George Washington Biography

Size may not be everything, but George Washington's monument in the capital city named after him simply towers over everyone else's. Several other presidents—Lincoln, Jefferson, Roosevelt—share the honor of memorialization on the National Mall, but none surpass George Washington's in scale or majesty. Washington's great obelisk is still the biggest in DC, and for a time it was even the biggest in the world. It quite literally overshadows the competition.blank" rel="nofollow">Alexander Hamilton, who was so sure that Washington was the most important, might have been a more likely candidate for indispensability. Hamilton was brilliant—much more so than Washington. Indeed, Washington himself thought so: he had Hamilton draft his political speeches and kept him close by his side throughout his political life. So what was it about GW? How did he come to be the indispensable one?

He certainly didn't start off seeming indispensible. George Washington was born on 22 February 1732, the third son of members of Virginia's lower gentry. His father, Augustine Washington, was a prosperous planter who already had a pair of sons when he married George's mother. Mary Ball, Augustine's second wife, bore him six more children, of whom George was the first. George was an almost forgettable addition to a large and growing family.

As a middle son in a colonial Virginian household, George could not count on much support. His father was wealthy enough to provide his eldest sons with a "proper" education abroad, but his death in 1743 robbed George of this opportunity. (It also robbed young George of the "opportunity" to cut down his father's favorite cherry tree, then admit it because he "could not tell a lie." That famous story never happened; it's a bit of pure mythology, invented by an over-imaginative biographer shortly after Washington's death.)As was typical for Virginia families at that time, most of Augustine's inheritance went to Lawrence, his eldest son. Augustine Jr., the second son, was next in line. George's mother got what was left to support herself and raise the remaining children. George got nothing. Thus George became keenly aware that he would not inherit wealth or status; if he wanted recognition, he was going to have to earn it himself.

After Augustine's death, Lawrence became a surrogate father to George. Lawrence had followed in his father's footsteps as a respectable Virginia gentleman, with all the accompanying aristocratic pretensions. He married into the Fairfax family, an elite clan with ties to the English nobility, and improved his own social standing by cultivating a large estate at Mount Vernon and serving in the Virginia militia. Lawrence encouraged George to consider a career in the military, too, as a way to raise himself up. George hardly needed the encouragement; he idolized his brother even more than his father, and dreamed of making Lawrence's lifestyle his own.blank" rel="nofollow">John Adams would later joke that Washington was elected to chair every deliberative body he joined because he was always the tallest man in the room.) His stature alone suggested he'd go far if opportunities for promotion presented themselves. His connection to the Fairfaxes and other Virginia gentry certainly wouldn't hurt him. And then, of course, there was the matter of his qualifications. Washington had a good knowledge of the Virginia backcountry from his work as a surveyor, and he was already accustomed to the harsh conditions of independent life on the frontier. He was becoming a superb horseman. And he had drive.

For Washington, the military was pure opportunity. Young and unmarried, he didn't feel like he had much to lose. He would be risking only his life in a war—no small thing, but, as the untimely deaths of his father and brother had taught him, not something he could really count on holding onto anyway. Meanwhile, in exchange for putting his already-at-risk life on the line, he would earn a chance to gain major social prestige. It was, as far as Washington was concerned, more than a fair deal.

He soon had his war. In fact, he basically started it. In 1754, the Virginia government had raised a statewide force to counterbalance the increasing French military presence in the interior. On the strength of his connections and experience, Washington had been appointed the unit's second-in-command, at the rank of lieutenant colonel. The force was sent into the Ohio Country with orders to warn the French to abandon their forts and keep out of the region. On 28 May, not far from the site of modern-day Pittsburgh, Washington's forces—a crew of 40 Virginians and a dozen allied Iroquois warriors—encountered a small French scouting force.

The battle lasted only fifteen minutes. Suffering only one casualty of their own, Washington's men killed a dozen Frenchmen and captured over twenty more. Victory quickly turned to nightmare, however; in the aftermath of the battle, Tanaghrisson—the leader of the Iroquois in Washington's contingent—led a massacre of the surrendered French prisoners. (Tanaghrisson had his own reasons for seeking to deliberately provoke war between the French, British, and Iroquois.) The first unarmed Frenchman killed was a noble officer, Joseph Coulon de Jumonville, who was murdered instantly via a tomahawk blow to the head. This killing of an unarmed prisoner of war was a war crime—a war crime for which George Washington, as commanding officer, technically bore responsibility.

As Tanaghrisson had hoped, the revelation of Jumonville's death caused an international scandal, quickly igniting a globe-spanning military conflict known in Europe as the Seven Years' War and in North America as the French and Indian War.

