Читать книгу Blood of Tyrants - Logan Beirne - Страница 26

8

Exitus Acta Probat

At the outset of hostilities, America’s Continental Congress met to plan a strategy for the patriotic cause. This group was composed of political and intellectual leaders from throughout the colonies, with Washington attending as a representative of Virginia. Having gained approximately twenty-five pounds of muscle since the Jumonville scandal in 1754, the matured man carried his formidable two-hundred-pound frame with the majesty of a natural-born athlete. When ordering from his tailor, he described himself as “a Man full 6 feet high & proportionably made; if any thing, rather slender than thick for a person of that highth with pretty long Arms and thighs.”¹ Many history books describe him as taller, but Washington was not one to misinform his tailor—he took his appearance quite seriously.

Washington arrived at Independence Hall in 1775 looking the part of a military expert. In a not-so-subtle reminder of his previous military service during the Seven Years’ War, he shrewdly wore his blue Virginia militia uniform. This was complemented by his hair, which was powdered white and tied in the back with a satin bow. Such a style was considered very masculine and militaristic, thereby serving as yet another indication of his soldier status.

Ironically, Washington had in fact been retired from military life for fifteen years. His only military experience after the Jumonville disaster had been predominantly in backwoods warfare, and he had done poorly by most standards. He had never commanded anything larger than a regiment, let alone an army, in battle. Due to his limited success, Washington had been unable to obtain a commission in the British Army and had resigned from the Virginia militia.

Despite his lackluster record, Washington still had more military experience than most Americans in 1775. To the group of military novices in the Continental Congress, he was the relative expert. And defer to him they did. When military questions arose, their natural reaction was to turn to the man in uniform standing with a militaristic posture “as straight as an Indian.”² Although he preferred to remain silent, Washington provided thoughtful contributions if asked for his opinion. Unsurprisingly, when time came to decide who would lead the new American army, Washington catapulted to the shortlist of candidates.

The southern gentleman’s impeccable manners, humble demeanor, and almost aristocratic dignity endeared him to the congressmen. Cited for his “handsome face,” “graceful attitude and movements,” “self command,” and willingness to risk his personal fortune, he embodied the noble new “American Commander in Chief” that Congress aimed to create.³ One delegate observed that Washington had “so much martial dignity in his deportment that you would distinguish him to be a general and a soldier from among ten thousand people.”⁴ On top of all these attributes, Washington humbly exuded a je ne sais quoi that the Revolution badly needed. And so, after much deliberation and argument, dominated by north-south tensions, the Virginian was unanimously appointed as America’s first commander in chief.

In all of these deliberations, however, Congress neglected to address the matter of how to treat their foes. They passed not one resolution concerning the treatment of captured British and Loyalist fighters. Congress’s first mere mention of the subject on record was in Washington’s commission as commander in chief of the Continental Army:

You shall take every method in your power consistent with prudence, to destroy or make prisoners of all persons who now are or who hereafter shall appear in Arms against the good people of the united colonies.

And whereas all particulars cannot be foreseen, nor positive instructions for such emergencies so before hand given but that many things must be left to your prudent and discreet management, as occurrences may arise upon the place, or from time to time fall out, you are therefore upon all such accidents or any occasions that may happen, to use your best circumspection and (advising with your council of war) to order and dispose of the said Army under your command as may be most advantageous for the obtaining the end for which these forces have been raised, making it your special care in discharge of the great trust committed unto you, that the liberties of America receive no detriment.⁵

With this resolution, the Continental Congress empowered their new commander to decide whether to destroy or imprison enemies of the fledgling nation. They immediately followed this grant of authority with a further declaration leaving much to Washington’s discretion, or “best circumspection,” in how to deploy the Continental Army in defense of the emerging states.⁶ In so doing, Congress indicated that decisions regarding prisoner treatment would be the commander’s prerogative.⁷

With these powers, Washington set out for Boston. His mission was to defeat the British who were besieged within the city by enraged New Englanders. The city had been transformed into a virtual military camp as nearly 14,000 British troops poured in and the townsfolk fled. Boston’s civilian population had plummeted by more than 60 percent, to a mere 6,753 American inhabitants.⁸ With the town largely emptied, the redcoats had certainly made themselves at home, living in the stately brick and wooden homes of Boston, making use of its tidy shops and churches, helping themselves to its bountiful fish stocks, and patrolling the cobblestone and dirt roads for spies loyal to the patriot cause. But however comfortable the redcoats were, the fact of the matter was that they were dangerously trapped—pinned by the tens of thousands of American militiamen from Massachusetts and surrounding colonies who had joined the cause after the opening battle on Lexington’s town green.

