The Newburg Addresses (1783)

BY MAJOR JOHN ARMSTRONG

No. I.

A MEETING of the general and field officers is requested at the Public Building on Tuesday next, 11 o’clock.—A commissioned officer from each company is expected, and a delegate from the medical staff. The object of this convention is to consider the late letter from our representatives in Philadelphia, and what measure (if any) should be adopted to obtain that redress of grievances which they seem to have solicited in vain.

No. II.TO THE OFFICERS OF THE ARMY.

Gentlemen,

A FELLOW-SOLDIER, whose interest and affections bind him strongly to you, whose past sufferings have been as great, and whose future fortunes may be as desperate as yours—would beg leave to address you.

Age has its claims, and rank is not without its pretensions to advise; but though unsupported by both, he flatters himself, that the plain language of sincerity and experience, will neither be unheard nor unregarded.

Like many of you, he loved private life, and left it with regret.—He left it, determined to retire from the field, with the necessity that called him to it, and not till then,—not till the enemies of his country, the slaves of power and the hirelings of injustice, were compelled to abandon their schemes, and acknowledge America as terrible in arms, as she had been humble in remonstrance.—With this object in view, he has tong shared in your toils, and mingled in your dangers,—he has felt the cold hand of poverty, without a murmur, and has seen the insolence of wealth, without a sigh.—But too much under the direction of his wishes, and sometimes weak enough to mistake desire for opinion, he has till lately, very lately, believed in the justice of his country.—He hoped that as the clouds of adversity scattered, and as the sunshine of peace and better fortune broke W upon us,—the coldness and severity of government would relax, and that more than justice, that gratitude, would blaze forth upon those hands, which had upheld her, in the darkest stages of her passage, from impending servitude, to acknowledged independence.

But faith has its limits as well as temper, and there are points, beyond which neither can be stretched without sinking into cowardice, or plunging into credulity.—This, my friends, I conceive to be your situation—hurried to the very verge of both, another step would ruin you for ever.—To be tame and unprovoked, when injuries press hard upon you, is more than weakness, but to look up for kinder usage, without one manly effort of your own, would fix your character, and shew the world, how richly you deserve those chains you broke. To guard against this evil, let us take a view of the ground upon which we now stand, and from thence carry our thoughts forward, for a moment, into the unexplored field of expedient.

After a pursuit of seven long years, the object for which we set out, is at length brought within our reach.—Yes, my friends, that suffering courage of yours, was active once; it has conducted the United States of America, through a doubtful and a bloody war—it has placed her in the chair of independency, and peace returns again to bless — Whom? A country willing to redress your wrongs, cherish your worth, and reward your services?—A country courting your return to private life, with tears of gratitude and smiles of admiration?—longing to divide with you that independency which your gallantry has given, and those riches which your wounds have preserved?—Is this the case? Or is it rather a country that tramples upon your rights, disdains your cries, and insults your distresses?—have you not more than once suggested your wishes, and made known your wants to Congress (wants and wishes which gratitude and policy should have anticipated, rather than evaded;) and have you not lately, in the meek language of entreating memorials, begged from their justice what you could no longer expect from their favour? How have you been answered?—let the letter which you are called to consider to-morrow, make reply!—If this then be your treatment, while the swords you wear are necessary for the defence of America, what have you to expect from peace; when your voice shall sink, and your strength dissipate by division when those very swords, the instruments and companions of your glory, shall be taken from your sides, and no remaining mark of military distinction left, but your wants, infirmities and scars.—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 honor? — If yon [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 spirits should revolt at this, if you have sense enough to discover, and spirit sufficient to oppose tyranny, under whatever garb it may assume—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 to your situation, and redress yourselves. If the present moment be lost, every future effort is in vain—your threats then, will be as empty, as your entreaties now. I would advise you therefore, to come to some final opinion, of what you can bear and what you will suffer. If your determination be in any proportion to your wrongs—carry your appeal from the justice to the fears of government. Change the milk and water stile of your last memorial.—Assume a bolder tone, decent, but lively, spirited and determined;—and suspect the man who would advise to more moderation, and longer forbearance. Let two or three men, who can feel as well as write, be appointed to draw up your last remonstrance (for I would no longer give it the sueing, soft, unsuccessful epithet of memorial.) Let it represent in language, that will neither dishonour you by its rudeness, nor betray you by its fears—what has been promised by Congress, and what has been performed;—how long and how patiently you have suffered—how little you have asked, and how much of that little has been denied.—Tell them, that though you were the first, and would wish to be last, to encounter danger—though despair itself can never drive you into dishonor, it may drive you from the field.—That the wound often irritated and never healed, may at length become incurable,—and that the slightest mark of indignity from Congress now, must operate like the grave, and part you forever. That in any political event, the army has its alternative.—If peace, that nothing shall separate you from your arms but death.—If war, that courting the auspices, and inviting the direction of your illustrious leader, you will retire to some yet unsettled country, smile in your turn, "and mock when their fear cometh on."—But let it represent also, that should they comply with the request of your late memorial, it would make you more happy, and them more respectable.—That while the war should continue, you would follow their standard in the field,—and that when it came to an end, you would withdraw into the shade of private life, and give the world another subject of wonder and applause—an army victorious over its enemies—victorious over itself.

(Fishkill, 1783), 16–19.