode into Williamsburg two weeks later, his exploits were the talk of the capital. At first he attracted criticism for his defeat and the seemingly scandalous admission that Jumonville had been “assassinated.” To protect his own reputation, Dinwiddie alleged that Washington had disobeyed his orders not to engage with the French until “the whole forces were joined in a body.”
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But he couldn’t denounce Washington without raising serious questions about his own judgment, and when he reported to London on the fiasco, he described it as a “small engagement, conducted with judgment by the officers and great bravery by our few forces.”
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Dinwiddie also condemned the “monstrous” failure of other colonies to shore up the Virginia forces—a failure that gave Washington his first powerful proof of the need for continental unity.
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In the coming weeks, condemnation of Washington gradually gave way to widespread acknowledgment that he had confronted terrifying odds at Fort Necessity. So sharp was the reversal of opinion that in early September the House of Burgesses paid special tribute to Washington and Mackay “for their late, gallant, and brave behavior in the defence of their country.”
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Governor Horatio Sharpe of Maryland, who had excoriated Washington for impulsive behavior, wrote to him and explained that, as the true story of Fort Necessity became known, public opinion had shifted in his favor, and he concluded with the reassuring words: “Your reputation again revived.”
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Thus, the ghastly frontier defeat came to be seen as a doomed but heroic defense rather than a military blunder that might have ruined Washington’s budding career.

The aftermath of Washington’s first military campaign was grievously disappointing to him. The Virginia Regiment, it was decided, would be divided into ten independent companies, with captain the top grade in each. For Washington, this would have meant an insulting demotion from his colonel’s rank. Anyone who thought he would accept such a setback, he wrote indignantly, “must entertain a very contemptible opinion of my weakness.”
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Quite predictably, he decided to resign from the army in October rather than tolerate such a blow to his standing. But with his wilderness forays having confirmed his love of a military life, he said his resignation wasn’t meant “to gratify any desire I had to leave the military line. My inclinations are strongly bent to arms.”
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If the whirlwind events had been hard on the tender ego of the ambitious young Washington, the carnage at Fort Necessity hadn’t shattered his courage or altered his resolution to pursue a military career. For a young man without enormous inherited wealth, the military remained a sure path to colonial advancement. Washington must have had a premonition that his military retirement was only temporary, for in late October he ordered from London some costly items for a resplendent uniform: a gold shoulder knot, six yards of gold regimental lace, twenty-four gold embroidered loops, a rich crimson military sash, four dozen gilt coat buttons, and a hat adorned with gold lace.
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The young officer seemed to know that the world had not heard its last of him.

EVER SINCE THE DEATH of Lawrence Washington, George had known he had an outside chance of someday becoming lord of Mount Vernon if Lawrence’s widow, Ann, and daughter, Sarah, predeceased him. Then, in yet another of the improbable transformations that eerily propelled his life ever upward, the occupancy of Mount Vernon came unexpectedly within his grasp. Six months after Lawrence’s death, Ann remarried and moved to Westmoreland County, and two years after that, on December 10, 1754, little Sarah Washington died. A week later Ann rented Mount Vernon to George Washington along with its eighteen resident slaves—a tremendous bonanza for the twenty-two-year-old. By the terms of the lease, he was required every Christmas to ship his sister-in-law fifteen thousand pounds of tobacco, packed in fifteen hogsheads, placing him under considerable pressure to manage the estate profitably.