A look at George Washington and those who followed him in the Continental Army (1775-1783) stands in stark contrast with the ignorant buffoon, known in this blog as the HA (Horse's A$$) in the Oval Office. Washington and those who followed him risked their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor. The HA has risked nothing — not his life, nor his fortune that is no fortune, and as for his sacred honor... a pig in the filthest pigpen in the nation has more honor than that wretched disgrace in the Oval Office. If this is (fair & balanced) judgment of non-presidential demeanor, so be it.
[x NY Fishwrap]
Why We Still Care About America’s Founders
By Rick Atkinson
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There’s a lot to dislike about the founding fathers and the war they and others fought for American independence.
The stirring assertion that “all men are created equal” did not, of course, apply to 500,000 black slaves — one in five of all souls occupying the 13 colonies when those words were written in 1776. Nor was it valid for Native Americans, women or indigents.
Those who remained loyal to the British crown, and even fence-straddlers skeptical of armed rebellion, were often subjected to dreadful treatment, including public shaming, torture, exile and execution. In a defensive war waged for liberty and to secure basic rights, the Americans invaded Canada in an effort to win by force of arms what could not be won by negotiation and blandishment — a 14th colony.
The enduring image of a yeoman farmer leaving his plow in the furrow to grab a musket on behalf of freedom is mostly mythical; during the Revolution, George Washington’s army was rarely larger than 20,000 troops and on occasion dwindled to 3,000, in a country of two and a half million.
And yet, the creation story of America’s founding remains valid, vivid and exhilarating. At a time when national unity is elusive, when our partisan rancor seems ever more toxic, when the simple concept of truth is disputed, that story informs who we are, where we came from, what our forebears believed and — perhaps the profoundest question any people can ask themselves — what they were willing to die for.
What can we learn from that ancient quarrel? First, that this nation was born bickering; disputation is in the national genome. Second, that there are foundational truths that not only are indeed true, but also, as the Declaration of Independence insists, “self-evident.” Third, that leaders worthy of our enduring admiration rise to the occasion with acumen, grit, wisdom and grace. And fourth, that whatever trials befall us today, we have overcome greater perils.
The American Revolution was not a war between regimes or dynasties, fought for territory or the usual commercial advantages. It was an improvised struggle between two peoples of a common heritage who, over decades, had been sundered by divergent values and conflicting visions of the world.
The Americans eventually won by embracing fewer strategic misconceptions than the British did. Certainly Yankees could be wrongheaded, in believing they had greater economic leverage over the mother country than they actually possessed, for example, or in caricaturing King George III. The monarch would sit on his throne for 60 years and was shrewder, more complex and more creditable than the overbearing ninny who still dominates our imaginations and who even today minces across the stage in “Hamilton.”
But George and his ministers made three critical miscalculations: that most colonists remained loyal to the crown, notwithstanding troublemakers in New England capable of inciting a rabble; that firmness, including military firepower, would intimidate the obstreperous and restore harmony before France and other European powers hostile to Britain could intervene; and that failure to reassert London’s authority in America would eventually unstitch the newly created British Empire, encouraging insurrections in Ireland, Canada, the Caribbean and India — an 18th-century version of the domino theory that started the American adventure in Vietnam two centuries later.
Britain also underestimated the difficulty of waging a protracted war across 3,000 miles of open ocean in the age of sail. The British Army in the Revolution, unable to gather food and forage from the American countryside without being ambushed, relied largely on provisions shipped from English and Irish ports. But of 40 transport vessels dispatched across the Atlantic in the winter of 1775-76, only eight reached the king’s forces in occupied Boston directly; the rest were blown by gales back to Britain or to the Caribbean, or were intercepted by rebel marauders.
Of 550 Lincolnshire sheep carried aboard those ships that actually made it — that breed was deemed the “fittest to undergo the voyage” — only 40 arrived alive. Of 290 hogs, just 74 survived, and most of the 5,200 barrels of flour in one shipment turned rancid. When General William Howe, the British commander in New York the following summer, requested 950 horses to pull his artillery carriages and supply wagons, 412 died during the trip, and scores more were ruined beyond use.