Washington's service in the war would form the cornerstone of his early military reputation. Not that Washington was an especially great commander (the battle he became best known for during the French and Indian War was a British defeat), but he was a better leader than most of his British contemporaries. The British didn't understand how to fight a war in the New World. Their generals did things like march troops into the forest in straight lines and bright red coats, where they made easy targets for the French and their Indian allies. Watching the blunders of his British superiors, Washington learned how not to fight a war in North America. He made a name for himself picking up the pieces of British military debacles, often at great personal risk. At the Battle of the Monongahela, for instance, Washington managed to organize the retreat of outmaneuvered British forces, even as hostile Indians shot two horses out from under him and put four bullets through his coat.blank">British Empire his regiment was constituted to assist. As far as Britain was concerned, the colonies were mere possessions; the colonists, as such, were second-class citizens. This was particularly true in military affairs, as Washington already knew. British regulars looked down on colonial forces, and colonial officers had no official status. Still, Washington assumed that the success of his Virginia Regiment would show the British he was worthy of respect, and so earn him an officer's appointment. But despite Washington's ceaseless lobbying and the Virginia Regiment's deft fighting, the British never recognized Washington or his troops as their equals. Washington took this as a personal affront. It left him bitter and resentful. The British, it seemed to him, were so presumptuous they had lost the ability to value merit.

In December 1758, with the official end of the war still five years away, Washington abruptly resigned his commission. It's not completely clear exactly what caused him to withdraw. Diminishing hostilities in Virginia, along with his increasing frustration with the British, probably played a part in his resignation. But the most important factor was probably love. In 1757, when her wealthy husband suddenly died, Martha Custis became the most eligible widow in all of Virginia. She was still young, almost inconceivably rich, and a total babe to boot. As for Washington, all that we know for sure is that he had love on his mind. In September 1758, he wrote a letter to his best friend's wife, Sally Fairfax, which most historians read as a confession of his love for her. Unfortunately, we don't know how George felt about Martha when he first met her; after his death, Martha destroyed all of their correspondence. But his actions speak for themselves: he courted Martha assiduously and beat out a rival to win her hand. Within ten days of resigning his commission, the two were married.blank">Mount Vernon, which he was then leasing from his brother's widow. And he promptly put himself into debt with his London agent by ordering a never-ending supply of luxury goods. It was like a dream come true; George Washington was living the life he'd been aspiring to since childhood.

But Washington didn't just adopt the Virginia gentry's lifestyle; he also accepted its ideology. Many in Virginia had what has come to be called a "colonial Whig" mentality. Essentially, such colonists believed that the British Empire had become corrupted, that its core was rotten. While it might once have been a boon to the world, now it pursued a politics that benefitted a small group of British elites at the expense of everyone else. The British Crown, they argued, was hostile to freedom and was undermining the great British historical tradition of "rights." It was an empire in moral decline, which needed either to be reformed or to cede its place to a new champion of freedom. These ideas were first developed by political theorists in Britain who belonged the "Country Party," then spread like wildfire among Virginia's planter elite. Washington's friend, the erudite George Mason, exposed him to these new ideas, and he eventually came to share them.blank" rel="nofollow">House of Burgesses, taking strong stands against the Crown. As a former military man, he realized that those stands could mean war. But if war came, so be it. At stake was Washington's own livelihood, and the future of North America—maybe even the future of freedom itself.

Washington's convictions were soon put to the test. On 16 December 1773, angry Bostonians led by Samuel Adams dumped 45 tons of tea into Boston Harbor, protesting Parliament's Tea Act. The "Boston Tea Party" was only the latest in a string of increasingly tense encounters between Bostonians and the British. Alarmed, and already disposed to be angry, the British Parliament passed a series of punitive measures—the so-called Intolerable or Coercive Acts—and sent a garrison of soldiers to shut down the port of Boston.blank" rel="nofollow">Treaty of Paris was finally signed on 3 September 1783, it merely recognized what had long been clear to the soldiers on the ground: thanks to the single well-timed strike at Yorktown, Washington had won American independence.

The victory made Washington a hero; what he did next made him practically a God. By the war's end, many in the Continental army were skeptical of the Congress's ability to govern. Their pay was months in arrears, and no one seemed organized enough to be able to do anything about it. Some soldiers started suggesting that Washington, rather than leave things to an incompetent Congress, should march that well-trained army of his over to Annapolis (the temporary capital) and set himself up as King. Indeed, this is just what most international observers expected Washington to do: historically, popular military leaders had tended not to surrender their power. But Washington stunned the world. Not only did he quiet any talk of seizing power, but on 23 December, after an emotional farewell to his troops, he returned his commission to Congress, then went home to farm.

