The adoption of the Articles gave no assistance to Congress in securing money. It had managed to hobble along in the past, now begging alms of France, now ordering the printer to issue more paper, again obtaining some assistance by requisitions from the states. But if the Confederation was to maintain even the semblance of credit abroad or of dignity at home, it must have money.
In February 1781, even before the Articles had been adopted by Maryland, the states were asked to vest in Congress the power to levy a five percent. import duty; the income thus arising was to be used for paying the debts and interest on the debts contracted or that might be contracted on the faith of the United States for supporting the war. To this request, most of the states gave their consent promptly, but Rhode Island, on whose acquiescence much depended, after some hesitation, refused to allow such an encroachment on her cherished liberties. The impost, she declared, would bear hardest on the commercial states; officers unknown to the free law of the state would be entitled to come within her limits; and, lastly, to grant to the Congress a power to collect money, for the expenditure of which it need render no accoimt to the states, would render that body independent and endanger the liberties of the United States. Such reasoning as this manifested the virile feeling of local liberty which underlay the Revolution, and was a good example of how well the states had learned the lesson of opposition to taxation. Though the war was not yet over, Rhode Island feared that Congress might attack her liberties! Within a short time, Virginia, which had at first granted Congress the desired authority, repealed its act, for fear that the sovereignty of the state would be injured and the liberties of the state put in jeopardy.
Men like Richard Henry Lee, of Virginia, were now strongly opposing the growth of Congressional power. To inspire jealousy in the states was a simple and safe route to popularity; an orator or politician could so easily enlarge upon the dearest liberties of the people, speak of the bloodshed and ideals of the war, and pose as the defender of freedom against the machinations of government. There was already a real controversy between local and continental politics, which was to last long after Lee and the fearsome Rhode-Islanders were buried. The failure to get the states to agree to give Congress the power to raise money was discouraging in the extreme, but there was a body of intelligent, large-minded men in the country who would not be beaten, and they determined to persist rather than give their country over to ignominy.
To overestimate the need for money would be difficult; money was needed for everything: to pay the troops, to pay the civil servants, to pay the interest on the public debt, to pay the anxious and needy creditors. "Imagine," wrote Morris, "the situation of a man who is to direct the finances of a country almost without revenue (for such you will perceive this to be) surrounded by creditors whose distresses, while they increase their clamors, render it more difficult to appease them; an army ready to disband or mutiny; a government whose sole authority consists in the power of framing recommendations."
To float more paper money was no longer feasible, for the past issues had depreciated so rapidly that even to keep track of their vanishing value was a difficult intellectual task. It is not easy to say when this money had ceased to circulate commonly or how much it was worth at a given time. Jefferson says that by the end of 1781 $1000 of Continental scrip was worth about one dollar in specie. Certainly when the Congress of the Confederation was asking for funds the old paper was valueless; an enterprising barber used some of it to paper his shop; a crowd of men and boys, parading the streets of Philadelphia one day, used Continental bills for cockades in their hats and were accompanied by an unhappy dog which had been covered with tar and decorated from head to tail with "Congress" paper dollars. Evidently, to turn out more money of this kind might add to the amusement of the populace, but would little avail the superintendent of finance.
To borrow money had never been easy, and it was now a matter of difficulty. France had been generous in her loans and gifts, but the war bore heavily on her income and her patience. Even after the signing of the preliminary articles of peace, Vergennes had consented to grant aid, but he could not help remarking that when his majesty had done so much to help America in her time of "moral infancy," she ought now in her maturity to support herself." France could not go on lending money forever, but what hope was there that the Americans would realize that fact, stop their recrimination, and pay their debts? Men that ought to have known better spent their time, not in talking for honesty, but in maligning Morris, charging the troubles upon him, as if he could make money or ruin American credit. To rely on France and Holland ought to have been humiliating, but there were many Americans who were quite willing that France should bear the burden, though it was by no means a light one.
Taxation in America had become irksome in the extreme. Morris pleaded and planned and labored with the states to little purpose; to talk to them, he said, was like preaching to the dead. By January 1783, the finances of the country were in a deplorable condition. Morris informed a committee of Congress, appointed to confer with him in secret, that his foreign account was already overdrawn three and a half million livres, and that further draughts were indispensable "to prevent a stop to the public service." In desperation, he proposed to draw again, relying on the friendship of France and the hope of proceeds from a loan in Holland.
