Within a few months there was more trouble with England. The tax on tea, symbol of Parliament’s determination to retain its power, was answered by a band of Bostonians, disguised as Mohawk Indians, who dumped 350 chests of Washington’s favorite beverage into Boston harbor. Parliament’s response was to shut the port of Boston and impose martial law. When the Virginia Assembly attempted to pass a resolution supporting Boston, the Royal Governor dissolved it. Twenty-five Burgesses, including Washington, met privately and decided to call a meeting of the Assembly independently of the Governor.

During these same troubled weeks, Washington argued what was at stake in an exchange of letters with Bryan Fairfax, brother of George William and an equally close friend. There is something hauntingly symbolic about this correspondence with a man whose name summed up the greatness and glory of the England Washington had learned to worship in his youth.

“I think myself bound to oppose violent measures now,” wrote Fairfax.

“I would heartily join you,” returned Washington, “. . . provided there was the most distant hope of success. But have we not . . . addressed the lords and remonstrated to the Commons? And to what end?”

“You have no reason to doubt your own opinion,” returns Bryan Fairfax. “It is I that have reason to doubt mine when so many men of superior understanding think otherwise.”

“I’ve scarce passed a day without anxious thoughts on the subject,” said Washington. “I beg leave to look upon you as a friend and it is a great relief to unbosom one’s thoughts to a friend, for I am convinced no man in the colony wishes its prosperity more, would go to greater lengths to serve it, nor is there at the same time a better subject of the Crown.”

Never, when he could help it, did Washington let a difference of opinion destroy a friendship. But his own mind was made up. On August 1, at the meeting of the Virginia Assembly in Williamsburg, he arose and in a one-sentence speech completely stole the show from Patrick Henry and his fellow orators. “I am ready to raise one thousand men,” he said, “subsist them myself at my own expense and march at their head to Boston.”

As a result, Washington was the third of seven Virginians chosen to represent the colony in the first Continental Congress. When we consider the array of orators and politicians and political thinkers of first rank against whom he was competing, the choice is a remarkable testimony to the magnetism which this big, normally silent, man exercised on his contemporaries.

In the Congress’s seven weeks of speech-making and debate, George Washington never made a public statement; but he played a powerful role in the long nightly conversations after the public sessions. Patrick Henry, when asked whom he considered the greatest man in Congress, answered, “Rutledge if you speak of eloquence is by far the greatest orator, but Colonel Washington, who has no pretensions to eloquence, is a man of more solid judgment and information than any man on that floor.”

Washington heard the news of the bloodshed at Lexington shortly before he was reelected a delegate to the second Continental Congress. When he took his place at this historic convention, he wore his blue and buff uniform of the Virginia militia. It was, again, a typically Washingtonian bit of silent eloquence. Shrewd New Englanders, like John Adams, quickly saw that they needed a southerner to lead the largely Yankee army that had gathered outside British-occupied Boston. There were several contenders besides Washington, two former British officers - Horatio Gates and Charles Lee - and John Hancock, president of the Congress.

In his diary, John Adams recalled the moment when he arose to nominate Washington as commander-in-chief. With superb tact, Washington immediately slipped out a side door so that no one need hesitate to speak frankly on his suitability. As for John Hancock, Adams, watching his face as he spoke, recalled, “I never remarked a more sudden and striking change of countenance. Mortification and resentment were expressed as forcibly as his face could exhibit them.” It was a hint of things to come. A well-organized minority of New Englanders strongly resented Washington’s elevation.

A few days later, when a final vote was taken and the command was formally offered to him, Washington rose and made a brief speech. It was, typically, lacking in eloquence. It had no high-flown phrases about liberty and the rights of man. Instead it was very personal, indirectly revealing how deeply the offer touched Washington’s strongest emotions. Here was that “title of honor” he had pursued, in Lawrence’s name, across the western mountains, offered to him, not at the pleasure of a monarch, but as the gift of a free people.

What was Washington’s first reaction? Not joy or happiness. Only the gravity of the all-to-realistic truth: He might fail. He knew he was going forth to challenge the mightiest nation in the world, Imperial Britain, whose fleets and armies dominated the globe. He had never commanded anything larger than a regiment. After thanking Congress for the “high honour,” Washington said, “I feel great distress from a consciousness that my abilities and Military experience may not be equal to the extensive and important trust. . . . I beg it may be remembered by every gentleman in the room that I this day declare with the utmost sincerity I do not think myself equal to the command.”

In this touchingly simple statement, Washington created one of the hallmarks of his greatness. He did not ride into history like an Alexander or a Napoleon, trumpeting his military genius. He did not see himself as a superman. He knew from harsh experience that defeat was all too possible. All he offered was a vow to “exert every power I possess . . . for the support of the glorious cause.”

As for pay, Washington refused it. No amount of money, he told the Congress, “could have tempted me to accept this arduous employment at the expense of my domestic ease and happiness.” All he asked was reimbursement of his expenses.

The momentous duty accepted, Washington’s first thought was of Martha. He wrote to “My dear Patsy” (his affectionate name for Martha) words that underline the sincerity of his speech to the Continental Congress.

You may believe me when I assure you in the most solemn manner that so far from seeking this appointment, I have used every endeavor in my power to avoid it, not only from my unwillingness to part with you and the family but from a consciousness of its being a trust too great for my capacity. . . . It was utterly out of my power to refuse . . . without exposing my character to such censures as would have reflected dishonor upon myself and given pain to my friends.

He also wrote to his favorite brother, Jack. “I am now to bid adieu to you and every kind of domestic ease for awhile. I am embarked on a wide ocean, boundless in its prospect and in which perhaps no safe harbor is to be found.” He urged Jack to visit Martha often. “My departure will, I know, be a cutting stroke upon her; and on this account alone I have many disagreeable sensations.”

On June 23 he rode north to take command of the American army before Boston. His farewell letter to Martha suggests that over the years she had come a long way toward replacing Sally Fairfax in Washington’s heart. “I would not think of departing . . . without dropping you a line,” he wrote. “I return an unalterable affection for you which neither time nor distance can change.”

With those words, George Washington, the. Virginia gentleman, turned his back on the past and rode into an American future. But he did not become American overnight.