American Rebels

by Nina Sankovitch

  Not a breath of air came in through the opened windows of the State House, and when the delegates went outside, heat rose in damp mists off the cobblestones. Even in the shade of trees, men broiled in their breeches, jackets, and wigs. Requests were made to move Congress to a meeting place farther north; Hartford in Connecticut was suggested.

  But the delegates remained in Philadelphia, sweaty and grim, and with, as John Adams described it, “an amazing Field of Business, before us.” If only he could push resolution of the “Business” toward his goals of unified resistance to Britain.15

  * * *

  Aaron Burr arrived in Fairfield in the middle of May to pay a visit to his cousin Thaddeus; he had traveled from Litchfield, Connecticut, where he was studying law under the guidance of Tapping Reeve. Thaddeus Burr wrote to Reeve about the effect of having such a handsome, charming, and young man under his roof: “Mrs. Hancock [Lydia] is vastly pleased with him. And, as to Miss Quincy, if Mr. H. were out of the way I don’t know but she would court him.”16

  Dolly found Aaron fascinating, and according to a friend of Dolly, “he was much charmed with Miss Quincy.”17 Summer was settling in and the pair found themselves spending the lengthening days together. Eyebrows were raised, along with concerns. In the end, Aunt Lydia had to step in: “Madame Hancock kept a jealous eye on them both and would not allow any advances … toward the prize reserved for her nephew.”18

  The careful aunt might also have written to John, urging him to set the date for the marriage and make Miss Quincy a married woman. Perhaps under Lydia’s prodding, Thaddeus Burr ushered his cousin along, urging him on his way. By mid-June, Aaron Burr was gone.

  All this time John was writing to Dolly and sending her gifts from the elegant shops of Philadelphia: silk stockings, satin shoes, a hat, a cloak, caps, a fan. He asked for nothing in return but a letter: “I have asked a million questions and [received] not an answer to one.… I really take it extremely unkind.… I beg my dear Dolly, you will write me often and long letters. I will forgive the past if you will mend in the future.” And just one more thing: he asked that she make for him “a watch string … I want something of your doing.”19

  Her words to ease his heart and her handiwork to hold fast his watch—Dolly felt the justice of his requests, and perhaps a bit of guilt for her dalliance with Burr. She wrote to John and sent him a watch string she had made out of scarlet- and gold-colored ribbons. But the letter she penned was not long enough for John and he wrote back to her: “I dearly love you should be particular, pray write me one long Letter, fill the whole paper, you can do it if you only set about it.” He signed, as he always did, “Yours forever.”20

  Aunt Lydia, intent on making their union fixed, still hoped for a summer wedding. But so much stood in the way: the workings of Congress; Governor Gage and his troops; and the uncertain future of Massachusetts, its villages under threat and Boston under siege. She prayed that peace and normalcy could return, if only long enough to allow her John to marry his Dolly.

  * * *

  On May 21, 1775, Abigail Adams woke to the ringing of church bells and the beating of drums. Tumbling down the stairs, she heard shouts and screaming, and then the firing of guns. Abigail recognized the signal of the alarm shots. Braintree was under attack—or was it Weymouth from whence came the ringing of the bells? Were her parents in danger?

  Abigail ran to the front door of the farmhouse and looked toward the sea. She saw neither ships on the coast nor British soldiers marching up the Plymouth road. She sent Isaac, one of her tenant farmers, to the village green for news. He brought back the news, and just moments later, a message arrived from her mother: “3 Sloops and one cutter had come out, and dropped anchor just below Great Hill. It was difficult to tell their design, some supposed they were coming to Germantown others to Weymouth.” The Smiths were all in “great distress” and her aunt Tufts had become hysterical; she “had her Bed thrown into a cart, into which she got herself, and orderd the boy to drive her off to Bridgwater which he did.”21

  The alarm, which “flew like lightning,” brought militiamen from all around Braintree, including one company led by Elihu Adams, brother of John. Elihu met his men on the training field beside the old burying ground and then marched south to Weymouth.

