Revolution Song

by Russell Shorto

  Chapter 11

  THE CITY OF NEW YORK WILL, IN ALL HUMAN PROBABILITY, VERY SOON BE THE SCENE OF A BLOODY CONFLICT

  Abraham Yates hobbled off the sloop from Albany not in New York City, as originally planned, but 30 miles short of the city. Due to the rapidly deteriorating situation on Manhattan, the fourth Provincial Congress had decided to meet in the town of White Plains, in Westchester County. On Tuesday morning, July 9, Yates trundled into the county courthouse building. After some bureaucratic shuffling due to the fact that he and the other delegates from Albany had neglected to bring credentials proving that they were the men duly elected to the new body by their constituencies, the meeting was called to order. The first matter on the agenda was a letter from Philadelphia that contained the text of the declaration the members of the Continental Congress had signed five days earlier. It was no ordinary declaration. The New Yorkers agreed that the entire document should be read aloud. For the next ten minutes or so Yates and his colleagues gazed out into the morning sunlight or down at their own buckled shoes as they listened:

  IN CONGRESS, July 4th, 1776,

  A Declaration by the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress assembled.

  When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. . . .

  *

  We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name and by authority of the good people of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States. . . .

  The same document was being read aloud on the same day to the troops assembled on the Commons in lower Manhattan, the large open area that had been turned into a military camp. George Washington, on receiving a copy, had ordered all the soldiers to hear it. Having the words ring in the open air was a small but important part of his strategy for running this war. He and George Germain—his opposite, the man who was running the war for Great Britain, of whom Washington was well aware and whose intellect he surely could feel animating the British maneuvers—had some things in common, including the fact that neither was especially a man of ideas. But there was this one difference: where Germain insisted the central issue in the conflict was power, pure and simple, Washington realized this would be a war about ideas, or rather about one idea. He wanted to make sure that that idea was planted in his men’s minds before they went into battle: “that all men are created equal,” that governments derive “their just powers from the consent of the governed,” that the king “has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies, without the Consent of our Legislatures,” that the king “has affected to render the Military independent of, and superior to, the Civil Power,” that the king had given his assent “For imposing taxes on us without our consent” and “For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments.”

  Washington had no need to worry about the soldiers’ motivation: they had caught the freedom fever as well. They gave three huzzas when the reading was over, then, together with a mob of residents, charged downtown and tipped over the 4,000-pound statue of George III that had presided over the city and harbor since 1770. Washington was annoyed by the unruliness but pleased at the ardor. As for him, the long-awaited day had arrived. He was ready for whatever the future held.

  But he felt by no means certain of victory. He had a secret plan, should he fail and be hunted down for treason: to slip away into the thousands of wild acres he owned in the Ohio Country. In “the worst event,” he wrote to his brother-in-law, who was managing those lands for him, they would “serve for an Asylum.”

  After the echoes of the final words of the declaration had died in the White Plains courthouse, the New York Convention, as the provincial congress now chose to call itself, set up a committee to craft a response to the document. Yates was one of the five men selected for it. In the afternoon session the committee presented its reply:

  Resolved unanimously, That the reasons assigned by the Continental Congress for declaring the United Colonies free and independent States are cogent and conclusive; and that while we lament the cruel necessity which has rendered that measure unavoidable, we approve the same, and will, at the risk of our lives and fortunes, join with the other Colonies in supporting it.

  Yates and his colleagues then voted to have the Declaration, together with the Convention’s unanimous resolution, made public “with beat of drum,” and ordered 500 copies to be sent to every county in the state.

  The recent election had pushed aside a number of the more conservative delegates. In Albany, in addition to Yates, his nephew Robert Yates and a close friend, Matthew Adgate, were part of the delegation. The Yates Party was alive again. The new Convention was able to act with one voice, at least for now, at least for purposes of backing the step taken by their colleagues in Philadelphia. The next day they ordered a change of language: henceforth they were no longer a colony but “the State of New York.” They then divided up into committees for the purpose of defending their state.

  July 12, half past three in the afternoon. George Washington—along with nearly the entire population of New York—stood watching as two British warships, one of forty guns and the other of twenty, detached themselves from the vast fleet out in the bay and began sailing directly toward the city, “availing themselves of a brisk & favourable breeze with a flowing tide,” as Washington put it in a hasty letter to John Hancock in Philadelphia. The ships then turned suddenly and headed up the Hudson, their gun ports opened and their cannons began blasting away as they ran alongside the island’s western shore. Cannonballs came thundering into the sides of buildings and skittered down streets, setting men, women and children running and shrieking.

