It was impossible to say. After all the suffering that they had lived through, he really didn’t know—but he was about to find out. The emergency meeting he had called was about to begin.
March 15, 1783
Temple of Honor
Newburgh
The air was cold and raw as George Washington stood outside a new building on the edges of the military camp. It was just before noon.
The place he was about to enter was called the Temple of Honor, and it had many uses: a dance hall, a meetinghouse, a place to gather and keep warm. Today he hoped to add another use to that list: a place to quell a fractious rebellion.
The building’s wooden exterior was rough and poorly finished, with brown mortar stuck between the logs and a slightly uneven door. Standing at the large double doors that covered the main entrance, he listened to the voices booming from inside. They were waiting for him, the officers and generals of his army, men he had spent years fighting to defend, both from within the halls of Congress and upon the battlefield. Listening, he identified the voices of some of his senior generals and most trusted aides.
Were there any who were with him?
His chest tightened.
He put his hand on the door pull and an ominous spirit seemed to emanate from out of thin air, whispering feelings of darkness and despair into his mind. He had wrestled with the demons of discouragement many times before, this feeling was not unfamiliar to him, but this time was different: far more deadly, far more personal.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled the wooden door back and stepped into the hall.
The group of men instantly turned toward him, feeling his presence as he entered the dimly lit room. A deep hush fell over them. No one spoke. No one moved. The smell of smoke and newly cut pine permeated the air. The small windows, thin and poorly made, bent the sunlight across the floor into broken prisms. A potbelly stove burned at the front of the hall and the air was stuffy.
The general took two steps inside, then stopped, his eyes moving around the room. The moment of decision had finally come. For all of them.
Washington noticed that none of the officers looked away from him. And why should they? They had nothing to be ashamed about. They had done nothing wrong! They weren’t plotting to destroy a nation. They weren’t fighting to grab power or great riches. They weren’t fighting out of maliciousness or pride or for any of the other reasons that evil men might fight. The only thing that they wanted was for the promises that had been made to them to be kept.
The general took his time, moving his eyes around the room. He needed to read the mood, to know what he was up against. Looking at the stoic faces, he realized that he faced a mountain.
He moved toward the makeshift podium that had been positioned at the front of the room. The men turned their heads to match his pace, never taking their eyes off him.
He stopped behind the podium and cleared his throat. “I apologize,” he started. “It wasn’t my intention to come to you in person. But upon reading this paper”—he lifted the threatening circular in his hand—“and after a long night of careful consideration, I knew I had to speak to you myself.”
He began with his prepared remarks, speaking of the neglect that all of them had suffered and acknowledging the painful fact that some in the room felt that he had personally let them down.
“If my conduct heretofore has not evinced to you that I have been a faithful friend to the army,” he said, “my declaration of it at this time would be equally unavailing and improper. But as I was among the first who embarked in the cause of our common country; as I have never left your side one moment, but when called from you on public duty; as I have been the constant companion and witness of your distresses … as I have ever considered my military reputation as inseparably connected with that of the army; as my heart has ever expanded with joy when I have heard its praises; and my indignation has arisen when the mouth of detraction has been opened against it, it can scarcely be supposed, at this late stage of the war, that I am indifferent to its interests.”
He thrust the threatening circular into the air, toward the men, resentment rising in his voice.
“The anonymous addresser of this paper says, ‘If peace takes place, never sheathe your swords until you have obtained full and ample justice!’
“My God!” His voice was booming now. “What can this writer have in view, by recommending such measures? Can he be a friend to the army? Can he be a friend to this country? Rather, is he not an insidious foe?”
His words seemed to echo through the wooden hall. There was no doubt left about where he stood.
He went on, choosing his words very carefully now. Yes, the Congress has been shackled. But it was made up of good and honorable men. They would give the army justice! He promised to continue promoting their cause before the Congress to the utmost extent of his abilities. But they had to trust him. They had to give him another chance.
He warned them that moving forward with violence now would shade the glory that they had earned. “Let me entreat you, gentlemen, on your part, not to take any measures which, viewed in the calm light of reason, will lessen the dignity and sully the glory you have hitherto maintained; let me request you to rely on the plighted faith of your country, and place a full confidence in the purity of the intentions of Congress.”
He paused and looked upon the faces. He had rewritten the end of his remarks many times over the previous days, searching for the exact right words to leave them with.
Stepping out from behind the podium and into the crowd, he began, “[By rejecting violence] you will, by the dignity of your conduct, afford occasion for posterity to say, when speaking of the glorious example you have exhibited to mankind, ‘Had this day been wanting, the world had never seen the last stage of perfection to which human nature is capable of attaining.’”