  As they walked along the coast, they could see the British troops, going from their sloops to the shores of Grape Island off Weymouth. The small island was owned by a local Loyalist, Elisha Leavitt, who used it for storing forage for cattle and horses. It was clear what the British were up to: they needed food for their horses.

  Meeting up with the Weymouth militia, the colonists now numbered close to two thousand. They broke up into groups and spread out along the Weymouth shoreline; at the signal, they began to fire at the British, who had landed on the island and were dragging large bales of hay down to the edge of the water to load onto their boats. The British returned fire, but the distance between the island and the shoreline was too far for either side to make contact. Nevertheless, the exchange of shots drove the British back to their boats and kept them from returning to the low barn filled with dried grasses and the rows upon rows of hay stacked outside.

  A slew of Braintree men finally loaded onto a boat, and while the others kept firing at the British, they landed on the far side of Grape Island. They shimmied through the grass and bushes and set fire to the rows of piled forage. The fire burned through the bales of dried herds-grass and clover; then the barn caught fire. It burned for hours, until only a shell of charred wood remained. The British returned to Boston with only a meager supply of hay for their horses, and the men of Braintree and Weymouth called it a victory for their side.

  Abigail rejoiced in their success but feared more attacks from the British were on the way: “We know not what a day will bring forth, nor what distress one hour may throw us into.”

  A steady stream of people continued to arrive at the farmhouse, so close to the Plymouth road that led south out of Boston. Colonial soldiers came for “lodging, for Breakfast, for Supper, for Drink,” along with scores of “refugees from Boston tired and fatigued,” seeking shelter “for a Day or Night, week.” She wrote to John, “you can hardly imagine how we live” and prayed that she could maintain both her “calmness and presence of Mind,” while chaos seemed always at the door.22

  Not only chaos but hunger: Abigail feared that another dry summer was on its way, as no rain had fallen for weeks. If her early crops failed, there would be less to eat, and less to sell or barter. Her tenant farmers paid her little respect, and she feared they might abandon their parcels, leaving her to farm the fields on her own. The farm, the children, the tide of refugees seeking food and shelter: it was all too much. She begged John to write to her. Was there any good news to bring her solace, fortify her reserves? “I have not heard one Syllable from Providence since I wrote you last. I wait to hear from you.”23

  As difficult as life was in Braintree, life in Boston was even harder. Abigail heard the stories from those fleeing the city and wrote to John that the “Distresses of the inhabitants of Boston are beyond the power of language to describe.”24 In addition to the growing scourge of smallpox, municipal services were nonexistent: the streets were filled with filth; grass grew wild and tall between buildings, while the previously lovely Common had become a dusty, pock-ridden pit; public and private buildings were falling into disrepair.

  The firing of arms could be heard all day long. There were skirmishes between British troops, lighting on islands like Hog Island and Noddle Island in search of supplies of food and forage, and the colonists who defended the islands and their resources from ravenous Brits. And the British Army carried out drills to the beat of drums throughout the day. Accompanying the sound of drums and gunfire were the church bells, which rang with regularity to mark yet another death in the town. Only at night, with the curfew imposed by Gage’s martial law, was there silence.

  Worse than the crumbling conditions or pervasive noise was the con
stant spectre of hunger. Farmers feared approaching the city and no longer sent supplies of eggs, vegetables, and meat; as one British soldier wrote home, “with no market, the inhabitants are starving.”25 The British themselves weren’t faring much better, suffering from scurvy, malnutrition, and a rising sense of futility.

  Jonathan Sewall somehow remained optimistic. He and Esther had settled with their children in a large and “convenient house … with a garden … [and all were] in good health and spirits.”26 With his wealth, he was able to secure foodstuffs enough; the garden could be cultivated, if necessary.

  Sewall managed to ignore the fact that his family was captive in Boston. But Esther could not forget that her father and siblings were outside the fortifications surrounding Boston; inside those walls she was lonely, with little social life to be enjoyed, no evening parties or afternoon teas. The children were home all the time, with no schools in session and nowhere to go in Boston for an outing or fresh air.

