The Day The Commander Fled New York

by poputonian

In my last post, commenter Mitch pointed to something I hadn’t noticed about Hillary Clinton, that she had given a dynamic speech on the senate floor invoking George Washington in the days following Britain’s 1776 invasion of New York City. Washington had issued orders to his army that in dealing with captives they were not to follow the British example of prisoner abuse:

“Treat them with humanity, and let them have no reason to complain of our copying the brutal example of the British Army in their treatment of our unfortunate brethren.”

Hillary then concluded:

Therefore, George Washington, our commander-in-chief before he was our President, laid down the indelible marker of our nation’s values even as we were struggling as a nation and his courageous act reminds us that America was born out of faith in certain basic principles. In fact, it is these principles that made and still make our country exceptional and allow us to serve as an example. We are not bound together as a nation by bloodlines. We are not bound by ancient history; our nation is a new nation. Above all, we are bound by our values…

OK – some credit is due to Hillary, but with regard to the so called American values, I recall a distinction issued by Riggsveda back in ’04:

A Suggestion For Re-Framing
Enough with “values”! The word is meaningless. The right has so worn out this word that it has become almost synonymous with hypocrisy, and we, the left, should not be scrambling to latch onto it in some misguided effort to convince the world that we have them, too. Live your morals, don’t waste your breath preaching about them. The real word we should be using, and using at every opportunity, is “honor”. It goes beyond just implying that one has ethics. It means one lives by them.

Honor.

I wrote the following (slightly modified) post in response to Riggsveda’s suggestion. Digby linked to it at the time.

Death Over Dishonor
There actually was a culture of honor back in 1776, as can be evidenced by an extraordinary case surrounding the actions of George Washington. September of that year was a time of extreme anxiety for him, a time when he contemplated his own death as a means of avoiding dishonor. You won’t read about this in the biographies or history books, contemporary or otherwise. But if you read his letters, you will see it’s true, that when he foresaw the American cause collapsing, his legacy flashed before his eyes and he contemplated dying, and maybe even attempted to bring it on.

Anticipating a British landing in New York, Washington’s army had built fortifications in strategic places around the city. The aristocrats in the British parliament had won the day and His Majesty’s army was about to launch an 18th century version of shock and awe. On the fourteenth of September, Washington rode his stallion to inspect the various defensive works around the island. Joshua Babcock, a soldier from Rhode Island captured this real image in his journal:

Just after dinner, three frigates and a forty gun ship sailed up the East River under a gentle breeze and kept up an incessant fire, as if they meant to attack the city. Three men, idle spectators, had the misfortune of being killed by one cannonball. One shot struck within six foot of General Washington as he was on horseback riding into the fort.

The next morning hell on earth erupted from five British warships that had anchored in the East River, just off Manhattan at Kip’s Bay, three miles north of the city. A British soldier on one of the ships, The Orpheus, told the story:

It is hardly possible to conceive what a tremendous fire was kept up by those five ships. In the Orpheus alone we fired away five thousand, three hundred and seventy-six pounds of powder in only fifty-nine minutes.

An American officer, Colonel Douglas, wrote about it to his wife: “They very suddenly began as heavy a cannonade than ever came from as many ships, as they had nothing but to fire on us at their pleasure.”

So loud was the pounding that Washington heard it seven miles away at headquarters on Harlem Heights. He later described the scene in a letter to Congress. Washington wrote:

In the morning they began their operations. Three ships of war came up the North River as high as Bloomingdale, and about eleven o’clock those in the East River began a most severe and heavy cannonade to scour the grounds and cover the landing of their troops between Turtle Bay and the City, where breast works had been thrown up to oppose them. As soon as I heard the firing, I rode with all possible dispatch toward the place of landing.

Stop and think about this. Washington hears the sound of New York under attack, so he mounts his horse to ride to the scene. In 2001, on the other hand, George W. Bush hears word that New York is under attack and he reads My Pet Goat for seven minutes, and then, after gathering his thoughts, jumps on Air Force One to fly at warp speed in the opposite direction, as far away from New York as he can get. His first impulse was to run.