Before things escalated further, Congress attempted to negotiate peace during the summer of 1775. They presented the British with an “Olive Branch Petition” in which the colonies agreed to cease their uprising if King George III and Parliament revoked their oppressive new laws and withdrew their troops. But by August, the king had had enough insolence.

The first in a line of British kings of German descent to have actually been born in Britain, George III proudly declared, “Born and educated in this country, I glory in the name of Britain.”⁹ And he was certainly ready to place Britain’s interests before those of the American colonies. Thirty-seven years old at the time, he had already ruled for fifteen years and had supported certain efforts to tax the colonies. This did not win him fans in America. Washington captured the sentiment of many when he said, “Great Britain hath no more right to put their hands into my pocket . . . than I have to put my hands into yours.”¹⁰ As the conflict escalated, the colonists came to vilify George III as a ruthless tyrant, who “has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.”¹¹

In reality, the king was a reserved, thoughtful man, willing to endure pains to do what he thought was right—and he expected others to do the same. For example, when his bid to marry his true love was opposed, he broke off the relationship, writing, “I am born for the happiness or misery of a great nation and consequently must often act contrary to my passions.”¹² He eventually married, and even though he did not meet the bride chosen for him until their wedding day, he nevertheless enjoyed a happy marriage—and a remarkably faithful one for monarchs of the era—fathering fifteen children. But this happy twist of fate did not erase his “grin and bear it” mentality. So when the colonists rebelled against the burdens placed on them by Parliament, the king was not particularly sympathetic.

With large bulging eyes and cheeks, George III possessed a high forehead and thick, carefully groomed hair. He was so well coifed, in fact, that the arsenic used in the hair products of the time may have contributed to his bouts of insanity.¹³ He was very lucid, however, when the patriots began to rebel. Infuriated by their attack against British power, he declared war on the “dangerous and ill designing” patriots.¹⁴ Although a pious Anglican, he was not particularly forgiving and vowed to crush these “wicked and desperate persons within [his] Realm.”¹⁵ Britain scoffed at America’s olive branch. The fight was on.

In summer of 1775, the war escalated and prisoner counts along with it. Reports abounded that the British were mistreating their American captives. “His Excellency,” as Washington was called, raised the matter with his British Army counterpart, General Thomas Gage, a high-browed, beady-eyed aristocrat. The two men were no strangers. Ironically, the now bitter rivals had once been rather friendly. Gage had commanded Washington in the Seven Years’ War and respected the young man’s bravery after he organized a successful retreat that saved many of Gage’s troops. In fact, the British general had sympathized with Washington when he was passed over for promotion in the British Army many years before and the two had maintained cordial relations following the war. However, after two decades, time and distance had severed their ties and their relationship had cooled, to say the least.

Washington was shocked and horrified by reports that Americans captured during the siege of Boston were left “languishing with Wounds, and Sickness; that some have been even amputated” by British troops under Gage’s command.¹⁶ He yearned for all prisoners to be treated with humanity and had ordered his men to care for the enemy combatants in their custody. But Gage was not reciprocating. To Washington, this conduct was a terrible offense, and it was very personal. Both honor and pragmatism demanded retribution.

Washington was not a detached general but one who fought alongside his men. Battle after battle, he led the charge, sometimes having multiple horses shot out from under him as he continued to fight. Although none of his several horses were actually white, popular tales often depicted him as a princely leader atop a great white horse in the thick of battle. While aloof in his mannerisms and occasionally gruff with his subordinates, he suffered alongside his troops, and it fostered mutual respect. So when his captured brethren were abused, he wanted not only to avenge them but also to protect other Americans from future harm. Using his British captives as leverage achieved both objectives.