And that was it. It was all he had to say. He had put forward every argument. If they couldn’t see it, if they didn’t believe it, if putting his honor and reputation on the line were not enough, then there was nothing he could do now. He would fight them if he had to, but he couldn’t fight them with any more words.
Silence hung in the air. No one stood to applaud. It seemed that no one even moved. A few of the men, it seemed, had softened, but most were still as hard as the nails driven into the floor. Hardened and unyielding, refusing even now to bend.
He swallowed in despair. So this is it! he thought to himself This is how it ends …
Washington moved his gaze from face to face. All of the men were looking at him, but none of them were smiling.
In desperation, the general thought of what more he could say. Almost as an afterthought, he remembered the letter from the congressman that he had put into his pocket. It wasn’t much, but perhaps a pledge of support from a representative in Philadelphia would help tip the scales toward peace.
He reached into his pocket and unfolded the letter. He began to read but the words had been crammed onto the page and were too small for him to make out. He stumbled over them badly. A moment of awkward silence followed. He turned back to the letter. He read a few more words but there was no point in trying to continue—he was looking foolish.
With great reluctance, he reached into another pocket and pulled out a new set of spectacles. He stared at them a moment. Only a few of his closest aides had ever seen him put them on. He lifted them to his eyes, but fumbled awkwardly. He instead looked out upon his men. “Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my spectacles,” he explained in sadness, “for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in service to my country.”
A reverent hush fell over every man within the room. Watching their mighty general struggle, none could pull their eyes from him.
There he was, this giant in their service, this man who towered over them in almost every sense of the word, this man who had sacrificed everything that he had ever loved, who had walked and fought beside them, suffering every indignity that they had—stood before the
m in utter humility, having nothing more left to give.
A few men shifted in their seats. Many of them were weeping, tears streaming down their wintry cheeks. These grizzled men—hardened first by battle and then by a feeling of betrayal—were softened to the point of tears. But they wept not out of sympathy, nor for his immense sacrifice; they wept not out of anger, nor out of shame.
They wept because they loved him.
And they were going to follow him until the very end.
General Washington read the rest of the letter from the congressman and then left the Temple of Honor. A few minutes later, the officers took a vote. The tally was unanimous: they would stand at their beloved leader’s side.
March 16, 1783
General Washington’s Headquarters
Newburgh
George Washington had his best night’s sleep in almost a week. He dreamed not of insurrection and chaos, but of peace and prosperity.
After attending Sunday service he retired to his office to finish his report to Congress in Philadelphia, which was still very much on edge. After he’d finished writing a complete description of the meeting he penned a short cover letter.
Sir:
The result of the proceedings of the grand Convention of the Officers, which I have the honor of enclosing to your Excellency for the inspection of Congress, will, I flatter myself, be considered as the last glorious proof of Patriotism which could have been given by Men who aspired to the distinction of a Patriot Army; and will not only confirm their claim to the justice, but will increase their title to the gratitude of their Country…
With great respect, etc.
George Washington
His letter arrived in Philadelphia just in time. James Madison later wrote in his personal journal that the “dispatch dispelled the cloud which seemed to have been gathering.”
While Washington likely did not know it at the time, the outcome of his meeting in the Temple of Honor had very likely stopped the Congress from voting to declare war on their very own army.
But while that storm had been deftly avoided—another one—this one involving the very Articles of Confederation that had been at the root of the Newburgh crisis—was beginning to form.
12
A Moment of Crisis, a Lifetime of Preparation
Perhaps the strongest feature in his character was prudence, never acting until every circumstance, every consideration, was maturely weighed; refraining if he saw a doubt, but, when once decided, going through with his purpose, whatever obstacles opposed. His integrity was most pure, his justice the most inflexible I have ever known, no motives of interest or consanguinity, of friendship or hatred, being able to bias his decision. He was, indeed, in every sense of the words, a wise, a good, and a great man.
—THOMAS JEFFERSON
Sometimes everything you prepare for during your entire life can come down to one instant in time. With athletes it might be one pitch; with musicians and actors it might be one audition; and, for the rest of us, it might be one chance to influence others to make the right decision.
As we sit here today, many of us are frustrated. Some of us have gone out to rallies or town hall meetings, or written our congressmen—but rarely has that gotten the results we hope for. Some people get frustrated by that and some will, no doubt, choose the Benedict Arnold path as a result. But others get motivated by it—they use their frustrations as incentive to keep going, to keep preparing, to keep waiting for their opportunity.
George Washington was one of those people.
The unbiased march of time has proven the Newburgh Conspiracy to be one of the most important episodes of the entire American Revolution. In fact, many historians recognize it as one of the most, if not the most, dangerous hour the United States has ever faced. Had General Washington failed to pacify his angry army, and his men gone forward with venting their rage upon the Congress, the nation may well have drowned in the blood of a civil war.
