That I was a skeptic among a largely worshipful, emotional group of aides in retrospect should not be surprising. My fear of war may not have had anything to do with my Quaker upbringing, but my skepticism with respect to offices and titles had everything to do with my Quaker ancestors, who stood for the right to never doff their hats to anyone, including generals. So there I was, a twenty-year-old youth, brought up in the “plain,” practical, and peace-loving world of the Society of Friends, suddenly adorned with the undeniably fancy and warlike title of lieutenant colonel. I had no military experience, no family farm to get back to, and my stake in my family business gave me the wherewithal to serve for thirty-three-dollars-a-month pay. The General finally prevailed on Congress to raise our pay to forty and then to sixty-six dollars a month, but whatever amount Congress specified was really meaningless, since many months no pay arrived at all.
At first Congress’s broken pay promises irritated me, but when I thought how the General had volunteered to serve without any pay, it hardly seemed like I should complain. Indeed, many of my fellow officers had received far less pay than I had. It was just expected that officers should finance their service, including food and clothing.
Things were even worse for the troops. Yes, most had received bounties of twenty dollars or more to enlist and steady if depreciated pay, albeit a meager six and two-thirds dollars per month. But there were months when the promised leather jacket or pair of overalls or shoes did not arrive, and days when meals consisted of a slab of bread and a cup of beef broth mixed with burnt leaves.
Armies are always rife with rumors, all the more so when troops wait with no combat looming, as was the case at Newburgh in the winter of 1782 to 1783. It is especially true after seven years of broken congressional promises on pay, clothing, and food. And still more true after the broken promises and lack of action on petitions resulted in numerous small mutinies that the public knows nothing of, mutinies that had been suppressed but which we on the General’s staff were all too well aware of. With the return from Philadelphia of General Alexander McDougall reporting no action by Congress on our petition, that week in Newburgh was as tense in its own way as any combat-filled week on the Delaware or at Yorktown, or week of suffering at Valley Forge or Morristown. I did not realize it at the beginning of the week, but the patriotic resolve of our troops, our officers, and our commanding General were about to be tested in ways that had never happened in the whole war.
Many times I have been asked what an aide-de-camp does. The French phrase means “camp assistant,” and we were there, at all times, to help the General in whatever he needed. Our job was to take all the lesser matters off the General’s hands that we could, so as to allow him to focus on the military decisions that needed all his attention.
In Newburgh we aides came to work every morning at Hasbrouck House, a farmhouse on a sloping hill above the Hudson River where the General and Lady Washington had lived, worked, and entertained since most of the army had moved north from Yorktown in the spring of 1782. The house had been acquired from a widow of a militia officer. It was chosen for its location north of West Point and close to the army depot at New Windsor. There were seven dark rooms plus a hallway used for sleeping and a separate kitchen linked to the house. The aides’ office adjoined the General’s study and office. The light came from one large window, candles that we burned throughout almost every day, and a huge fireplace through whose cavernous chimney you could see the sky. When it snowed, the flakes would melt on the fire. Our office, one of the three largest rooms, sometimes served as a waiting room for those wanting to see the General. Along with the two offices, there was also a bedroom for the Washingtons, an aides’ bedroom, a room for clothing, a dining room, and a parlor room that was used by overnight visitors and also by Lady Washington.
We wrote and reviewed the General’s letters, both public and private. The General insisted on answering every letter he received and he wanted to be sure when he sent out a letter that it conveyed his thoughts exactly and the spelling was correct. (The General, a notoriously bad speller, was particularly concerned about spelling.) Every morning after breakfast the General would gather several of us for a meeting and either dictate letters or, after giving his thoughts, tell us to write drafts.
Most of the letters were either pleas to Congress and the governors for money, clothing, and food, or responses to the letters that thanked, complimented, or extolled the General, often implicitly or explicitly suggesting in the most unseemly manner—at least in my opinion—that he should become king or a military dictator. Some present writers, out of republican sympathies, or because they want to enhance the General’s reputation, dismiss such suggestions as beyond the General’s consideration. As one who watched the General for almost eight years, I believe it was impossible for the General to not consider such suggestions, as you will soon find out.
The General, after making his inspection rounds, would gather us together and review what we had written. We knew the General’s style, but he was a stickler, and no letter or order went out without his approval, sometimes not until late afternoon.
Then we had to write copies. Everything the General did was with an eye on history. He was very conscious of how he would look to future Americans, perhaps too conscious. We all felt it, even though he never said so. Why, that very week in the midst of the crises I shall soon describe, Colonel Richard Varick was coming across the Hudson from his office in Poughkeepsie and filing all the copies of the General’s orders and letters so later Americans could read them. With our nation deciding between peace and continued war, I thought the General should spend less time on filing records and more on frustrating the plots against our country that week that I will soon tell you about. I have come to believe, however, that most of us, from the Founding Fathers to me, a lowly aide, were focused in those perilous times on what our descendants might think of us. I admit I rather enjoy the way my grandchildren and great-grandchildren look up to me and eagerly listen to my stories of the Revolution. Still, I never knew anyone like the General, who carefully calculated every daily action by how it would look decades later. Not that I suppose such action is sinful. It just struck me back then as odd and made me uncomfortable.