The Americans had only to avoid losing the war, while the British had to win it — an enormous advantage for any force fighting on its own turf. We rightly esteem American endurance, pertinacity and sacrifice, not only by those serving in the ranks but also by others swept up in the fraught events. “Pray come home as soon as possible,” Lois Peters of Connecticut wrote her husband, Captain Nathan Peters, whom she had not seen in months. “A visit from you at any time would be agreeable.” In the meantime she would harvest the corn, sell their oxen for enough cash to keep the family saddlery solvent, sew him a shirt — and “take great pleasure doing it” — and keep faith with the future. She signed her letter, “Your loving wife until dead.”
The sheer drama of the Revolution keeps it compelling and often thrilling, from the bloodletting at Bunker Hill, where one of every eight British officers killed during the long war would die in four hours, to the skin-of-the-teeth escape by Washington and his army in the fog across the East River in August 1776, after a terrible drubbing on Long Island.
Beyond the battlefield, the theatrical power and pathos of the conflict surely outruns any dramatist’s imagination: the abrupt arrival of the septuagenarian Benjamin Franklin in Paris to woo the French monarchy into an alliance with radical republicans; the 100,000 smallpox deaths in North America from 1775 to 1782; those white men sitting in Philadelphia in the summer of 1776, lashing at horseflies with their handkerchiefs while carving up Thomas Jefferson’s draft declaration to make it shorter and better; the many American families — Franklin’s among them — ripped apart by irreconcilable political differences.
If the central figures in our creation story have frequently been embalmed in reverence, they nonetheless remain beguiling, worthy of perpetual scrutiny and, often, of emulation. Washington is a case in point.
Yes, he owned more than 300 slaves at his death in 1799. As a tactical commander he did poorly at Long Island, Fort Washington and other battlefields. The man who proverbially would never tell a lie sure could prevaricate, and Washington’s carping about his troops, his officers and his lot in life — “I distrust everything,” he grumbled in 1776 — transforms the demigod into a sometimes petulant mortal.
Yet great responsibility enlarged him: Washington rightly embodies the sacrifice of personal interests to a greater good, as well as other republican virtues — probity, dignity, moral stamina, incorruptibility — that should remain true north for every citizen today. “Affliction is the good man’s shining time,” Abigail Adams said of him.
Lesser personalities, largely lost to history, speak to us of constancy and an antique patriotism. “Heaven only knows what may be my fate,” Captain John Macpherson wrote in a last letter to his father before being killed at Quebec. “I experience no reluctance in this cause, to venture a life which I consider is only lent to be used when my country demands it.”
Likewise, Lieutenant Samuel Cooper wrote his wife, “The dangers we are to encounter I know not, but it shall never be said to my children: Your father was a coward.” He, too, died at Quebec. Even Benedict Arnold, perhaps the finest battle captain on either side early in the war before his subsequent perfidy, wrote after being shot in the leg in Canada, “I am in the way of duty and I know no fear.”
The Revolution not only brought forth a nation, afire with a sense of destiny; it also embodied the enduring aspirations of an idealistic people. No wonder the world was agog. “The cause of America,” the essayist Thomas Paine wrote, “is the cause of all mankind.”
Even now, the war for independence offers clues to our national temperament; it remains a bright mirror in which we see traits that fashion the American character, from ingenuity and resilience to brutality and pugnacity. We’ve come far in almost two and a half centuries — in power, diversity, tolerance and sheer scale. But in some respects those ancestors remain nearer than we know. Their existential struggle churned up issues that perplex us to this day, including individual liberty versus collective security, the proper limits on executive power, the obligations of citizenship and the elusive quest for a more equitable society. The tacit, primal question of 1776 persists in 2019: Who do we want to be?
“Democracy is never a thing done,” wrote Archibald MacLeish, the poet and librarian of Congress. “Democracy is always something that a nation must be doing.” The American Revolution lasted 3,089 days, and the result was epochal and enduring — the creation of the American Republic, among mankind’s most remarkable achievements. Nearly 90,000 more days have elapsed since those horsefly-swatting men asserted a human birthright of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Keeping faith with those who fought, suffered and died for the principles we profess to still cherish requires more than a nodding acquaintance with them, more than a perfunctory acknowledgment of their struggles.
For better and for worse, their story is our story. Their fight remains our fight. ###
[Lawrence R. "Rick" Atkinson IV is an independent military historian who has won Pulitzer Prizes in national reporting (1982) and history (2004). His seven books include narrative accounts of five different US wars. Most recently he has written The British Are Coming: The War for America, Lexington to Princeton, 1775-1777 (2019). Atkinson received a BA (English) from East Carolina University and an MA (English) from the University of Chicago.]
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