Being George Washington (13 page)
The Lorings were with him.
Not only did Elizabeth benefit from this arrangement, but her husband did as well. Howe named him commissioner of prisoners of war—a position that would make him rich through the bribes he could procure from the would-be prisoners and their families. And while Howe tended to Elizabeth, Joshua oversaw rebel prisoners hellishly rotting away in ships in New York harbor and in a dank, converted sugar refinery in New York, simultaneously making plenty of cash shaking down their families and loved ones.
According to most historians, if General Howe had left the comfortable confines of Philadelphia that winter he could have crushed
Washington’s depleted and ailing troops at Valley Forge, likely ending the revolution then and there. But, for a number of reasons, many of them still a mystery, he did not.
According to contemporary accounts, Howe very much enjoyed all the entertainment and indulgences that Philadelphia had to offer—but the one thing that grabbed his attention more than the theater, dancing, and gambling was Ms. Loring herself.
To be fair to Howe, there were plenty of reasons not to venture out of Philadelphia other than Elizabeth Loring. Howe, unlike Washington at Valley Forge, was not particularly interested in testing out newfangled military methods. Enjoying a position of strength, he remained loyal to many of the outdated conceptions of European warfare that had worked for him throughout the war. One of the most harmful of these tenets was a convenient resolve that gentlemen should never fight in inclement weather.
To what extent a crush on Loring prevented Howe from leaving Philadelphia is certainly up for debate, but there is no doubt Howe would have been able to inflict massive damage on the impaired Continental Army if he had. And while I’m certainly not saying that Loring was sent by, as Washington would say, the Author, to work in such miraculous ways, I’m not going to dispute it, either.
No Statues of Limitation
There are plenty of public statues of George Washington. There are seven in New York City alone. There are statues of him on horseback, of him with the Revolutionary War financiers Robert Morris and Haym Solomon, and even of him looking like Zeus. Oh yeah, and there’s also that little one on Mount Rushmore.
But, as the famous English author G. K. Chesterton once said, “I’ve searched all the parks in all the cities and found no statues of committees.”
Yet, in late 1777, the Continental Congress thought that it could replace Washington with exactly that: a committee. Congress, if you haven’t noticed, is good at creating committees, and even better at stacking them with the wrong people.
To be fair to Congress, a lot of people were second-guessing Washington at that time. We’d just lost Philadelphia. Things weren’t exactly looking up. So Congress, looking for a change in leadership, created a “Board of War” to run the war—and it wasn’t a vote of confidence in Washington.
You might think, though, that Congress would have had the intelligence—or at least the decency—to include the commander in chief of its army on this committee. But I guess the collective intelligence of our politicians, or lack thereof, is the one thing that hasn’t changed much over the centuries.
Congress stacked the Board of War with charter members of the “I’m-Jealous-of-George-Washington Club.” General Horatio Gates (who thought he had won the Battle of Saratoga single-handedly) became chairman. General Thomas Conway (a leader of the anti-Washington “Conway Cabal”), and General Thomas Mifflin (the quartermaster who had done such a poor job with supplying Washington’s troops with clothing and food) also were appointed. General James Wilkinson, a Gates staff member and one of the shiftiest characters in all of American history, was appointed as the board’s secretary.
Nice going, Congress.
Congress granted the board all of sorts of powers that rightfully belonged to Washington. The board even ordered Lafayette to lead a harebrained, never-launched invasion of Canada. Washington was clearly—in eighteenth-century terms—being “thrown under the stagecoach.” A lesser man might have given in and stomped home in disgust, or even pulled an “Arnold” by using the personal slight as a reason to turn against the rebels—but Washington was not that man.
He had earned the trust and support of the great majority of his officer corps. He had stood with them during the most difficult of times, and now they stood behind him.
Congress eventually abandoned their idiotic idea and returned power to Washington. And today, the man who could not have cared less about statues being created in his honor has more of them than anyone.
FOR
AMERICA?
