Читать книгу Alexander Hamilton: Nation Builder - Nathan Schachner - Страница 6

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General Washington groaned as he stared at the huge pile of papers on his table. "How can I fight a war," he asked bitterly of a staff officer, "when all my time is taken up with correspondence? Letters to Congress, letters to the states, general orders, special orders—I'm at it all day long. If only I could get someone who could think for me as well as execute orders."

"There is just such a man, General," said the staff officer.

Washington had been pacing the narrow confines of his headquarters room at Morristown. He turned swiftly. "For God's sake," he said, "who is he?"

"Captain Hamilton, sir. His pen is the readiest I know. You remember those pamphlets in which he answered the Tory Seabury? He has a keen wit, a quick apprehension, and he's a gallant soldier, to boot."

"Hamilton? Hamilton? Isn't he the artillery officer who held up the British at the crossing of the Raritan?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then get him at once."

Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton was a most unhappy young man. His new rank of chief aide to the Commander in Chief had made him the most envied officer in the army. Nevertheless, he was unhappy. "I'm a soldier," he muttered morosely to himself, "not a letter writer, no matter how glorified."

But Washington beamed. He had found just the person he needed. All he had to do now was to go rapidly through the more important of his correspondence, discuss briefly with Hamilton the nature of the replies, and then dismiss the whole business from his mind with the comforting assurance that everything would be properly taken care of, and in language far more elegant and forcible than any in which he himself could have expressed it.

Most of his mail, however, did not require his personal attention. Hamilton would answer run-of-the-mill letters on his own and sign the general's name to them. "Now," thought Washington with a grim smile, "I can attend to my proper business—winning the war."

"Call Colonel Hamilton" became a sort of byword in the camp. Were there complaints to answer tactfully, reports to get ready, orders to issue? "Call Colonel Hamilton" and then forget about it. What a comfort to a harassed commander in his days of trial!

Nor was Washington the only one to discover the value of this new and very young colonel. The great men who piloted the State of New York also discovered that his information was most accurate, his discretion profound, and his advice weighty beyond his years. More and more they came to rely on him in their complicated relations with the Continental Army and the Continental Congress.

The war dragged wearily on. By the summer of 1777, the American cause looked gloomier than ever. Burgoyne, marching down from Canada, was threatening to cut the colonies in two. Howe moved out of New York to seize Philadelphia. Such was the clamor that Washington, against his better judgment, was forced to quit his strong position at Morristown and attempt to protect the chief American town. But Howe defeated him in the bloody battle of Brandywine, and Philadelphia was doomed.

The Americans retreated in such haste that they were compelled to abandon a huge store of supplies in some mills close to the Schuylkill River. To prevent their falling into enemy hands, Washington detached Hamilton and Captain Henry Lee with a small troop of cavalry to destroy them.

Hamilton was delighted. This was the kind of work he loved—filled with dangers, thrills, and a chance for daring exploits.

It was early morning as the little group spurred through the misty countryside, galloping their foam-flecked horses up hill and down, fording streams, and hearing the nipping wind of autumn whistle past. Then they moved out upon the brow of a long hill at the foot of which lay the mills, with the Schuylkill glinting beyond.

Not a living thing was in sight, yet Hamilton prudently posted two sentries on the top of the hill before galloping with the rest of his troop down to the mills. Here again he divided his forces. He sent one small group under Lee to seize a flat-bottomed boat on the shore of the river against any emergency; the other, under himself, went to burn the mills.

Hamilton was inside, thrusting a blazing torch into the mass of combustible flour, watching with satisfaction the swift tongues of flame and the upward plume of smoke when he heard guns bang sharply outside. Hurling his torch into the bin, he dashed into the open. Down the hill came his two sentries, riding at breakneck speed, and charging after them was a large body of red-coated cavalry.

The sentries did not pause as they hit the bottom but spurred over a bridge that crossed the tiny millstream, shouting their warning as they flashed by.

"Follow me for your lives!" cried Hamilton as his men emerged in bewilderment from the mills. It was too late to get to their horses. The only chance was the boat on the river, a bare hundred feet away. Lee's men had abandoned it at the alarm and, with the panicky sentries, were swimming their horses to the safety of the opposite bank.

It was touch and go. Hamilton with four troopers tumbled into the boat and moved it into the stream just as the British were upon them. Fortunately, the current was swift, and the ungainly craft spun and whirled crazily down the stream as the redcoats drew up and fired a volley after them. One man in the boat was killed outright; another was badly wounded; and then they were out of range.

