Henry Laurens was born in Charleston, South Carolina, on 6 March 1724. His French Protestant parents had emigrated to the New World some years earlier to escape the deprivations imposed on all Protestants by the Catholic French crown. Henry’s father was a saddle-maker who prospered well enough to provide his son with the best education the colonies had to offer. By the time Henry was twenty years old, his father realised that if the boy was going to climb the ladder of society and business he would have to go abroad to further his education and make whatever social contacts he could.
For three years, beginning in 1744, Henry Laurens lived in London, serving an apprenticeship in the mercantile shipping business. Evidently the lad showed promise. As he was preparing to return to America, a London commercial house wrote to him with the offer of a partnership in their growing business. The letter followed Henry through London to Portsmouth, only missing the ship on which he had booked passage back to the colonies by five hours. Had the letter reached him, the course of his life and the history of three nations would have been irrevocably altered.
Back in Charleston, Henry went into partnership with two other men in a general mercantile partnership, acting as middlemen who arranged to ship their clients’ goods from America to England, bringing British and European goods back to the colonies on the return run. Exporting predominantly raw materials such as unprocessed rice, deerskins, indigo and rum, and importing luxury items including wine, indentured servants and slaves, the firm prospered to the point where, by 1750, Laurens had married Eleanor Ball, started a family and begun to buy sizeable tracts of plantation land around Charleston. If he was to supply rice and indigo to the European market, it made good business sense to produce them himself.
For a decade, Laurens’ business and family prospered, but by 1760 Henry’s conscience and religious convictions brought him to the conclusion that the slave trade was immoral. When his partners objected to the idea of forgoing their most profitable cargo, there was a terrible row. Finally, Henry left the firm, taking with him three ships that were registered in his name. He would continue trading, but now it would be mostly the produce of his own plantations. At thirty-eight years of age, Henry Laurens owned eight plantations covering more than 20,000 acres, three ships and a part-interest in two more vessels.
He now devoted his time to his family and his own enterprises with a staunch morality that brought him an unassailable reputation for honesty, and made numerous enemies in the business world. On three separate occasions Laurens was forced into duels to defend his honour, but on each occasion he refused to fire his pistol.
In 1770, Henry’s wife Eleanor died, leaving her husband to look after the four surviving children of the twelve she had borne him. To escape his grief and provide his two sons with the same advantages that his father had given him, Henry took the boys, Henry Jr and John, to London where he enrolled them in university. After taking a house in Westminster, Henry looked after his shipping business, corresponded with his plantations and cared for the boys and their education. He also took advantage of his extensive business, political and social contacts to argue the case for the American colonies’ growing list of grievances against the crown.
Always a political moderate, Laurens firmly believed the problems between the colonies and the mother country could be solved amicably. Many of his British opposite numbers held the same opinion, and he and his friends petitioned the House of Commons, the House of Lords and the crown itself to do everything possible to ease the increasingly tense political situation in America. Always, Laurens believed the best course of action was not confrontation, but a negotiated settlement that would benefit both Britain and America. If such a solution could be reached, the ties between the two countries would be stronger than ever; if not, the economic damage to both sides could be devastating.
Henry Laurens understood all too well the revolutionary fervour that had already gripped a minority of his countrymen. During the Stamp Act crisis in 1765, mobs incensed at England’s imposition of a tax on imported goods stormed through Charleston, ransacking Laurens’ home in the mistaken belief that he was a royalist agent. In Henry Laurens’ words, these revolutionaries ‘seem forced and impelled to do very improper acts to support a very good cause’.
If Laurens had ample reason to fear America’s revolutionary mob mentality, he also had personal experience of the arbitrary manner used by English bureaucrats when dealing with their colonial subjects. While Laurens was living in England with his sons, the Royal Navy seized two of his ships for a frivolous breach of maritime law. Dutifully running the maze of legalities imposed by the maritime courts, when his case finally came to trial Laurens was so incensed by the court’s rude and insulting behaviour that he leaned across the bench and twisted the judge’s nose. Eventually he managed to get his ships back, and avoid being sent to jail for contempt of court, but the incident probably hastened his return to America. In the autumn of 1774 Henry Laurens and his son John left England, while Henry Jr remained behind to continue his education.
