New York abstained, its delegates clearly fearful of an English occupation. Should they vote in favor of independence, only to have the British capture New York, they will certainly be put to death.
South Carolinian Edward Rutledge, who at age twenty-six was the youngest member of Congress, requested a second and final vote the following day, in the hope that the members of his delegation could be swayed to change their minds. Now, as the Congress prepares to take its final vote, Jefferson cannot help but notice that a new momentum fills the room. Last night, as many delegates were drinking at the City Tavern,2 the news arrived from New York that more than one hundred British warships now filled the harbor. It is, in fact, the largest invasion force of the century, an assemblage of men and warships designed by King George to crush the rebel movement.
Hearing that devastating news, John Dickinson made a bold statement: still unwilling to vote for independence but knowing that the future of the nation depended upon a unanimous vote, he has stayed home. Rather than debate this matter in Congress, Dickinson has now chosen to fight the British as a member of the Pennsylvania militia. His conscience will not allow him to vote for independence, but that same conscience cannot endure the wholesale slaughter of American patriots.
Dickinson’s defection from the vote means that Pennsylvania is no longer aligned with the king.
* * *
For Thomas Jefferson, independence is the only choice. This is not an emotional decision, but one based on his belief that all men are “endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” in his own words. All men, that is, except slaves.3
Jefferson believes that power is achieved by overwhelming argument. Thus, he has chosen to begin the Declaration of Independence by using reason to state what must be done:
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.
The Virginian is proud of these words. He crafted them knowing that King George might himself someday read them, and that the hope for colonial independence depended upon their precision and logic. But he is also aware that they are just words on a piece of paper. Unless Congress casts a unanimous vote in favor of independence, the king will prevail.
Despite the small breeze blowing through the open windows, the muggy Philadelphia heat is intense. Jefferson, who methodically grooms himself with a washcloth each morning, now sweats through his linen shirt and cravat.4 His coat and vest are not snug on his lank, lean frame, but the summer humidity makes them feel heavy against his skin. It is likewise for the other delegates, some of whom use the excuse of slipping away to use the congressional privy at Fifth and Chestnut to make a quick stop at a local tavern.
John Hancock calls for a final vote on independence. Jefferson is focused, his quill pen poised to take his usual careful notes.
Secretary Charles Thomson calls the roll, beginning with the delegation from New Hampshire. Suddenly, Delaware representative Caesar Rodney strides into the room.5 His boots are spattered in mud, his riding coat drenched with rain. Rodney is an odd-looking man. In the words of John Adams, he is “tall, thin and slender as a reed, pale; his face is not bigger than a large apple, yet there is sense and fire, spirit, wit and humor in this countenance.”
When Rodney received word at midnight about the split Delaware vote, he saddled a horse and rode eighty miles, braving lightning and cloudbursts, determined to break the tie in his delegation.
Rodney is pale and hungry. His face is ravaged by the cancer in his jaw that is slowly killing him. Too exhausted to stand, he is led to the Delaware delegation’s table and slumps into a high-backed chair to await his turn.
State by state, Thomson calls the roll.
The Assembly Room is otherwise silent.
Each of the state’s delegates stands when his name is called. New Hampshire immediately votes in favor of independence. Then Georgia. When Delaware is called to cast its vote, delegate Thomas McKean helps Rodney to his feet. McKean has cast a vote in favor of independence once again. George Read of Delaware has again voted no.
Rodney breaks that tie. The midnight rider may be on the verge of collapse, but he cannot help but stray beyond a simple “aye” or “nay” in casting his historical vote. “As I believe the voice of my constituents and all sensible and honest men are in favor of independence,” Rodney states clearly, “my own judgment concurs with them. I vote for independence.”
Pennsylvania then votes “aye.” Delegate Robert Morris has joined John Dickinson by failing to attend the session. In their absence, Benjamin Franklin guides the Pennsylvania vote.
In a surprising effort to align themselves with the majority and make the Declaration unanimous, South Carolina changes its vote.
New York once again abstains. This Loyalist stronghold is the most important British colony in America.
With twelve votes for and zero votes against, the decision is considered unanimous.
Charles Thomson carefully tabulates the votes. Thomas Jefferson sits just a few feet away as the secretary hands the results to Hancock. The president of the Second Continental Congress then reads them aloud.
“Resolved,” the record will read, “that these united colonies are, and of right, ought to be, free and independent states. That they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain, is, and ought to be, totally dissolved.”
The Assembly Room explodes in cheers. The excited delegates rise as one to congratulate one another on this historic moment.
John Adams, the man who dreamed of independence long before it was considered practical, writes home to his wife, Abigail, in Boston: “Ought to be commemorated as the Day of Deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forward forever more.”6
Thomas Jefferson, his vision validated, breaks his usual stoicism. A broad smile crosses his face as he shakes the hand of Benjamin Franklin. The two men are not personally close but have deep respect for each other.
