You might not think that the father of our country had any detractors, but he did, especially in the wake of so many military setbacks—not only in New York, but later in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Starting with the Battle of Long Island in August 1776, British General William Howe drove the Continental Army back to Brooklyn Heights. Though told by Congress to hold the city, Washington decided he had to abandon New York. He then lost at Harlem Heights, suffered defeat at White Plains, lost Fort Washington along with 3,000 prisoners, and shortly after evacuated Fort Lee.

Luckily, Howe’s attention to Fort Washington gave the Continental Army a chance to escape across the Hudson and into New Jersey. But Washington’s struggles continued. At the end of 1776, General Charles Lee lost 4000 Americans covering Washington’s retreat through New Jersey. In December Congress abandoned Philadelphia for Baltimore. Fortune favored Washington again when Howe went into winter quarters. His army capitalized, striking hard on Christmas night, crossing the Delaware River, raiding Trenton and capturing 1000 Hessians along with arms and ammunition. In January, Washington’s men defeated British reinforcements at Princeton before escaping to Morristown, NJ.

Though Washington and his army showed pluck and resilience, such triumphs were pretty rare. His army was again defeated at Brandywine in September 1777 and later that month, General Howe occupied Philadelphia. In early October, Washington lost at Germantown. By contrast, just a few weeks later, General Horatio Gates shocked the world by defeating General Burgoyne at Saratoga on the Hudson River. With Gates’s star on the ascent, some wondered whether Washington was the right man to fill the role of Commander-in-Chief. Though no formal steps ever took place, by the end of 1777 there was a “whispering campaign” underway to have Washington removed —a movement that historian Joseph Ellis suggests was probably “simmering beneath the surface ever since the debacle at Fort Washington.”

One of the central figures in the matter was Brigadier General Thomas Conway, an ambitious Irishman who left the French Army to join the Continental Army, making the anti-Washington movement commonly referred to as the “Conway Cabal.” Conway actively lobbied Congress for a promotion that Washington virulently opposed in a letter to fellow Virginian and Congressman Richard Henry Lee. When Conway caught wind of this slight, he dashed off some pointed criticisms of Washington to Gates. Conway’s dislike for Washington attracted a loose “coterie of grumblers,” including Gates himself, Brigadier General Thomas Mifflin, General Charles Lee, and Congressional figures such as John Adams, Samuel Adams, Benjamin Rush, and Richard Henry Lee.

A gossip network through private correspondence might have remained the extent of the “coterie of grumblers'” influence, except that Washington, ever sensitive to the sanctity of his reputation, had his own network of loyal informants who had a keen ear for loose talk. Washington supporter General William Alexander reported that Gates’s aide General James Wilkinson, had drunkenly divulged the contents of anti-Washington correspondence between Conway and Gates, including this remark by Conway: “Heaven has been determined to save your Country; or a weak General and bad Counselors would have ruined it." When Washington penned a terse note to Gates, he openly challenged him by sending a copy of his correspondence to Congress. This skillful tactic deferred the matter to his civilian masters, while placing the matter in the public sphere, where direct criticism of Washington was still almost sacrilegious.

Washington survived the challenge to his leadership, and some of his most ardent supporters, such as Major General Nathanael Greene, the Marquis de Lafayette, and Alexander Hamilton, went on to distinguish themselves throughout the war. Washington’s two most prominent critics fared less well. Though Conway eventually got his promotion and subsequent assignment as Inspector General, Washington marginalized him when he reported for duty at Valley Forge. Later, a number of general officers petitioned Congress, protesting Conway’s promotion. Conway was further discredited after a fellow officer questioned his courage at Germantown. After challenging his accuser to a duel, Conway was shot in the mouth. Thinking he was dying, Conway wrote a letter of apology to General Washington, but he survived his wounds and eventually returned to France. Gates was never able to hold on to the stature he gained at Saratoga, and in 1780 found himself fleeing with his militia at the Battle of Camden, SC in 1780.

The tea was on three privately owned merchant ships. One hundred and fourteen chests were on board the Dartmouth, the first ship to arrive in port. The other two ships, the Eleanor and the brig Beaver carried 228 chests between them, along with other cargo. As the ships sailed into Boston Harbor, they each passed by Castle William to the south, which was under the command of a British officer and had upwards of a hundred cannon. When the ships came into the harbor, but before they docked, port officials boarded them. That meant that they had officially reached port and that their movements were now under the command of port officials instead of their captains.

