This Day in Revolutionary War History (Moderates, Radicals Unite to Present Case for Fighting)

July 6, 1775—Nearly one year before the Second Continental Congress issued the Declaration of Independence, it took the first step at airing the grievances of the 13 colonies over British depredations.

Two delegates who locked horns in the debate leading to independence, Thomas Jefferson and John Dickinson, took turns in creating Declaration of the Causes and Necessity for Taking Up Arms, which sought to assure the public—and, in far-off Great Britain, King George III—that their problems were not with the monarch but with his ministers imposing coercive measures on the colonies.

Years later, John Adams recalled that during the American Revolution, one-third of the colonists supported the cause, one-third were opposed, and one-third were neutral. If anything, non-supporters of independence were still in the ascendant one year earlier, but events were assuming a momentum that many feared could not be controlled.

This latter group is not as celebrated as the radicals, who won the vote for independence in the Second Continental Congress and, in the end, the war itself. They come off especially badly in the musical 1776.

But the moderates’ stance was not without merit, and they marshaled compelling arguments for the colonists’ rights before the Declaration of Independence and contributed to the republic afterward.

The most prominent moderate delegates from two large middle colonies, including New York’s John Jay, who became the first Chief Justice of the US Supreme Court; Pennsylvania’s James Wilson, among the keenest legal minds of the revolutionary and Federalist periods; and Robert Morris, a wealthy Philadelphia merchant who earned the nickname “Financier of the Revolution” through his crucial infusion of money when the Continental Army was at its most desperate.

But the leader of the group in the debates already convulsing the Second Continental Congress was Dickinson, a wealthy lawyer who, by refusing to sign the Declaration of Independence—even though he promptly joined the Continental Army as a private—immediately forfeited much of the credit he deserved for mobilizing American opinion against British policies in his pamphlet Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania (1768).

In devastating critiques of the Stamp and Townshend Acts, Dickinson crafted one of the first known strategies for nonviolent protest in American history, preferring to call on economic pressure and appeals to the Mother Country’s longstanding care of its faraway offspring (“where is maternal affection”?: he wondered) to bring Britain’s ministers around.

Unlike fellow Pennsylvania delegate Joseph Galloway, who wanted the colonists to be brought more tightly under the British umbrella, Dickinson preferred that the colonists be allowed to administer something more akin to home rule.

Yet his reluctance to accept the inevitability of independence might have resulted from internal divisions within his own extended clan. His in-laws included not just independence firebrands but also loyalists and others whose allegiance could be swayed to and fro—an example in microcosm of the split that Adams saw in the nation at large.

On a committee that the Continental Congress designated to respond to Britain, Dickinson found himself working with a Virginia delegate less inclined to speak up but every bit his equal as a penman: Thomas Jefferson, whose Summary View of the Rights of British America attracted wide notice within his colony and among the other politicians gathered that year in Philadelphia.

The case that the panel would present had assumed greater importance with the outbreak of hostilities at the Battles of Lexington, Concord, and Bunker Hill. Dickinson read the first draft by Jefferson—and blanched over its fierce statements.

Jefferson read Dickinson’s revisions, nodded—and mostly accepted only his minor suggestions.

Dickinson reviewed Jefferson’s “fair copy,” made a few other suggestions—and, after some more changes, Congress had in its hands a document that slammed the “Legislature of Great-Britain” for being “stimulated by an inordinate Passion for a Power.” (To track the intense revision process behind Declaration of the Causes and Necessity for Taking Up Arms, see this "Editorial Note" on the "Founders Online" Website.)

At the same time, it pledged to readers that, while committed to defending their lands and freedoms, “we mean not to dissolve that Union which has so long and so happily subsisted between us, and which we sincerely wish to see restored.”

What a difference a year would make. King George III’s high-handed refusal even to consider the “Olive Branch Petition” adopted that same weekend in Philadelphia undermined the warnings of Dickinson, its primary proponent, that the colonies were incurring enormous risks by fighting Britain without a powerful ally or an effective central government.

In the end, the defiance of the Continental Congress brought on the violence and the assault on privilege that concerned Dickinson. But the cause won out and even a conservative reformer like Dickinson accommodated the new order by serving in the governments of Pennsylvania and Delaware. At his death in 1808, Jefferson hailed his onetime "moderate" opponent in the Continental Congress:

"Among the first advocates for the rights of his country when assailed by Great Britain, he continued to the last the orthodox advocate of the true principles of our new government, and his name will be consecrated in history as one of the great worthies of the revolution.”

This Day in Revolutionary War History (Arnold Raid on Richmond Rattles Jefferson)

Jan. 5, 1781—Facing only token opposition, Royal troops in Virginia under their notorious new commander, Benedict Arnold, plundered and destroyed at will public buildings and private residences in Richmond, the recently designated capital of the commonwealth.

