THUS FAR, PRESIDENT WASHINGTON had played a largely behind-the-scenes role. Judging him on his first six months in office, one might be tempted to agree with the authors of a recent book that declared: “When he assumed the presidency, Washington intended to preside, not to command or demand.” On the contrary, the man who lived dangerously, the general who commanded an army in a seesaw eight-year war, did not “assume” the presidency to be a figurehead.1
As a general, he had written bold letters to the frequently feckless Continental Congress, informing them, among other things, to stop relying on patriotism to win “a long and bloody war.” As president, he was determined to assert similar leadership to define this new office. When Charles Thomson, the secretary of Congress under the Articles of Confederation, arrived at Mount Vernon to inform Washington that he had been elected president, he replied: “I wish that there may not be reason for regretting the choice, for, indeed, all I can promise is to accomplish that which can be done by honest zeal.”2
The choice of words is significant. Zeal was not the attribute of a presider. The word emanates energy, decision, action. Zeal is what a man brings to a challenge that has to be confronted and resolved. This was Washington’s view of the presidency’s importance. Congress needed a decisive leader to preserve the unity of a continental-sized nation, already stretching fifteen hundred miles along the Atlantic seaboard, and rapidly expanding westward. The presidency was the essential ingredient in this new federal vision.3
At the same time, Washington understood that making a new political system acceptable to four million often skeptical, contentious Americans required a combination of leadership and patience. He did not expect harmony to be achieved overnight, or even in a year.
Washington was convinced that it was important to make the president a visible presence to as many citizens as possible. In New York, he held both formal levees and informal receptions to emphasize that the president was both a figure of authority and a down-to-earth man, ready to exchange jokes and chat about the news of the day. He supplemented this hospitality by occasionally strolling the streets of New York, greeting and being greeted by average citizens. Vice President John Adams, still obsessed with the need to create an aura of importance, was, someone wryly observed, “never seen but in his carriage and six.”4
During one of these strolls on the street known as “the Broadway,” Washington encountered a Scottish maid escorting a young boy. “Please your honor,” she said. “Here’s a bairn named after you.” The President patted six-year-old Washington Irving on the head, instantly creating a legend in the young man’s family. Decades later, Irving’s three-volume biography would be considered the best account yet written about the complex man who was almost reflexively called the father of his country.5
The President’s concern about connecting with the public was rooted in one of the primary lessons he had learned as a general. Summer and winter, for eight long and often discouraging years, he had shared camp life with the Continental Army’s officers and men. Not once did he retreat to Mount Vernon or move into some similar mansion in New Jersey or Pennsylvania for winter quarters. He refused to leave discipline and morale problems to be solved by lower ranking officers.
Staying in close proximity to his troops had resulted in a steady accumulation of loyalty and respect. This was the experience President Washington hoped to duplicate in the fall of 1789 when he told James Madison of his plans to make a tour of New England. On October 15, he rumbled out of New York in his coach, accompanied by six servants and two aides, Major William Jackson and Tobias Lear.
South Carolinian Jackson had distinguished himself as a fighting soldier during the Revolution and served as Washington’s aide-de-camp in the closing years of the war. He later proved himself a capable assistant as secretary of the Constitutional Convention. Tobias Lear was a genial New Hampshireman who became Washington’s personal secretary in 1784 and would remain indispensable for the next sixteen years. Both men had the candor and self-confidence that Washington valued in his assistants.
The President had invited Vice President John Adams to join them. Again displaying his almost total lack of political instincts, “Honest John” had curtly declined the invitation. He found it difficult and frequently impossible to restrain his envy of Washington’s fame. This flaw would eventually erode his effectiveness as a federal leader.
The purpose of the trip, as Washington explained it in his diary, was to “sample the temper and disposition of the inhabitants toward the new government.” He also felt he was entitled to a vacation. He had dealt successfully with Congress and survived a painful illness, a tumor on his thigh that had greatly alarmed his doctors and his wife, Martha. That estimable lady, having devoted a great deal of time to supervising weekly presidential dinners and receptions, had decided to stay in New York and enjoy the company of her two grandchildren, ten-year-old Nelly and eight-year-old George Washington Parke Custis, usually called “Washy.”
Martha foresaw that her husband’s tour would involve numerous official dinners and parades and speeches that she had little or no desire to endure. The President, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy these ceremonies, which were numerous as they progressed toward Boston. When they approached a town, Washington usually mounted a favorite white charger who spent most of his time trotting behind the baggage wagon that accompanied them. The President was often called the finest horseman of his era. His confident mastery of his steed made a strong impression on the crowds that swarmed to see him.6
Any man would have found it hard to dislike the compliments that were showered on the nation’s leader. He was regularly called “Columbia’s favorite son” and “the man who unites all hearts.” Washington regarded these effusions as tributes to the presidency. He also saw the value of a Virginian winning this affection and admiration from New Englanders. Too often, the Yankees had manifested a sense of moral superiority to the rest of the nation, at times bordering on alienation.