This was a bold game — to draw on funds that did not exist, to rely on the friendship of a nation already overloaded with its own burdens. But, bold as it was, there was nothing else to be done, and Congress decided to try it. This resolution, marking as it does the depth of want and the height of financial audacity, deserves to be quoted in full: "Resolved unanimously, That the superintendent of finance be and he is hereby authorized, to draw bills of exchange, from time to time, according to his discretion upon the credit of the loans which the ministers of the United States have been instructed to procure in Europe, for such sums, not exceeding the amount of the money directed to be borrowed, as the publick service may require."
Soon after this, Morris determined to resign, and sent to Congress a strong letter: "To increase our debts while the prospect of paying them diminishes, does not consist with my ideas of integrity. I must, therefore, quit a situation which becomes utterly insupportable. ... I should be unworthy of the confidence reposed in me by my fellow citizens if I did not explicitly declare that I will never be the minister of injustice." He offered to remain, however, a short time, in hopes of improvement, and, indeed, he was prevailed on to retain the position till November of the next year." In a letter to Washington, written February 27, 1783, he said that Congress wished to do justice, but the members were "afraid of offending their States." That was the root of the difficulty, and conditions were not likely to improve. Morris tried to impress on Congress the wholesome conviction that there was no more hope of European aid. "Whatever may be the ability of nations or individuals," he said, "we can have no right to hope, much less to expect the aid of others, while we show so much unwillingness to help ourselves. It can no longer be a doubt to Congress that our public credit is gone." He estimated the public debt, not including the cartloads of Continental paper or the "arrearages of half pay" due the army officers, or various other debts classed as "unliquidated," "being the moneys due to the several States and to individuals in the several States," at over $35,327,000.
Throughout the winter of 1782-1783, the conditions in the country were full of danger. It will be remembered that there was no assurance that the war would not be renewed, and it was necessary still to maintain the army. The main body of the troops was gathered at Newburgh on the Hudson. The soldiers were better fed and clothed than they had been in the past, but spending the winter in "dreary and rugged hills in idleness, wearily watching the British in New York, was not a pleasing occupation. The patience of the soldiers had indeed been marvellous, but now that peace was at hand, they were growing weary of want and penury. The officers had been promised half-pay for life, but nothing had been done to carry out the pledge, and the common soldiers lacked even the support of generous but unfulfilled promises. In behalf of themselves and of the soldiers of the army, the officers at Newburg drew up an address (December 1782) and sent it by delegates to Congress. "We have borne," they said, "all that men can bear — our property is expended — our private resources are at an end, and our friends are wearied out and disgusted with our incessant applications." The tone was menacing because it declared a real and imminent danger, but it was respectful and noble.
Congress was told plainly that further experimentation on the patience of the soldiers would be perilous. Strong and incisive as were the letters of Morris and the other officials, they give little notion of how trying and menacing those days were. It is plain that thoughtful men were weighed down with forebodings. Some who knew the situation thought that the army had already secretly determined not to lay down its arms until its reasonable demands were satisfied. Hamilton believed that Washington was daily growing unpopular from his known dislike of unlawful measures, and that leading characters were doing what they could to undermine him. The truth seems to be that Hamilton himself, and others generally patriotic, were not altogether sorry to see the army restless. Perhaps, they thought, this might bring Congress to energetic action and the states to their senses if nothing else would. Hamilton wrote a patronizing letter to Washington, telling him that the "claims of the army, urged with moderation, but with firmness, may operate on those weak minds which are influenced by their apprehensions more than by their judgments, so as to produce a concurrence in the measures which the exigencies of affairs demand." He hoped that Washington's influence would keep "a complaining and suffering army within the bounds of moderation."
A bolder and more dangerous tone was taken by Gouverneur Morris, a young man of immense energy, enthusiasm, and self-confidence, then acting as assistant to Robert Morris; he looked at the danger of an army uprising almost with hope. "The army," he wrote to Jay, "have swords in their hands.. You know enough of the history of mankind to know much more than I have said, and possibly much more than they themselves yet think of. I will add, however, that I am glad to see things in their present train. Depend on it, good will arise from the situation to which we are hastening . . . although I think it probable that much of convulsion will ensue, yet it must terminate in giving to government that power, without which government is but a name."
