“Josiah,” he said to me, “I learned in the last war that the best white men are not equal to Indians in the woods.”
Despite what the General knew about the unease of settlers living on the frontier, he made great, albeit quiet, efforts to negotiate treaties with the Indian tribes, particularly the Iroquois nation, to enlist their support. First the General tried to raise Indian regiments, and then, when that proved impractical, he tried to raise Indian irregulars. The General was not a novice at negotiating with the Indians and had brokered many such arrangements during the last war. The Indians admired the General because, I was told, they believed he had supernatural powers. They had seen him in the French and Indian War shot at from close range hundreds of times but never go down. While most of the Indian tribes were sympathetic to the British, who offered to stop western settlement, the Oneidas and many Indian bands were supporters of the independence effort. The General could be ruthless, however, with those Indians who sided with the British. He sent General John Sullivan to destroy crops and villages when some of the Iroquois nation in New York joined the British.
The General’s desire to use any possible means to pursue the war extended beyond troops. In New York in 1776, I remember how his disapproval of a mob tearing down a huge statue of King George III changed to acceptance when he calculated how many bullets could be made out of the fallen statue. Then there was the abortive effort to kidnap Prince William Henry during the prince’s visit with the British navy in New York. Maybe this was a response to the British botched plot to assassinate the General by infiltrating his personal security guard, but I do believe he saw this as a way to bring the war to a speedy conclusion.
Anyway, you get the idea. The General was obsessed with only one thing, and that was defeating the British and gaining independence. And when one considers the plots and counterplots, I suppose I should have expected that the General would suspect the British of writing the anonymous letter. But I had no idea what the General’s response would be.
“Josiah, draft an order saying that this letter calling for a meeting is outside the chain of command and highly irregular. State that by my order we shall hold such a meeting not tomorrow but at noon at the Temple this Saturday to allow for mature deliberation of the subject raised in the letter.”
At the General’s dictation, I wrote: “After mature deliberation they [the officers] will devise what further measures ought to be adopted as most rational and best calculated to attain the just and important object in view.” There followed a pause, and then the General added, “Josiah, state that the meeting will be presided over by the second-in-command.”
I was perplexed, but not because the General had called the anonymous letter writer’s call for a meeting “irregular.” That sounded like the General, who wanted everyone to adhere to the chain of command and did not look kindly on anyone who tried to bypass him. Nor was I surprised by the call for “deliberation.” That also sounded like the General, who sought to avoid impulsive judgments. But to call for such a meeting on the same subject four days later than the original meeting seemed to support the anonymous writer’s purpose. And to state that the second-in-command should preside was mystifying. The General apparently did not want to attend the meeting, but why have General Gates preside? Surely the General knew that Gates and his circle had long tried to undermine him.
The General could sense my confusion and peremptorily cut me off before I could ask any clarifying questions. “Josiah, draft the order immediately during dinner for my review after the aides’ meeting.” I didn’t question the General, much as I longed to. He could be quite open about requesting and taking advice, but once he issued an order, and gave what we aides called “the look,” one did not tarry. So after I showed the order I had drafted to the General later that Monday afternoon (he added an announcement of a promotion, I assume to make the order seem more routine), the General directed me to make copies and see that they were circulated that night to make sure no one attended the anonymous author’s Tuesday meeting.
Chapter Two
DAY TWO—TUESDAY
The Second Anonymous Letter
A feeble army and an empty Senate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
—Marcus, Cato, Act I, Scene 1
General Alexander McDougall was the one who delivered the second anonymous letter. Through one of our narrow windows I saw him ride up to headquarters amid the fluttering snowflakes and barge into headquarters. I always thought McDougall was a little full of himself, but he was certainly an able commander. When McDougall was in his cups, which was often, he loved to tell us of his migration from Scotland to America, his childhood on the streets of New York delivering milk, his sea years as a privateer, and what he regarded as the glorious time he served in jail as a leader of the New York Sons of Liberty. The stories were colorful, as were his vocabulary and his clothing.
That Tuesday morning, in his thick, stuttering Scotch brogue that never left him, he called out to me, “Josiah, it’s another damn anonymous letter, and the men are reading and praising it like a Thomas Paine tract. Something is afoot. See that the General sees it at once.” With that comment, he handed me the letter, strode out, mounted, and rode off.
I sat down to read the letter with mingled curiosity and fear. There were four pages of closely written text followed by a hurried anonymous end—“I am, &c”—where an honest man would have signed, but the writer did not. This letter was as long and eloquent as the first letter had been short and curt. By the time I reached the end, I may not have known who had written it, but I certainly had a sense of the forces we were up against. The letter had been written yesterday, probably for distribution at the meeting the General had abruptly postponed.