With the surrender of his generalship, Washington completed his transformation from man to symbol. By peacefully surrendering power, he had turned himself into a historical archetype. He was playing the role of the republican general. Just like the famed Roman hero Cincinnatus, after whom he had modeled his own career, Washington relinquished power when his job was done. To his peers, the classical reference was unmistakable, and it only magnified his glory. By playing a myth, he became a legend. He was George Washington, leader of the Continental army, whose commitment to American ideals was so firm and unshakeable that he would risk his life and forsake personal gain in their service. His virtue, from that day forward, was completely beyond reproach.

Of course, the man of flesh and blood had his own, more prosaic reasons for forsaking power. By the end of the Revolutionary War, Washington was 51 years old. He had already outlived all his male relatives, and he didn't expect to live much longer. Even if he had wanted power, he didn't think he'd get the chance to exercise it. And with no direct heirs—an early exposure to smallpox had rendered him sterile—he was never tempted by the idea of founding a kingly line. Washington wanted glory, to be sure, but in winning the war and surrendering his commission, he had assured himself of that. He had midwifed a new country. He was now a character of world-historical significance. All that remained for him to do was put his affairs in order and wait for death.

The life of a retired hero wasn't bad. Washington slowly rebuilt his estate at Mount Vernon, which had been badly damaged by the war. He entertained a never-ending flow of guests and responded to literally thousands of letters. He was wealthy and revered. It was, in some ways, the fulfillment of the childhood dream he had started living when he married Martha. Now he was no longer just a part of the Virginia gentry; he was at its head.

There was only one problem for Washington in his retirement: although he waited for death, death wouldn't come. He had tried to exit the public stage, but destiny refused to comply. His time had not yet come.

And so, stuck on the national stage, with too much time on his hands and an outsized reputation, the retired Washington remained involved in politics almost despite himself. There was a logic to his continued interest. After all, his reputation was intimately bound up with that of the new nation. As the military founder and most conspicuous defender of the country, the nation's path of development would color how Washington himself was remembered. Care for the cause and for his own legacy compelled him to wish for the nation's success.

But what Washington saw of the new nation's politics troubled him. Based on its actions, it looked to Washington as if the Congress had drawn the wrong lessons from the Revolutionary War. For Congress, Washington's victory over the British marked the triumph of their republican ideals over Britain's tyrannical monarchic ones. The new government they erected reflected this conviction: Congress rejected a standing army and a strong executive, since those had marked Britain's regime, and put their faith in the authority of state and local governments.

Washington had a different perspective on the meaning of his victory. He agreed with Congress that it had marked the triumph of republican ideals. But republican victory had only been possible because Washington had borrowed some of the better elements of the British system. A standing army, he knew, was necessary for protecting national security; it had won him the war. A strong executive was just as necessary. Many times during the war, when negotiating with his own troops or with foreign allies, Washington had been hamstrung by Congress's inability to provide clear leadership. And if the government was going to have national institutions, like an army and centralized leadership, it would need a national government to fund and legitimize them—roles state and local governments had never been able to fulfill.

Underlying these policy disagreements was a more fundamental disharmony. The Congress, whose members were elected by separate states, to which they remained uniquely accountable, never saw itself as a national institution. Indeed, it didn't even envision the new country as a single nation. It saw itself as a federal body and the new country as nothing but a confederation of more or less autonomous states. Congressmen remained parochially bound to their own regions.

But Washington's service in the army had changed the tenor of his allegiance. The army had fought for all the states. Washington had fought battles in the north and south, alongside soldiers from every colony. The experience had helped him foster an attachment to the colonies as a whole. In Washington's eyes, the colonies shared a common, united destiny in opposition to Britain. And it was to that common destiny, that aspirational unity, that Washington felt allied. He was understandably disappointed by Congress's refusal to constitute itself as a national body.

In August 1786, that disappointment turned to anger and fear. In that month, a poor farmer in central Massachusetts named Daniel Shays decided that he was no better off under the new government than he had been under the old one, and decided to start a rebellion. More frightening for Washington than this internal threat of anarchy was Congress's inability to put it down. Because of Congress's scheduling and the government's weakness, it took Secretary of War Henry Knox until February 1787 just to bring the Shaysites under control. Washington feared that all the Revolution had accomplished would be lost because of poor government. Something needed to be done.