John Hancock pounds his gavel to restore order.
* * *
Thirty-one days later, at 9:00 a.m. on August 2, Thomas Jefferson bears witness as his Declaration of Independence is formally signed by the members of Congress. News about the vote severing America’s relationship with England has ricocheted around the colonies. Printed copies of Jefferson’s final document have been read aloud in public squares near and far. The people of Philadelphia have used it as an excuse for bonfires and hard drinking. In New York, after George Washington reads it aloud to his troops, an excited mob tears down the oversize statue of King George in Lower Manhattan. The monument is then melted down and the lead formed into thousands of musket balls, which will be fired upon the British as they fight the Americans for control of New York City.
Despite the revelry, Thomas Jefferson is still anxious. He is eager to leave the Congress to be with his wife, Martha, who has become very ill. And the Virginian is hardly pleased at what Congress has done to his original Declaration. Their line-by-line rewrite is so tedious, in Jefferson’s estimation, that he has printed out his own original version to show friends as a reminder of how the Declaration should have read.7
There is nothing, however, that Jefferson can do about that now. It is time to formally sign the Declaration of Independence. John Hancock signs first, in a big looping script so large that many will joke that he was trying to ensure that King George can read his name without the use of glasses. One by one, the other del
egates step forward. They sign north to south, right to left, so that the last delegation to sign is that of Georgia. Thomas McKean is the last man to put his name on the document.
The process is informal, with some men signing illegibly, such as Thomas Heyward Jr., from South Carolina. Others, such as Samuel Adams from Massachusetts, sign their common name. In Adams’s case, his signature will go down in history as just “Sam Adams.”
When it comes his turn to sign, Jefferson rises and stands in line directly behind Richard Henry Lee, the man who began the process by proposing independence on June 8. Lee signs in the fourth column. Jefferson takes a pen and affixes his signature directly below Lee’s, forever aligning them as fellow Virginians at a moment in time that will change the world.
Each man who signs has just committed an act of treason against the Crown. His life, family, and property are now in dire jeopardy. In time, the British will ride to Monticello in search of Thomas Jefferson, and those fears will be realized.
Right now, though, the prospect of terror is secondary to Jefferson’s anguish over Martha. He will find himself bereft throughout the month of August, desperate to return to her side.
Finally, as September arrives, Jefferson can take no more. His work here is done. He resigns from the Congress and rides home to Martha.
But for the warriors who must risk their lives in battle to see Jefferson’s vision become reality, the struggle for independence has just begun.
8
BROOKLYN HEIGHTS, NEW YORK
AUGUST 22, 1776
EVENING
George Washington can only wonder when and where the British will attack. Severe lightning and summer storms have devastated New York over the past few days, killing several citizens. It is a time of worry and preparation for the general, who is determined to hold the city at all costs.
Throughout July and August, a stalemate has existed between the rebels and the British, with the Americans holding Manhattan Island and Brooklyn Heights, while the British have remained on the other side of New York Harbor, at a sparsely populated place called Staten Island. The British forces number thirty-two thousand men—a figure almost twice that of New York City’s population of eighteen thousand.
Washington is unsure as to whether the main attack will be on Manhattan or Brooklyn. Thus, the summer has been spent building forts and redoubts in both locations. His army preferred Manhattan, where prostitutes and gin houses were plentiful. Brooklyn was more of a wilderness, but here Washington ordered the construction of eight fortresses and instituted a “scorched earth” policy by removing all grain and cattle from outlying areas to deprive the enemy of their use.
The rebel army swung pickaxes and shovels as they excavated the defensive trenches and berms that will protect them from a British invasion. They chopped down trees for a hundred yards in every direction, creating a barren killing zone where no redcoat would be safe from fire. Sharpened tree trunks project from redoubts, there to impede British soldiers who make it through the fields of fire. They’ve scattered thick copses of branches known as an abatis around the earthworks to entangle British soldiers. Finally, cannon have been situated within each fort for maximum killing effect. Thirty rounds of ammunition are stacked near each artillery piece, ready to be fired.
George Washington knows the artillery will soon be put to use—it is only a matter of time until the British attack.
That time is now.
* * *
It is Thursday, August 22, and the British fleet sails unopposed to Brooklyn, landing fifteen thousand British troops and five thousand German mercenaries called Hessians. Six hundred New York Loyalists and eight hundred escaped slaves quickly join the British cause.
A spy erroneously reports to General Washington that the number of invading troops is half that many, leading the general to believe that the invasion is a distraction from a second, larger attack. Thus, Washington divides his army, leaving a portion on Manhattan and sending just six thousand troops to Brooklyn.
“The enemy have now landed on Long Island,” George Washington exhorts his troops on August 23.1 “The hour is fast approaching in which the honor and success of the army, and the safety of our bleeding country, will depend.”