Washington’s personal motto was Exitus acta probat, Latin for “the outcome justifies the deed.” He was an extremely principled man, but history has lost sight of his very practical side. While he earnestly endeavored to raise America’s treatment of her prisoners above the barbarity of previous European wars, it became clear to him that the only way he could save his captured countrymen was to potentially mutilate the redcoats in his custody.¹⁷ Washington was morally opposed to mistreating prisoners. But he was even more opposed to letting Americans suffer. He was a practical man and if he could use British captives to defend his countrymen, he would. When it came down to saving Americans, the outcome justified the deed.

Retribution was the primary means by which armies remedied enemy breaches of the laws of war. And so Washington warned Gage, his friend-turned-foe,

My Duty now makes it necessary to apprize you, that for the future I shall regulate my Conduct towards those Gentlemen, who are or may be in our Possession, exactly by the Rule you shall observe towards those of ours, now in your Custody.

If Severity and Hardship mark the Line of your Conduct (painful as it may be to me) your Prisoners will feel its Effects.¹⁸

In the broadest reading, this letter expressed the view that the enemy’s actions justified amputating limbs of British prisoners. And these were not empty threats, since Washington held a number of British troops captive early in the war. While it was unlikely that he truly intended to go to that extreme in order to protect American prisoners at this stage, the British indeed complained that the American side was already mistreating British captives in other ways.

One report of abuse comes from when Washington’s forces attacked the lighthouse on an island in Boston Harbor that summer of 1775. Their mission was to disrupt British night shipping by extinguishing the warning light. And so on a steamy July night, with the darkness and crashing waves masking their advance, three hundred American minutemen boarded whaleboats and stealthily made their way towards the small rocky island and its thirty-two unsuspecting British guards.¹⁹ In a fierce 2:00 A.M. ambush, the stench of gunpowder pierced the salty sea air. The patriot muskets quickly killed a third of the redcoats and the remainder surrendered before the Americans triumphantly ignited the lighthouse into a towering inferno.²⁰ But the Americans’ jubilance was short-lived. The tide had receded, beaching their getaway boats. Trapped on the island, the Americans watched the British gunboats race to the scene.

The tide returned just in time for the Americans to jump into their makeshift armada with their captives and get to the opposite shore before the British cannon could blow them to pieces. The infuriated British were able to hit only two Americans before the rest made it to safety. Once ashore, the Americans promptly put their new captives to work, forcing them to carry a cannon up a hill.²¹ Word traveled back to the British lines that this was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

After Gage had received Washington’s warning, he spat off an angry rejoinder. His intelligence, he said, had indicated that Americans were abusing captured redcoats, using extreme forced-work tactics and even starvation in order to compel the captured British troops to help the American side:²²

My intelligence from your army would justify severe recrimination. I understand there are of the King’s faithful subjects, taken some time since by the rebels, laboring, like negro slaves, to gain their daily subsistence, or reduced to the wretched alternative, to perish by famine or take arms against their King and country. Those who have made the treatment of the prisoners in my hands, or of your other friends in Boston, a pretence for such measures, found barbarity upon falsehood.²³

Neither Washington’s threat to General Gage nor the Americans’ possible abuses were based on any congressional resolution regarding the treatment of enemy captives. Washington led the way, informing Congress of his actions only after the fact.²⁴ Likewise, no state legislative body instructed the commander on the matter of prisoner treatment. Instead, the Continental Army informed the Massachusetts legislature that “Gage is resolved to know no distinction of Rank among our Prisoners in his Hands, which obliges Genl. Washington (very contrary to his disposition) to observe the same Rule of Treatment to those Gentlemen, . . . which otherwise may appear harsh and cruel.”²⁵

Washington considered it within his powers as commander in chief to decide the treatment of enemy prisoners without any need for a congressional resolution. He determined the best course of action based on his understanding of the laws of war. And his views on the matter did not always align with those of Congress.