Washington’s diary revealed his interest in the physical condition of the country. He noted the quality of the roads (mostly bad) and the inns (mostly mediocre). He jotted down sites where a canal or an improved road would be valuable. He was especially interested in seeing examples of American manufacturing. Already, the energetic New Englanders were in the textile business. In Hartford, he explored a woolen mill and demonstrated his approval of their product by buying a dark blue suit for himself and breeches for his servants.
The President’s Virginia eye noted the differences between this society and the Old Dominion. He told his diary there was a remarkable prevalence of small farms, few larger than one hundred acres, a striking contrast to the master of Mount Vernon’s three thousand acres, and the equally large domains of his Potomac neighbors. Also absent in the crowds that greeted him were well-dressed gentlemen. But there was also no sign of the ragged poverty that marked poor whites in the South. The “great equality” of the people, especially in western Massachusetts, surprised and pleased the President.
Boston was by far the most important stop on the President’s itinerary. Frequently called the capital of both New England and Massachusetts, the city was aware that they had never thanked General Washington for liberating them from a humiliating British occupation in 1775–76. They looked forward with great excitement to his arrival. John Hancock was still the governor of the state. The lieutenant governor was Samuel Adams, who did most, if not all, of Hancock’s thinking for him.
While the President was still on the road, he received an invitation to stay at Hancock’s mansion. Washington explained that he had made it a rule not to visit any private homes on his trip, lest it arouse an unpleasant competition among would-be hosts. But he politely informed the governor that he would be happy to dine with him, when Mr. Hancock called on him at his inn.
That casual remark was weighted with political significance, Washington was telling the Governor that the presidency was the preeminent office and Hancock must make the first call. The President had not forgotten that Hancock and Adams had expressed severe doubts about the Constitution in their state’s ratifying convention in 1788. Washington undoubtedly also knew that in 1775, several delegates to the Continental Congress had noted the chagrin visible on Mr. Hancock’s face when John Adams nominated Colonel Washington to head the Continental Army. Hancock’s military experience was close to zero, but he was the wealthiest man in Boston—a fact he apparently thought entitled him to consideration for the post.
As Washington was settling into his quarters on the upper floor of a Boston tavern, a note arrived from Governor Hancock, explaining he was much too crippled by an attack of gout to venture from his house. Back went a note from the President, expressing his sympathy and informing the governor that he would dine at his “lodgings” that evening with Vice President Adams.
After supper, Samuel Adams arrived with two members of the governor’s council. There are good grounds for suspecting Sam was behind this scheme to assert the Bay State’s political ascendency. In the Continental Congress, his penchant for devious politicking had won him the nickname “Judas Iscariot.” The President’s diary reports that Mr. Adams said he was there to “express the Governor’s concern that he had not been in a condition to call upon me as soon as I came to town.”
Washington was not an admirer of Sam Adams. He remembered all too clearly that Sam had been the man behind the scheme to replace him with Horatio Gates. The President’s summary of their conversation in his diary bristles with barely concealed dislike. “I informed them in explicit terms that I should not see the Governor unless it was at my own lodgings.” The delegation talked and talked about Hancock’s crippled state—and got nowhere.
The supposedly ailing governor capitulated the next morning. He rushed a note to the President announcing that “the Governor will do himself the honor of paying his respects in a half hour. This would have been done much sooner had his health in any degree permitted.” Hancock was now ready to “hazard everything” to make the required visit. Since it was the Sabbath, Washington was attending a morning service when the note arrived. He did not reply until one o’clock. His answer more than matched Hancock’s third person language and left no doubt about the political implications of the contest.
“The President of the United States presents his best respects to the Governor, and has the honor to inform him that he shall be at home ’til 2
o’clock. The President of the United States need not express the pleasure it will give him to see the Governor; but at the same time he most earnestly begs that the Governor will not hazard his health on the occasion.”
Soon the street outside the President’s lodgings was a scene of a hastily staged drama. Governor Hancock arrived in his splendid coach and was lifted out by a team of brawny servants. His legs were swathed in red flannel bandages. The servants carried him into the inn and he hobbled upstairs to Washington’s drawing room. There, the President of the United States wryly informed his diary, he “drank tea with Governor Hancock.”7 Washington and his aides almost certainly celebrated this triumph with not a few private chuckles.
As he toured Boston, the President was in a cheerful mood. When he visited a sailcloth factory, in which the workers were all young women, he told the foreman he had hired “the prettiest girls in Boston.” At a sumptuous dinner in his honor, he noted in his diary “there were upwards of 100 ladies. Their appearance was elegant and many of them were very handsome.” At this and other banquets, women swirled around the President, all but entranced by his height, his affability, and his fame.
Back in New York, refreshed and satisfied with his trip, the President turned his attention to another large responsibility: America’s relations with the Indian tribes on the nation’s western frontier. Most troublesome was the large and warlike Creek nation, which had killed numerous Americans migrating into western Georgia. The Creeks were formidable opponents, with no less than five thousand warriors at their command.
