My enemies take an ungenerous advantage of me. They know the
delicacy of my situation, and that motives of policy deprive me
of the defence, I might otherwise make against their insidious
attacks. They know I cannot combat their insinuations, however
injurious, without disclosing secrets, which it is of the utmost
moment to conceal. But why should I expect to be exempt from
censure, the unfailing lot of an elevated station? Merit and
talents, with which I can have no pretensions of rivalship, have
ever been subject to it. My heart tells me, that it has been my
unremitted aim to do the best that circumstances would permit; yet
I may have been very often mistaken in my judgment of the means,
and may in many instances deserve the imputation of error. (Valley
Forge, 31 January, 1778.)[1]

[Footnote 1: Ford, vi, 353.]

Such was the sort of explanation which was wrung from the Silent Man
when he explained to an intimate the secrets of his heart.

To estimate the harassing burden of these plots we must bear in mind
that, while Washington had to suffer them in silence, he had also to
deal every day with the Congress and with an army which, at Valley
Forge, was dying slowly of cold and starvation. There was literally no
direction from which he could expect help; he must hold out as long as
he could and keep from the dwindling, disabled army the fact that some
day they would wake up to learn that the last crumb had been eaten
and that death only remained for them. On one occasion, after he had
visited Philadelphia and had seen the Congress in action, he unbosomed
himself about it in a letter which contained these terrible words: