Transcript
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Greg Jackson (1:37)
It's just before noon, March 15, 1783. We're about 60 miles up the Hudson river from still British occupied New York City. Inside a large rectangular and wooden meeting house called the Temple of Virtue, which is filled with chattering Continental officers, disgruntled and angry Continental officers, that is officers prepared to march down to Philadelphia and carry out a coup against Congress that would effectively eviscerate the very ideals of liberty and representative government that this whole revolution is about. Yeah, no small thing. Tell you what, let's step outside for a moment and I'll fill you in. Here's the deal. It's been a year and a half since the siege of Yorktown and the war is in a lower gear. The French are gone, General Rochambeau is back in France, and Vice Admiral Comte De Grasse has long since returned to the Caribbean where he suffered defeat. Military engagements are fewer and smaller. Notable ones in the last year include the July 1782 skirmish outside Tarrytown, New York where newly enlisted Continental Soldier Deborah Sampson used a knife to cut a musket ball out of her own flesh to prevent the army from catching onto the fact that she's a woman and the Battle of the Combahee river that August, where our dear friend from so many past episodes, Lt. Col. John Lawrence, was sadly killed. But for the most part, things are calm as George Washington and his cabin dwelling Continental army live in a rather permanent camp at New Windsor, New York where they can keep an eye on the British Army's headquarters in NYC as a peace treaty to end the war is worked out. But as close as we are to this war's end, the Continental officers are even closer to hitting their breaking point with Congress's several years of broken promises and inability to provide the basics like food, clothing and pay. Some officers haven't been paid in six years, to say nothing of promised pensions. We've discussed these Congressional failures in several past episodes, but it bears briefly repeating. Congress has the power to spend money and needed to do so to fight this war. Yet it does not have power to raise money because under the Articles of Confederation, the United States is not a country but an alliance, one that can only request funds from its sovereign member states. Now, despite the occasional mutiny, Continental army officers and soldiers alike have largely endured this situation, and patiently and patriotically. But with the war ending, many officers and IOU holders, including America's bigger investors, fear that Congress will never fulfill its promises. And while much hope rested on a recently proposed amendment to the Articles that would have allowed Congress to raise funds through customs duties, it failed, thanks to Virginia's and Rhode Island's dissenting votes. It's in this context that the officers sent a committee to speak plainly to Congress of their frustrations that Alexander Hamilton, still an officer but now also a congressman, wrote to George Washington on February 13, encouraging him to take on Congress lest the army go around him to procure justice to itself. That George responded on March 4th saying he would not lead the army against Congress in an act that would end in blood. And that in recent days, two anonymous letters circulated among the officers. The first defied George by calling for an unsanctioned meeting. The second suggested that if the British attack, the army should abandon Congress and the states to deal with it, while if peace comes, the army should march on Congress and demand payment by force of bayonet. Good God, things are looking grim indeed. George canceled that unsanctioned meeting, but is allowing another one today. That meeting is what brings us to the temple of virtue. And with that background, let's Head back inside. Though teeming with hundreds of officers, the large meeting hall quiets down as a general rises and takes the small stage before them to call the meeting to order. That general is Horatio Gates. Yes, the same Horatio who fled the Battle of Camden and left his army to the mercy of British General Lord Cornwallis in episode 12. Though stripped of his command after that, his political connections enabled him to get reinstated last summer. And now, ironically, or appropriately enough, it falls to him to conduct this meeting that just might end in mutiny and the death of the American experiment. But as Horatio begins, a blue clad and towering figure appears in the doorway. It's George Washington. He begins walking to the front of the hall. This is awkward. Now, don't get me wrong. The officers love George. Some, like Colonel Louis Nicola, have even called for him to become the King of America. But the Continental commander has refused the idea of a crown and, as seen in his letter to Alexander Hamilton, has made it clear that he won't lead the army against Congress so honestly no one expected him to show up today. And perhaps for the first time ever, the officers are not happy to see the general. George approaches the hall's small stage and ascends its two steps. He then asks Horatio if he might address the men. Well, it's kind of hard to say no to the commander in chief. Horatio gives George the floor. Despite the palpable tension in the room and the sea of discontent officers glaring at him, George undertakes the onerous task of addressing them. The typically reserved Virginian speaks with uncharacteristic passion and starts by refuting the unauthorized circulated letter's harsh words against him with reminders of his love and sacrifice for these very As I have never left your side one moment, but