The attack was so unexpected that few troops were available to stand in the way of the traitor who, for all his double-dealing, continued to display the energy and skill that had once made him so valuable to the Continental Army.

Having no clue until too late as to Arnold’s ultimate destination, Governor Thomas Jefferson (pictured) tried in vain to instigate a military counter-offensive and maintain civil authority in the small community he had done so much to bring into being as the new seat of government in Virginia, leading to charges of incompetence and even cowardice that dogged him for the rest of his life.

Arnold's raid—as well as the larger five-month campaign he conducted in the interior—also had consequences for Jefferson’s personal life. To avoid capture by the English, he sent his wife Martha and young children packing for Tuckahoe, the plantation where he had spent much of his childhood. That journey through the wilderness in the deepest heart of the winter led to his five-week-old daughter Lucy catching a cold that worsened until she died in mid-April.

Forty years ago, in a college seminar on the American Presidency, our professor was fond of pointing out that for many Presidents, their prior experiences as governor foreshadowed how they would act in the White House. How, then, should we view Jefferson’s performance as an executive?

Unlike fellow Virginian George Washington, the “Sage of Monticello” had no experience of physical combat. Unlikely as it might seem, he had even less appetite for political combat. He left after two terms as both governor and President exhausted from the struggle, with the braying of his enemies ringing in his ears.

It is true that the powers of the Virginia governor were weak, requiring consensus by an eight-man Council of State. It is also true that any occupant of the office would be handicapped by the inability to raise funds at that time.

On the positive side, Jefferson had enough popularity to win a second term, and enough foresight to have drawn up, four years before, enabling legislation to move the commonwealth’s capital away from Williamsburg—easily accessible to invading troops attacking with a navy—to a more defensible interior location in Richmond. Moreover, he took care to move arms and necessary papers to safety.

But Jefferson lacked the personal charisma of predecessor Patrick Henry, Washington’s hard-won recognition of the many ways that things could go wrong in a military campaign—or the willingness to exercise the authority of his office up to its constitutional limits. Thus, he did not receive word until late that Arnold was pressing inland from the coast; did not notify Washington in time that Continental troops were needed to repel the invaders; did not guess correctly that Arnold would press towards Richmond rather than Petersburg; and did not call out the militia in time to defend the capital.

(In the case of the militia, Jefferson—suspicious of the threat posed by a standing army to republican government—remained, even three decades later, deeply naïve about the ability of poorly trained soldiers, signed up for limited service, to carry out significant military duties. His belief that Canada could be captured as a result of “a mere matter of marching” turned out to be spectacularly wrong, and the burning of Washington under his successor, James Madison, echoed his own experiences with Richmond.)

Unable to capture Jefferson himself, the redcoats took some of his slaves from the governor’s residence in Richmond. They then proceeded to Portsmouth, establishing there a base from which they could continue to launch raids in the countryside.

With Jefferson’s second term drawing to a close in early summer and no successor in sight, the English reached the Monticello, the mountain estate that he thought would be safe from English deprivation. Again he was wrong, forcing him to gallop away so hurriedly that some mistook it for cowardice.

Following an embarrassing inquiry into his conduct of the defense of Richmond, the legislature adopted a resolution praising his “ability, rectitude and integrity.” But critics began to complain about his lack of decisiveness in directing the campaign—notably Major General Baron von Steuben, who had won Washington’s gratitude and trust for intensively training Continental troops. Steuben was indignant that Jefferson had not used his office to order militiamen or even slaves to construct a fort at Hood’s Point.

Just a few weeks before his death in 1826, Jefferson had been willing to sit down with a son of onetime critic Henry Lee to provide documents justifying his role in the Richmond campaign. But the former President was too exhausted by what proved to be his death struggle to respond at the necessary length.

This Day in Revolutionary War History (Steuben, Army Trainer, Arrives at Valley Forge)

Feb. 23, 1778—Midway in a dispiriting, even deadly, winter encampment, a German visitor with a murky past and few English-speaking skills arrived to give the Continental Army much-needed discipline and even hope. Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben wasn’t really entitled to use that aristocratic “von,” he had inflated his military resume, and he didn’t mention other, decidedly dodgy rumors about his past. But he ended up precisely drilling the Continentals in the fundamentals of fighting, along with writing the first U.S. Army training manual. The American army may be said to have begun in earnest with him at Valley Forge.

It’s easy to imagine the reaction of George Washington when Steuben showed up at his Valley Forge headquarters: Oh no, not another headache! That same month, with the redcoats occupying Philadelphia, with his forces having dwindled to half the 12,000 he had started the winter with, the American commander-in-chief had needed to convince clueless delegates from the Continental Congress that, without immediate aid, his starving forces would cease to exist as a fighting unit. No sooner was he done with that problem than Steuben’s presence raised another.

