Washington: A Life (67 page)

Taking no chances, Washington spurred his horse toward the front. He had not gone fifty yards when he encountered several soldiers who corroborated that the entire advance force was now staggering back in confused retreat. Soon Washington saw increasing numbers of men, dazed and exhausted from the stifling heat, tumbling toward him. He told aides that he was “exceedingly alarmed” and could not figure out why Lee had not notified him of this retreat.
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Then Washington looked up and saw the culprit himself riding toward him: General Lee, trailed by his dogs. “What is the meaning of this, sir?” Washington demanded truculently. “I desire to know the meaning of this disorder and confusion!”
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According to some witnesses, it was one of those singular moments when Washington showed undisguised wrath. Indignant, Lee stared blankly at him and spluttered in amazement. “Sir? Sir?” he asked, offended by Washington’s tone .
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In his self-serving view of events, Lee believed that he had performed a prodigious feat, rescuing his overmatched army from danger and organizing an orderly retreat. “The American troops would not stand the British bayonets,” he insisted to Washington. “You damned poltroon,” Washington rejoined, “you never tried them!”
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Always reluctant to resort to profanities, the chaste Washington cursed at Lee “till the leaves shook on the tree,” recalled General Scott. “Charming! Delightful! Never have I enjoyed such swearing before or since.”
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Lafayette said it was the only time he ever heard Washington swear. “I confess I was disconcerted, astonished, and confounded by the words and the manner in which His Excellency accosted me,” Lee recalled. He said Washington’s tone was “so novel and unexpected from a man whose discretion, humanity, and decorum” he admired that its effect was much stronger than the words themselves.
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Lee, babbling incoherently, tried to explain to Washington that he found himself facing the British on an open plain, making his men easy prey for British cavalry. Washington brusquely dismissed Lee’s reminder that he had opposed the attack in the first place: “All this may be very true, sir, but you ought not to have undertaken it unless you intended to go through with it!”
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In retrospect, Washington had trusted too much to an erratic general who had supported the mission only reluctantly, and he now banished him to the rear. Lafayette later said of Washington’s encounter with Lee that “no one had ever before seen Washington so terribly excited; his whole appearance was fearful.”
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This was the temperamental side of Washington that he ordinarily kept well under wraps.

Washington now moved toward the front and learned that the brunt of the enemy forces would arrive in fifteen minutes. As Tench Tilghman recalled, Washington “seemed at a loss, as he was on a piece of ground entirely strange to him.”
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The battlefield was an idyllic spot of steeply rolling farmland, split down the middle by deep ravines and creeks. Though spontaneity was never his strong suit, Washington reacted with undisputed flair and sure intuition. Fired up with anger as well as courage, he instructed Anthony Wayne to hold the enemy at bay with two nearby regiments while he rallied the confused rout of men. Commanding as always on horseback, he succeeded in stemming the panic through pure will. When he asked the men if they would fight, they loudly responded with three lusty cheers—a novel occurrence in Washington’s experience, suggesting the deep affection he inspired after the shared sacrifice at Valley Forge. His cool presence emboldened his men to resist the approaching British bayonets and cavalry charges. All the while American artillery shelled the British from a nearby ridge. Lafayette stood in awe of Washington’s feat: “His presence stopped the retreat … His graceful bearing on horseback, his calm and deportment which still retained a trace of displeasure … were all calculated to inspire the highest degree of enthusiasm … I thought then as now that I had never beheld so superb a man.”
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Sometimes critical of Washington’s military talents, Hamilton ratified Lafayette’s laudatory appraisal: “I never saw the general to so much advantage. His coolness and firmness were admirable … [He] directed the whole with the skill of a master workman.”
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Stirling and Greene particularly distinguished themselves during the action, although Washington reserved his highest praise for Brigadier General Anthony Wayne, “whose good conduct and bravery thro[ugh] the whole action deserves particular commendation.”
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The bloody battle that afternoon was a fierce seesaw struggle that took many casualties on both sides. For two hours in blazing heat, British and Continentals exchanged cannon fire. As in previous battles, Washington experienced narrow escapes. While he was deep in conversation with one officer, a cannonball exploded at his horse’s feet, flinging dirt in his face; Washington kept talking as if nothing had happened. He was everywhere on horseback, forming defensive lines, urging on his men, and giving them the chance to display the marching skills acquired at Valley Forge under Steuben. Lines of patriot soldiers fired muskets with discipline not seen before. Several times the well-trained Americans withstood vigorous charges by British regulars. Earlier in the day Washington had ridden a white charger, a gift from Governor Livingston of New Jersey. As the battlefield turned into a furnace, this beautiful horse suddenly dropped dead from the heat. At that point Billy Lee trotted up with a chestnut mare, which Washington rode for the duration.