If the army were disbanded without steps being taken to pay them, and if the soldiers were sent home to demand pay from the individual states, they would not be likely to retain any particular affection for Congress, under whose direction they had fought and from whom they vainly sought well-earned wages. The dispersion of the army would mean the dissolution of a natural centre of general patriotism and affection. Morris, and probably Hamilton also, was anxious, therefore, that the army should not become thirteen armies. Morris had the temerity to write to Greene, who was then in the south, and also to Knox, at Newburg, intimating that the army must stand together and not be divided. " If the army," he said to Greene, "in common with all other public creditors, insists on the grant of general permanent funds for liquidating all the public debts, there can be little doubt that such revenues will be obtained." Greene was as patriotic as anybody, but he saw the peril clearly. "When soldiers advance without authority, who can halt them? We have many Clodii and Catilines in America, who may give a different direction to this business than either you or I expect."
This correspondence does not mean that Hamilton and Morris were bent on raising an insurrection; they wished to consolidate the public debts and to have it clearly understood that the Union, not the states, was responsible for payment. If this were accomplished, a firm and durable bond of union would be created. Probably Morris wished the army to present requests for pay in such form that they would have the effect of threats; it may be that he was willing to see even more dangerous steps taken. Whatever the decided intention of Morris and those who thought with him, in discussing the intervention of the soldiers, they were playing with fire. And yet the army, although full of combustible material, was patriotic and right-minded. "The army generally has always reprobated being thirteen armies," wrote Knox. "Their ardent desires have been to be one continental body, looking up to one sovereign." "It is a favorite toast in the army, 'a hoop to the barrel,' or, 'cement to the union.' ... As the present constitution is so defective, why don't you great men call the people together, and tell them so. That is, to have a convention of the States to form a better constitution?"
While Congress was lamenting and discussing, the situation at Newburg was growing more serious. At no time during the Revolution was the American cause in a more desperate situation than in the early part of 1783. On March 10, 1783, an anonymous paper was circulated suggesting a meeting of the officers of the army for the following day, to consider their grievances and to take steps to bring an end to their sufferings. It was written with very unusual skill and in language calculated to excite the anger and awaken still further the resentment of the soldiers, who with much justice felt that they had sacrificed their comfort and were now treated with scorn and contumely. "Can you then consent to be the only sufferers by this revolution, and retiring from the field, grow old in poverty, wretchedness, and contempt? Can you consent to wade through the vile mire of dependency, and owe the miserable remnant of that life to charity, which has hitherto been spent in honour! — If you can — go — and carry with you, the jest of tories and the scorn of whigs — the ridicule, and what is worse, the pity of the world. Go, starve, and be forgotten! But if your spirit should revolt at this; if you have sense enough to discover, and spirit enough to oppose tyranny under whatever garb it may asstmie; whether it be the plain coat of republicanism, or the splendid robe of royalty, if you have yet learned to discriminate between a people and a cause, between men and principles — awake; attend you to your situation and redress yourselves. If the present moment be lost, every future effort is in vain; and your threats then, will be as empty as your intreaties now."
No better, no more vehement and virile English was written by the generation that produced Burke and Junius, and one is tempted to forget the offence in admiring the capacity of the offender. The paper seems to have been written by John Armstrong, aide-de-camp to General Gates, but though the hands were the hands of Esau, the cunning and the force were probably supplied by more conspicuous men. If the pompous Gates was not the chief conspirator, he was at least the figurehead.
Washington discovered that the address had been circulated and at once appreciated the danger. General orders were issued calling for a meeting at a later day, in hopes that in the meantime the passion excited by the inflammatory address might have somewhat subsided. The senior officer in rank, who could, of course, be none other than the redoubtable Gates himself, was called on to preside at the meeting. At the appointed hour, Washington appeared. The scene is one of the most dramatic in our history. The commander was in fear lest the passions of the army, inflamed by insidious suggestions and stimulated by real injustice, should lead them to turn upon the government or seek to compel the states to pay them their dues; civil war of the most odious and distressful kind might well ensue. As he took his place at the desk he drew "his written address from his coat pocket, and his spectacles, with his other hand, from his waistcoat pocket, and then addressed the officers in the following manner: "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 little address, with the mode and manner of delivering it, drew tears from [many] of the officers." The paper was a manly, eloquent, telling appeal to the patriotism, judgment, and patient generosity of the officers; it was a stinging rebuke for the cowardly conspirators who were plotting to disgrace the army and ruin the country. "And let me conjure you," he said at length, "in the name of our common country, as you value your own sacred honor, as you respect the rights of humanity, and as you regard the military and national character of America, to express your utmost horror and detestation of the man, who wishes, under any specious pretences, to overturn the liberties of our country, and who wickedly attempts to open the flood gates of civil discord, and deluge our rising empire in blood."