The Demons Of Fear And Disorder
In the East River, the British ships had formed a cover for the landing troops, and eyewitness accounts mentioned the heavy smoke hanging over the water. While the firing continued from the ships, eighty-four transport boats carried five thousand British troops to shore where the enemy soldiers walked onto Manhattan unopposed. The American militia, whose only mission was to hinder the British progress coming onto the island, instead abandoned their positions and took to flight. British General William Howe who was in charge of the operation described his success in a report to London:

The fire of the shipping being so well directed and so incessant, the enemy could not remain in their works, and the descent was made without the least opposition.

One American wrote that the cannonade “seemed to infuse a panic through the whole of our troops.” Another described an “incessant fire on our lines” and grapeshot “so hot” that the militia were compelled to retreat. Colonel Douglas again in writing to his wife:

Their boats got under cover of the smoke of the shipping and then struck to the left of my lines in order to cut me off from a retreat. My left wing gave way, which was formed of the militia. I lay myself on the right wing waiting for the boats until Captain Prentice came to me and told me if I meant to save myself to leave the lines, for that was the orders on the left, and that they had left the lines. I then told my men to make the best of their way as I found I had but about ten left with me. They soon moved out and I then made the best of my way out. We then had a mile to retreat through as hot a fire as could well be made, but they mostly overshot us. The brigade was then in such a scattered posture that I could not collect them and I found the whole army on a retreat. The regulars came up in the rear and gave me several platoons at a time when I had none of my men with me. I was so beat that they would have had me a prisoner had not I found an officer that was obliged to leave his horse because he could not get him over a fence.

Private Martin recalled that his company “kept the lines until they were almost upon us, when our officers, seeing we could make no resistance, and that we must soon be exposed to the rake of their guns, gave the order to leave the lines.” He then described the fleeing militia: “In retreating we had to cross a level clear spot of ground, forty or fifty rods [about 750 feet], exposed to the whole of the enemy’s fire.” Martin next noticed a group of American soldiers “on the main road leading to Kings Bridge. They were fired upon by a party of British from a cornfield, and all was immediately in confusion again. I believe the enemy’s party was small; but our people were all militia, and the demons of fear and disorder seemed to take possession of all and everything that day. When I came to the spot where the militia was fired upon, the ground was literally covered with arms, knapsacks, staves, coats, hats, and old oil flasks.”

I suspect it was the demons of fear and disorder that caused Bush to run from the attack on the World Trade Center in September of 2001. He was probably thinking, “What if they come after me?”

He Sought Death Rather Than Life
In a letter to Congress, Washington described the chaos as he reached Kip’s Bay:

To my great surprise and mortification, I found the troops that had been posted in the lines retreating, flying in every direction and in the greatest confusion, notwithstanding the exertions of their Generals to form them. I used every means in my power to rally and get them into some order but my attempts were fruitless and ineffectual.

Testimony from a later court martial revealed a few more details. A Brigadier General “saw Generals Washington, Putnam, and Mifflin at the top of the hill eastward, and rode up to them.” Washington directed him “to keep his brigade in order and march on into the cross road.” Washington next ordered the men to “take to the walls” directing them to cover. “Immediately from the front to the rear of the brigade, the men ran to the walls in a confused and most disordered manner.” Another soldier testified the Brigadier tried “to form some order, but the men were so dispersed he found it impossible.”

Meanwhile, the British continued landing their troops and Washington determined it best to make an orderly withdrawal from the area. The testimony indicated Washington’s order to withdraw and recounted a second panic:

“[General Washington] gave order to form the brigade as soon as could be done, and march on to Harlem Heights. When they had proceeded about a mile or two, a sudden panic seized the rear of the brigade; they ran into the fields out of the road.”

This second panic is the one Martin referred to above. Washington also reported it to Congress:

On the appearance of a small party of the Enemy, not more than sixty or seventy, their disorder increased and they ran away in the greatest confusion without firing a single shot.

The journals and letters of several soldiers picked up the scene. Smallwood wrote:

Sixty Light Infantry, upon the first fire, put to flight two brigades of the Connecticut troops, wretches who, however strange it may appear, from the Brigadier-General down to the private sentinel, were caned and whipped by the Generals Washington, Putnam, and Mifflin. But even this indignity had no weight. They could not be brought to stand one shot.

George Weedon wrote that Washington “was so exhausted” by his efforts to rally the men “that he struck several officers in their flight and dashed his hat on the ground. It was with difficulty his friends could get him to quit the field, so great was his emotions.”

General Heath said the poor showing of the troops so exasperated Washington that he “threw his hat on the ground, and exclaimed, are these the men with which I am to defend America?”