Washington was not alone. Dissatisfaction with the Articles of Confederation, the document governing the independent colonies' new government, had been growing ever since their ratification in 1781. By the mid-1780s, systematic problems with the Articles convinced many prominent statesmen that they needed to be substantially revised, perhaps even replaced. A grand convention was planned for May 1787 to rethink them, and Washington, at the urging of fellow Virginian James Madison, decided to attend.

Washington's presence at what has come to be known as the Constitutional Convention was mostly ceremonial, but significant. Washington was the embodiment of the American people, and he knew it. Just by attending, he conferred on the Convention a mantle of legitimacy: the spirit of the Revolution was with them. When he agreed to serve as the Convention's president, he all but cloaked it in his own glory, guaranteeing that its recommendations would carry national weight. Indeed, historians have argued that had Washington not signed the final Constitution, it is unlikely that a sufficient number of states would have ratified it.

Washington didn't want the presidency, but he didn't really have a choice. At the Constitutional Convention, it had become clear that a pair of fault lines risked splitting the nation apart: one running between large and small states and another between free and slave states. Only a series of precarious compromises between the opposed interests had enabled the Convention to produce a Constitution at all. And just what status that document would have was still unclear. Most Americans had no attachment to a national "United States." If the new government was going to succeed, it would need a leader who could inspire trust in its institutions and foster citizens' attachment to them, without exacerbating any of the oppositions that risked tearing the nation asunder. The government needed a leader of dignity who could unite all hearts. As historian Forrest McDonald put it, "Washington was the only man who measured up to the job." On 14 April 1789, Congress's secretary arrived at Mount Vernon to tell Washington that he had just been unanimously elected president of the United States.blank" rel="nofollow">Constitution had been ratified did not mean that the battle for a stronger national government had actually been won.

By the end of his first term, it had become clear to Washington that he needed to stay on. The division within his cabinet between Hamilton and Jefferson had a regional dimension to it. It wasn't just a disagreement between two private individuals. It reflected a split between northern states, with economies dependent on trade and finance (like Hamilton's New York) and southern states, which relied on agriculture (like Jefferson's Virginia). This fault line, just like the earlier divisions between large and small states and slave and free states, risked undoing all the progress toward unity that Washington had accomplished in his first term. As Jefferson argued, "North & South will hang together [only] if they have you to hang on[to]."blank" rel="nofollow">Jefferson's Republican allies hated the treaty: they felt it was a betrayal of America's founding principles. But their disagreement never led them to withdraw or threaten to break the Union. Rather, it spurred them to want to take control of the government and change its policies from within. The spirit of partisan division was unexpected, but it proved that the government's framework had "set." The United States was very much established.

With the government legitimized, Washington finally felt free to retire. As his second term drew to a close, he drafted what has come to be the most famous piece penned under his name, his "Farewell Address." The Address is worth our attention for its symbolism alone. Although signed by Washington, it was a collaborative piece. Washington dug up the valedictory speech Madison had written for the end of his first term and sent it to Hamilton to be reworked. By then, Madison and Hamilton had become sworn political enemies: Hamilton was the most prominent Federalist, and Madison was Jefferson's chief Republican lieutenant. The opposition was not lost on Washington, nor was his role in transcending party divisions. For all the strife, Washington was still the man who could unite all hearts. In the Address, Washington focused on the long-term stability of the nation, calling for Americans to join in the preservation of their country. And with that, he finally exited the public stage.

Washington was eager to escape the spotlight. The presidency was a bruising job, and he was glad to be rid of it. Besides, he had some unfinished personal business of his own he badly wanted to attend to.

Ever since he had led the Continental army, Washington had been meaning to do something about his slaves. While a general, he had commanded free blacks in his army and saw that they were the equals of whites. His military ally and surrogate son, the French Marquis de Lafayette, was a firm believer in equal rights, and, during the war, he lobbied Washington to free his slaves. But more compelling than Lafayette's arguments were Washington's own convictions. He had concluded that slavery was inefficient: people, he believed, worked better when they owned what they produced. And Washington had a hunch about the direction history was moving. Slavery, he felt, was probably on the wrong side. So Washington decided to free his slaves.

There were complications, though. Many of the slaves on Washington's plantation didn't actually belong to him. As part of Martha Washington's estate, they belonged to her and her children, not to George. He couldn't free them even if he wanted to. More impassable than the legal difficulties, however, were the political ones. After he became president, Washington's personal actions carried national significance. If he had freed his slaves then, the South would have read it as a blanket condemnation of slavery. It would have reignited the politically explosive slavery question and might have destabilized the slave state—free state compromises that had made national government possible.

But Washington could only put off the slavery question for so long. After serving out his second term, he returned to Mount Vernon, where he promptly drafted his will. In it, he didn't just free his slaves upon Martha's death; he set up a trust to provide for the ill and elderly among them and to sponsor education for the young. It was a significant statement: Washington was the only slave-owning Founding Father to free his slaves, let alone provide for them.