  The maneuver was meant to test the American fortifications, and the test, from Washington’s perspective, failed miserably. Instead of hurrying to their positions, men who had supposedly been trained to operate the cannons onshore stood and stared at the sleek and seemingly supernaturally efficient ships. He dictated general orders that included a scolding (“such unsoldierly Conduct must grieve every good officer, and give the enemy a mean opinion of the Army”), tightened discipline, and concluded, “The General hopes this is the last time he shall have occasion to take notice of any such neglect.”

  Then he sent a rider northward with a letter to the New York Convention in White Plains explaining that he feared what mischief the two British ships might get into: “Gentlemen, The passage of the Enemy up the North River is an event big with many consequences to the public interest.” He wanted the delegates to ensure that the ships would not rendezvous with Tories, and wouldn’t take control of any of the high grounds along the river. Yates and his colleagues sent a message back ensuring him that they would see to it. To do so, they borrowed 90 pounds from one of their number, Peter Livingston, to defray “the expenses of transporting a quantity of lead” to various positions.

  At almost the same time the two ships had run the gauntlet, another British warship, the two-decked, 64-gun Eagle, sailed into view of New York City and put to anchor alongside the fleet. Admiral Howe—General Howe’s brother and the head of the peace commission that Whitehall had insisted upon over Germain’s opposition—had arrived at last. He set to his task almost at once. A barge appeared on July 14, with a white flag and carrying emissaries of the admiral. Washington and his officers watched it approach. He had given some thought to the matter of how best to deal with this peace commission. Like Germain, he considered it a distraction. But it had to be handled
with delicacy, and there was the possibility of getting some use out of it. He chose his three most trusted aides to meet the boat, and instructed them on exactly how to behave and, in particular, to pay precise attention to language. One of the English officers stood up. He was the captain of the Eagle. He addressed himself to Colonel Henry Knox, Washington’s aide. “I have a letter, sir, from Lord Howe to Mr. Washington.”

  Knox, following Washington’s instruction, replied, “Sir, we have no person in our army with that address.”

  This seemed to flummox the man. He held up the letter. It was addressed to “George Washington, Esq.” Knox informed him that he was unable to take it.

  The next day another barge appeared, with a white flag. The officer aboard had another letter, this time addressed to “George Washington, Esq., and etc. etc.” Knox again declined to take it.

  Washington was a stickler for details, and details were the essence of diplomacy. Independence had been declared; therefore, for a peace commission to have any meaning it had to begin by acknowledging the role of the commanding officer of the other side. There was no ego involved; to correctly acknowledge him was to acknowledge his nation as a sovereign state, with which one might negotiate. Otherwise there was nothing to discuss.

  On the third day another vessel appeared, also with a white flag. By this time many people onshore were following the unfolding diplomatic sideshow, including a reporter for Benjamin Franklin’s newspaper, the Pennsylvania Gazette. Another British officer stood up and brandished another letter. But, to the bewilderment of the reporter as well as, no doubt, that of the American commander, it was not addressed to George Washington at all, but rather to a “Miss Margaret Moncrieffe.”

  As it happened, Major Thomas Moncrieffe, Margaret’s father, had been looking for her. He had gone to Boston with General Gage and come back with General Howe to a different New York, a place of chaos and confusion. He was living in a tent city on Staten Island, in a world of crisp British military discipline, looking out across the bay toward lower Manhattan, waiting along with everyone else for battle to commence. He apparently sent word to the Jay family that he wanted Margaret with him, and had learned that the Jays had fled to New Jersey and that she had then fled from them. She was a fourteen-year-old girl, on her own in a city about to be engulfed by violence.

  Having no other way to find his daughter, he decided to send a letter to the American command. Thus Margaret’s small personal affair interrupted the diplomatic dance that, for all anyone knew, might result in a negotiated settlement that would end America’s war of independence. Major Moncrieffe knew the American leaders, and they knew him: according to Margaret, her father was well enough acquainted with officials of the rebellious government and military that they had “repeatedly, at the commencement of the war, offered my father a command in the northern army.”

  Major Moncrieffe’s letter reached the American headquarters at about the same time as Margaret’s desperate letter to General Putnam asking for help in getting her to her father. (Putnam had also heard about her from William Livingston, who apparently felt bad about the way he had treated the girl.) Shortly thereafter, Margaret, who was still staying with the De Hart family in New Jersey, was surprised and delighted to receive a reply from Putnam saying that he was willing to help her. She had explained in her letter that her father was with the British forces, and she feared that by assisting her the general would feel that he was abetting the enemy. Putnam wrote back with kindness, saying that he had much regard for Major Moncrieffe, and that “any political difference alters him not to me in a private capacity.” While noting that “as an officer, he is my enemy,” Putnam asserted that as a friend he would “with pleasure, do any kind office in my power for him or any of his connexions.”