The general concludes by reminding his solders to “Be cool, but determined; do not fire at a distance, but wait for orders from your officers—It is the general’s express orders that if any man attempts to skulk, lay down [sic], or retreat without orders—he be instantly shot down as an example.”
With careful precision, the British set up camp. Soon, a sprawling city of white tents covers the southern plain of Brooklyn. There, the British prepare for the imminent battle—drilling, polishing muskets and bayonets, cleaning artillery barrels, and marching in formation. British regulars are routinely commanded to shave, bathe, and change their clothing. Discipline is paramount.2
The American soldiers, on the other hand, show an utter lack of discipline. Hunting shirts and tomahawks are more common than military uniforms, and deep rivalries exist among the various colonies. Thanks to poor sanitation habits, a large number of the American troops now suffer from dysentery. These are not the men who fought for Washington six months ago in Boston, for almost all those soldiers returned home after their short service. Instead, Brooklyn is defended by a motley assemblage of soldiers from all walks of life: farmers, manual laborers, and the unemployed. Many are shoeless. The average age is twenty, with some younger than fifteen and others well past forty. Most are poorly trained in the art of warfare. Among them are fortune seekers drawn to the war by an offer of a steady paycheck, the possibility of a postwar land grant, or simply a steady meal. Few are socially prominent in their home communities. Most, in the eyes of America’s more financially successful colonists, are expendable.
LEGEND HERE
Between the British lines along the southern shore and the American defenses in Brooklyn Heights runs a rocky ridge four miles long, covered in a thick forest of ash, oak, and chestnut trees that provide cover for the defending rebels.
* * *
After four days of preparation, the British march. They leave campfires burning to make it appear to the American scouts that nothing is afoot. Only the “necessary women” and other camp followers remain behind to tend the flames. The moon is not yet full and the night air is chilly as they advance slowly and silently toward the American lines. The force soon splits, with one column advancing directly toward Brooklyn Heights while a larger column, numbering fourteen thousand light infantry, cavalry, and artillery, begins a long, looping pivot around the back of the American lines. Their goal is to advance through Jamaica Pass and then attack the rebel forces from the rear.
It is this second column that gives British general Howe pause. Sending such a large body of men on a lengthy flanking maneuver is a risky gamble on his part, but should it succeed, the Americans will be at his mercy. The British lack accurate maps of the countryside, so when a British column passes a small settlement at 2:00 a.m., the general steps into the local tavern and rouses the owner and his family.
“General Howe and another officer were standing in the barroom,” the tavern owner’s son, William Howard Jr., will later remember.
Howe wears a thick tweed cloak and asks for “a glass of liquor.” After taking a drink, he demands that Howard guide his army through the night.
“We belong to the other side, General. And can’t serve you against our duty,” Mr. Howard replies.
“You have no alternative,” Howe replies coolly. “If you refuse, I shall have you shot in the head.”
Thus, led by William Howard and his son, the British continue their silent march. The moon sets at 3:00 a.m., allowing the British to advance cautiously through Jamaica Pass, an undefended portal over the ridgeline. When five American scouts fall in alongside them, mistakenly believing in the darkness that the British are rebel soldiers, the Americans are easily taken prisoner. In all, the second British column marches nine miles be
fore sunrise. General Howe’s bold gamble to flank the American lines has succeeded.
Upon hearing the news, George Washington races across the East River from his Manhattan headquarters.
What follows is a day of continuous fighting, with the surrounded American troops battling desperately against a fighting force superior in numbers, weaponry, and discipline. The British adopt a tactic of allowing the Americans to fire a volley, and then rushing into their ranks to bayonet them as they reload. One group of Americans breaks in terror and finds its way blocked by a thick marsh. Under a hail of British bullets, many become mired in the muck and can no longer run. They are shot down. Others in this same group reach the safety of deeper water, only to drown.
All the while, George Washington rides along the American lines, demanding that the troops fight “like men, like soldiers.”
“Good God,” he adds, “what brave fellows I must this day lose.”
Then comes a crucial mistake. At a time when General Howe could press the attack and seize the entire area of Brooklyn, he orders a halt to the fighting. The American casualties now number in the thousands, but the British have lost fewer than one hundred men.3 Howe is determined to wait for yet another moment of advantage, so that he might finish the slaughter while minimizing his losses. He lacks ladders for scaling the American redoubts and tools to cut away the sharpened stakes jutting outward from the rebel fortifications, and he needs more artillery to begin a proper siege.
These requisitions will take time. But the conditions on the East River will prevent the Americans from getting away by boat. The image in Howe’s mind is that thousands of rebel soldiers are dug in and prepared to fight. Now is the time for patience. The British general withdraws his troops to a small clearing beyond the range of American muskets and makes camp.
* * *
Killing England Page 9