Two weeks before Christmas 1774, Henry Laurens arrived in Charleston, only to discover the story of his altercation with the maritime judge had preceded him. In the super-heated revolutionary atmosphere that now pervaded America, Henry Laurens had become a local hero. Within less than a month of his return, Laurens found himself elected to the First Provisional Congress of South Carolina, established when the old royalist government had been ousted from office only months earlier. Despite his continued advocacy of a negotiated settlement, within six months Laurens was promoted to President of the Congress and appointed President of the twelve-member Council of Safety, charged with overseeing South Carolina’s defences in case of a British attack. The international situation now deteriorated at an ever-accelerating rate. Within six months the war of words spiralled into open fighting. Britain and America were at war and Henry Laurens, along with every other American politician, had been branded a rebel and traitor to the crown. On a personal level, Laurens’ family, like those of so many of his countrymen, was torn apart by war. Henry Jr could not return to America and Henry Sr could not go to England. But for the moment, Laurens had more pressing problems than his own family.
With most of the colonies’ fledgling army and navy scrambling to defend the northern ports of Boston, New York and Philadelphia, the port of Charleston was left dangerously exposed to attack. No troops could be spared from the continental army and South Carolina did not have the money to raise an effective militia of its own. Making the situation worse, many of the able-bodied white men in South Carolina feared that if they left their plantations their slaves would escape or break into open revolt.
Faced with the imminent threat of blockade, Charleston called on Henry Laurens, as the President of the Council of Safety, to oversee construction of fortifications and raise whatever military force he could to defend the city. Laurens agreed, but insisted on a free hand in organising the regiment as he saw fit. Everyone agreed, but they were hardly prepared for Henry Laurens’ proposal. In letters to the South Carolina Congress and the Continental Congress, Laurens envisioned a militia comprised entirely of free blacks and volunteer slaves.
Considering the radical nature of the idea, the amount of high-level support was probably more than Laurens could have hoped for. South Carolina’s representative to the Continental Congress took the idea one step further, suggesting that because plantation owners and overseers ‘must remain at home to prevent revolts among the Negroes . . . [All] the thirteen states should arm three thousand of the most vigorous and enterprising Negroes under the command of white officers.’
Further support came from young Alexander Hamilton, then acting as aide-de-camp to General George Washington. Hamilton wrote, ‘The Negroes will make excellent soldiers . . . [but] this project will have to combat prejudice and self-interest. Contempt for the Blacks makes us fancy many things that are founded neither on reason or experience. . . . Give them their freedom with their muskets; this w
ill secure their fidelity, animate their courage, and have a good influence upon those who remain, by opening the door for their emancipation . . .’
While many slave owners were understandably opposed to the plan, the strongest objection came from George Washington. Washington insisted that Negroes simply could not handle such a complex job of soldiering and threatened to remove Laurens from command of the Charleston defensive project if he persisted with his plan. Although a slave owner himself, Laurens was outraged at Washington’s attitude. Armed with the letters from South Carolina’s congressional representative and Alexander Hamilton, Laurens set about building his black militia as quickly as possible. Charleston was running out of time.
By May 1776 the British had overrun neighbouring Georgia and most of the territory between Savannah and Charleston was seething with red coats who were busily confiscating slaves or urging them into open revolt against their owners. Weeks later, in early June, the British attempted a sea-borne assault on Charleston, but thanks to Laurens and his black soldiers, it was impossible for them to land any troops. Before the end of the month the British gave up and sailed out of Charleston harbour. Henry Laurens was again a local hero, but Washington and his supporters in Congress would never forgive his insubordination.
