I had to admit that the writer understood the mood of the army. First he introduced himself and artfully bonded with his readers as a “fellow soldier” who had endured with them the “cold hand of poverty” and the “insolence of wealth,” while having “mingled in your dangers.” He wrote of how he had remained silent, hoping that his country would serve us with “justice” and “gratitude,” but his patience was running out and that to continue his silence would be “cowardice.” Thus inciting his readers, the anonymous author set out the case for action. They had fought for seven long years and were now on the brink of achieving independence for their country. What now was their country doing for them? Was it “a country willing to redress your wrongs, cherish your worth, and reward your services? Will you return to private life with tears of gratitude and smiles of admiration? Or is it rather a country that tramples upon your rights, disdains your cries, and insults your distresses? . . . And how have you been answered?”
To the soldiers, many of whom had not been paid, clothed, or fed for large parts of the war, and to the officers who had mostly served without pay and been given only vague promises of pensions after it, the answers to these questions were self-evident. I found myself agreeing with the author, my own indignation rising.
The writer recited what we all knew too well: we had meekly begged the Congress for justice to no avail. And this was while the war raged. What hope had we if we gave up our swords? Our future, said the writer, would be to “grow old in poverty, wretchedness and contempt” and to become dependent and forgotten.
The writer then questioned the officers’ courage and manhood: “To be tame and unprovoked while injuries press upon you is more than weakness. But to look up for kinder usage without one manly effort of your own—would fix your Character and show the world how richly you deserve the chains you broke.”
Now, the writer delivered the challenge: Do you have the spirit to revolt? Do you have “spirit enough to oppose tyranny under whatever garb it may assume, whether it be the plain coat of republicanism, or the splendid robe of royalty?” He practically shouted through his pen: “Awake—attend to your Situation and redress yourselves. If the present moment be lost, every future Effort is in vain. Your threats then will be as empty as your entreaties now.”
Having delivered the challenge, the writer pointedly advised what should not be done. There should be no more “milk and water” memorials to the Congress. He advised soldiers to “suspect the man who would advise to more moderation, and longer forbearance.”
I was brought up short by what seemed like an attack on anyone, including the General, who might dare oppose the writer’s views. And then came the writer’s call for a “bold” and “last remonstrance . . . by men who can feel as well as write,” which would make clear that Congress should not take the army for granted, and that “the Army has its alternative.”
And what was the alternative? The writer offered two. The first alternative was, in the event of the anticipated peace, “that nothing shall separate you from your arms but death.” What exactly could this mean? I asked myself.
The army was to stay armed and do what? Just sit in Newburgh and let British troops move back on the offensive? Or was the writer referring to the suggestion that had been talked about for weeks: that the army should march on Philadelphia and impose its will on the Congress? The writer apparently left this to the reader’s imagination.
Then came the writer’s second alternative. If the war should continue, “that courting the auspices, and inviting the direction of your illustrious leader, you will retire to some unsettled country, smile in your turn, and mock when their fear cometh on.”
Presumably the army was to withdraw to the unsettled West, let the British crush the Congress and the state governors, and then occupy the whole Eastern Seaboard. The phrase “inviting the direction of your illustrious leader” seemed less like an attack on the General than an invitation, I read with relief, for him to join and lead the mutiny.
The writer allowed that if the Congress and presumably the states met the army’s demands, the army would maintain its “allegiance,” and when the war ended, the writer pictured for his readers a grand and heroic finish: “You would withdraw into the shade of private life—and give the world another subject of wonder and applause, an Army victorious over its enemies, victorious over itself.”
I did not doubt for a moment the effect the letter would have on the army. I myself, normally a cautious person, was moved.
As the spell of the letter receded, I reflected more calmly on its nature and authorship. The letter was unerring in its aim at the emotions of the troops. It was so unerring that I immediately concluded it could not have been written by the British. No British military aide in New York could know so well the mood of the army. The letter in both its length and eloquence bespoke days of thought, and the quick distribution after the General’s order and its invitation to the General as the “illustrious leader”—did this not show that the writer was right in our midst?
Equally clear, to me at least, was that no one could write such a letter without the backing of a significant number of officers. Every phrase bespoke the confidence of a man who already knew that a large number of officers and troops supported his entreaties.
As for my earlier suspicion of the General’s role, I was relieved to admit that the conflicting counsels against the General’s moderation and the invitation for him to lead the revolt showed that perhaps he had not authorized the letter, at least not directly.
And what of the choice posed in the letter: the call either for withdrawal to the West or keeping arms and possibly directing them against the Congress? As I tried to focus on my writing tasks for that day, I pondered the chances of success for the writer’s entreaties at the coming Saturday meeting. Withdrawing to the West while the war continued seemed unlikely. That would mean many officers and troops leaving their families and farms behind. Certainly the writer knew this would not be an appealing prospect.
But what if a peace agreement was signed quickly? It might have already been signed with the news still coming by ship from Paris. No, the letter clearly assumed a peace agreement; the choice advocated was keeping arms, threatening the Congress, and, if necessary, marching on Philadelphia and overthrowing the Congress. This was a course of action that offered prospects of success. As I have said, there had been an increasing number of mutinies as the war progressed. After the early Pennsylvania mountain men mutiny, there was the Connecticut regiment mutiny, the Virginia officers refusing orders to join General Greene in the Carolinas, and the rebellious officers at Fort Pitt. Just two years ago came the most serious one yet: thousands of Pennsylvania militia had mutinied, killed some of their officers, and marched on the Congress.