Though Washington might not have known it at the time, his brave and steady leadership at Valley Forge cleared the way for the most miraculous and important event up until that point. And it didn’t happen in Philadelphia. In fact, it didn’t even happen on this continent.
If Washington would have failed at Valley Forge, Benjamin Franklin, who had gone to Paris in 1776 to help enlist French support, would have failed. If the American army had not survived that winter, the British could have waited out the rebels and crushed their hopes of revolution. The Americans would not have been able to procure the money and supplies necessary to make a victory for liberty possible.
In very different surroundings than Washington, the wily old Franklin was busy impressing upon the opulent French court that the patriot uprising was for real and worthy of its support. Franklin also knew that the French despised Great Britain and the power they yielded and would be interested in undermining the British Empire if the American cause had any real chance of prevailing. Without the huge monetary and military help the French had to offer, however, independence would be only a dream.
Franklin emphasized the warm sentiments that the French felt for Washington in a letter. “You would, on this side of the sea,” he wrote Washington, “enjoy the great reputation you have acquired. I frequently hear the old generals of this martial country, who study maps of America and mark upon them all your operations, speak with sincere approbation and great applause of your conduct, and join in giving you the character of one of the greatest captains of the age.”
Without the high regard that the French had for Washington, would they ever have agreed to fund the effort? And, if they hadn’t, what might have become of the revolution? It’s hard to say, but it goes to show you just how much character matters. In the end, it might not have been Washington’s leadership, intelligence, or military skills that actually won the war—it might have been his honor. It’s something so simple, yet so many people today dismiss it as outmoded or unnecessary.
After news of the French alliance arrived, Washington wrote, “It having pleased the almighty ruler of the universe propitiously to defend the
case of the united American states and finally raining us up a powerful friends among the princes of the earth …”
In the end, there’s probably no event of the Revolutionary War that better exemplifies the faith that George Washington had in his fellow man and the cause of liberty than the winter spent at Valley Forge. There is certainly no event that better demonstrates his faith in God.
Some people claim to have witnessed Washington retiring to a grove in Valley Forge where he would sit alone in private reflection and prayer. We’ll never know for sure whether that’s true, and plenty of critics have tried their best to show that the whole “Washington-in-prayer” idea is nothing but a myth, but we do know that Washington thanked God for relieving him of struggles during his darkest days. “Humble and grateful thanks,” he wrote in 1778, after finally leaving Valley Forge, are “due to the great Author of all the care and good that have been extended in relieving us in difficulties and distress.”
One who believes in a great Author and Divine Providence must also believe in miracles—and, no matter what the critics want to say, Valley Forge had plenty of those.
October 7, 1777
Bemis Heights, New York
Benedict Arnold could stomach no more.
In an alcohol-inspired fury, he ran to his horse, mounted it, and galloped off to face General John Burgoyne’s army, which had sailed down Lake Champlain into upstate New York in an audacious bid to split the rebellious colonies in half.
“What are you doing here?” shouted General Daniel Morgan, who commanded the American left flank. “Has General Gates restored your command?
Arnold snorted. “Damn Horatio Gates to hell!” he roared. “I’m here to win this battle, not listen to that old fool!” Three weeks earlier, Arnold and General Gates had argued violently over tactics, and as a result, Gates had relieved Arnold of his field duties.
But now, as it seemed clear that Gates was failing and the battle would be lost, Arnold ignored the orders and roared into battle atop his horse. The tired rebels cheered when they saw him.
First Arnold drove against a German unit, where he saw a weakness in the line, and they collapsed. Then he saw British general Simon Fraser rallying the redcoats. Arnold turned to Morgan and ordered him to have one of his sharpshooters bring Fraser down. Tim Murphy received the assignment. He climbed a tree with his double-barreled rifle and, on the third shot, Fraser fell dead.
