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countenance of this man smile with our blessings; and chase away, if it be but for a moment, the lines of sorrow from the face of misfortune! 2
    Woven into this story are themes of patriotic service and sacrifice, themes that were becoming more powerful in the new Republic. But the soldier on the street was a different type of hero, unnamed and anonymous. And he was marked by destitution and need. The clearly sympathetic author-narrator could only allow that by his service this veteran had “earned the privilege to beg”—and to suggest that we had an obligation to respond to this situation.
    The question framed here was simply: what is the obligation of democracy to those who sacrificed in its service? This question had been debated during the Revolution, resonating at Newburgh and in Philadelphia, as well as encampments of both regular and militia forces. It would continue to be relevant for centuries to come. Richard Kohn in his discussion of the officers at Newburgh raised questions as old as Odysseus and as recent as Vietnam—if not Afghanistan:
    Most officers were apprehensive about returning to civilian life. Many had been impoverished by the war while friends at home had grown fat on the opportunities provided by the war. For all, the end of hostilities meant re-entering a society that had adjusted to their absence, and in traditionally antimilitary New England, a society that would accord none of the advantages or plaudits that returning veterans expect to
receive. During those long, boring months of 1782, a growing feeling of martyrdom, an uncertainty, and a realization that long years of service might go unrewarded—or perhaps hamper their future careers—made the situation increasingly explosive. 3
    The revolutionary generation had difficulty assuming an obligation to veterans and to their survivors. The nascent government agreed to support widows of those who had been killed in service—although in the early years this applied mainly to the widows of officers. As early as 1776, members of the Continental Congress agreed that there was a need to provide support for those categorized as “invalids.” Yet the financial burden itself was left to the states. Among them, there were differences of opinion about defining adequate compensation and constant challenges in finding sources of funding. This resulted in uneven, unreliable results.
    As for the healthy veterans—a description that was not precise and largely included any war wounded who retained all of his limbs—a quick handshake was enough. Most Americans believed that, after all, the veterans in good health were richly compensated by the ability to live and to thrive in this remarkable new nation. 4
    This assumption framed the debate about the government’s responsibility, if any, to its veterans. The idealized revolutionary-era narrative was largely unambiguous: citizens were accountable for the defense of their Republic. Service was a reciprocal, necessary responsibility of citizenship. All specified male citizens had an obligation to serve in the militia in defense of the rebellious colonies and then the new nation.
    George Washington, despite his real doubts about the long-term military capacity of militia, was unequivocal in his statement of this obligation. “Every Citizen,” he stated, “who enjoys the protection of a free Government, owes not only a proportion of his property, but even of his personal services to the defence of it, and consequently that the Citizens of America (with a few legal and official exceptions) from 18 to 50 years of age should be borne on the Militia Rolls.” 5
    If militia service was part of the living contract citizens had with the Republic, a cost of government that was as necessary as taxes, then it followed
that those who served were only meeting their obligation. They owed their service when called upon to defend their country. No payment or gratuity should