Late that afternoon Hamilton, drenched to the skin, disheveled and reeling with fatigue, walked into Washington's tent just in time to hear his comrade, Captain Lee, reporting in tragic tones, "Sir, I am sorry to have to tell you that Colonel Hamilton and four men are lost and, I fear, dead."

The exhausted young soldier managed a grin. He saluted the startled general. "Colonel Hamilton reporting, sir, that the mission was successfully completed. He also begs to remark that he is not dead."

Once again the secretary, he sent an urgent express to Congress, then in session at Philadelphia, warning the members to get out fast—the British were coming. The congressmen did not delay; they snatched up their belongings, mounted their horses, and dashed off into the night.

They might just as well have taken their time. The British, as usual, did not push their victory. It was several days before they marched leisurely into town, red coats spick and span, boots and buttons smartly polished, and drums beating. But the interval required for such sprucing up was sufficient for Hamilton, working at top speed, to remove all public stores and supplies of food from the endangered city to places of safety.

But if things were going badly for the colonists around Philadelphia, wonderful news came out of the North. Burgoyne with a formidable army, aiming down from Canada toward Albany and the Hudson, had been surrounded at Saratoga and forced to surrender. It was the turning point of the war. The booty was vast; the prestige immense; and—most important of all—the French, who had been secretly aiding the Americans against their ancient enemy England, now decided to enter the war openly.

The great victory, however, posed certain problems. General Horatio Gates, to whom Burgoyne had surrendered, was a vain and ambitious man. For some time he had been connected with a group of discontented officers and members of Congress who resented Washington and plotted secretly to supersede him. Among the malcontents in the army were Generals Conway and Charles Lee.

Washington knew something of what was going on and that Gates was involved. He knew also that it was essential for Gates to transfer a substantial force of his troops to the outskirts of New York while he, Washington, came up from the South. Between the two armies New York might be recaptured.

A trustworthy messenger to Gates was needed, one who combined tact and knowledge, boldness and ability to handle men. Hamilton was chosen for the delicate mission.

The distance to Gates's headquarters in Albany was close to 250 miles; yet Hamilton, riding hard, completed the journey in four days, including a stopover with General Israel Putnam near Fishkill. Dusty, unshaven, near to dropping from fatigue and lack of sleep, he nevertheless hurried at once to Gates.

First he showed Washington's letter, with its final sentence, "From Colonel Hamilton you will have a clear and comprehensive view of things, and I persuade myself you will do all in your power to facilitate the objects I have in contemplation."

Then he rapidly sketched Washington's needs: three brigades from Gates's army and additional troops from Putnam's command at Fishkill.

Gates listened politely, though he had no intention of yielding so large a part of his army to Washington. After all, why should he strengthen the man whom he expected shortly to replace as Commander in Chief?

Aloud he said, "I'll send some troops, but not three brigades. I can't spare them."

"How many will you send?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'll see."

"But the whole plan of General Washington's campaign depends on your forces."

"Well, maybe I'll send one brigade."

"But——"

The pudgy general rose. "That is all I can spare, young man. Good day, sir."

Furious, Hamilton withdrew. Well, at least he would look at the brigade so grudgingly offered. One glance was enough. It was the weakest of the lot, with barely six hundred men fit for any sort of duty.

In a white heat of rage he sat down to compose a letter to the hero of Saratoga. It literally blistered the paper. "I insist," he wrote in effect, "that a good brigade at least be sent instead of the one you were pleased to pick. And you will be good enough to give instant orders for its embarkation down the river."

Gates backed down when he read the peremptory command of this youth. He greeted the angry aide later with a placating smile. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he said effusively. "I'll send two brigades, not just one."

With the victory two-thirds won, Hamilton mounted his horse and rode down to Fishkill to see what Putnam was doing. Putnam was supposed also to have two brigades already on the march. But, to Hamilton's astonishment and disgust, there was no sign of movement. Again he resorted to his pen. "I now, sir, in the most explicit terms," he told the veteran general, "by his Excellency's authority, give it as a positive order from him that all the Continental troops under your command may be immediately marched to King's Ferry, there to cross the river and hasten to reinforce the army under him."

Old Putnam, trembling with rage at such impudence, dispatched a loud complaint to Washington. In return came a stinging rebuke and a curt command to obey Hamilton. But that daring young man had already gone over Putnam's head and had ordered the troops to march. Again he had triumphed over vanity, calculation, and delay.

But the strain had been too much. He went down with a fever, and for almost a week his life was despaired of. It was December before Hamilton, wan and shaky, was able to rejoin the army, now in winter quarters at Valley Forge. The delays had been sufficient to ruin Washington's hopes of besieging New York before the snows came.

The long and bitter winter brought suffering and starvation to the ragged, almost naked troops at Valley Forge. Washington begged Congress in vain for food, clothing, and supplies. Hamilton, finally recovered from his illness, blazed with wrath. "Where are our great men?" he demanded. "Why aren't they in Congress, where they could best help the cause of the Revolution? No," he added bitterly, "they prefer to take office in their own states rather than in the national Congress. It is time for them to rouse themselves and understand that their place is not at home, but with the nation."

He had put his finger on the great need of the times. Most men considered their own state as the all-important political entity; as a sovereign nation, in fact. True, they were joined with the other states in a common cause; but they expected, once independence had been achieved, to go their separate ways, each attending to its own business and each claiming the total allegiance of its citizens. At the most there might be a loose confederation of the states for purposes of common defense against a foreign foe. Very few men were wise and farseeing enough to have come as yet to the idea of a strong, united nation in which the states would be bound together permanently.

But Hamilton had already risen to that brilliant concept. Perhaps the fact that he was really an outsider, born on alien soil, enabled him to override the local politics and local patriotisms of the day. In his mind it was elementary that a great national compact was essential, in which sentiment and government were one. Only such a nation could survive among the powers of the earth and assume a position that would compel respect from all and yield to none in strength, prosperity, and grandeur.

More than anyone else, indeed, was Hamilton to bring about the realization of that vision.

The dreadful winter of 1777-1778 finally came to an end. In the spring Washington's ill-clad, ill-fed, ill-armed troops marched down from Valley Forge to meet the thrust of Sir Henry Clinton into New Jersey. The two armies met at Monmouth Court House.

The battle was indecisive, though a splendid chance had been offered the Americans to cut the British to pieces. The failure was due largely to the unaccountable actions of General Charles Lee, a member of the group that was plotting against Washington. He disobeyed orders, dallied while Lafayette was locked in desperate combat with the full British army, and when he finally did move, conducted himself so ineptly that his flank was turned and his troops fled in wild disorder.

Washington, with Hamilton at his side, dashed up in time to rally the fleeing men. Hamilton, galloping next with orders to one of the shattered brigades, ran headlong into a furious melee. Without a moment's hesitation he placed himself at the head of the leaderless Continentals and led them in a driving countercharge. A musket ball wounded his horse. Frantic with pain, the animal reared and threw Hamilton heavily to the ground. Men and horses charged over his prostrate body. Then the British broke and fled, and aid was rushed to the fallen officer. He was carried off the field, bruised, battered, and shaken; but he had helped save the day.

The army resounded with his praises and with denunciations of the folly, cowardice, or worse of General Lee. Hamilton plainly intimated that he was a traitor and that a court-martial would find him so. He testified at the trial and thereby made a mortal enemy of the discomfited general. For a while, in fact, it seemed as if a duel might result. But another aide challenged Lee first and wounded him slightly in an exchange of shots. Hamilton acted as second for the challenger.

The court-martial brought in a verdict of guilty on several of the charges, and Lee was suspended from his command for a year.

Now great news came. The French, encouraged by the American success at Saratoga, had entered the war against England. A formidable fleet sailed across the ocean to aid their new ally. Hamilton, the trusted right hand of Washington, was sent to establish liaison. He made such an impression on D'Estaing, the French admiral, that the latter wrote warmly to Washington, "His talents and his personal qualities have secured to him for ever my esteem, my confidence, and my friendship."

Washington did not have to be told these things about his brilliant aide. He had already extended his own friendship and confidence, and he listened carefully to Hamilton when he offered advice.

There was the time, for example, when he considered a plan for kidnaping the British commander, Sir Henry Clinton, in New York.

"No doubt it could be done," admitted Hamilton. "But have you examined the consequences of such an act?"

The general stared, surprised. "Consequences? What consequences?"

"We'd lose rather than gain by the capture," explained Hamilton. "We understand perfectly Sir Henry's character. We know exactly what he can be expected to do next. But should we take him prisoner, the British will appoint another general. Very likely he'll be an abler man, and we'd have to start all over again to figure what he would do in a given situation and how to counterbalance him."

Washington was so struck by the force of this reasoning that he canceled the kidnaping orders, and Sir Henry Clinton, unaware of the danger that had threatened him, continued to sleep peacefully by night and do nothing by day.

