It was 1783 and the bloody conflict between the newly formed United States of America and world power Great Britain was drawing to a close. General George Washington, commander in chief of the Continental Army, was fifty-one years old. The army was comprised of farmers and lawyers, blacksmiths and doctors, coopers and statesmen, silversmiths and teachers. Compared to the bright red uniforms the British, the Americans looked a disorganized bunch of hicks.
The war had been long and the men were tired. Many left their families and farms unattended as they fought to defend liberty. And as Congress struggle to pay its war debts, salaries for the soldiers went unpaid.
Frustration spread throughout the men, the officers, and General Washington’s personal aides. They tried to lobby Congress for payment, but with no avail. Several senior officers began manipulating the situation for personal gain and national influence. One of the primary offenders, Major General Horatio Gates, was once associated with a plot to oust Washington from command. Second in command at Newburg, a military camp 50 miles outside of New York City, Gates scheduled a meeting for March 10th to consider open rebellion against Congress.
In an article entitled “The Rise and Fall of the Newburgh Conspiracy: How General Washington and His Spectacles Saved the Republic”, historian George L. Marshall, Jr. describes the event:
Washington, upon receiving and reading copies of these circulating communications smacking of mutiny, trembled with anger and shock. Shaking off his momentary astonishment, he immediately began the task of defusing the planned rebellion. To gain time, he canceled the illicit March 10 meeting and rescheduled it with one for March 15. He secured the support of influential subordinates, including Henry Knox, to back him in the upcoming confrontation and to keep him abreast of developments in camp. He sent messages to Congress to apprise them of the situation. All the while, he was carefully preparing a set of remarks to be presented to the meeting, ostensibly not by himself but by a high-ranking subordinate. By giving the impression that he would not attend, he hoped that the conspirators would relax their guard and become bolder, openly showing themselves and thereby becoming more vulnerable.
By late morning of March 15, a rectangular building 40 feet wide by 70 feet long with a small dais at one end, known as the Public Building or New Building , was jammed with officers. Gen. Gates, acting as chairman in Washington’s absence, opened the meeting. Suddenly, a small door off the stage swung open and in strode Gen. Washington. He asked to speak to the assembled officers, and the stunned Gates had no recourse but to comply with the request. As Washington surveyed the sea of faces before him, he no longer saw respect or deference as in times past, but suspicion, irritation, and even unconcealed anger. To such a hostile crowd, Washington was about to present the most crucial speech of his career.
Following his address Washington studied the faces of his audience. He could see that they were still confused, uncertain, not quite appreciating or comprehending what he had tried to impart in his speech. With a sigh, he removed from his pocket a letter and announced it was from a member of Congress, and that he now wished to read it to them. He produced the letter, gazed upon it, manipulated it without speaking. What was wrong, some of the men wondered. Why did he delay? Washington now reached into a pocket and brought out a pair of new reading glasses. Only those nearest to him knew he lately required them, and he had never worn them in public. Then he spoke: “Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country.” This simple act and statement by their venerated commander, coupled with remembrances of battles and privations shared together with him, and their sense of shame at their present approach to the threshold of treason, was more effective than the most eloquent oratory. As he read the letter to their unlistening ears, many were in tears from the recollections and emotions which flooded their memories. As Major Samuel Shaw, who was present, put it in his journal, ” There was something so natural, so unaffected in this appeal as rendered it superior to the most studied oratory. It forced its way to the heart, and you might see sensibility moisten every eye.”
Instead of lecturing or scolding, as one might expect, Washington chose the unexpected, a brief sentence that softened the hard hearts of soldiers convinced they had a right to rebel.
Major Shaw said it best. The simplicity of the unexpected response “rendered it superior to the most studied oratory.”