when called from you on public duty, as I have been the constant companion and witness of your distresses, and not among the last to feel and acknowledge your merits, as I have ever considered my own military reputation as inseparably connected with that of the army as my heart has ever expanded with joy when I have heard its 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. Little change. George is still met with cold silence and hard faces. He continues his prepared remarks, arguing that the letter's call to endanger or threaten Congress undermines what they've fought to create. My God, what can this writer have in view by recommending such measures? Can he be a friend to the army? Can he be a friend to this country? Rather, is he not an insidious foe? The officers continue to glower. George must have a pit in his stomach by now. He tries a civics lesson and urges patience with Congress. Like all other large bodies where there is a variety of different interests to reconcile, their deliberations are slow. Why then should we distrust them still little to nothing? Finally, he appeals to their patriotism to give Congress more time to do its job. You will give one more distinguished proof of unexampled patriotism and patient virtue rising superior to the pressure of the most complicated sufferings. And you will, by the dignity of your conduct, afford occasion for posterity to say, when speaking of the glorious example you have exhibited to mankind. Had this day been wanting, the world had never seen the last stage of perfection to which human nature is capable of attaining. George has finished his speech. Most officers scowls, are as fierce as they were at the start. The general must be filled with fear and trepidation as he thinks of the burgeoning United States that he's fought and sacrificed for, dying at the hands of militarized tyranny. The Continental commander has an idea. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a piece of paper and unfolds it. He looks down and stares at it. But something's off. He looks confused. The officers lean forward, staring intensely. What is their commander doing? Finally a few words escape his lips and a stammer. Dear sir, you. Your. Your fame, your. Your favors. Your favors. George looks up at his officers. They're baffled, outraged as they are. Why is their great general struggling to read? Gentlemen, the 51 year old Virginian says, addressing his officers, you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray, but almost blind in service to my country. That does it. With these words, the hardened, angry, cynical officers who've seen so much death and blood, who've suffered so many unjust deprivations, erupt into sobs. All of George's pleading and reasoning had no effect on them. But to see George, their general, a man whom many here, despite their anger, would call their father and friend, wearing glasses, well, it's something he's never done in front of them before. It's something that reminds them of the countless letters, dispatches and orders he strained his eyes over in the past eight years for their benefit. It's something that reminds them that he isn't a God after all, but. But a man who's been worn down and aged by battle. And now it is they who are wearing him down as he suffers the embarrassment of showing a vulnerability he clearly never meant for them to see. Tears continue to stream down their faces as bespectacled George Washington reads. It's an extremely sympathetic letter from congressman Joseph Jones. In it, the congressman pays high compliments to the army and gives solid evidence that Congress is in fact trying to solve the army's plight. When George finishes reading the congressman's letter, he walks out of the meeting. Nothing more is needed. There will be no mutiny here today. Welcome to history that doesn't stop suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. With a pair of spectacles, George Washington did indeed break the mutinous spell holding his officers. And in the process, he ended what historians call the Newburgh conspiracy. Once again, George has saved American republicanism from a near stillbirth. A congressional committee headed by Alexander Hamilton awards the officers a pension equal to five years full pay. Now, if Congress only had a means of actually paying those pensions. Meanwhile, as the army starts to go home in mid-1783, the United States superintendent of finance, Robert Morris, pays out upward of a million dollars to the enlisted men in a new curr backed by his own personal fortune and assets, appropriately called, Morris notes, clearly the financial problems of the young, fledgling alliance that is the United States, won't be coming to an end anytime soon. But the Revolutionary war's end is upon us, and that is today's tale. We begin our story in England, where King George III is hoping to still prosecute the war despite the loss at Yorktown. Once his government comes to accept that this siege really did mean the end, we'll then head to Paris, France, where one of five congressionally appointed Peace Commissioners, Dr. Benjamin Franklin, is beginning negotiations with Britain's Richard Oswald. But as John Jay and John Adams join the good doctor, can they secure British recognition of American independence? What about territory, the departure of British troops and fishing rights? And how will they handle France, Spain, and even Congress, all of which have their own agendas or views? Will these American diplomats play by the rules or risk angering these powerful empires and their own congress by making their own? From navigating personal conflict between themselves to navigating European monarchies, the Americans