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“I am now convinced beyond a doubt, that unless some great and capital change suddenly takes place in that line this Army must inevitably be reduced to one or other of these three things. Starve—dissolve—or disperse.”
-George Washington, writing from Valley Forge
President’s Day was last week but let us not forget that George Washington’s birthday – his 289th -- was this week, on the 22nd. Some readers are old enough to recall when Washington’s birthday and Lincoln’s birthday, on February 12, were celebrated separately as holidays. Celebrations for Washington’s birthday began in the 1880s. In 1968, Congress passed the Uniform Monday Holiday Bill, which moved a number of federal holidays to Mondays. The change was designed to schedule certain holidays so that workers had a number of long weekends throughout the year. During debate on the bill, it was proposed that Washington’s birthday be renamed Presidents Day to honor the birthdays of both Washington and Lincoln. This enhanced the status of the latter being that Lincoln’s birthday, though routinely recognized, had not been an official federal holiday.
You may be surprised to know that Washington’s birthday was publicly celebrated long before even the 1880s – in fact, while the man himself was still alive. I’m going to borrow here from the book Valley Forge, written by Bob Drury and yours truly and published in 2018. This excerpt depicts a day when Gen. Washington was with the Continental Army at their winter camp in 1778. By the third week in February, conditions had become quite desperate. (Of the 12,000 men Washington had led into Valley Forge the previous December, 2000 would die of malnutrition, exposure, and disease.) Lifting Washington’s spirits a bit had been the recent arrival of his wife, Martha, but otherwise he was battling despair over the fate of his starving, frozen men.
From Valley Forge:
Sunday, February 22, 1778, dawned dank and chill. It was George Washington’s 46th birthday. There was little to celebrate. One week earlier the Valley Forge commissaries had run out of food, and seven days with no rations had again roiled the prospect of famine in a cantonment that had taken on the trappings of a refugee camp.
Having already issued a General Proclamation to “the virtuous yeomanry of the States of New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia” pleading for cattle in exchange for a “bountiful price,” the Commander in Chief’s General Orders for the date turned toward the sick. They stressed that if rice could not be distributed in the Flying Hospitals, sepawn or “Indian meal” – boiled cornmeal ground from maize – was to be substituted. There followed an unmistakable warning to the infirmary administrators. “As Indian meal is an article that can at all times and under all circumstances be had, no excuse will be admitted for the neglect.”
It was all an angry and frustrated Washington could do. His ire would have surely risen had he been aware that earlier that morning a herd of 150 fat cattle bound for Valley Forge had been captured by a British patrol mere miles from the Schuylkill, a precursor to the 2,000 yards of Continental cloth seized by Tories the next morning. As it was, he did not learn of either misadventure for days.
Even as Washington was dashing off another urgent letter to New York Governor George Clinton pleading for emergency provisions, Martha Washington had arranged to purchase enough supplies from local farmers to constitute a veritable feast in honor of her husband’s birthday. Using his personal account, she had delivered to Potts House a meager quantity of veal and fowl as well as a small supply of vegetables and eggs. On this occasion, no one had to share a cup.
The celebratory post-dinner toasts had barely finished when the Washingtons and their guests heard stirrings on the Gulph Road outside. In the next instant, on a hillside just east of headquarters, the fife and drum corps from Pennsylvania’s Philadelphia regiment burst into an impromptu concert. Though Washington retired without acknowledging the players – perhaps he felt the tribute too reminiscent of the British custom of military bands honoring the King on his birthday – Martha emerged and handed the bandleader 15 shillings.
It was the first public recognition of George Washington’s birthday in the history of the United States.
The melodies had barely ceased to echo off the eastern flank of Mt. Joy when Gen. Nathaniel Greene and his foraging party trudged into camp with several wagonloads of food. Though the Commander in Chief’s mood may have been black enough to match the day, Greene’s return to camp foreshadowed the arrival of another visitor on his way to Valley Forge, a man who would transform the entire tenor of the Continental Army: Baron von Steuben.
Inevitably, I will devote a column to the Falstaff-like baron from Prussia whose military training turned Washington’s ragtag Continentals into a true army. Maybe to celebrate his birthday . . . in September.
Tom Clavin is the bestselling author/co-author of 18 books, including, most recently, “Tombstone: The Earp Brothers, Doc Holliday, and the Vendetta Ride From Hell.” The next collaboration with Bob Drury, “Blood and Treasure: Daniel Boone and the Fight for America’s First Frontier,” will be published in April by St. Martin’s Press. Please go to your local bookstore or to Amazon/bn.com to pre-order . . . and ask for “Valley Forge” while you’re at it.