  The days passed, and while Jonathan admitted that in fact their confinement in town had been “a long, dark, stormy night,” his optimism persevered; by early June he was insisting that he could “see daylight … I begin to hope the storm has almost spent itself.”27 He was sure that soon things would return to normal.

  Other Loyalists were not so sure. They were leaving Boston for Canada or England by the boatload. John Rowe recorded in his journal weekly departures of men he had known for years but now would never see again: “I sincerely wish their prosperity and happiness.”28

  The British occupation drove Samuel Quincy to make a fateful decision; he would leave Boston to go to England on his own, while his wife, Hannah, and their three children went to Cambridge to live with her brother, Henry Hill, and his wife, Amelia. Sam wrote in a letter to Henry Hill that his journey was “to hazard the unstable element … to change the scene. Whether it will be prosperous or adverse is not for me to determine. I pray to God … that my deportment may be guided by that Wisdom, ‘whose Ways are Ways of Pleasantness, and all her paths, Peace.’”29

  He promised that “if I cannot Save my country, which I shall endeavor to the utmost of my Power, I will never betray it.”30 What was his meaning? Was Sam finally choosing a side—or was his goal to promote peace between the colonies and England, no matter the cost?

  His brother had failed to secure peace for the colonies while in England; Samuel perhaps thought that he would not fail, that he would be able to get through to the English leaders and barter some kind of reconciliation: “There never was a time when sincerity and affectionate Unity of Heart could be more necessary than at present … in the midst of the Confusion that darkens our native Land, we may … by a rectitude of Conduct, entertain a rational hope, that the Almighty Governor of the Universe, will in his own time, Remember Mercy.”31 And the king of England might too be merciful—if approached the right way. Samuel intended to try.

  Hannah Quincy Lincoln wrote to her brother from Braintree, furious with Sam for what she saw as an abandonment of family and country. “You are my only brother … our two departed brothers died upon the seas; you will perhaps say your body is sound, it may be so, but [you are] sick in mind.”

  Extolling the virtues of her two dead brothers, both with hearts “inflamed with patriot zeal,” she scorned Samuel for leaving Boston; “Let it not be told in America, and let it not be published in Great Britain, that a brother of such brothers fled from his country … to enlist as a sycophant under an obnoxious Hutchinson.”32

  She saw no possibility of success in any alleged petition for peace from North and prophesied that Sam’s entreaties would be “blown aside with a cool, ‘tomorrow Sir.’” She urged Samuel to stay home, seeking no greatness in politics but instead “greatness of soul.”

  There was no country better than America, she counseled—“a land flowing with milk and honey; and in which as yet iniquity of all kinds is punished and its Religion as yet free from Idolatry.” Hannah feared that Samuel would become lost in England, a victim to its labyrinths of corruption, greed, and evil: “Can you take fire into your boson, and not be burned?”33

  But even as Hannah wrote her lengthy, beseeching letter, she knew her brother would go. Her heart ached at the thought of yet another leave-taking in the family, another ending she could not attend to. Her mother’s grave in Boston, behind enemy lines. Her brother Josiah’s grave in Gloucester, more than a day’s ride away. Her brother Edmund, buried at sea. And now Samuel leaving, and she would not be able to visit him in Boston before he left; perhaps she would never see him again. “I take a long farewell,” Hannah wrote at the end of her letter; “and wish you success in every laudable undertaking.”34

  Leaving his family “wounded me to the heart,”35 Samuel wrote to Henry Hill. Maybe he would never win the approbation of his father, always reserved for his older brother, Ned, and the youngest, Josiah. Maybe Hannah was right, that his business as “a seeker” in England would come to nothing.36 But he would do his best to serve America with integrity, determination, and with “love of my country … to use my best endeavors to bring about a reconciliation.”37

  At the end of May, Samuel boarded a ship bound for England, sure that he would be back in Boston by the fall. But he never set foot in America again.

