American Rebels

by Nina Sankovitch

  Adams, who had negotiated Washington’s nomination, wrote of Hancock’s disappointment at not being named head of the army and his “mortification and resentment”44 when Washington was confirmed. But it wasn’t likely that Hancock, hobbled with gout, would have wanted a position that required riding out on horseback and other physical activities. In fact, Hancock appeared—to all observers other than Adams—to be pleased with having George Washington as commander of the army.

  Hancock wrote to Joseph Warren that Washington was “a gentleman you will all like.” He then asked that Warren provide “a suitable place for his residence and the mode of his reception … such as to do … the Commander-in-Chief great honor.”45 But unbeknown to Hancock, Warren lay behind enemy lines, his dead body interred in a mass grave where it fell. General Washington would have to see to his own residence and reception.

  * * *

  John Adams was stunned by the news of Warren’s death, following so quickly on the loss of Josiah Quincy Jr.: “two characters, as great in proportion to their age, as any that I have ever known in America.… They were both my intimate friends, with whom I lived and conversed, with pleasure and advantage. I was animated by them, in the painful dangerous course of opposition to the oppressions brought upon our country; the loss of them has wounded me too deeply, to be easily healed.”46

  Josiah Quincy Sr., mourning the loss “of a Warren and a Quincy, who have [both] perished in the Storm of Tyranny and oppression,” wrote to Sam Adams in Philadelphia, urging the Congress to persevere: “may God … preserve the Lives of our remaining skillful pilots, and enable them to steer the shattered Bark into the Harbor of Peace Liberty and Safety! So well constructed a ship, and so richly laden, ought not to become the Prize of Robbers and Pirates. Before that should happen … we would maintain the conflict to the last man.”47

  Washington received news of the terrible Battle of Breed’s Hill while he was in New York on his way to Cambridge, where he would take over command of the New England militia. The sealed message had been addressed to John Hancock, but Washington, sensing its importance, opened it. He read of the two thousand British troops that had stormed colonial fortifications and forced the Americans to retreat from Charlestown. He asked the messenger if “the provincials stood the British fire” during the battle. The messenger assured him that they had. “Then the liberties of our country are safe,” Washington replied.48 And he continued on his way to Massachusetts.

  * * *

  Edmund Quincy was in the crowd that gathered on the Cambridge Common on July 3, 1775, to greet General Washington. He’d traveled in from Lancaster with his son-in-law, Will Greenleaf, to bear witness as the general from Virginia took command of the Americans’ army. In the past few days, rain had finally come to Massachusetts, pummeling down in a steady downpour, but the morning of July 3 dawned sunny and clear. Drum and fife played as Washington inspected the gathered soldiers of New England. The men wore clothing of all kinds and in all states of disrepair; their weapons were just as varied, from trusty muskets to knifes rigged to poles to Indian tomahawks.

  Edmund marveled at the number of men who had come together to fight for Massachusetts—and not just from Massachusetts but from Vermont, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, Connecticut, and as far away as Maine. Edmund realized the fight was not for just one colony; the fight was for all the colonies of America, all oppressed under British rule. He felt both humbled and empowered by what a unified Congress had created, and what these gathered men would fight for: “the remarkable instrument … confirming and establishing the liberty of America.”49

  Washington, tall and erect on his horse, trotted to the front of the rows of men and then turned his mount around so that he faced the soldiers square on. Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he raised it and held it aloft for all to see. These men were his soldiers now; they were the first regiments of what Washington would call “the troops of the United Provinces of North America.” He vowed that “all distinctions of colonies will be laid aside,” for they were all of one country and together, they would fight for one country.50

  Edmund joined in the cheering that broke out, the crowd’s loud hurrahs joining with the hearty banging of the drums. The noise grew even louder, rising up like a cloud and traveling on the wind to Boston, just a few miles east. Notice had been given: the war was on.

