Nevertheless, Wilkinson’s state of mind might have been guessed from the manner in which Power was treated. There was no invitation to enjoy the freedom of “ingress and egress” to American forts. The general was inspecting the northerly fort of Mackinac when Power arrived in Detroit, but he immediately ordered the notorious Spanish courier confined to barracks until his return.
When they did meet in September, Power noted that “General Wilkinson received me very coolly.” Undeterred, Power outlined an unlikely plot that began with Wilkinson seizing Fort Massac and calling for Kentucky’s independence, at which point Spain and France would send him the artillery, weapons, and money needed to establish the new independent republic of the Mississippi. This was the ultimate goal of the Spanish Conspiracy, which had, as Power rightly stated, always been Wilkinson’s idea. If he did not like the scenario, he might at least suggest some alternative. Instead, Power reported, the general summarily dismissed Carondelet’s thinking as deluded—“chimerical” was his actual word—because the Treaty of San Lorenzo had given the western settlers all that they required.
In his account of their conversation, Power quoted him as saying, “The fermentation which had existed for four years was now subsided, &c.; that Spain had nothing else to do but to give complete effect to the treaty which had overturned all his plans, and rendered useless the work of more than ten years. And . . . he had, as he said, destroyed his cyphers and all his correspondence with our government, and that his duty and his honour did not permit him to continue it.”
Quite clearly, as commander in chief Wilkinson had decided to give up his double life. He wanted no more communication with New Orleans, Power said, because he feared that “the secret of his connections with our government had been divulged through want of prudence on our part.” Having brought his career as a spy to a close, the general ordered Power to be escorted off U.S. territory by Captain Shaumburgh and taken to the nearest Spanish fort.
The messenger resented not just this offhand treatment, but that he had been so totally misled. Before their meeting, he had assured Carondelet of Wilkinson’s adherence to the conspiracy—“the ambitions and politics of this General are a certain guaranty to me that he will support our plans”—and having spoken to Sebastian, Power had been convinced that “the principal characters of the place are united to us by ambition and interest.” Although Power attempted a feeble defense, suggesting that “the influence of General Wilkinson in Kentucky has become very limited,” it was undeniable that without his support the conspiracy was over. “If [my mission] has not had a more happy issue,” Power pleaded, “it ought not be attributed in any manner to indiscretion, or other deficiency, on my part, since it is evident that it sprung from a cause which no human penetration could foresee.”
In fact the cause could easily have been predicted. Self-interest guided everything Wilkinson did. Once he had what he wanted, nothing would be allowed to jeopardize his enjoyment of it. Promotion had deprived Spain of its most useful spy.
Wilkinson’s altered outlook was apparent in other, less obvious ways. In freezing winter temperatures, the new commander in chief had immediately undertaken a whirlwind tour of inspection, west to Fort Wayne and south to Fort Washington, then north along the line of forts that Wayne and he had built. The tide of settlement promoted by Wayne’s Greeneville Treaty had already moved farther west, and Wilkinson recommended closing all these posts and sending their garrisons south to strengthen the force being assembled in Fort Washington to take over the Spanish forts. Its command he assigned to one of his favorite young officers, Captain Isaac Guion. In the early summer of 1797, when Power had hoped to meet him, the general hurried north again, to Detroit, then beyond to the farthermost post of all, Michilimackinac, usually contracted to Mackinac, on the northern shores of the Michigan peninsula. In this respect at least, James Wilkinson showed his desire to be a model commander in chief.
IN MARCH 1797, at the time of Wilkinson’s appointment, the secretary of war, James McHenry, gave direction to Wilkinson’s galvanizing energy. In a lengthy memorandum, akin to that prepared by Anthony Wayne a year earlier, McHenry laid down the priorities that the general was to observe— saving money, maintaining discipline, and keeping peace with the Indians. One typical passage on economizing required him to order garrison commanders to have damaged weapons repaired within the fort, but in doing so “it is not deemed expedient to incur any expense.” But the officebound, regulation- minded McHenry had no conception of what it took to maintain order and morale among young soldiers marooned for months within their wooden stockades. Even Thomas Power had a better idea after ten days confined to the barracks in Fort Detroit.
“There is strict discipline observed in the army,” he told Carondelet. “The soldiers are almost all youths from 16 to 26 years of age; they go through some military [drill] with sufficient precision. With respect to the officers, from the lowest to the highest (excepting very few) they are deficient of those qualities which adorn a good officer except fierceness, and are overwhelmed in ignorance and in the most base vice.”
Spanish officers cultivated the manners of the higher classes because the military hierarchy faithfully reflected the gradations of an aristocratic society. No such pattern existed for U.S. officers— Colonel John Hamtramck was the son of a Quebec barber and wigmaker, for example, and the family of Colonel David Strong were Connecticut farmers. No military academy existed to give officers a grounding in their trade— training came from being attached to a company as a cadet; and there was little continuity of service to build a military tradition because fluctuations in the size of the army forced so many officers to leave the service—more than 60 percent of those commissioned in the 1780s had gone by 1795. Finally, American officers had to cope with the particular challenge of maintaining a command structure in an increasingly egalitarian society. This contradiction fascinated British observers.
“In fact the American peasant, though a brave and hardy man, and expert in the use of the rifle and musket, is naturally the worst soldier in the world as regards obedience and discipline,” a British officer, Charles Murray, commented loftily in the 1790s. “He has been brought up to believe himself equal to the officers who command him, and never forgets that when his three years of enlistment are over, he will again be their equal.”
An officer’s right to command rested ultimately on the Articles of War, which required obedience to the orders of a superior, but in most situations the critical factor was an individual’s leadership ability. The fierceness that Power noted, or at least a capacity to impose one’s will, was a necessity. In battle, as Ebenezer Denny had dramatically described at St. Clair’s rout, and Wayne’s Legion proved at Fallen Timbers, ferocious officers could rely on their men to follow their lead. But in peacetime, when about two thousand men were scattered between forty-one military outposts— an average of roughly fifty men at each—other qualities were needed.
In a well-run garrison, much of what Denny himself called “the noise and bustle of military life” came from officers and noncommissioned officers enforcing an endless schedule of roll calls and fatigue duties at the tops of their voices backed by the beat of a drum. Desertion rates rising to 20 percent annually demonstrated how difficult it was to maintain discipline and a viable army. Nevertheless, more than half of those soldiers who completed their three- year enlistment signed on again, suggesting that their officers did get it mostly right.