Behind the tea-laden ships, British Admiral John Montagu brought a squadron of warships to prevent the colonists from forcing the ships back out to sea before they were unloaded. This put the captains (and the ships' owners) in a bind. If the tea wasn't unloaded, customs weren't paid. And if the ships tried to sail back out of port, Montagu would stop them and charge them with failing to pay customs on their cargo that was due, according to him, because they had already entered port.

After a few days, the colonists had the ships come in close to Griffin's Wharf. The Sons of Liberty organized a continuous watch of the vessels. Twenty-five men on each shift ensured that the ships were not unloaded under the cover of darkness, or at least to sound an alarm if there was an attempt. The ships' captains came ashore and left the mates on board. The situation remained the same for more than two weeks.

Thomas Hutchinson, the royal governor of colonial Massachusetts, clearly understood that the colonists were angry, but he did not anticipate that they would damage the cargo. He was counting on the fact that after 20 days without having paid customs, the customs authorities—with the assistance of British sailors and soldiers—could legally impound the tea from the ships, and then, from Castle William, disburse it in small amounts to a few merchants who could resell it. This would circumvent the colonists' effort to make sure that the tea did not enter Massachusetts. Hutchinson and the apprehensive merchants who were willing to receive the tea had holed up with the troops in Castle William.

Boston was not under martial law, so soldiers were not policing the city, although Hutchinson could have brought a detachment of soldiers in, had he known beforehand the particulars of a threat. He did not post a military guard at the wharf, however, perhaps to avoid provoking a confrontation with the crowds keeping watch there.

On December 14th, when the 20 days of waiting were almost up, Hutchinson wrote his brother Elisha about the excited Bostonians, "I hardly think they will attempt sending the tea back, but am more sure it will not go many leagues: it seems probable they will wait to hear from the southward, and much may depend on what is done there." (Hutchinson, 96) Yet Hutchinson also believed the colonists might take some form of direct action if an attempt was made to land the tea onto the wharf.

Just after six o'clock on the night of December 16, 1773, a group of about 60 men daubed their faces with burnt cork, coal dust, or donned other makeshift disguises, armed themselves with hatchets, and formed a raiding party. Some of them styled themselves "Indians."

They made their way to the wharf. The Sons of Liberty's watch was already there, and still others joined them, either to assist or simply to see what was happening. The raiding party formed three groups of 50 each, and boarded all of the nearly deserted ships at about the same time. They met no resistance.

Lendall Pitts, the commander of the group that boarded the brig Beaver, "sent a man to the mate, who was on board, in his cabin, with a message, politely requesting the use of a few lights, and the brig's keys—so that as little damage as possible might be done to the vessel;—and such was the case. The mate acted the part of a gentleman altogether. He handed over the keys without hesitation, and without saying a single word, and sent his cabin-boy for a bunch of candles, to be immediately put in use." (Thatcher, 181–2).

The moon shone brightly too, so their work was well lit. The night was very quiet and neither the crowd on the wharf nor the raiding party spoke much. Onlookers at the wharf, as well as the men on some of the closer British ships, however, quite distinctly heard the sounds of the chests being staved in.

The party quickly brought the 342 chests of tea (a total of 90,000 lbs.) onto the deck. They split them open and threw the tea and the chests overboard into the harbor. The party took care that no other property on board the ships was harmed, and that none of the raiders took away any of the tea. They even swept the decks clean of loose tea when they were done. They worked quickly, apprehensive of a possible attack from Admiral Montagu's squadron, part of which was only a quarter of a mile away.

Montagu watched the affair from the fleet, but he took no action because of the cargo ships' position next to the wharf. "I could easily have prevented the Execution of this Plan," he wrote the following day in a report, "but must have endangered the Lives of many innocent People by firing upon the Town." (Labardee, 145) Instead, he rowed ashore and watched from a building nearby, even briefly exchanging taunts with the Indians.

The tea party lasted three hours, finishing around nine o'clock. The raiding party then formed in rank and file by the wharf, and, shouldering their hatchets, marched, accompanied by a fifer, back into town, dispersed, and went home.

The next morning a large, winding mound of loose tea still floated in the harbor, and a party of colonists rowed out in boats and sank it down into the waters with their oars. The British fleet witnessed this, too, but did not interfere.

The disguised men's identities were kept secret by their fellow Bostonians, and Governor Hutchinson was unable to charge the members of the raiding party, but Parliament responded five months later (news traveled back and forth across the ocean very slowly then) with a series of measures meant to force Boston to heel.