Motivated variously by idealism, adventure, fame and the desire for land, visitors from abroad had been besieging the Continental Congress requesting military commissions. It was one thing if British soldiers (Lee, Stirling, Montgomery) had come over, but quite another when Lafayette, DeKalb, Pulaski and Kosciuszko did likewise. How trustworthy were their backgrounds? And how would they adapt to soldiers speaking a different language?

Additionally, how would native-born officers react to this interloper? The Continental Congress had gotten into the habit of awarding these foreigners, virtually sight unseen, major positions in the army, causing so much dissension that the lawmakers had been forced to suspend the practice. Nevertheless, what would the loyal Greene, Wayne and (at the time) Arnold think about another such officer, even if only here as a volunteer?

Steuben, like countless figures who, to borrow a phrase from historian Garry Wills, “invented America,” started by reinventing himself. He had perpetuated his grandfather’s claim that they were members of nobility. He then brought to General Washington a letter from America’s diplomat to France, Benjamin Franklin, introducing “His Excellency, Lieutenant General von Steuben, Apostle of Frederick the Great.” 

Actually, the highest rank he had attained in the Prussian Army, under the command of Europe’s reigning military genius, was captain. Steuben’s title while in the Prussian army as a staff officer was Deputy to the Quartermaster General--in French, “Lieutenant General Quarters Maitre,” then further mistranslated as “Lieutenant General.”

Another matter was harder to document, but potentially more explosive. According to Randy Shilts’ account of gays and lesbians in the American military, Conduct Unbecoming, a letter had come to the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen (whom Steuben was serving as Grand Marshall, or administrator) in August 1777, accusing the onetime soldier of having “taken liberties with young boys which the law forbids and punishes severely.”

Was the charge true? Lending credence to it were the facts that Steuben never married or fathered children; that he had buffed up his lineage and military career; and that he had left the army in 1763. On the other hand, the source of the rumor was anonymous; the Seven Years War, in which Steuben had served (and been wounded twice), had just ended when he left the service; the thought of Frederick, himself a homosexual, drumming someone out of his service on a similar charge was a bit rich; and Shilts’ claim that the language skills of Steuben’s “interpreter” were inadequate has been disputed.

No Americans, including Franklin or Washington, knew anything about this when Steuben came to the patriot cause. The American general didn’t know what to make of him, period, aside from the fact that the Prussian was splendidly fitted out, with clothes he had picked in Europe to make him look every inch of what an American soldier called “a perfect personification of Mars,” the god of war. But Washington had a simple but effective method for judging him and other men: let’s see him prove himself. He told Steuben to inspect the troops and report what he saw.

What Steuben found, after talking to officers, looking at the huts, and sizing up the men’s bearing, was a mess. No European army could have held together under these conditions, he noted.

There was another way in which the Americans differed from the European troops with whom Steuben had trained: the matter of discipline. Americans wouldn’t simply obey an order; you had to tell them why they should. One could only imagine the Prussian’s astonishment when he discovered that.

Washington liked enough of what he learned from Steuben to appoint him Inspector General. In March, the German got to work training his men. He set about through two means: written and oral.

Steuben knew little English but a great deal of German, Russian (he had been a POW on the Russian front toward the end of the Seven Years’ War), and French. In addition to the translation assistance provided by Steuben’s secretary, Washington had two aides-de-camp whose French Huguenot descent gave them familiarity with the language, and whose extensive practice in writing out their chief’s orders gave them a firm hold of simple, direct military language. These two friends, John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton, made Steuben’s French-written training manual a reality for American troops.

Steuben’s personal inspection of the troops was more colorful. He would learn a few simple English words, then rely on aides for translation. If that didn't work, he resorted to sign language. If the troops still weren't absorbing the drill, he would curse and swear in German, leaving the recruits with more than a few chuckles. 

He picked Washington’s personal guard and 120 men from each of the states as part of a model unit. He kept his instructions simple, the better for the men to absorb what he was doing. He concentrated on drilling in bayonet, whose use, amazingly, the troops had never been trained for--this despite the fact that British troops had spread terror whenever they had employed them against the patriots.

By the time camp was over, Washington’s troops had been transformed under the Prussian’s care. They would not buckle anymore in the face of superior British training. The redcoats learned firsthand about this changed fighting force later that year after the Americans had broken camp, at the Battle of Monmouth, when the Continentals fought them to a bloody draw.

In the end, the new country that sprang from the American Revolution received more from Steuben than he had from it. Throughout the war, the Continental Congress continually ignored his requests for reimbursement of expenses, then his request for land.  It took three different state governments to donate lands (the best form of payment in those days of the young republic) to the now-retired soldier, and many of these he had to sell off to meet his expenses. Steuben died in 1794 in upstate New York.

