George Washington | Page 6

without making any fortifications,
except that little thing on the meadow, whereas, had he taken advice,
and built such fortifications as I advised him, he might easily have beat
off the French. But the French in the engagement acted like cowards,
and the English like fools.[1]
[Footnote 1: Quoted by Lodge, I, 74.]
Believing that he could accomplish no more at that time, Washington
retraced his steps and returned to Williamsburg.
Governor Dinwiddie, being much disappointed with the outcome of the
expedition, urged the Virginian Legislature to equip another party
sufficiently strong to be able to capture Fort Duquesne, and to confirm
the British control of the Ohio. The Burgesses, however, pleaded
economy, and refused to grant funds adequate to this purpose.
Nevertheless, the Governor having equipped a small troop, under the
command of Colonel Fry, with Washington as second, hurried it forth.
During May and June they were near the Forks, and with the approach
of danger, Washington's spirit and recklessness increased. In a slight
skirmish, M. de Jumonville, the French commander, was killed. Fry
died of disease and Washington took his place as commander.
Perceiving that his own position was precarious, and expecting an
attack by a large force of the enemy, he entrenched himself near Great
Meadows in a hastily built fort, which he called Fort Necessity, and
thought it possible to defend, even with his own small force, against
five hundred French and Indians. He miscalculated, however. The
enemy exceeded in numbers all his expectations. His own resources
dwindled; and so he took the decision of a practical man and
surrendered the fort, on condition that he and his men be allowed to

march out with the honors of war. They returned to Virginia with little
delay.
The Burgesses and the people of the State, though chagrined, did not
take so gloomy a view of the collapse of the expedition as Washington
himself did. His own depression equalled his previous exaltation. As he
thought over the affairs of the past half-year in the quiet of Mount
Vernon, the feeling which he had had from the start, that the expedition
had not been properly planned, or directed, or reënforced in men and
supplies, was confirmed. Governor Dinwiddie's notion that raw
volunteers would suffice to overcome trained soldiers had been proved
a delusion. The inadequate pay and provisions of the officers irritated
Washington, not only because they were insufficient, but also because
they fell far short of those of the English regulars.
In his penetrating Biography of Washington, Senator Lodge regards his
conduct of the campaign, which ended in the surrender of Great
Meadows, and his narrative as revealing Washington as a "profoundly
silent man." Carlyle, Senator Lodge says, who preached the doctrine of
silence, brushed Washington aside as a "bloodless Cromwell," "failing
utterly to see that he was the most supremely silent of the great men of
action that the world can show." Let us admit the justice of the
strictures on Carlyle, but let us ask whether Washington's letters at this
time spring from a "silent" man. He writes with perfect openness to
Governor Dinwiddie; complains of the military system under which the
troops are paid and the campaign is managed; he repeatedly condemns
the discrimination against the Virginian soldiers in favor of the British
regulars; and he points out that instead of attempting to win the
popularity of the Virginians, they are badly treated. Their rations are
poor, and he reminds the Governor that a continuous diet of salt pork
and water does not inspire enthusiasm in either the stomach or the spirit.
No wonder that the officers talk of resigning. "For my own part I can
answer, I have a constitution hardy enough to encounter and undergo
the most severe trials, and, I flatter myself, resolution to face what any
man durst, as shall be proved when it comes to the test, which I believe
we are on the borders of." In several other passages from letters at this
time, we come upon sentiments which indicate that Washington had at

least a sufficiently high estimation of his own worth, and that his
genius for silence had not yet curbed his tongue. There is the famous
boast attributed to him by Horace Walpole. In a despatch which
Washington sent back to the Governor after the little skirmish in which
Jumonville was killed, Washington said: "'I heard the bullets whistle,
and, believe me, there is something charming in the sound.' On hearing
of this the King said sensibly, 'he would not say so if he had been used
to hear many.'" This reply of George II deserves to be recorded if only
because it is one of the few feeble witticisms credited to the
Hanoverian Kings. Years afterward, Washington declared that he did
not remember ever having referred