In this marathon, daylong battle, the fighting ground on until six in the afternoon. Though tempted to pursue the British, Washington bowed to the exhausted state of his men and decided to wait until morning to storm enemy positions. Clinton pulled his men back half a mile, beyond the range of American artillery. To keep his weary troops ready, Washington had them sleep on their arms in the field, ready to resume their offensive at daybreak. They inhabited a battlefield strewn with blood-spattered bodies. That night Washington draped his cloak on the ground beneath a sheltering tree, and he and Lafayette sat up chatting about Charles Lee’s insubordination before falling asleep side by side. They could see campfires burning on the British side, unaware that it was a ruse used by Clinton to camouflage the British Army stealing off at midnight. At daybreak Washington awoke and realized that the British had quietly drifted away, headed for New York. He had been tricked by the same gimmick that he himself had employed at Brooklyn and at Trenton. With his men spent from battle, Washington knew it was pointless to trail after the fleeing British.

Both sides claimed victory after the battle, and the best casualty estimates show something close to a draw: 362 killed, wounded, or missing Americans, versus British casualties that ranged anywhere from 380 to 500. After the drubbing at Brandywine Creek and Germantown, Washington may be forgiven for crowing about Monmouth as a “glorious and happy day.”
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Having weathered the horrendous winter at Valley Forge, American soldiers, with new élan, had proved themselves the equal of the best British professionals. In general orders for June 29, Washington trumpeted the battle as an unadulterated triumph: “The Commander in Chief congratulates the army on the victory obtained over the arms of his Britannic Majesty yesterday and thanks most sincerely the gallant officers and men who distinguished themselves upon the occasion.”
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Washington’s joy at the outcome owed much to the fact that he had rescued the army from a disaster in the making.

As always, however, Washington disclaimed credit and directed attention to a higher power. He ordered his men to put on decent clothes so that “we may publicly unite in thanksgiving to the supreme disposer of human events for the victory which was obtained on Sunday over the flower of the British troops.”
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The Battle of Monmouth added luster to Washington’s reputation as someone who could outwit danger. Writing on behalf of Congress, Henry Laurens predicted that Washington’s name would be “revered by posterity” and alluded to his miraculous escapes from harm: “Our acknowledgments are especially due to Heaven for the preservation of Your Excellency’s person, necessarily exposed for the salvation of America to the most imminent danger in the late action.”
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Washington’s role at Monmouth stands out with special vividness because it was the last such major battle in the North during the war. Henceforth the British high command would shift its focus to the South, where it hoped to exploit widespread Loyalist sentiment. This move would thrust Washington into the odd situation of often being an idle spectator of distant fighting in the South. Not until Yorktown, more than three years later, would he again be directly exposed to the hurly-burly of a full-scale battle. The Battle of Monmouth clarified that Washington did not need to save towns but only to preserve the Continental Army and keep alive the sacred flame of rebellion. As he told Laurens, the British were now well aware “that the possession of our towns, while we have an army in the field, will avail them little. It involves
us
in difficulty, but does not by any means insure
them
conquest.”
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A war of attrition, however deficient in heroic glamour, still seemed the most certain path to victory.