  The next day, a strapping twenty-two-year-old American officer, Colonel Samuel Webb, aide-de-camp to General Putnam, appeared at the door of the De Hart family’s home, ready to conduct Margaret to New York. They crossed the river and within a few minutes of landing arrived at 1 Broadway, headquarters of the American army and temporary home of General Putnam. Margaret was thrilled when the general and his wife received her “with the greatest tenderness,” and introduced her to Mrs. Putnam’s two daughters, who were a few years older than she was.

  The general turned out to be a plump, jovial man whose looks and mannerisms seemed more suited to a tavern than an officer’s banquet. Over time Margaret came to observe that he was devoted to his troops and that they treated him like a father; his lack of education, which was evident in his every utterance, endeared him to them, and to Margaret. She found it amusing that he said “ginrole” for general and referred to the radical Whigs in Parliament as “twigs.”

  Margaret was given a room in the house. Apparently, she would be staying for some time, as the small diplomatic issue of transporting her to the enemy was tangled up with the considerably larger one. The irony of her present situation, meanwhile, fairly screamed at her: her new home was the epicenter of the rebellion in New York. American military personnel streamed in and out of the building. Much of it was off-limits to her. Soon after settling in, she made her way to the top floor, where there was a little gallery that wrapped around the cupola. From here she had a spectacular view of the city spread around her: horse traffic, ladies with their hoop skirts and parasols, men in knee-length coats and tricorn hats, the open ground just opposite filled with the tents of soldiers. Beyond was the sweep of the harbor. In the distance lay the British fleet, which had swollen to the point where an American officer described the warships as extending “more than a Mile in Length from East to West, and so thick & close together for the greatest part of the Way, that You cant see through where they are no more than if it was a thick Swamp.”

  The day after her arrival, General Putnam formally introduced her to his superior. The gentleman before her was uncommonly tall and refined, with thin lips and narrow, intelligent eyes. His face was marred by pockmarks, however. The woman at his side, who was dwarfed by her husband, exuded self-possession but offered her a welcoming smile. Miss Moncrieffe felt ready to burst with her loyalty to the English crown, but she held it in check and told General and Mrs. Washington that she was grateful for the sanctuary. In return, the esteemed couple, Margaret said, “made it their study to show me every mark of regard.”

  But she found it annoying that she was rarely allowed to be alone—the American leaders were concerned that she might stumble onto information that she could share with the enemy once they shipped her to her father. It annoyed her even more that Mrs. Putnam put her to work. Having spent much of her young life in Ireland, and considering herself on the British side of the conflict, she was able to take a foreigner’s view of America when she chose. “Mrs. Putnam employed me and her daughters constantly to spin flax for shirts for the American soldiery,” she said, adding sardonically, “indolence in America being totally discouraged.”

  Shortly after Margaret arrived at 1 Broadway, she would have been able to witness the spectacle of Washington’s personal guard in their trim custom uniforms lining the entrance to the building at stiff attention to welcome a visiting British military officer. On the third try, Admiral Howe had acquiesced and addressed a letter to “His Excellency, General Washington,” at which Washington, having made his point, agreed to the meeting that was requested in the letter. Lieutenant Colonel James Paterson, representing Admiral Howe, arrived on July 20. The meeting was cordial, but awkward. Paterson placed before the American commander yet another letter from Admiral Howe. This one was addressed to “George Washington &c. &c. &c.” Washington refused to receive it. Paterson said he should not be offended, that the “&c. &c. &c.” implied “everything that ought to follow.” Washington countered that it “also implied any thing.” Paterson attempted to push on. He explained that Admiral Howe had been appointed to head a peace commission, and he wished to begin that process. Washington showed his familiarity with the orders that George Germain had given to Adm
iral Howe. The only tool that the admiral had been given, he said, was the authority to grant pardons. There was thus a fundamental flaw with the peace commission, for “those who had committed no Fault wanted no Pardon.” The Americans’ position, he said, was that “we were only defending what we deemed our indisputable Rights.”

  Washington suspected all along that the real purpose of the peace commission was to encourage the moderates among the revolutionaries and thus to hamper their military buildup. With one artful meeting he all but ended it. Paterson communicated the details to Admiral Howe, and Howe wrote to Germain, saying that the meeting “was more polite than interesting” and “it induced me to change my superscription for the attainment of an end so desirable.”

  The days leading up to the British assault were frantically busy, but, when possible, formal dinners were held at 1 Broadway. Washington was not often in attendance. When he was, they were decorous affairs: wine served, toasts given, protocol rigidly observed. Formality aside, they were occasions to release the tensions of the day, to distract oneself in candlelight and conversation. At one, the toast was to the Continental Congress. People raised their glasses. But the commander noticed one glass still on the table. His countenance, which even acquaintances said tended to be icy, turned toward the girl in the room. The most powerful man in America was staring directly at Margaret. “Miss Moncrieffe, you don’t drink your wine,” Washington observed.

  Silence. The words were spoken with the clear solemnity of a superior addressing a disobedient child.