Upon the conclusion of the address, the whole assembly was in tears. Washington withdrew, and resolutions were then adopted expressing unshaken confidence in the justice of Congress and the country, declaring that the officers of the American army received with abhorrence and rejected with disdain the infamous proposals of the anonymous circular, and respectfully requesting Washington to urge upon Congress the prompt attention to their claims. And thus, "that body of officers, in a moment, damned with infamy two publications, which, during the four preceding days, most of them had read with admiration, and talked of with rapture."
Without more substantial assets than good intentions, Congress found itself in an embarrassing situation. While the army was clamoring for wages, the opposition to giving the officers half-pay for life reached in some portions of the land incredible height, causing in New England, Madison said, "almost a general anarchy." In lieu of this method of payment, therefore. Congress determined to offer full pay for five years, and ere long the soldiers were given new promises and steps were taken to disband the army. But the fear of the soldiery, which aroused the sturdy patriots who had bided safe at home durmg the war, did not die out with the disappearance of the army; the Society of the Cincinnati, an order formed to perpetuate the memories of the Revolution and to preserve the friendships "formed under the pressure of common danger, and in numerous instances cemented by the blood of the parties," awakened the dread of many gloomy minded citizens, who shuddered at the spectre of an hereditary order.
The veterans who had "borne the heat and burden of the war" went home in good order, "without a settlement of their accounts, or a farthing of money in their pockets." But there was mutiny among the Pennsylvania troops who were stationed at Lancaster. Some eighty of these "soldiers of a day" marched upon Philadelphia, and, though not directly threatening Congress, placed that body in a humiliating position. Just how perilous the situation was, it is now difficult to say, but certainly, while the authorities in the city were timidly negotiating for days with the band of mutineers, who had found their unerring way to the wine-bottles and the ale-casks of hospitable Philadelphia, the plight of Congress was unenviable and disagreeable. Feeling that its dignity was injured, and not unwilling to rebuke the Pennsylvania authorities, it passed over the river to Princeton, and there for a time continued its helpless process of recommendation and appeal. The event, though not particularly serious in its consequences, was a dramatic representation of the helplessness of the Congress, whose representatives abroad were asking for favors and expecting to be treated as the representatives of a great sovereign nation.
Though the war was over, the year 1783 was full of discouragement; notwithstanding the urgent calls for money, the states did not respond. Morris sent out to the governors a letter of appeal; up to June 13, his payments had exceeded his receipts by more than $1,000,000. "How, indeed, could it be otherwise," he asked, "when all the taxes brought into the treasury since 1781 did not amount to seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars?" For the year 1782, Congress asked for $8,000,000, and for the year 1783, it asked for $2,000,000; but by the end of the latter year, less than $1,500,000 had been paid in. A committee which was appointed to consider the matter spoke of the distress and poverty of the people "just relieved from the ravages of predatory armies, returning from an attendance on camps, to the culture of their fields — beginning to sow, but not yet having reaped."
The fact is, however, that the people were not in destitution. There is an abundance of contemporary evidence to show that at the end of the Revolution, the people were living with more ease and circumstance than before the war. "The people," wrote Morris to Franklin, "are undoubtedly able to pay, but they have easily persuaded themselves into a conviction of their own inability, and in a Government like ours the belief creates the thing." The trouble was not poverty, but commercial confusion, vicious politics, and a native disinclination to pay taxes. "The necessity of the present application for money," Morris said in 1782, and his remark held true for the next five years, "arises from the neces-sity of drawing by degrees the bands of authority together, establishing the power of Government over a people impatient of control, and confirming the Federal Union of the several States by correcting defects in the general Constitution."
On the disbanding of the army, Washington addressed a long letter to the states, in which he frankly spoke of the condition of the country and the need for a respectable government. "This is the favorable moment to give such a tone to our federal government, as will enable it to answer the ends of its institution, or this may be the ill-fated moment for relaxing the powers of the Union, annihilating the cement of the confederation, and exposing us to become the sport of European politics, which may play one State against another, to prevent their growing importance, and to serve their own interested purposes." The letter was courteously received by the states, and it may have had some influence for a time. Things were to grow worse, however, before they grew better. It was already evident that the Confederation was a failure, though efforts to amend the Articles gave no prospect of success, and Congress grew steadily more helpless as the months went by.