Historian Andrew Ward, borrowing a quote from the work of Washington Irving described the fleeing soldiers and the remaining solitary figure of Washington:

And they left Washington almost alone within eighty yards of the oncoming enemy. Blinded with rage — or with despair — he sat his horse, taking no heed of his imminent danger. He would have been shot or captured had not an aide-de-camp seized his bridle and “absolutely hurried him away.”

One of Washington’s closest confidantes and a trusted subordinate, General Nathanael Greene, writing to the Governor of his home state of Rhode Island told of the closing scene. Note the words Greene uses which go to Washington’s state of mind.

We made a miserable retreat from New York owing to the disorderly conduct of the Militia, who ran at the appearance of the Enemy’s advance guard. This was General Fellow’s Brigade. They struck a panic into the troops in the rear, and Fellows and Parsons whole Brigade ran away from about fifty men and left his Excellency on the ground within eighty yards of the Enemy, so vexed at the conduct of the troops that he sought death rather than life.

He sought death rather than life.
No one will ever know for sure if Washington in that moment was hoping he would be struck down by enemy fire, but he did pull his horse to a dead stop within range of enemy guns. And though he could have merely intended to demonstrate battlefield courage to the fleeing troops, he knew at a minimum he was putting his life gravely at risk. The letters Washington would write in the days following leave little doubt what was on his mind, and leave no doubt that dying with honor was more important to him than living in dishonor. Washington imagined that his reputation would evaporate as quickly as his army had. To his way of thinking, when the dust settled, and the American cause had been lost, no one would understand that he really never had a chance.

Two letters in particular that Washington wrote after the panic at Kip’s Bay, one to his brother John and another to his cousin Lund, are revealing. The letters parallel each other repeating many of the same details, and track almost identically with what he had written to Congress, with this important exception: each letter revealed a hidden aspect of Washington’s state of mind. In the letters, Washington did something he had never done before Congress; he vented his personal emotions revealing intimate details about what he was thinking at the time. To his brother John he wrote:

Immediately on hearing the cannonade I rode with all possible expedition towards the place of the landing, where breast works had been thrown up to secure our men, and found the troops that had been posted there, and those ordered to their support, to my great surprise and mortification, running away in the most shameful and disgraceful manner, notwithstanding the exertions of their Generals to form them. I used every possible effort to rally them, but to no purpose, and on the appearance of a small part of the Enemy, not more than sixty or seventy, they ran off without firing a single gun. Many of our heavy cannon would inevitably have fallen into the Enemy’s hands, but this scandalous conduct occasioned a loss of many tents, baggage, and camp equipage, which would have been easily secured had they made the least opposition.
…
The dependence which the Congress has placed upon the militia has already greatly injured, and I fear will totally ruin our cause. Being subject to no control, they introduce disorder among the troops you have attempted to discipline, while the change in their living brings on sickness. This makes them impatient to get home, which spreads universally and introduces abominable desertions. Our numbers by sickness and desertion are greatly reduced. We have not more than 12 or 14,000 men fit for duty, while the Enemy, who it is said are very healthy, have near 25,000.

He closes the letter with this emotion:

In short, it is not in the power of words to describe the task I have to do. £50,000 should not induce me again to undergo what I have done.

To his Cousin Lund he wrote:

Your letter of the 18th now lies before me. The amazement which you seem to be in at the unaccountable measures which have been adopted by Congress would be a good deal increased if I had time to unfold the whole system of their management since twelve months. I do not know how to account for the unfortunate steps which have been taken but from that fatal idea of conciliation which prevailed so long. [He means reconciliation with the British.] Fatal, I call it, because from my soul I wish it may prove so, though my fears lead me to think there is too much danger in it. This time last year I pointed out the evil consequences of short enlistments, the expenses of militia, and the little dependence that was placed in them. I assured [Congress] that the longer they delayed raising a standing army, the more difficult and chargeable would they find it to get one, and that at the same time, the militia would answer no valuable purpose. The frequent calling them in would be attended with an expense that they could have no conception of. Whether, as I have said before, the unfortunate hope of reconciliation was the cause, or the fear of a standing army prevailed, I will not undertake to say. But the policy was to engage men for twelve months only, the consequence of which, you have had great bodies of militia in pay that never were in camp; you have had immense quantities of provisions drawn by men that never rendered you one hour’s service (at least usefully), and this in the most profuse and wasteful way. Your stores have been expended, and every kind of military discipline destroyed by them; your numbers fluctuating, uncertain, and forever far short of report, [and] at no one time, I believe, equal to twenty thousand men fit for duty. At present our numbers fit for duty amount to 14,759, besides 3,427 on command, and the enemy [is] within stone’s throw of us. It is true a body of militia are again ordered out, but they come without any conveniences and soon return [home].

