Looking up at the Temple, I recalled once again how the construction and operation of that project had not always run smoothly. Much lumber had been stolen by troops to sell at a profit to locals. In the end, however, every unit had contributed—wood, nails, labor, etc.—to the building’s construction under the chaplain’s supervision. The General said the purpose was to create a space that would provide not only administrative offices but worship services for a whole regiment—thus the name “Temple.” But the purpose was also to serve as a gathering place where troops from all states could mingle for social occasions—thus, along with the side rooms (for supplies, administration, the quartermaster’s office, and meetings), there was an orchestra pit at the front for musical ensembles.
The General was a believer in both the usefulness of the troops seeking divine guidance—he encouraged Chaplain Evans to hold services there for adoration of the Supreme Being—and the importance of tying the bonds between the troops from east and west, north and south. The General often stated that the army was the only large group with a national spirit, and the Temple was constructed to foster that spirit, both in worship and festivity. As it happened, in the short time the Temple had been available, socialization rarely occurred and for the most part was between members of the same units. The New England troops had different tastes in alcohol than the Southern troops, and the latter were not keen on fraternizing with New England units filled with blacks. Some visitors were puzzled that this building should be the site for both religious observances and parties with alcohol consumption, but this did not seem to puzzle the General.
I doubt, however, he had anticipated its proposed use that week in March of 1783 by officers who were preaching rebellion.
We passed the hitching rail and entered the Temple. It must have been ten minutes prior to noon, but most of the benches were already filled. Still, Humphreys, Walker, and I found seats in the second row. (I wondered if officers were nervous about what might happen and did not want to be seen too close to the front.) We contributed to the general hum of conversation, but I do not remember what we said to each other, except that we were all reluctant to speak about the business at hand.
Precisely at noon, General Gates walked from the back through the murmuring crowd, mounted the podium at the front of the orchestra pit, and banged a gavel. I have never heard hundreds of men become quiet so quickly. There were a few coughs and the shuffling of feet but otherwise not a sound.
General Gates called the meeting to order and asked for the doors to be closed. He announced that the first order of business was to consider the “despairing” news from General McDougall, Colonel Ogden, and the officers who had returned from negotiations with Congress in Philadelphia. Since everyone knew of the documents that had been distributed the past several weeks and reported “no progress” in our efforts to gain back pay or pensions, General Gates opined that there was no need to read these out loud. Instead, he said the floor would be open to anyone who wished to rise and offer suggestions on what the army’s course should be. I assumed one of his aides was about to declaim on the fruitlessness of our efforts with Congress and make a proposal for action in accord with the suggestions of the anonymous letters.
Suddenly, however, cries came forth from the front of the Temple as a door opened and General Washington entered. The General strode to the front of the room, turned to General Gates, and asked for leave to address the meeting. I say “asked,” but the General’s decisive tone showed it was more a command than a request.
General Gates looked a little flustered, but there was not much he could do but heed the General’s request, especially since several officers from each section of the floor almost at the same time yelled out “Let’s hear the General” and “So moved.” The cries from the floor happened so quickly that I almost thought it was all prearranged.
The General took several pages from his waistcoat pocket, which, from the second row, I could see had been written in large letters by the General himself. It was probably the manuscript I had observed the General writing that morning. The General replaced General Gates in the front of the room, waving for him to take a seat. No one I have ever met had such a commanding presence as the General, and the officers now looked attentively forward with upraised faces. The General apologized for his presence, which was “by no means my intention when I published the order directing you to assemble.” So important was this moment for the future of the country that the General said he “had committed my thoughts to writing” and asked “the indulgence of my brother officers” to grant him liberty to read from what he had written. The General then took out his papers and began.
I know there are many accounts of what the General said that day, and in what order, but I copied the General’s manuscript later and have reread it hundreds of times in the sixty years since. The quotations that follow reflect exactly what he wrote except for one sentence the General seemed to ad lib, which has been quoted by many and which you will hear about shortly.
The General did not waste any time in addressing what he knew was the subject of every officer’s attention: the anonymous letters. “By an anonymous summons, an attempt has been made to convene you together—how inconsistent with the rules of propriety! How unmilitary! And how subversive of all order and discipline—let the good sense of the Army decide.”
There was no surprise here. The General had indicated as much in his order moving the meeting to Saturday. The officers might agree that improper procedures had been followed, but what about the substance of the second anonymous letter? Where did the General stand?
The General continued speaking in an even voice. First he tried to identify with the feelings of his audience, which the General sensed approved the letter. He gave credit to the author for “the goodness of his pen” but did not give “credit for the rectitude of his heart.” He observed that the letter appealed more to “passion” than “to the reason and judgment of the Army.” Otherwise, he asked, why would the letter writer remain secret and attack a “man who should recommend moderation”—in other words, someone who thought differently than he thought? The General was obviously sensitive about what he perceived as an attack on himself, but I did not think that point would carry much weight with the frustrated officers.