Had Laurens ever given the matter a second thought, he might have assumed he could escape Washington’s ire simply by staying in South Carolina and continuing the defence of Charleston. If so, he would have been wrong. Swept along on a tide of popular approval, Laurens was elected to the Continental Congress in January 1777. By July of that year Laurens had taken his seat in Congress, then meeting in Philadelphia, and began serving on several important committees despite the opposition of the strong Washingtonian party. At least Laurens had a powerful supporter in the person of John Hancock, author of the Declaration of Independence and President of the Congress. When Hancock stepped down as president in November 1777 his hand-picked successor was Henry Laurens.
Now saddled with the awesome job of holding the radically factionalised congress together, Laurens continued to petition the English government to recognise America as a sovereign state while simultaneously supporting the continental army in its war against Britain. It was a no-win situation and even Congress could not form a consensus on the best course of action. Political infighting and personal interests kept congressmen continually at each others’ throats and the majority of them refused to cooperate with Henry Laurens simply because he had defied General Washington.
To be fair to all concerned, the American Congress of 1777 was operating against impossible odds. As Washington’s army met with one defeat after another, congressional membership sometimes dropped as low as fifteen and political allegiances shifted almost daily. Still, Laurens did his best to make some kind of progress, often working twenty hours a day. Always personally sensitive and moral to the point of being stiff-necked, as tempers frayed on all sides, Laurens’ contentious relations with the congressmen continued to deteriorate. When Congress proposed an alliance with England’s enemy, France, Laurens insisted that the Dutch would make better allies. He referred to the French as ‘artful, specious half-friends’, and pointed out that Holland, although Britain’s ally, had continually expressed its disapproval over the handling of the American colonies. Furthermore, the Dutch were wealthy, had a far stronger naval power than the French, and (like America) were also largely Protestant. But Laurens’ arguments fell on deaf ears. Either because they firmly believed the French would make better allies than the Dutch, or simply to spite Henry Laurens, Congress would not back a Dutch treaty. If Henry Laurens wanted to strike a deal with the Dutch, he would have to shoulder the entire affair himself.
After a year of battling and backstabbing, Henry Laurens could no longer hold up under the pressure of his job. In December 1778 he resigned as President of the American Continental Congress. In a letter, he stated that he did not approve of the manner in which business was transacted in Congress, accusing his fellow congressmen of ‘venality, peculation and fraud’. He did, however, retain his seat as South Carolina’s representative and began making cautious overtures to the Dutch for aid in America’s war with the British. After more than two years of delicate manoeuvring, the Dutch agreed to resume trade with the United States and provide a $10,000,000 war loan. It was a major coup, but congress remained unimpressed. Laurens had negotiated the deal, now he could work out how to get the treaty to Holland for ratification.
In an emergency session of Congress, Henry Laurens was appointed the United States’ first Ambassador to The Netherlands. The appointment was hardly an honour. He had no choice but to try to run the naval blockade that choked off America’s Atlantic coast and get the treaty ratified by himself. For their part, fellow members of Congress were glad to be rid of Henry Laurens.
On 30 August 1780 Laurens boarded the Mercury, a merchant brigantine based in Philadelphia. With him was a waterproof briefcase containing a draft of the Dutch–American treaty and papers identifying him as the US Ambassador to The Netherlands. As the ship slipped out to sea, Laurens was under no delusion as to his chances of making it across the Atlantic without running into Britain’s Royal Navy. Up and down the coast and all across the ocean the American navy had been subjected to the same trouncing at sea as the continental army had been taking on land. Only pure luck would see the Mercury safely to Holland.