Next, I think we see the bottom of Washington’s heart. This is where he reveals what he thinks of honor and character:

In short, such is my situation that if I were to wish the bitterest curse to an enemy on this side of the grave, I should put him in my stead, with my feelings. And yet I do not know what plan of conduct to pursue. I see the impossibility of serving with reputation, or doing any essential service to the cause by continuing in command, and yet I am told that if I quit the command, inevitable ruin will follow. In confidence I tell you that I never was in such an unhappy, divided state since I was born. To lose all comfort and happiness on the one hand, whilst I am fully persuaded that under such a system of management as has been adopted, I cannot have the least chance for reputation, nor those allowances made which the nature of the case requires. And to be told, on the other, that if I leave the service all will be lost, is distressing. At the same time, I am bereft of every peaceful moment.

But I will be done with the subject, with the precaution to you that it is not a fit one to be publicly known or discussed. If I fall, it may not be amiss that these circumstances be known, and a declaration made in credit to the justice of my character. And if the men will stand by me (which I despair of), I am resolved not to be forced from this ground while I have life.

A few days will determine the point if the enemy should not change their plan of operations; for they certainly will not — I am sure they ought not — to waste the season that is now fast advancing and must be precious to them. I thought to have given you a more explicit account of my situation, expectation, and feelings, but I have not time. I am worried to death all day with a variety of perplexing circumstances — disturbed at the conduct of the militia, whose behavior and want of discipline has done great injury to the other troops, who never had officers, except in a few instances, worth the bread they eat. My time, in short, is so much engrossed that I have not leisure for corresponding, unless it is on mere matters of public business.

In the letter to his brother, Washington showed that he still maintained a glimmer of hope:

I should hope the enemy would meet with a defeat, if our troops would behave with tolerable bravery. But experience, to my extreme affliction, has convinced me that this is to be wished for rather than expected. However, I trust that there are many who will act like men, and show themselves worthy of the blessings of freedom.

New York was gone now, the rebels having lost it back to the British without any measurable fight, just as they had lost Long Island in late August. A minister who was loyal to the British wrote in his journal after Long Island, and again after Kip’s Bay, the latter entry marking a momentary pause, just as the power changed over.

Friday August 30th. In the morning, unexpectedly and to the surprise of the city, it was found that all had abandoned Long Island, when many had thought to surround the King’s troops and make them prisoners with little trouble. The language was now otherwise; it was a surprising change, the merry tones on drums and fifes had ceased, and they were hardly heard for a couple of days. It seemed a general damp had spread; and the sight of the scattered [soldiers] up and down the streets was indeed moving. Many looked sickly, emaciated, cast down; the wet clothes, tents, and other things, were lying about before the houses and in the streets today; in general everything seemed to be in confusion. Many, as it is reported for certain, went away to their respective homes. The loss in killed and wounded and taken has been great, and more so than it ever will be known. Several were drowned and lost their lives in passing a creek to save themselves. The Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and Maryland people lost the most.
…
Sunday September 15th. There was a good deal of commotion in the town; the Continental stores were broke open and people carried off the provisions; the boats crossed to Powlus Hook backward and forward yet till toward evening; some people going away and others coming in; but then the ferry boats, withdrew, and the passage was stopped. Some of the king’s officers from the ships came on shore, and were joyfully received by some of the inhabitants. The King’s flag was put up again in the fort, and the Rebels’ taken down.

Washington quickly composed himself, but events did not let up. Late at night on the twentieth, a mysterious and spectacular fire broke out in New York and burned uncontrollably until midday on the twenty-first. Nearly a quarter of the city was destroyed. No one knows how the fire started, but the British had no reason to burn New York, which was soon to become their winter headquarters. History has cast the fire as accidental, but Washington had asked Congress whether he should destroy the city in order to deprive the British of a place to winter. After discussing the matter, Congress decided New York should be preserved. While Washington undoubtedly played no part in its destruction, the military advantage of burning the city was easily known outside his own circle, which meant there were many who could have been responsible. The eyewitness descriptions of the fire sound eerily familiar to what we saw on television in September of 2001:

Several women and children perished in the fire. Their shrieks, joined to the roaring of the flames, the crush of falling houses, and the widespread ruin, which everywhere appeared, formed a scene of horror great beyond description, which was still heightened by the darkness of the night.