  29

  The Unhappy Contest

  I view the dangerous and doubtful struggle

  with fear and trembling.

  —SAMUEL QUINCY

  Abigail Adams went through her meager collection of pewter pieces, picking out those spoons sturdy enough to withstand the heat: Elihu, John Adams’ brother, was coming to the house to melt them down for bullets. Abigail had her bullet mold ready, its hinges open and the curved insides waiting for liquid pewter to be poured in. All over Massachusetts, metals were being melted down to make bullets, direly needed by the American army. Josiah Quincy Sr. went to the old Burying Ground and, with the help of a chisel, broke off a lead plaque with the Quincy coat of arms from one of the family gravestones. It too would be added to the caldron for melting, then poured into molds for bullets.

  Josiah was desperate to help the cause any way that he could, from spying on the British from the monitor on the rooftop of his house and sending detailed reports to John Hancock in Philadelphia, to using his position as justice of the peace for Braintree to chase down colonists supplying the British with goods.

  “Have you not been repeatedly derided and warned not to go on board or to have any Commerce with the People on board his Majesty’s ships as it would be inimical to the Disposition of your Country?” he thundered at a laborer who had brought provisions to British soldiers aboard the Mercury. John Spear pleaded ignorance—“not to my remembrance,” he answered—but Justice Quincy fined him anyway and threw him in jail for a few days to ponder his sins.1

  * * *

  By the end of July 1775, George Washington was settled into his headquarters on Brattle Street, in the imposing mansion left behind by the Loyalist John Vassall (Vassall, like Jonathan Sewall and Andrew Oliver, had fled Cambridge for Boston). From the top floor of his new home, Washington could see Boston. He marveled at how close the British forces were to his American troops in Cambridge—two bitter enemies, “almost near enough to converse.”2

  Sniping between the two forces went on with regularity; one of many diarists of the time recorded that “an Exchange of Shot is very frequent,”3 and another wrote, “At one time a horse would be knocked on the head, and at another a man would be killed.”4 But Governor Gage and General Howe seemed in no hurry to begin a true battle with General Washington and the colonists.

  Washington was happy for the standoff. He needed time to bring order and discipline to the troops he increasingly despaired of; he complained to his brother of these “provincials” and tried to discipline them in everything from cleanliness to subservience to unity.5 While the troops continued to admire, and even revere, him—“General Washington fills his place with vast ease and dignity and dispenses happiness around him”6—the feeling was not mutual.

  Washington did not especially like or trust the New Englanders, and he included both John and Sam Adams in his assessments. But he did like John Hancock; he respected him as a man of good breeding, solid wealth, and honorable reputation. In time, Martha Washington and Dorothy Hancock would get to know each other, and the same feelings of respect and liking would grow between the two women.

  Throughout the summer and into the fall of 1775, skirmishes continued between the British troops and the local militia up and down the coast of Massachusetts, with both sides raiding coastal islands in search of supplies, including livestock and forage. The colonists went further, setting fire not only to buildings where supplies were stored but also to lighthouses on various islands.

  The lighthouses were crucial to the safety of the ships that continued to arrive from Britain, carrying more troops and supplies. When a band of milit
ia set fire to the Boston lighthouse, Governor Gage immediately sent carpenters out to repair the structure and get it working again. A week later, the colonists, under the cover of night, returned to the island; fighting off the British guards, they raided the storehouses for oil and other supplies, then set fire to every structure on the island. The buildings, including the repaired lighthouse, burned to the ground by morning.

  After they retreated from the island that night, the buildings aflame behind them, British troops set out in pursuit. A number of men were wounded, and one was killed—“an unhappy youth,” Abigail Adams wrote to John, “who received a Ball thro the temples as he was rowing the boat.” His funeral was held in Braintree, presided over by Reverend Wibird, who “made the best oration … I ever heard from him.”7

  In attendance at the funeral were four wounded British soldiers who had been captured by the colonists. Abigail wrote to John that they had asked to come to the services at the North Parish Church, where they “appeared affected” by Reverend Wibird’s sermon. When Abigail asked them why they “should be obliged to fight their best Friends,” they answered that “they were sorry—they hoped in God [that] an end would be speedily put to the unhappy contest.”