 

(I took the photo accompanying this post on a visit to Valley Forge last October. The bronze statue by J. Otto Schweizer, erected in 1915, is located off of Route 23, near the Grand Parade grounds where Steuben proudly inspected the troops he had so masterfully drilled.)

This Day in Revolutionary War History (Political Fortunes Shift at Saratoga)

October 17, 1777—The surrender of British general John Burgoyne at Saratoga, N.Y., did more than just take out of commission one-fifth of British troops fighting in America. With the results persuading King Louis XVI that the American colonists had a fighting chance against their mother country, the patriot victory brought into the American Revolution a force that eventually tipped the scales in their favor—and led to such a strain on the French treasury that it arguably produced a revolution in that country a dozen years later, too.

It might be said that the fate of American history depended on two battles that affected a foreign power’s decision to take sides in a war on American soil. The first battle was Saratoga; the second, the Battle of Antietam, 125 years later, when it was Britain’s turn to make a crucial choice about a revolutionary struggle. In the latter case, however, a Union victory, coupled with Abraham Lincoln’s issuance of the Emancipation Proclamation, convinced Foreign Minister Lord John Russell not to recognize the Confederacy. (See my prior post on this.)

The ironies of history don’t end there. Burgoyne’s surrender can be seen as the culmination of a year-long campaign to foil the British plan to cut off New England and New York from each other and the rest of the colonies. The soldier most responsible for defeating that strategy—a general who, three times over the prior 12 months, had delayed, disrupted, derailed and depleted British forces in upstate New York—was the patriot who, in three years, became synonymous with betraying the American Revolution: Benedict Arnold.

The entrance of France into the revolution underscored the geopolitical aspects of this worldwide struggle. The fates of Burgoyne, Arnold, and the three American commanders caught in the fallout of the Saratoga campaign—Philip Schuyler, Horatio Gates and George Washington—illustrated how politics inevitably affected who led the battles, and how:

·        

     * John Burgoyne: “Gentleman Johnny,” born under ambiguous circumstances (some suggested he was the illegitimate son of Lord Bingley, Chancellor of the Exchequer under Queen Anne), took to soldiering, a common career path for sons of the nobility. Though skilled at working enough levers to rise in the British Army, he found himself with few friends when he lost the Saratoga campaign. After he was paroled with his troops (with a promise not to fight again) and returned home, a Parliamentary inquiry into his conduct proved inconclusive. He never again commanded armies in America.

·         * Philip Schuyler: The New York aristocrat-general, friendly with George Washington, became involved in a dispute with Gates over command of the Continental Army’s Northern Department—a quarrel that the Continental Congress fanned into being by not immediately establishing a clear line of command in this area. While Schuyler was the favorite of soldiers in his home state, Gates won the loyalty of New Englanders. Schuyler’s campaign of harassment against British forces would later prove essential to victory, but his loss of Fort Ticonderoga gave his enemies ammunition. By the time a court of inquiry absolved him of fault in the campaign, he had lost his command.

·         * Horatio Gates: Before long, this English-born patriot was not only clashing with Schuyler but with Arnold, a favorite of the New Yorker as well as of Washington. When Gates failed to credit Arnold with any share of the victory for the first phase of the Saratoga campaign, Arnold quarreled bitterly with him. Gates' victory at Saratoga was more the result of the leadership of Arnold and General Dan Morgan than his own strategy.

·        *  George Washington: A faction in the Continental Congress was looking to replace the army commander in chief with “Granny Gates,” particularly since, following the Battle of Brandywine, the Virginian had lost control of Philadelphia to the British. Gates would not be discredited--and Washington's position made comparatively secure--until three years later at the Battle of Camden, the worst military defeat suffered by American forces in the entire war.

·         * Benedict Arnold: The hypersensitive New Englander had earned the hard-won respect of Washington for slowing the British advance into the New York interior at the Battle of Valcour Island, for tricking Britain’s sizable Indian allied force into abandoning Burgoyne, and for turning the tide of the second major engagement of the Saratoga campaign—the Battle of Bemis Heights---by jumping on his horse and leading a vigorous charge against the enemy—after he had resigned in a huff after an argument with Gates and had decided to go home. But Arnold had been badly wounded in the latter engagement. Washington’s well-meaning attempt to recognize his gallant but sidelined soldier with a stint as military governor of Philadelphia (now back in American hands following the British evacuation) turned out to be disastrous for Arnold, as he was accused of war profiteering. The charges (though true this time) so enraged him that in 1780, he attempted—unsuccessfully—to hand West Point over to the British.

   Nearly 150 years after the battle, Americans finally conceived of a way to commemorate the valor of the man most responsible for victory at Saratoga. The "Boot Memorial" (see the image accompanying this post) honors Arnold, who is unnamed. The thinking was that the leg--key to his triumph at Saratoga--was the only part of the patriot-turned-traitor that could not be connected to his subsequent treachery.