The fire commenced in a small wooden house, on the wharf, near Whitehall slip, which was then occupied by a number of men and women of a bad character. The fire began late at night. There being but a few inhabitants in the city, in a short time it raged tremendously. It burned all the houses on the east side of Whitehall slip, and the west side of Broad Street to Beaver Street. The wind was then southwesterly. About two o’clock in the morning the wind veered to the southeast; this carried the flames of the fire to the northwestward, and burned both sides of Beaver street to the east side of Broadway, then crossed Broadway to Beaver lane, and burning all the houses on both sides of Broadway, with some few houses in New Street to Rector Street, and to John Harrison’s three-story brick house, which stopped the fire on the east side of Broadway; from there it continued burning all the houses in Lumber Street, and those in the rear of the houses on the west side of Broadway to St. Paul’s church, then continued burning the houses on both sides of Partition Street, and all the houses in the rear (again) of the west side of Broadway to the North River. The fire did not stop until it got into Mortkile Street, now Barclay Street. The college yard and the vacant ground in the rear of the same put an end to this awful and tremendous fire.

Trinity church being burned was occasioned by the flakes of fire that fell on the south side of the roof. The steeple, which was one hundred and forty feet high, the upper part wood, and placed on an elevated situation, resembled a vast pyramid of fire, exhibiting a most grand and awful spectacle. The southerly wind fanned those flakes of fire in a short time to an amazing blaze, and it soon became out of human power to extinguish the same; the roof of this noble edifice being so steep that no person could go on it. St. Paul’s church was in the like perilous situation. The roof being flat, with a balustrade on the eaves, a number of citizens went on the same, and extinguished the flakes of fire as they fell on the roof. Thus happily was this beautiful church saved from the destruction of this dreadful fire, which threatened the ruin thereof and that of the whole city. The Lutheran church being contiguous to the houses adjoining the same fire, it was impossible to save it from destruction. This fire was so furious and violently hot, that no person could go near it.

The next day, in another part of the city, a handsome twenty-four year old Yale graduate, blue eyes and flaxen hair, had spoken his last words: “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”General Howe, had ordered Nathan Hale to be hanged, accusing him of spying for Washington, a charge Hale would not deny. The British left his corpse twisting in the wind for days, and hung an effigy next to him, a carving of an American soldier stolen from a nearby yard. Across the effigy in bold letters, British soldiers had painted the name “George Washington.”

Actuated By Principles of Honor
On the night of the twenty-fourth, Washington retired to the Georgian mansion owned by a loyalist sympathizer who had fled to London at the outbreak of the war. Washington had made the home his headquarters earlier in the month, and would begin the evening by reading several letters requiring his attention. Next he would write several letters, just as he did every night. (What time does time does the modern, incurious, and values-based George W. go to bed? Nine o’clock?) On this night, Washington first wrote the General Orders for his officers, about five hundred words. He then wrote a short letter, maybe two or three hundred words, to John Hancock, the President of Congress. He wrote a second letter to Congress, this one approaching three thousand words. Although he started before midnight, he did not finish this last letter until the early morning hours of the 25th. As I read this and consider Washington’s graceful prose written against a backdrop of defending against a foreign invasion, and as I consider his real dedication to the cause of freedom, and the enormous and constant pressure he was under, I laugh when I think that George Bush probably couldn’t even read the letter, let alone write it. Here is a smattering of what Washington wrote that night. He opened to Hancock with a political touch that should precede a warning as dire the one he was about to give.

Sir: From the hours allotted to sleep, I will borrow a few moments to convey my thoughts on sundry important matters to Congress. I shall offer them with that sincerity which ought to characterize a man of candor; and with the freedom which may be used in giving useful information, without incurring the imputation of presumption.

We are now, as it were, upon the eve of another dissolution of our Army. The remembrance of the difficulties which happened upon that occasion last year, and the consequences which might have followed had advantages been taken by the Enemy, added to the present temper and situation of the troops, reflect but a very gloomy prospect upon the appearance of things now, and satisfy me, beyond the possibility of doubt, that unless some speedy and effectual measures are adopted by Congress, our cause will be lost.

