The General then acknowledged that the army’s grievances deserved a hearing, although not the hasty and irregular one called for by the writer, and went on to emphasize his own history of identification with the army’s grievances. He recalled that “as I was among the first who embarked in the cause of our common country . . . as I have never left your side one moment . . . as I have been the constant companion and witness of your distresses . . . as my heart has ever expanded with joy, when I have heard [the army’s] praises, and my indignation has arisen, when the mouth of detraction has been opened against it—it can scarcely be supposed, at this late stage of the War, that I am indifferent to its interests.”
I could see heads nodding, for everyone in the room knew how the General had shared their hardships and fought for their interests. But then the General asked how these interests were to be promoted. He quickly demolished the second alternative promoted by “the anonymous addresser”: to move west to unsettled country and leave the country we have left behind to defend itself. The General pointed out that would mean leaving wives and children behind or, if taken with us, leaving behind the farms that fed us.
Again the officers nodded.
Then the General addressed the writer’s other, and what everyone knew was the writer’s preferred, alternative: “If peace takes place, never sheath your Sword, says he until you have obtained full and ample Justice.” The General stated that this meant turning the army against our country and its government, “which is the apparent object unless Congress can be compelled into an instant compliance,” something we all doubted would happen.
At his moment I still was not positive as to which direction the General was going. Was he going to endorse moving on Philadelphia? The General immediately gave his answer. “This dreadful alternative . . . has something so shocking in it that humanity revolts at the idea,” said the General forcefully. I finally had my answer, and I found myself exhaling with relief. The General would not lead the mutiny, and I would not have to face the dreadful choice of following my General or my own republican beliefs.
The General said such an idea could not emanate from a “friend to this country,” that only an “insidious Foe” such as “Some Emissary, perhaps from [the British in] New York,” could sow “the seeds of discord and separation between the civil and military powers.” Still I did not for a moment believe, nor did I believe the General believed, that this was a British plot. I could understand, however, why the General wanted to make the officers believe that the proposal came from the British rather than from among his own officer corps. The General went on to call both alternatives “impracticable,” but I sensed most of the audience disagreed, at least as to the alternative of retaining our arms.
It was here that the General started to lose his audience. He tried to convince us that Congress would act on the army’s just grievances. He went on and on about that “honorable body,” which he asserted “entertains exalted sentiments of the Services of the Army; and from a full conviction of its Merits & sufferings, will do it compleat Justice; that their endeavors to discover & establish funds for this purpose have been unwearied, and will not cease till they have succeeded, I have not a doubt.”
The trouble was that the audience had considerable doubts, which I am sure the General shared. We remembered all the broken congressional promises about pay and clothing. We remembered the broken 1780 promise of pensions for the officers. We remembered that our recent delegation to Philadelphia had met with soothing words but no action.
I could hear occasional mumblings, asides, and shifting on the benches. I knew by this time that the General was not going to accept the writer’s invitation to lead the coup and was firmly against it. But I had my doubts as to whether the officers would follow his lead, especially since I was sure that some had been primed to control the meeting and rouse the officers with tirades against congressional inaction.
When the General stated that the deliberations of Congress, a large body, with many interests to reconcile, were of necessity slow, and asked rhetorically, “Why then should we distrust them,” the mutterings rose. I expected at any moment that officers were going to stand up and shout, “You know why we should distrust them!” I heard an officer behind me mumble, “We have waited long enough.” Tensions held down for months and years seemed about to erupt. At any second, I feared someone would yell out for our officers to leave their leader and start a new revolution. What would the General do? What would I do?
The General looked up and seemed to sense he was losing his audience. He departed from his text, paused, reached into his pocket, and slowly pulled out a letter. I was pretty sure it was a letter from Congressman Jones, who had written the General, holding out hope for favorable action on our petition. The General obviously wanted to read the letter in an effort to convince us that Congress would act. After unfolding the letter in his hands, however, and looking at the first paragraph, the General mumbled barely a few incoherent words and then lapsed into silence. He seemed distracted, even agitated. Still the silence went on. As the seconds went by, I became embarrassed. Had the General suffered some kind of stroke or seizure? He seemed paralyzed. Not a word left his lips. The grumbling that had been rising while the General defended Congress started to subside. We had never seen our commander in such a state, so much in apparent need of sympathy. Soon there was complete silence. I now felt not only embarrassed but sorry for the man who had so often intimidated me.
It was at this moment the General reached into another waistcoat pocket and pulled out a pair of spectacles. I knew he had received these from Dr. Rittenhouse in Philadelphia only a month before, and I knew that he needed them to read small handwriting such as the script of Congressman Jones. But up until now, the General had only used the spectacles in his study. His officers, excepting me, had never seen the General wear his spectacles. The General, as I have said, was vain and proud about his appearance and reluctant to show any infirmity in public, and certainly not before hundreds of officers.
A long “ah” rose from the benches as the officers, for the first time, saw the General’s spectacles in his hands.
As the General started, with trembling hands, to put his spectacles on, he looked up, paused, and then declared in a halting voice, but one that now could be heard in the back row of the quieted assembly, “Gentlemen . . . you will forgive me . . . and permit me to put on these spectacles . . . for I have not only grown gray . . . but almost blind in the service of our country.”