It is clear now that Washington’s speech before his army in Newburgh stopped what could have been a very dangerous turn of events. That watershed moment proved to be one of those rare turning points that shaped not only the future of our nation, but the fate of the entire world.
Think about it: What would the next two centuries have been like had the United States not been the united states? How different would our world be right now, how different would it have been for our ancestors, how different for our children, had the country—free from the oppression of a foreign king—turned to a monarchy of its own?
These may seem like rhetorical questions, but they’re not; they’re vital ones because they force us to think about the fact that one person at one moment in time can define history for generations to come.
From President to Emperor
It was not very far in the future from that day in Newburgh that Napoleon Bonaparte became “First Consul” of the French Republic. Five years later Bonaparte had literally crowned himself Napoleon I, Emperor of the French. It goes to show you just how fast a republic can become a monarchy if the wrong people are put in charge.
At Newburgh, only one man had the power to sway the embittered army and short-circuit any talk of emperors or kings or coups or rebellions. Only one man had the stature and humility to guide the nation through this dark hour. Only one man really understood not only human weaknesses but also the stage of perfection to which human nature is capable. Only one man had the chance to be Bonaparte—and only one man had the courage and humility to turn it down.
An officer on Henry Knox’s staff witnessed how Washington met this challenge. He wrote:
On other occasions, [Washington] had been supported by the exertions of an army and the countenance of his friends; but in this he stood single and alone. There was no saying where the passions of an army, which were not a little inflamed, might lead…. Under these circumstances he appeared, not at the head of his troops, but as it were, in opposition to them; and for a dreadful moment the interests of the army and its General seemed to be in competition! He spoke—every doubt was dispelled, and the tide of patriotism rolled again in its wonted course. Illustrious man! What he says of the army may with equal justice be applied to his own character. “Had this day been wanting, the world had never seen the last stage of perfection to which human nature is capable of attaining.”
Well over two hundred years have passed since that fateful meeting in Newburgh, New York. For many, that dramatic showdown has been lost in the passage of time. Some historians, in their detached and educated analysis, give little importance to the event or to the power of the man who dared his army to believe in laws instead of arms, a man who had grown gray in the service of the men and nation that he loved. Even now, how many of our fellow citizens realize that, for an agonizing few days, the American experiment hung precariously in the balance? How many kids in school are taught that everything they’ve come to know and believe in literally depended on one speech and one man?
For those of us fortunate to enjoy the marvelous blessings of the original “land of the free,” there is little excuse for not appreciating the extraordinary power of what happened in what many remember simply as a part-time dance hall in upstate New York.
An Appropriate Name
The assembly hall in Newburgh where the meeting took place was called the “Temple,” and it was, unsurprisingly, also a part-time church. I say “unsurprisingly” because it’s clear now that God was present there that day. Of course, the building’s full name was “The Temple of Honor” and it could not have been a more perfect fit for the occasion. If the man who gave the speech that day had not been a man of honor, things may have very well turned out much different.
PREPARING FOR YOUR MOMENT
It was all about character, trust, and honor—three words that most current-day elites scoff at, but three of Washington’s traits that likely saved America.
A year after the Newburgh crisis, Thomas Jefferson recognized Washington’s accomplishment: “Th
e moderation and virtue of a single character have probably prevented this revolution from being closed, as most others have been, by a subversion of that liberty it was intended to establish.”
It wasn’t Washington’s military expertise that saved the day. It wasn’t his oratory skills or his powers of persuasion. It wasn’t the height of his stature, the enormously important political connections that he held, nor his elevated social status.
It was his soft-spoken meekness, his deep humility in a moment of utter crisis, and the trust and respect he’d garnered from his colleagues over the years that saved the country.
Angry George
Given Washington’s famously humble speeches and subdued nature it’s surprising to learn that he was once known for his hotheadedness and sudden temper.
“I wish I could say that he governs his temper,” Lord Fairfax wrote to Mary Ball Washington about the sixteen-year-old Washington. “He is subject to attacks of anger on provocation, sometimes without just cause.”
Gilbert Stuart, a man who knew Washington well, and who painted his official portrait, said of him, “Had he been born in the forests, he would have been the fiercest among savage tribes.”
Yes, life as a surveyor on the unforgiving frontier was very difficult. It was demanding and hostile, with danger and deprivation at every turn. It demanded a decisive and sometimes authoritarian approach in order to survive. But Washington recognized that this didn’t change the fact that his hot temper was a weakness. Whether he was on the frontier or engaged in mortal combat against the redcoats, an explosive temper detracted from his ability to accomplish his goals. It was a deficiency in his personality that would not serve him if he didn’t rise above it.