It is in vain to expect that any (or more than a trifling) part of this Army will again engage in the service on the encouragement offered by Congress. When men find that their townsmen and companions are receiving 20, 30, and more dollars, for a few months service it cannot be expected without using compulsion, and to force them into the service would answer no valuable purpose. When men are irritated and the passions inflamed, they fly hastily and cheerfully to arms. But after the first emotions are over, to expect among such people as compose the bulk of an army, that they are influenced by any other principles than those of self-interest, is to look for what never did, and I fear never will happen. The Congress will deceive themselves, therefore, if they expect it.

A soldier reasoned with upon the goodness of the cause he is engaged in, and the inestimable rights he is contending for, hears you with patience, and acknowledges the truth of your observations, but adds, that it is of no more importance to him than others. The officer makes you the same reply, with this further remark, that his pay will not support him, and he cannot ruin himself and family to serve his country, when every member of the community is equally interested and benefited by his labors. The few therefore, who act upon principles of disinterestedness, are, comparatively speaking, no more than a drop in the ocean. It becomes evidently clear then, that as this contest is not likely to be the work of a day; as the war must be carried on systematically, and to do it, you must have good officers, there are, in my judgment, no other possible means to obtain them but by establishing your Army upon a permanent footing, and giving your officers good pay. This will induce men of character to engage, and till the bulk of your officers are composed of such persons as are actuated by principles of honor, and a spirit of enterprise, you have little to expect from them. Besides, something is due to the man who puts his life in his hand, hazards his health, and forsakes the sweets of domestic enjoyment.
…
If I was called upon to declare upon oath whether the militia have been most serviceable or hurtful upon the whole, I should subscribe to the latter. I do not mean by this, however, to arraign the conduct of Congress. In doing so, I should equally condemn my own measures, if not my judgment. But experience, which is the best criterion to work by, so fully, clearly, and decisively reprobates the practice of trusting to militia, that no man who regards order, regularity, and economy; or who has any regard for his own honor, character, or peace of mind, will risk them upon this issue. The jealousies of a standing Army, and the evils to be apprehended from one, are remote, and in my judgment, situated and circumstanced as we are, not at all to be dreaded. But the consequence of wanting one, according to my ideas, formed from the present view of things, is certain and inevitable ruin.

Personal Sacrifice
It’s well known that Washington loved to dance. He regularly held parties at Mount Vernon, always comfortable with a large group of his friends. They would gather frequently and dance the night away. This passage is from a book called General Washington’s Christmas Farewell:

After more than eight years of war, Washington was impatient to return home. The unpretentious and unfinished country house, its wood panels shaped and covered with a sandy white paint to resemble wood stone, was still without a completed cupola and weather vane. Eight square wooden pillars already fronted the portico overlooking the broad waters of what was then known as the Potowmack. Mount Vernon and the postwar improvements he wanted to make to it had rarely been out of Washington’s thoughts since the shooting had stopped. He had lived on the property, purchased by his father as Little Huntington Creek Plantation in 1735, since he was three years old. At nineteen, in 1751, he had inherited it from his half-brother Lawrence.

Since May 4, 1775, Washington had been back only once, for a few days in October 1781, during the culminating Yorktown campaign. Nearly fifty-two, his once reddish hair was graying above a Roman profile weather beaten by early exposure as a surveyor, planter, and frontier soldier and etched by smallpox at nineteen. He felt physically and emotionally drained. In the limbo between war and peace, his weight, on a solid six-foot-four frame, had burgeoned to 209 pounds. To his worshipers, military and civilian, to whom he symbolized the new United States, Washington embodied rocklike perseverance. He appeared even more majestic and larger than life late in 1783 than in his lean and anxious early years directing what seemed an unwinnable war.

Things only got worse for Washington and his army after they withdrew from New York. As Hillary pointed out, the retreat continued north and then across the Hudson River into New Jersey and eventually Pennsylvania.

Hillary’s speech on the senate floor provided a testimonial to Washington’s honorable action of denouncing prisoner abuse. I applaud her for making it. But a testimonial about values is different than acting with honor. Washington acted with honor, Hillary spoke about values. Republicans talk about values.

I agree with Riggsveda that above all else we need more politicians (and Americans) who act with honor.