The great French fleet from which so much had been expected turned out to be singularly ineffective. Its solitary action was an unsuccessful assault on Savannah, Georgia, then in British hands. After that it sailed first to the West Indies and later ingloriously back to France.

In fact the entry of the French into the war, though ultimately decisive, had a bad effect in the beginning. The Americans, tired of this war which seemed to have no end, relaxed their own exertions. "Why should we continue to pour out our blood and money?" they queried. "Let the French handle the fighting and the matter of supplies from now on." Accordingly, every request to Congress and the states for men and money met with lethargy, indifference, and worse.

Washington's little army was in desperate straits. It had no clothing, little food, and practically no guns or ammunition. Nor could it buy these items with the Continental currency that Congress generously printed as fast as the presses could turn it out. The people were tired of seeing the flimsy paper. From day to day it dropped in value. The farmers flatly refused to accept anything but gold or silver for their produce, while the merchants raised the prices of their wares to astronomical figures to keep pace with its deterioration. By the end of 1779 a paper dollar was worth only two cents in hard cash, and still the value kept sliding. "It's not worth a Continental" has ever since become a contemptuous synonym for anything wholly worthless.

Everyone blamed Congress for the financial troubles. Actually it was not the fault of Congress; it was the fault of the states and of the men who controlled them. Fearful of a central government and believing that any further power granted to it would result in loss of power to themselves, they refused to grant Congress an independent right to raise money by taxation. They knew that he who controls the purse controls all. Were they not fighting a war with England on the very ground that no "foreign" legislature had the right to tax them?

As a result, whenever Congress needed money—and that was always—it had to go hat in hand to the state legislatures begging for it. And the states, having financial difficulties of their own, gave very little, and that grudgingly.

Hamilton knew the problem as well as any man. He was constantly writing letters, on Washington's orders, pleading for and demanding money with which to pay the soldiers and to buy supplies. The fault, he saw clearly, was with the entire setup of the national government under the current Articles of Confederation. Congress, supposedly representative of a nation engaged in a war for life and independence, simply had to have some means of raising money without depending on the promptness of the several states.

Filled with these ideas, he sat down to compose a long and carefully thought-out plan for remedying the situation. Signed with a pseudonym—for he feared a reaction against his chief if his right name were attached—the document was sent to John Sullivan, a member of Congress from New Hampshire, who was sympathetic.

The plan was a remarkable performance. Written by a young man of twenty-two, whose sole acquaintance with the complicated problems of finance, banking, taxation, and government came from books and his own reflections, it sprang full-blown as a great economic and political document.

The chief trouble with the country, he declared, was financial. No war could be fought without money. And the only way to obtain money—aside from the temporary expedient of foreign loans—was by taxation. But Congress had been given no power to tax; instead, it had to depend for funds on the whim of the constituent states. In addition the country was poor, so that in its present state even taxation could not raise sufficient sums to carry on the war.

What then was the answer? Hamilton had it ready, and it became famous in American history. The only way to raise money for every purpose, he insisted, was to make it "the immediate interest of the moneyed men to cooperate with government in its support."

Hamilton was nothing if not realistic. He firmly believed that it was easier to get men to sacrifice their lives for a cause than to get them to part with their money. Therefore it was essential to offer attractive inducements to the "moneyed men" in the form of high interest rates, a chance for substantial profits on their principal, and an assurance of reasonable safety for both principal and interest.

The way to achieve this, said Hamilton, was to charter a national bank for a minimum of ten years, with a capital composed of a foreign loan in hard cash and an investment of Continental currency by the rich. The repayment of the latter would be guaranteed by the government in such fashion that the lucky stockholders would make almost 100 per cent on their original investment.

This bank would then lend real money both to the government and to private individuals at good rates of interest, and the ensuing profits would be divided equally between the government and the stockholders.

It was a clever scheme, modeled somewhat on the existing structure of the Bank of England, and much later Hamilton was to put into effect the Bank of the United States organized on similar lines. But the times were not yet ripe. The "moneyed men" certainly were interested; the majority of the people, however, who had no money to invest, and therefore could make no money from the bank, and who saw themselves being eventually taxed for the benefit of the rich, viewed the idea then and later with the utmost suspicion. Nor would the states, fiercely jealous of their local sovereignties, consider the project of a national bank which, they were well aware, must give large powers to the central government.

Congressman Sullivan, therefore, much as he might privately approve, decided it would not be wise to introduce the plan in Congress. But Hamilton then and there vowed that someday his idea of a national bank must go through.