negotiating this treaty are teaching a master class on the game of statecraft. And it all begins in London, as the British government grapples with what to do in the aftermath of the siege of Yorktown. Rewind. It's November 27th, 1781. We're in London, England, at the palace of Westminster. But not the gorgeous gothic revival palace you and I might envision with its iconic clock tower known as big Ben. No, none of that will come into being until a tragic fire necessitates a major rebuild more than half a century from now, though, in the same place on the bank of the river Thames. This is the old medieval palace. And right now, the house of lords and the house of commons are all gathering, chatting and awaiting the start of their joint meeting that will open this session of parliament. It should be most interesting. News of last month's franco American victory over lord Charles Cornwallis at Yorktown only reached London two days ago. Many, if not all, of the overlapping conversations happening as they approach the hall must be on that very subject. Undoubtedly, many, if not all, here know that upon hearing the news, their prime minister, lord north, exclaimed, oh, God, it is all over. It is all over. But that was lord north. How will the king respond? Well, we're about to find out. A hush falls over the hall as his majesty, king George iii enters. Dressed in regal attire, he takes his place on the throne. Now 43 years old, his majesty watches with his gray eyes as the last ceremonial steps are taken, bringing both houses of parliament together. And once that is settled, the sovereign begins his speech from the throne. My lords and gentlemen, when I last met you in parliament, I acquainted you with the arduous situation of public affairs at the time. The war is still unhappily prolonged by that restless ambition which first excited our enemies to commence it and which still continues to disappoint my earnest desire and diligent exertion to restore the public tranquility. Okay. His majesty definitely has a different take on the revolution than the patriots. No surprise there. And as the speech continues, he soon tells parliament how he believes they should respond to lord Cornwallis defeat in Virginia. I inform you that the events of the war have been very unfortunate to my arms in Virginia, having ended in the loss of my forces in that province. No endeavors have been wanting on my part to extinguish that spirit or rebellion which our enemies have found means to foment and maintain in the colonies and to restore to my deluded subjects in America that happy and prosperous condition which they formerly derived from a due obedience to the laws. But the late misfortune in that quarter calls loudly for your firm concurrence and assistance to frustrate the designs of our enem, equally prejudicial to the real interests of America and to those of great Britain. That's right. King George has every intention of still prosecuting this war. And before he closes, he turns his attention directly to the purse controlling House of Commons as he addresses the ongoing cost of the war. I most sincerely regret the additional burdens which it must unavoidably bring on upon my faithful subjects. Yeah, that's not happening. Instead, the King's government and support for the war collapse within the next few months. On February 27, 1782, the Commons vote to declare all who still advocate an offensive in America to be enemies to the King and to the country. The following day, the Commons further vote in favor of peace negotiations with the revolted colonies of North America. On March 20, Lord north resigns as Prime Minister and is replaced by the pro American Charles Watson Wentworth, Marquis of Rockingham, who as you might recall from episode two, oversaw the repeal of the Sugar and Stamp acts back in 1766. King George even writes a letter of abdication, but His Majesty does not go through with it. He retains his crown even as the new and far more friendly to America government offers an olive branch. In April, as Colonial Secretary Lord Shelburne sends Richard Oswald to Paris to open preliminary peace talks, it makes a lot of sense to send Richard. The retired super rich and one eyed Scotsman made his wealth as a merchant, a government contractor and slave trader. He's lived in America, which will provide him with valuable insights. Richard's charismatic, likable and although not keen on American independence, does want the war to end already. Finally, Richard's been selected in part because he already knows and gets along with the American diplomat whom he's going to see in the French capital. That American is Of course, Dr. Benjamin Franklin. Ah, Ben. We've encountered and talked about this colonial Renaissance man in a few past episodes, but haven't had the chance to really bond with him. Not since Congress sent him to France as a diplomat back in 1776 at any rate. Sounds like we should get to know him a bit better now, as our tale brings him to the fore. Born on Milk street In Boston in 1706, Ben loved to swim in the Charles river as a child. He soon made his first invention, flippers and hand paddles that would enable him to swim faster. Ben only received two years of formal education from 8 to 10 years old he excelled. But his father Josiah could held that this highly irreverent 15th of his 17 children was not going to cut it as a clergyman. So the candle making father figured Ben might as well leave school and work in the family shop. Ben hated this though. So two years later, Josiah arranged for one of his adult sons, James, to take on 12 year old Ben as an indentured apprentice in his print shop. Here, Ben acquired his skill and identity as a printer and