On the morning of March 10, 1783, an anonymous letter began circulating through the military camp in Newburgh, New York, where the Continental Army of the thirteen American colonies was stationed—the same army that had defeated Great Britain in the battles of Saratoga and Yorktown.
By that point in the Revolution, the end of the war was about to be signed, making independence official. That is why the document’s contents struck like a bomb among the ranks and forced George Washington to intervene decisively. The text was a veiled threat of a coup. This event is what we now know as the Newburgh Conspiracy.
The Continental Army was not in that small town by chance. Newburgh was the gateway to New York City, which was still in British hands, though peace negotiations were already underway. The troops were on the verge of being discharged, which led to growing unrest in the ranks. Soldiers were owed back pay, and officers had been promised lifelong pensions worth half their salary upon discharge—a measure adopted by the Confederation Congress three years earlier but suspended by order of Robert Morris, Superintendent of Finance.

Morris had postponed the issue due to wartime needs, but now that the end was in sight, the matter remained unresolved, despite debates throughout 1782. The affected soldiers began to suspect they would never receive their money. By the end of the year, a group of them submitted a memorandum to Congress expressing their dissatisfaction and proposing an alternative: receiving a lump sum instead of the pension. At the same time, they warned that exhausting the army’s patience could “have fatal consequences.” The document was significant because it bore the signatures of General Alexander McDougall and Colonels John Brooks and Matthias Ogden, under the leadership of General Henry Knox.
To better understand their position, it is important to note that all of them feared the difficulty of resuming their civilian lives. None of them had pursued a military career by vocation; they had taken up arms after leaving their previous professions at the outbreak of the Revolution. McDougall had been a merchant sailor, Brooks a physician, Ogden a politician, and Knox a bookseller.
However, their high ranks meant they could not simply be ignored. Additionally, Brooks had served directly under Washington, and Knox was even a personal friend of his. In fact, Secretary of War Benjamin Lincoln recognized that the unrest within the army was worsening and urged Congress to reach a resolution.

There was, however, a problem: the treasury was empty, and the only way to raise funds was to implement the so-called impost, a tariff on imports supported by key economic leaders such as James Madison (who would later become the fourth President of the United States), Gouverneur Morris (the architect of the national union), Alexander Hamilton (future founder of the U.S. financial system), and the aforementioned Robert Morris.
To implement this, however, it was necessary to amend the Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union, an agreement approved by the thirteen colonies at the Second Continental Congress in 1777 that functioned as a pre-constitution. Since unanimous approval was required, some states voted against the amendment, partly because they opposed taxation and lifelong pensions.
The situation was growing more complicated, prompting Morris to personally meet with McDougall and his associates in early 1783 to ask them not to escalate tensions further. In exchange, he suggested that they align their demands with those of other state creditors, making it easier to find a joint solution. He also created a committee to handle the army’s demands. Nevertheless, the officers insisted that discontent could escalate into extreme actions. This response led Morris to resign from Congress. At that time, the economic situation was dire—not only were resources scarce, but inflation was high, and no one seemed willing to grant loans without minimum guarantees.

Under such conditions, the pension issue was particularly contentious for many fervent nationalists, who repeatedly voted against various proposed solutions. In February, after yet another failed vote and with the military’s indignation now impossible to conceal, Colonel Brooks tried to persuade his fellow officers to support one of the plans—receiving five years’ worth of pension payments in a lump sum.
However, this only aggravated their frustration. By mid-February, McDougall wrote a letter to Knox suggesting they take a stronger stance, such as refusing to disband until they were paid. He signed the letter with a telling pseudonym: Brutus, a reference to the conspirator and assassin of Julius Caesar.
At first, the proposal did not seem to go beyond a mere protest, though within military ranks, such a stance could be considered mutiny. However, beyond the officers’ concerns, there were also those who blamed George Washington—after all, he was their commander—and they were skillfully encouraged by the aforementioned nationalist politicians to rally around Horatio Lloyd Gates. Gates was one of the most controversial generals of the war, as he had been responsible for the disastrous defeat at the Battle of Camden. He also harbored a clear enmity toward Washington, whom he resented for having taken command during the victorious Battle of Saratoga.

Washington received a suggestion from Alexander Hamilton to take charge of the protests within the army and thus pressure Congress, as it was vox populi that something was being prepared, even more so after the rumor spread on September 13 that peace was about to be signed in Paris.
However, the general replied that his comrades’ grievances were legitimate and refused to engage in a maneuver he considered unworthy of the ideals for which he had fought. This was the same response that Knox gave to nationalist politicians when they urged him to do the same.
Events accelerated in March under the influence of Colonel Walter Stewart, who had served as an aide-de-camp to Horatio Lloyd Gates. Washington convinced him not to retire from military life, as he had intended, and instead to accept the position of Inspector General. He agreed and arrived in Newburgh, where, upon realizing that the general was unwilling to take any forceful measures against Congress, he met with his former superior, Gates, to organize a course of action. To this end, he spread two rumors: first, that Congress had decided to dissolve the army to avoid paying it; second, that the soldiers would refuse to disband until their demands were met. This sparked the flame of conspiracy.