It was a suitably grand final statement. Death came quickly, and painfully, but not all that unexpectedly. Washington was in the habit of riding around his grounds every day to inspect his holdings. On 12 December 1799, he refused to let an ice storm change his routine. The next day he caught a cold and, by evening, it took a turn for the worse. Doctors were called in. They bled him and drugged him, but to no avail. His cold turned into a throat infection, which ultimately proved fatal. On 14 December 1799, between ten and eleven at night, George Washington passed away.

Mourning was epic and widespread. In the United States, soldiers wore black armbands and towns staged memorial ceremonies. In France, Napoleon ordered ten days of national mourning. As Richard Henry Lee famously declared before the assembled houses of Congress: "The founder of our federate republic—our bulwark in war, our guide in peace, is no more! Oh, that this were but questionable! Hope, the comforter of the wretched, would pour into our agonizing hearts its balmy dew. But, alas! there is no hope for us; our Washington is removed forever! . . . First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen, he was second to none."

Father: Augustine Washington, 1694-1743, a third-generation Virginian and moderately wealthy planter
Stepmother: Jane Butler Washington, 1699-1729, first wife of Augustine Washington
Eldest Half-Brother: Butler Washington, 1716-1716, son of Augustine Washington and his first wife, Jane Butler Washington, died in infancy
Elder Half-Brother: Lawrence Washington, 1718-1752, son of Augustine Washington and his first wife, Jane Butler Washington, planter, soldier, and surrogate father to George after Augustine's death
Elder Half-Brother: Augustine Washington Jr., 1720-1762, son of Augustine Washington and his first wife, Jane Butler Washington
Elder Half-Sister: Jane Washington, 1722-1734, daughter of Augustine Washington and his first wife, Jane Butler Washington
Mother: Mary Ball Washington, 1708-1789, second wife of Augustine Washington
Younger Sister: Elizabeth "Betty" Washington, later Betty Washington Lewis, 1733-1797, daughter of Augustine Washington and Mary Ball Washington
Younger Brother: Samuel Washington, 1734-1781, soldier and magistrate, son of Augustine Washington and Mary Ball Washington
Younger Brother: John Augustine Washington, 1736-1787, public servant, son of Augustine Washington and Mary Ball Washington
Younger Brother: Charles Washington, 1738-1799, son of Augustine Washington and Mary Ball Washington, magistrate

Wife: Martha Dandridge Custis Washington, 1731-1802, widow of the wealthy planter Daniel Parke Custis
Stepson: John "Jacky" Parke Custis, 1754-1781, planter, civil servant
Stepdaughter: Martha "Patsy" Parke Custis, 1756-1773, epileptic

Stepgranddaughter: Elizabeth "Betsey" Parke Custis Law, 1776-1832, daughter of Jacky Custis and Eleanor Calvert
Stepgranddaughter: Martha Parke Custis Peter, 1777-1854, daughter of Jacky Custis and Eleanor Calvert
Stepgranddaughter: Eleanor "Nelly" Parke Custis Lewis, 1779-1852, daughter of Jacky Custis and Eleanor Calvert, raised by George and Martha following Jacky's death
Stepgrandson: George Washington "Wash" Parke Custis, 1781-1857, son of Jacky Custis and Eleanor Calvert, raised by George and Martha following Jacky's death

Attended grade-school-level classes, up to 1747

Surveyor, 1748-1752
Adjutant general, Virginia Militia, 1752-1753
Major, Virginia Militia, 1753-1754
Lieutenant colonel, then colonel, Virginia Militia, 1754
Volunteer aide-de-camp to General Braddock, British Regulars, 1755
Commander in chief, Virginia Regiment, 1755-1758
Representative from Frederick, Virginia House of Burgesses, 1759-1765
Representative from Fairfax, Virginia House of Burgesses, 1765-1774
Delegate from Virginia, First Continental Congress, 1774
Delegate from Virginia, Second Continental Congress, 1775
Commander in chief, Continental army, 1775-1783
Chair, Constitutional Convention, 1787
President of the United States, 1789-1797
Lieutenant general, United States Army, 1798-1799

The Journal of Major George Washington, 1754
"Newburgh Address," 1783
"Farewell Address," 1796

Honorary Doctorate of Laws, Harvard University, 1776
Congressional Gold Medal, 1776
Grand Master of Masons of the American Colonies, 1779
President general, Society of the Cincinnati, 1783
General of the Armies of the United States of America, 1976