tricked his brother into publishing his youthful writing by submitting them under the alias of an aged woman named Mrs. Silence Dogood. After five years of this, Ben decided he'd had enough of his brother James. The younger Franklin found his older brother to be quite austere, so he broke his contract and made off for Philadelphia. Fresh off the boat in his newly adopted Hometown, a hungry 17 year old Ben's spent three pennies on three great puffy rolls. As he walked down Market street, eating one roll with the other rolls tucked separately under each arm, he passed the home of his future wife, Deborah Reed, where to quote Ben's autobiography, she standing at the door, saw me and thought I made, as I certainly did, a most awkward, ridiculous appearance. They eventually married in 1730. Ben's inventions and innovations could be a podcast in and of themselves, let alone a quick intro on our way to negotiations. So I'll just leave it at this. He proved lightning is electricity with a kite and that it could be tamed with a lightning rod. He spearheaded Philadelphia's volunteer firefighter corps and a lending library, and served as the city's postmaster. Actually, he even became the Postmaster General of British North America. Oh, and he invented the bifocal glasses and a clean burning stove. But perhaps of greatest importance to today's tale is Ben's personal history as America's first diplomat. Though lacking extensive training, he has incredible experience. With the exception of a productive and politically packed two year stint back home in the early 1770 60s, Ben represented the interests of colonial Pennsylvania and other colonies in England from 1757 through 1775. It was during these decades that he received honorary doctorates from St. Andrews and Oxford universities, thus making him Dr. Franklin, and fought in London against the 1765 Stamp Act. Returning to America as the Revolution broke out in 1775, Pennsylvania gladly named Ben as a delegate to the Second Continental Congress, where he made a few but important contributions to Thomas Jefferson's draft of the Declaration of Independence. But even in the US he played the part of a diplomat meeting with Admiral Richard Howe at Staten island, as you may recall from episode eight. And it was shortly after this that Ben sailed out of Philadelphia and crossed the Atlantic to represent the United States to the French court. Citing his age, he attempted to resign in March 1781. But much to France's delight, Congress rejected this. Thus, Ben has been in France ever since the tail end of 1776. Finally, let me add one last crucial detail to his introduction. Ben's a charmer. He adapts well to different cultures. He seduces and I don't mean that sexually, or at least not necessarily sexually. His donning a fur cap in Paris rather than a wig is all part of a charm offensive as he plays the rugged American for Parisians you'll see this come out in his diplomacy. And now that we're better acquainted with our brilliant irreverent aging American diplomat, I'd say we're ready to join him and Britain's Richard Oswald as they open talks in Paris. Let the games begin. It's mid April, likely the 17th 1782. 76 year old American diplomat Ben Franklin and his fellow septuagenarian British representative Richard Oswald are riding in a horse drawn carriage just leaving Versailles where they met together with King Louis XVI's Foreign Minister Charles Gavier, Comte Vergen. At this meeting Vergennes suggested that it was time to hold a conference where all the belligerents now fighting against Britain in this war for American independence, that is France, Spain and even the Netherlands can all sit down and make peace together. That makes good sense considering that the Franco American alliance specifies that neither will make peace without the other. Ah, but that's not what the new British government wants. Most of whose leaders believe that if they can split the allies and treat separately then they can get better terms for Britain. And at some point as the magnificent city sized classical and baroque palace shrinks behind them, the elderly Scott starts pushing the idea. Richard suggests to Ben that it would be a shame if American independence were held up because France or so Spain want to continue their war thus delaying the peace. Witty as ever, Ben answers that independence was settled in 1776. Britain ought to acknowledge it rather than try to negotiate it. Ben also notes mentally as he'll later write in his journal, they who threaten are afraid. Then Ben turns the tables. Maybe Britain, if truly sea seeking reconciliation, should pay reparations for all the patriot property that they destroyed. Ben says many houses and villages have been burnt in America by the English and their allies. I do not know that the Americans will insist on reparation. But would it not be better for England to offer it? Ben next makes a suggestion for such reparation. Canada, after all the fur trade can't offset the cost of protecting it. So really America would be doing Britain a favor or so Ben argues. Britain possesses Canada. Her chief advantage from that possession consists in the trade for peltry. Her expenses in governing and defending that settlement must be considerable. Would it not have an excellent effect if Britain should voluntarily, voluntarily offer to give up this province, though on these conditions, that she shall in all times coming, have and enjoy the right of free trade, thither unencumbered with any duties whatsoever, that so much of the vacant lands there shall be sold as will raise a sum sufficient to pay for the houses burnt by the British troops and their Indians, and also to indemnify the boy.