It was then, on March 10, that the letter we mentioned earlier began to circulate. It denounced the troops’ situation and Congress’s apathy, called for an ultimatum to be sent to Congress, and summoned all officers to meet at 11:00 a.m. the next day. What had previously been mere conversations and warnings had now materialized in a written document. The text was titled An Address to the Officers but was unsigned, though later it was determined—by its handwriting—to have been authored by Major John Armstrong Jr., aide to General Gates, with Gates’s approval, of course.
One can imagine Washington’s astonishment upon reading it, but he reacted both firmly and subtly. In his general orders on March 11, he described the meeting as “disorderly” and “irregular,” instead inviting the officers to attend an authorized gathering four days later, to be presided over by the highest-ranking officer present. This implied that Washington himself would not attend, so that no one would feel intimidated.
Before that, on March 12, another anonymous letter appeared, claiming that Washington supported the conspirators’ cause. The speed with which this second missive surfaced convinced him that the matter originated in military circles rather than political ones, as he had initially suspected (in particular, he had suspected Gouverneur Morris).

On March 15, the meeting took place. It was held in a small wooden pavilion popularly known as the Temple, and to everyone’s surprise, Washington arrived after it had begun and asked to speak. Gates left angrily while his rival delivered a brief but emotional speech. He first rebuked those present for attending an anonymous meeting and violating “the rules of decency.” Then, he assured them that he was on their side, labeled the author of the letter as an “insidious enemy,” and urged patience while encouraging trust in Congress. But knowing that he needed to win them over, he shifted to a more patriotic tone:
Let me entreat you, gentlemen, on your part, not to take any measures that, when viewed in the calm light of reason, would lessen your dignity and tarnish the glory you have upheld thus far. Let me implore you, in the name of our common country, that if you value your sacred honor, if you respect the rights of Humanity, and if you consider the military and national character of America, you express your utmost horror and abhorrence toward the man who, under any false pretext, seeks to overthrow the liberties of our country and maliciously attempts to open the floodgates of civil discord, drowning our growing empire in blood (…) And you, by the dignity of your conduct, will give future generations cause to say, when speaking of the glorious example you have set for Humanity: “Until then, the world had never seen the ultimate stage of perfection that human nature is capable of reaching.”
Washington reserved a dramatic moment for the end—whether calculated or spontaneous—when he pulled a paper from his pocket, a letter from a senator, and put on a pair of glasses that few had seen him wear before. Deliberately or not, he made several mistakes while reading and had to apologize: “Gentlemen, you must pardon me. Not only have I grown old in the service of my country, but I am also going blind.” This struck an emotional chord with those present—according to witnesses, some even wept—and not only did it put an end to the potential mutiny, but some of the most rebellious officers, such as Knox and Brooks, pledged their loyalty to him.

A committee was then appointed to draft a declaration agreed upon by all, to present their grievances to Congress while renouncing previous irregular initiatives and reaffirming their confidence in the government. There was no absolute unanimity, but nearly so; only Colonel Timothy Pickering expressed his discontent with what he saw as the hypocrisy of the majority, who condemned the letters they had previously supported.
Washington’s intervention had been masterful, and he reinforced it by sending a representative to Congress to show the anonymous letters and raise awareness among politicians about the danger at hand. The chosen envoy was Colonel Brooks, who was later—apparently without justification—accused of being an informant. We will see more on this shortly.
Meanwhile, everything turned out well. On March 22, Congress voted in favor of implementing a pension plan that the soldiers accepted: a payment equivalent to five years’ salary, issued in government bonds. At the time, these were not very secure, but later they were exchanged at full value, 100 cents per dollar. Of course, it was impossible to satisfy everyone, and Armstrong tried again the following month, organizing a new plot. However, it did not succeed because Washington was informed, and to avoid going too far, even Gates withdrew. Armstrong later complained that someone had betrayed them by alerting “the only man who should have been kept in the dark… the commander-in-chief.” He suspected either Brooks or Walter Stewart.

In reality, the matter was not entirely settled, as soldiers and non-commissioned officers were still owed back pay, leading to some disturbances. On April 19, the official end of the war against Great Britain was announced, along with the disbandment of the army—something the troops, eager to return home, welcomed. Congress granted each soldier three months’ pay, which required the Superintendent of Finance to issue promissory notes worth a total of $800,000. Many soldiers sold these at a discount to obtain cash for their journey home.
However, in Pennsylvania, rumors circulated that they would be discharged without receiving their pay, leading to riots in the city. Since the governor refused to deploy the militia—fearing they would side with the mutineers—Congress had to relocate temporarily to New Jersey for safety. It appears that Armstrong and some of the previous conspirators may have also stirred up this unrest, but it was never proven.
In any case, order was restored, and the Continental Army was officially disbanded in November. Civilian authority thus prevailed over the military, and Washington, believing his role as commander-in-chief was no longer necessary, resigned—emulating Cincinnatus. This only further enhanced his reputation, paving the way for his presidency.
This article was first published on our Spanish Edition on October 17, 2019: La Conspiración de Newburgh: cuando Washington desbarató el golpe de estado de su propio ejército
SOURCES
Eric Metaxas, Siete hombres y el secreto de su grandeza
Peter Knight, Conspiracy theories in American history
Francis P. Sempa, The Newburgh Conspiracy
Thomas Fleming, The perils of peace. America’s struggle for survival after Yorktown
Markus Hünemörder, The Society of Cincinnati. Conspiracy and distrusts in early America
Edward C. Skeen, The Newburgh Conspiracy reconsidered
Wikipedia, Newburgh Conspiracy
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