Saying Goodbye: From Soldier to Citizen

James Thatcher

“On that sad day how many hearts were wrung!”

Army surgeon James Thacher, experienced unexpected heartbreak as he watched the army disband at Newburgh, New York, in 1783. In this passage, he recalls veterans parting in poverty and uncertainty and the formidable Baron von Steuben, the stern Prussian drillmaster of Valley Forge, show mercy to broken soldiers facing an uncertain future. Note: The wording below has been lightly modernized for punctuation and syntax while preserving Thacher’s meaning and tone.

At the disbandment of the revolutionary army, when inmates of the same tent, or hut, for seven long years, were separating, and probably forever, grasping each other’s hand, in silent agony, I saw the Baron’s strong endeavors to throw some ray of sun shine on the gloom.

To go, they knew not whither. All recollection of the art to thrive by civil occupations lost, or to the youthful never known.

Their hard-earned military knowledge worse than useless, and with their badge of brotherhood, a mark at which to point the finger of suspicion.

To be cast out on a world, long since by them forgotten. Severed from friends, and all the joys and griefs which soldiers feel.

To go in silence and alone, and poor and hopeless. It was too hard.

On that sad day, how many hearts were wrung!

I saw it all, nor will the scene be ever blurred or blotted from my view.

To a stern old officer—Lieutenant Colonel Cochran of the Green Mountains, who had met danger and hardship at almost every step from his youth, and from whose furrowed face no tear had ever fallen until that moment—the good Baron said what he could to lessen such deep distress.

“For myself,” said Cochran, “I care not. I can stand it. But my wife and daughters are in the garret of that wretched tavern. I know not where to remove them, nor have I the means.”

“Come, my friend,” said the Baron, “let us go. I will pay my respects to Mrs. Cochran and your daughters, if you please.”

I followed them to the loft, the lower rooms being all filled with soldiers—with drunkenness, despair, and blasphemy.

And when the Baron left those poor unhappy castaways, he left hope with them, and all he had to give.

A black man, with wounds unhealed, wept on the wharf. There was a vessel in the stream, bound to the place where he once had friends. He had not a dollar to pay his passage, and he could not walk.

Unused to tears, I saw them trickle down this good man’s cheeks as he put into the hands of the black man the last dollar he possessed. The negro hailed the sloop, and cried, “God Almighty bless you, master Baron!”

Joseph Plumb Martin

“We Were to Be Parted Forever”

On April 19, 1783, exactly eight years after the fighting at Lexington and Concord, George Washington announced the War of Independence was officially over. For Joseph Plumb Martin, peace did not bring simple relief. After years of shared hardship and danger, he was leaving his “family of brothers” to face civilian life poor, uncertain, and alone.

Time thus passed on to the nineteenth of April, when general orders were read which satisfied the most skeptical that the war was over, and the prize won for which we had been contending through eight tedious years.

But the soldiers said but very little about it. Their chief thoughts were more closely fixed upon their situation as it respected the figure they were to exhibit upon leaving the army and becoming citizens—starved, ragged and meagre, not a cent to help themselves with, and no means in view to remedy their condition. This was appalling in the extreme. All that they could do was to make a virtue of necessity, and face the threatening evils with the same resolution and fortitude with which they had so long faced the enemy in the field.

At length the eleventh day of June, 1783, arrived. Our Captain came into the room with his hands full of papers and ordered us to empty our cartridge boxes upon the floor—the last order he ever gave us. He then handed us our discharges, or rather furloughs; permission to return home, but to return to the army again if required.

I confess, however, that my anticipation of the happiness I should experience on such a day was not realized. There was as much sorrow as joy transfused upon the occasion.

We had lived together as a family of brothers for several years—setting aside some little family squabbles, like most other families—had shared with each other the hardships, dangers and sufferings incident to a soldier’s life; had sympathized with each other in trouble and sickness; had assisted in bearing each other’s burdens, or endeavoured to make them lighter by counsel and advice. In short, the soldiery, each in his particular circle, were as strict a band of brotherhood as Masons, and, I believe, as faithful to each other.

And now we were to be parted forever, as unconditionally separated as though the grave lay between us.

We were young men, and had warm hearts. I question if there was a corps in the army that parted with more regret than ours did—the New-Englanders in particular. Ah! it was a serious time.

Some of the soldiers went off for home the same day that their fetters were knocked off. Others stayed to obtain their final settlement certificates, which they sold in order to procure decent clothing and money enough to pass through the country with some appearance of respectability among their friends.

At length I obtained my certificates, sold some of them, and purchased a few decent clothes.

I travelled eastward and in the year 1784 arrived in what is now the State of Maine, where I have remained ever since, and where I expect to remain so long as I remain in existence, and here at last to rest my warworn weary limbs.

When those who enlisted for the war engaged in the service, they were promised a hundred acres of land each. But when the country had drained the last drop of service it could screw out of the poor soldiers, they were turned adrift like old worn-out horses, and little said about land to pasture them upon.

Speculators were driving about the country like so many evil spirits, endeavouring to pluck the last feather from the soldiers.

The truth was, the country was served—and that was all that was deemed necessary.

It was, “Soldiers, look to yourselves; we want no more of you.”

I hope I shall one day find land enough to lay my bones in. If I chance to die in a civilized country, none will deny me that. A dead body never begs a grave—thanks for that.