Clinging to the coast as long as possible, the Mercury sailed north along New England, creeping slowly towards Canadian waters. Once in the cold, fog-bound sea around Newfoundland the ship broke away from land and headed into the vast ocean – directly into the path of the British naval frigate Vestal. As the heavily armed gunboat bore down on the unarmed merchantman, Laurens was torn as to what to do. If he destroyed the treaty, his mission was ruined even if the Mercury was not seized; on the other hand, if the ship were taken and the papers discovered, it would almost certainly mean his life. Only when it became obvious that the Mercury was being forced to ‘heave-to’ did Laurens toss his diplomatic pouch overboard. But it was too late. As the Vestal eased alongside the American ship a British sailor spotted the oilskin pouch bobbing in the water. As British sailors swarmed over the railings of the Mercury the pouch was fished out of the water with a boarding pike. The papers were all the evidence the British needed. The Mercury was an enemy ship on a mission of war. Henry Laurens was taken into custody on ‘suspicion of high treason’.
When the Vestal reached London, Laurens was immediately taken to Whitehall to be interrogated and formally charged. The contents of the diplomatic pouch made the British authorities fully aware of the importance of their prisoner and his mission. The joint Secretaries of State would carry out questioning and, in deference to his high office Laurens would not be subjected to a public trial. He was, however, mercilessly grilled for more than three weeks. Throughout the questioning, Laurens steadfastly insisted that his title as Ambassador and former President of the Continental Congress gave him diplomatic immunity from prosecution. Even in the face of repeated threats of hanging, Laurens refused to answer any questions about his mission, the interim American government or any other questions – the exact intent of which seemed unclear. The British, however, saw the matter differently. Since there had been no formal recognition of the new American government, Henry Laurens was a rebel, pure and simple. He was still officially a subject of the British Crown and therefore guilty of high treason.
Still, Laurens refused to cooperate. No matter. The draft of the treaty was all the evidence the court needed. The rebels were negotiating with Britain’s Dutch allies. This was a clear act of treason on the part of the colonials and a betrayal of loyalty tantamount to an act of war by the Dutch.
On 6 October, Henry Laurens was convicted of high treason and told that his status as a convicted traitor made it impossible for him to be exchanged as a prisoner of war. He was sentenced by the Secretary for State who, in consideration of Laurens’ diplomatic status, told him, ‘You are to
be sent to the Tower of London, not a prison, you must have no idea of a prison.’ Laurens may not have understood the difference between the Tower and a common prison, but to the English authorities it was clear; the rebel American was being treated as though he were nobility.
If Laurens’ sentence was more than equitable by eighteenth-century standards, the punishment meted out to the Dutch was both swift and brutal. The combined might of the Royal Navy on the eastern shores of the Atlantic, along with thousands of regular army troops fighting in nearby France, descended on Holland with a fury. Within weeks Dutch defences were broken and their navy was left a burning wreck. American relations with Holland were nearly destroyed and there would be no monetary aid for the colonies. And both America and Holland blamed the débâcle on Henry Laurens.
As Holland and the proposed alliance went down in flames, Henry Laurens was transferred from his temporary quarters to the Tower of London. In what must have been one of history’s most peculiar displays of good will, when Laurens’ carriage pulled through the outer gates and on to Tower Green, it was greeted by dozens of armed wardens merrily singing ‘Yankee Doodle’. He dismounted from the carriage stone-faced, to be led to the Lieutenant of the Tower. The Lieutenant General, Mr Vernon, told Laurens that rather than being placed in one of the damp, ancient cells he would be quartered in a warden’s house located on the Parade, one of the most public areas of the Tower complex. Unimpressed, Laurens was even more disheartened when he was shown to his rooms.
According to a letter written to a friend in London, Laurens was ‘shut up in two small rooms . . . a warder my constant companion; and a [guard with a] fixed bayonet under my window’. Laurens’ situation seemed to worsen when, according to the same letter, ‘I discovered I was to pay rent for my little rooms, find my own meat and drink, bedding, coal, candles &c.’ However awful Laurens thought his punishment was, he could not have known that such treatment was normally reserved for respected political prisoners of the highest calibre.
Tales From the Tower of London Page 21