  * * *

  Governor Gage offered an amnesty to all the colonists of Massachusetts: “a pardon to all persons who shall forthwith lay down their arms and return to their duties as peaceable subjects.” Only two men in all the colony were to be exempted from the offer of amnesty: Sam Adams and John Hancock, “whose offenses are too flagitious a Nature to admit of any other Consideration than that of condign Punishment.”38

  Hancock received the news in Philadelphia within a few days, a messenger from Boston having brought the announcement to him, along with updates on the outfitting of militia (thousands of men now camped out in Cambridge); and the ongoing fortifications of Boston being undertaken by Gage (including a battery of cannons on top of Copp’s Hill, overlooking the Charles River and Charlestown). Hancock made his reports to the other delegates, updating them on news received but passing over his ineligibility for amnesty without a thought; he’d been on Britain’s hit list for so long, it no longer mattered to him.

  The ongoing debates at Congress took all his energies now, as divisions solidified between those who wanted to send a so-called Olive Branch Petition to the king, and those, including John Adams, who absolutely opposed such a gesture. The First Continental Congress had tried a petition to the king and it had failed. To pursue another petition was, in Adams’ opinion, a “Measure of Imbecility” that was taking up an inordinate amount of time in debates, motions, and committees, while “In the Meantime the New England Army … were left, without Munitions of War, without Arms, Cloathing, Pay or even Countenance and Encouragement.”39

  John Adams was right. Powder, arms, food, and uniforms were all in short supply in Massachusetts; and the soldiers’ unmet needs were leading to falling morale and disorder in the ranks. A commander was needed to reestablish order, funds were needed to pay for supplies, and moral support from Congress, displayed through messages and resolutions, was also needed if the disjointed groups of militias from all over New England were to be turned into a united army.

  * * *

  On June 17, 1775, Abigail Adams was shaken awake by her son, John. She sat up in bed and heard cannons firing, louder than anything she had ever heard before. Dressing quickly, she and John scurried outdoors, following other neighbors to nearby Penn’s Hill. From there, they could see all the way to Boston. What they saw horrified them.

  Colonial forces on Breed’s Hill in Charlestown, who had built a fortification overnight, were being bombarded by British cannon fire. The fighting continued as the day wore on; suddenly all of Charlestown was on fire, the flames lighting up Bunker Hill, Breed’s Hill, and the entire peninsula. Then everything was covered in smoke, billowing clouds of it, and the people gathered on Penn’s Hill in Braintree c
ould see nothing at all.

  As a grown man, John Quincy Adams would always remember the terror he felt standing beside his mother and watching as Charlestown burned and clouds of smoke rose up. What would come out of that horrible morass of fire and smoke? He was sure that British troops were on their way to Braintree, “to butcher them in cold blood.”40 The next day, his mother told him the terrible news: Dr. Joseph Warren, their close friend and family doctor, was dead. He’d been killed on Breed’s Hill, one of the last Americans to retreat from his position fighting the British forces, run through by a bayonet and left to die.

  “My bursting Heart must find vent at my pen,” Abigail wrote to John the next day. “I have just heard that our dear Friend Dr. Warren is no more but fell gloriously fighting for his Country.… Great is our Loss.” Before sending the letter, she added, “I wish I could contradict the report of the Doctors Death, but tis a lamentable Truth, and the tears of multitudes pay tribute to his memory.”41

  As for what would come to be known as the Battle of Bunker Hill, Abigail wrote, “Charlestown is laid in ashes.… How many have fallen we know not—the constant roar of the cannon is so distressing that we cannot Eat, Drink or Sleep. May we be supported and sustained in the dreadful conflict.”42

  Messengers were already on their way to Philadelphia with the news. Along with Joseph Warren, 140 other colonists had been killed in the battle; close to 300 were wounded. The toll on the British was even greater: 226 dead and over 900 wounded. The British had won the day, but even they knew, as General Howe so succinctly stated, “The success is too dearly bought.”43

  Messengers carrying the grim letters sent from Massachusetts passed by messengers traveling north, carrying letters from Congress to Massachusetts, including letters written to the now-deceased Joseph Warren. John Adams and John Hancock had written to him in separate letters to share the news that George Washington had been appointed commander in chief of the Continental Army. Five hundred other commissions had also been approved, naming officers under Washington’s command.