  The men were just pawns in a battle designed by others, Abigail observed; she wrote to John that “they were told if they were taken alive, they should be Sacrificed by us”—but now understood that they had been “deceived” and “express’d gratitude at the kindness they received” at the hands of the colonists of Braintree.8

  Whatever pity Abigail felt for the captured soldiers—and she did—that sympathy did not extend to the deserters from the British Army who continually passed through Braintree. Just in the past week, five had appeared, Abigail wrote to John, and not one of them could be trusted: “no one can tell the secret designs of such fellows whom no oath binds.… Those who do not scruple to bring poverty, Misery, Slavery and Death upon thousands will not hesitate at the most diabolical crimes—and this is Britain. Blush o! Americans that ever thou derivest thy origin from such a race.”9

  John had come to rely on Abigail’s letters not only as a source—and sometimes the only source—of information about Boston but also as an inspiration. He wrote to her, “You are really brave, my dear, you are an Heroine. And you have Reason to be. For the worst that can happen, can do you no Harm. A soul, as pure, as benevolent, as virtuous and pious as yours has nothing to fear, but every Thing to hope.”10 He felt her hope extending across the hundreds of miles to him.

  He tried to reciprocate, offering both empathy and advocacy in the same breath: “Your Description of the Distresses of the worthy Inhabitants of Boston, and the other Sea Port Towns, is enough to melt an Heart of stone. Our Consolation must be this, my dear, that Cities may be rebuilt, and a People reduced to Poverty, may acquire fresh Property: But a Constitution of Government once changed from Freedom, can never be restored. Liberty once lost is lost forever.”11

  While Abigail soldiered on in Braintree, he would be soldiering on in Congress. But at times, the odds against him in that forum seemed to be just too much: “There are some Persons [from] New York and Philadelphia, to whom a ship is dearer than a City, and a few Barrels of flower, [worth more] than a thousand Lives—other Men’s Lives I mean.”12 It was then he turned to Abigail’s fortitude to console him, and drive him on: “I am charmed with [your] Admirable Fortitude … I cannot express the Satisfaction it gives me, nor how much it contributes to support me.”13

  John listed for Abigail all the work still to do at Congress: “a Constitution to form … a Country of fifteen hundred Miles extent to fortify, Millions to arm and train, a Naval Power to begin, an extensive Commerce to regulate, numerous Tribes of Indians to negotiate with, [and] a standing Army of Twenty-seven Thousand Men to raise, pay, victual and officer.” And there was still the confounded—to John Adams—Olive Branch Petition to deal with, a petition for mercy and conciliation created by John Dickinson to be sent to the king.

  After the carnage of Bunker Hill, John Adams and all the other members of the Massachusetts delegation were even more opposed to sending a petition to England. The discussions between John Adams and John Dickinson became acrimonious. Dickinson threatened Adams that if “you New Englandmen” did not support the Olive Branch Petition, “I, and a Number of Us, will break off, from you … and We will carry on the Opposition by ourselves in our own Way.”

  Adams refused to respond to the warning but walked away, furious over Dickinson’s “rude lecture.”14 Over three hundred New Englanders had died since hostilities began—and Dickinson wanted to barter those deaths for peace? Abigail had asked in a letter, “Does every member feel for us? Do they realize what we suffer?”15 The answer seemed to be no.