Before Monmouth, George Washington had been unusually tolerant of the antic, impertinent behavior and self-congratulatory rhetoric of Charles Lee, but that patience had now expired. Retaining his elevated opinion of his own military genius, Lee blustered indiscreetly that he had been on the brink of rallying his men when Washington showed up and ruined everything. “By all that’s sacred,” he exclaimed, “General Washington had scarcely any more to do in [the battle] than to strip the dead!”
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To top things off, Lee said that Washington had “sent me out of the field when the victory was assured! Such is my recompense for having sacrificed my friends, my connections, and perhaps my fortune.”
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Charles Lee did not realize that he had crossed a line with Washington, and that anyone who offended his dignity paid a terrible price. He saw himself as the victim and, for two days after the battle, awaited an apology from Washington. Then he sent him an insolent letter in which he blamed “dirty earwigs” for poisoning Washington’s mind against him: “I must conclude that nothing but the misinformation of some very stupid, or misrepresentation of some very wicked person cou[l]d have occasioned your making use of so very singular expressions as you did on my coming up to the ground where you had taken post. They implied that I was guilty either of disobedience of orders, or want of conduct, or want of courage.” The presumptuous Lee then added that “the success of the day was entirely owing” to his maneuvers.
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This intemperate communication sealed Charles Lee’s fate.

With officers who crossed him, Washington tended to exhibit infinite patience and overlook many faults, but when a day of reckoning came, he unleashed the full force of his slow-burning fury at their accumulated slights. As with many overly controlled people, Washington’s anger festered, only to burst out belatedly. He now returned a blistering reply in which he branded Lee’s letter “highly improper” and said his own angry words at Monmouth were “dictated by duty and warranted by the occasion.” He accused Lee of “a breach of orders and of misbehavior” in not attacking the enemy “as you had been directed and making an unnecessary, disorderly, and shameful retreat.”
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When he received this rebuke, Lee said, “I was more than confounded. I was thrown into a stupor. My whole faculties were, for a time, benumbed. I read and read it over a dozen times.”
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To clear his name, Lee demanded a court-martial, and Washington called his bluff, promptly sending Adjutant General Alexander Scammell to arrest him and bring him up on charges.

Lee was charged with disobeying orders, permitting a disorderly retreat, and disrespecting the commander in chief. A court-martial, presided over by twelve officers, took testimony for six weeks, found Lee guilty, and suspended him from the army for twelve months. The verdict effectively ended his military career. With exemplary restraint, Washington did not comment on the decision until Congress certified it. As Congress procrastinated for four months, word of the verdict leaked out. Intent on fairness, Washington wrote in confidence to his brother Jack, “This delay is a manifest injustice either to the Gener[a]l himself or the public; for if he is guilty of the charges, punishment ought to follow; if he is innocent, ’tis cruel to keep him under the harrow.”
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Charles Lee proclaimed to anyone who would listen that he had been subjected to an “inquisition” worthy of Mazarin or Cardinal Richelieu.
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The inept Lee may not have been guilty of all the charges directed against him, but neither had he covered himself with glory at Monmouth.

Washington had not heard the last from Charles Lee. In early December Lee published a vindication of his conduct, contending that Washington had failed to give him definite orders at Monmouth Court House. If Washington chafed at the accusation, it wasn’t his style to engage in public feuding. At the same time he worried that, if he didn’t refute Lee’s charges, it might seem “a tacit acknowledgment of the justice of his assertions,” as Washington told Joseph Reed. He confessed that he had always found Lee’s temperament “too versatile and violent to attract my admiration. And that I have escaped the venom of his tongue and pen so long is more to be wondered at than applauded.”
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Even though Congress confirmed the court-martial verdict and suspended Lee in December 1778, Washington still worried that Lee’s charges had sullied his honor. In late December John Laurens, with Alexander Hamilton acting as his second, challenged Lee to a duel. “I am informed that in contempt of decency and truth you have publicly abused General Washington in the grossest terms,” Laurens informed Lee. “The relation in which I stand to him forbids me to pass such conduct unnoticed.”
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At the duel Laurens wounded Lee in the side, but the latter survived. Whether the duel had Washington’s tacit approval remains unclear. Unlike many military men, Washington opposed dueling and had advised Lafayette against fighting a duel that year, chiding him gently that “the generous spirit of chivalry, exploded by the rest of the world, finds a refuge, my dear friend, in the sensibility of your nation
only
.”
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On the other hand, it is hard to imagine that Laurens and Hamilton would have defied the explicit wishes of Washington, who had felt gagged in responding to Lee’s libelous comments.