Sean Dietrich
March, 1783. The Revolutionary War was not over. The throng of Continental soldiers encamped at headquarters was pissed.
And with good reason. The soldiers were bloody. Battered. They were sick. And worst of all, they were unpaid. Namely, because Congress would not get off its fat aspirations and pay its own army.
Just who did Congress think it was? These wealthy jerks, sitting in ornate boardrooms, wearing tight pants and powder wigs, making up new laws, refusing to fund their own army.
The soldiers were angry. Angry at the negligence. Angry at bloated government fatcats whose daughters mail-ordered clothes from Italy, whose sons studied Latin and ceramic pottery.
This was NOT the America the soldiers signed up for. This was B.S.
General Washington’s officers began whispering behind his back. They wrote seething letters in secret.
Sean Dietrich
The soldiers had been circulating petitions suggesting large-scale mutiny. An anonymous letter was read aloud in the bunkhouses, barracks, and tents:
“Any further experiments on our patience may have fatal effects… If this then be [our] treatment, while the swords [we] wear are necessary for the defence of America, what have [we] to expect from peace…?”
So the men’s minds were made up. They decided on mutiny. Screw this. They were going to abandon the war, let the American people fend for themselves against the British. Then, the army would march on Congress and demand paychecks, with muskets drawn.
Washington caught wind that his officers had planned a secret meeting. This was serious. These were HIS officers. HIS trusted guys. And they were plotting against him.
A meeting was called in New Windsor Cantonment, New York. March 15. A nation’s entire future hung in the balance. This is what happened at that meeting:
It was a large hall, entirely made of wood. Voices reverberated off the walls. Lots of grumbling. Fraternal laughter. Meeting was about to begin.
Everyone in the crowd had two things in common. They were angry at Congress. And angry with George Washington.
The gavel banged.
“Meeting will commence,” someone shouted.
The crowd fell to a hush.
That’s when everyone heard a horse come charging up outside. Someone looked out the window.
“It’s General Washington!” someone shouted.
Washington climbed off his horse. In moments he was hobbling down the aisle, winded and out of breath. His hair was gray. His skin, wrinkled.
Wait a second. THIS was Washington? This looked like an old man.
The great General took the podium and read a nine-page letter in an aged voice. He pleaded with his men, begging for patience. But it was doing no good. His men were snickering bitterly. Arms crossed. Shaking heads. If anyone would’ve had rotten tomatoes, they would’ve hurled them at the General.
General Washington’s mood was falling. It was over for the Great American Experiment. He folded up his speech and prepared to read another speech to his crowd.
“What a JOKE!” the men were muttering. “Get this guy off the stage.”
And that’s when it happened.
As the General was unfolding leaflets, he patted his chest pockets. Then he removed a pair of wire spectacles.
The room collectively gasped. It was the first time anyone had seen the great and fearless General wearing eyeglasses.
They had always viewed this man as a giant. A myth. A man’s man. But this was no legend in their midst. This was a man humbled.
Washington was visibly embarrassed.
He apologized to his crowd. “Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for, I have grown not only gray, but almost blind in the service of my country.”
Nobody spoke for whole minutes. Many soldiers began to weep. And, well, anyway we won the war.
Happy 250th anniversary America.