  Blaming Dickinson for what had been destroyed between them—“the Friendship and Acquaintance was lost forever”—John stewed over the nasty exchange for days.16 Fed up not only with Dickinson’s imperious attitudes but also with the petty squabbling of other delegates, he finally gave vent to his feelings in an angry letter to Abigail, in which he referred to the “fidgets, the whims, the caprices, the vanity, the superstition, the irritability” of his fellow delegates.17

  He then wrote a letter to his good friend James Warren, husband of Mercy, in which he denounced Dickinson as “A Certain great Fortune and piddling Genius, whose Fame has been trumpeted so loudly, [and who] has given a silly Cast to our whole doings.”18

  Adams complained to Warren of the sacrifices that had to be made to get anything accomplished, but added that he understood Warren himself was making sacrifices, in having to deal with the eccentric and capricious Charles Lee, army officer and inveterate dog lover, now settled in Cambridge. “But you must love his Dogs if you love him,” advised John, “and forgive [Lee] a thousand whims for the Sake of the Soldier and the Scholar.”19

  Feeling quite calm now, and satisfied as well, John sent his letters off and went to bed. The repercussions of his words could not have been imagined by the gently snoring man—but would be felt soon enough.

  * * *

  A compromise was finally reached between those opposing the Olive Branch Petition and those supporting it: a declaration of war would be drafted, and once approved, sent to all the colonies as well as overseas to England. This document, a “Declaration of the Causes and Necessity of Taking Up Arms,” laid out the reasons why the colonies had formed a continental army, but it also emphasized their desire to lay down arms “when Hostilities shall cease on the part of the Aggressors.”

  Dickinson, one of the two authors of the declaration, made clear that “We have not raised Armies with ambitious designs of separating from Great-Britain, and establishing Independent States.”20 The second author, Thomas Jefferson from Virginia, added both force and heat to the document, making it somewhat more palatable to New England: “Our Cause is just. Our union is perfect. Our internal resources are great, and if necessary, foreign Assistance is attainable.” After threatening alliances with other countries, Jefferson also warned that the Americans were not afraid to fight until the bitter end; “[We are] resolved to die Freemen rather than to live slaves.”21

  The declaration was approved by Congress on July 6, 1775, two days after it approved the Olive Branch Petition. The petition would be sent to London by courier (Richard Penn, son of William Penn) and handed over to Arthur Lee, its seal unbroken, who would then ensure delivery of the petition to the king himself.

  As for the declaration, it was printed up and then sent out for publication throughout the colonies. The hope was that the document would encourage fearful colonists and shore up their determination and resolution. Life was becoming more difficult by the day, with basic goods in short supply and no end in sight to the boycott, the blockade of Boston, or any of the other burdens and sacrifices in the battle for colonial rights.

  While the colonists suffered, the militias grew, and Washington’s army trained, Congress had to get back to a full agenda of work: appointing
officers, setting and paying salaries, and assuring the supply of foodstuffs, uniforms, and weapons for the soldiers. And to pay for all these measures, they had to set up a system of taxation, leveling the burden among the colonies. In addition, Congress had to follow through on nascent negotiations with the Indian nations in order to get their support; build up domestic manufacturing of goods and supplies; and establish a safe system for sending mail.

  John Hancock, who bore the brunt of moving the work forward in Congress, was feeling the strain. His gout flared with frequency, causing a terrible burning in his joints for which there was no remedy. After Congress finally approved the five hundred officer commissions to support Washington in the field, it fell to the president, John Hancock, to sign every one of those commissions. His wrist ached for days.

  But the mental demands, even more than the physical ones, exacted the hardest toll of all on the president. The psychological acrobatics required to referee debates between delegates, soothe wounded egos, come up with compromises—or at least identify possible areas of agreement—were demoralizing and exhausting.

  At one point, Hancock became so weary of it all that he sent to George Washington a heartfelt request to be taken on as a soldier; “I am determined to act under you, if it be to take a firelock and join the ranks as a volunteer.”22

  Gout or no, he wanted out of Philadelphia. He wanted someone else calling the shots and ordering him around. He wanted rest from the bickering, grandstanding, and endless talking of Congress. To be a soldier would seem like a rest cure after the past months spent leading Congress.