President Washington sent a three-man delegation to visit them and negotiate a truce. The diplomats were ordered to urge the tribe to forge a relationship with the United States, rather than Spain. Madrid’s power loomed large from the Creeks’ point of view. Spain controlled Florida and the Louisiana Territory, which included New Orleans and the vast swath of the continent west of the Mississippi.
Although the United States and Spain had been allies during the Revolution thanks to French persuasions, the Spanish monarchy had few friendly feelings for the new nation. Madrid saw American independence as a threat to Spain’s colonies in Mexico and Central and South America. Many people assumed that the Spanish were pleased by the Creeks’ random terrorism.
A key figure in this three-cornered game was Alexander McGillivray. He had a French grandfather as well as a Scottish father, but his mother and grandmother were Creek. McGillivray swiftly emerged as a canny leader, adept at playing the white men off against each other. Washington put his secretary of war, Henry Knox, in charge of negotiations.
Knox had persuaded Washington that making the War Department responsible for Indian affairs would strengthen the presidency. The Boston general favored buying the land that the western settlers wanted from the tribes, and persuading the Indians to settle in enclaves where the federal government would guarantee they would not be molested. Whether Knox could persuade someone as slippery as McGillivray to accept this arrangement seemed a dubious bet. But McGillivray and a delegation of his fellow chiefs came to New York and signed a mutually satisfactory treaty of peace.
The Creeks were not the only Indians who worried the President. Further north, the warlike Miamis and Shawnees, armed and encouraged by the British in Canada, had murdered an estimated fifteen hundred would-be settlers by the time Washington became president. Envoys were also dispatched in this direction, hoping that these tribes would accept the Knox approach to peace.
The President had yet to receive a reply from Thomas Jefferson, and had begun fretting over his lack of a secretary of state. Washington wanted to discuss the Creek situation with the Spanish minister to the United States, but the envoy was about to return home and Congress was not in session. Washington wondered if he could consult him without the Senate’s “advice and consent.” Another worry was the frequent capture of American ships in the Mediterranean by Algerine pirates. The President wrote a letter to the Emperor of Morocco, asking for his help in eliminating these seagoing predators.8
Far more important to President Washington was the problem of defending the United States in a war. At the moment, the nation had exactly 840 troops in its regular army. They were stationed at West Point and at Fort Pitt in western Pennsylvania. For a decade, these soldiers had not been asked to do anything more military than guard cannon and ammunition left over from the Revolutionary War. Almost to a man, Congress suffered from a malignant hatred of a regular army. The enmity had erupted in the last years of the war, when the officers insisted Congress should keep its 1778 promise to pay them pensions. Instead of heeding Washington’s repeated pleas to establish a small peacetime army, Congress had ordered him to discharge the remaining regiments in service at the end of the Revolution, retaining only the token garrisons at Fort Pitt and West Point.
This was an extremely unwise decision; the British had yet to turn over six western forts they had promised to evacuate under the terms of the peace treaty. With no army to make London think twice about ignoring the treaty, the forts were still in British hands, giving His Majesty’s diplomats and soldiers easy access to the already restless northwest tribes.9
To relax from his presidential chores, Washington turned to a recreation that many New Englanders and not a few New Yorkers disapproved of—the theater. In 1774, the Continental Congress had banned play-going along with horse racing and other supposedly degenerate pastimes from their virtuous new republic. The New England delegates had been among the leaders in this outbreak of their inherited puritanism. As a result, only the British army staged plays during the early years of the Revolution.
At Valley Forge, this ban had been breached with General Washington’s approval. His younger officers began staging plays, at which he was a frequent attendee. The Continental Congress issued a steaming rebuke—which the soldiers and their general ignored.
In 1789, New York’s John Street Theater was still frowned upon in many quarters. President Washington soon changed almost everyone’s mind. On May 11, he and Martha enjoyed one of their favorite plays, Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s The School for Scandal. The drama was considered racy even by those who enjoyed a naughty laugh now and then. Soon, Washington was inviting guests to the roomy presidential box.10
The President told the new chief justice, John Jay, and his wife, Sarah, that he would understand if they declined. Huguenot Protestants like Jay were known for their puritanism. But Jay’s severity had been softened not a little by his attractive New Jersey spouse. They accepted and thanked the President for a very pleasant evening.
Soon the presidential box was regularly packed with government VIPs. Even viper-tongued Senator Maclay, a fierce Presbyterian, accepted an invitation. President watchers began paying close attention to who was invited to enjoy the latest drama. On November 24, 1789, they saw a highly significant set of visitors. The new Secretary of the Treasury, Alexander Hamilton, sat with his wife, Betsy, and her father, Senator Philip Schuyler, one of the nation’s wealthiest men. Was it a hint that Washington had seen and approved the plan for a new financial system that Congress had asked Hamilton to submit?
Washington’s unique combination of fame and political dexterity was on the way to making the president the central figure in the new federal government. What would Thomas Jefferson think of this phenomenon? He had called the presidency a poor edition of a Polish king. Would Jefferson also be surprised to discover that his former councillor and close friend, James Madison, was working as Washington’s partner in the elevation of this new office to such unexpected power?