With the loss of their leader, the British pulled back to some nearby earthworks. Arnold and his men vigorously attacked, but they were repulsed. Arnold spurred his horse around to the other side, commandeered the troops of another general, and ordered them to attack the earthworks in force. “Come on boys!” Arnold shouted as he rode back and forth in a hail of enemy fire. Before long they had swept over the top and had driven the British from their stronghold.
“He’s fearless,” cried the Connecticut troops he led. “He’s like a madman—but by all that’s true, he’s going to win this battle!”
The last holdout was a strong redoubt on the British right guarded by an elite group of Hessians. Arnold gathered two more regiments and drove his combined forces against this stronghold. Victory finally seemed within reach when suddenly—
Blam!!
—a musket ball ripped through the flesh of Arnold’s left leg. He screamed in shock and pain. His sword tumbled from his hand.
Blam!! Blam!! Blam!! Blam!!
His great brown horse toppled over, pinning Arnold and crushing his already wounded and bleeding leg.
But he had done enough. While Arnold writhed in pain beneath his mare, the German in charge of the Hessians guarding the redoubt was shot dead by one of his own men.
With the battle virtually over, a messenger raced from the furious Horatio Gates to Arnold, ordering the disobedient Arnold back to camp. He had no choice but to obey; his blood-soaked body was carried off the battlefield on a stretcher.
“Do they know?” he moaned deliriously. “Do they know what I did?”
April 8, 1779
Shippen Mansion
South Fourth Street
Philadelphia
“I do,” beamed Benedict Arnold, as he struggled to maintain his balance on his one good leg.
It was particularly important that Arnold not tumble over at this moment. For, in this ornate parlor room, crowded with friends and future relatives, Benedict Arnold—age thirty-eight—was about to marry
the beautiful, brilliant, and blond eighteen-year-old Margaret “Peggy” Shippen.
Physical ailments were not Arnold’s only problem. He was also a sensitive man—and with very good reason: Horatio Gates’s official report of the battle gave Gates himself all the credit for the Saratoga victory—and completely omitted any mention of Arnold’s heroic charge. But that wasn’t all. As a result of Gates’s lies, Congress had unfairly passed Arnold over for a promotion (and later for seniority), and he’d also been charged with corruption over a different matter. And, as if his professional insults were not enough, he’d suffered a personal one as well. Not long before this happy wedding day, another comely teenager, the vain Boston belle Betsy De Blois, had cruelly rejected his wooings—even refusing the four-diamond ring set in rose-colored gold that he had sent to her!
Benedict Arnold could not seem to catch a break. He was beaten both physically and mentally—but while he may have been down, he was far from out: George Washington had taken a personal interest in the cause of this wounded hero. “It is not to be presumed,” he told his friend and fellow Virginian Richard Henry Lee, “that he will continue in service under such a slight.” And so Washington sought out to ensure he would. He wanted this man, who had demonstrated his devoted loyalty to the rebels time and again, to be properly honored and so he appointed Arnold the military governor of recaptured Philadelphia—thereby at least restoring his ego, if not the sensation in his left leg.
Arnold now wobbled around in the parlor of Peggy’s father’s fine three-story black-and-red brick mansion. Every father-in-law carefully eyes the man daring to marry his daughter, but Philadelphia judge Edward Shippen IV grimaced particularly hard at Benedict Arnold. The Shippens were colonial aristocracy. Judge Shippen was even widely suspected of Loyalist sympathies, and Peggy Shippen had never been shy about keeping company with Philadelphia’s British occupiers. It seemed that no royal officers’ ball was complete without her dazzling presence. Arnold, on the other hand, was the son of a Connecticut town drunk and a former apothecary’s apprentice. What fortune Arnold had accumulated had long since been lost in the revolution. Could this merchant-turned-crippled general, Shippen worried, possibly
support his third-born daughter in a manner consistent with her heritage?
But his concerns were not necessary. A seed had been planted in Benedict Arnold that, nourished by all the right ingredients, would eventually grow into a plan to support Judge Shippen’s gray-eyed daughter in just the manner in which she had always been accustomed.
