American Rebels

by Nina Sankovitch

  General Washington answered Hancock’s letter promptly (much more quickly than his dear Dolly, who had yet to answer a single letter). Washington graciously declined Hancock’s offer to serve—“so little is in my power to offer to Colonel Hancock’s merits, and worth his acceptance”—and signed off as “your most obedient and very humble servant.”23 John Hancock could not throw off the mantle of president so easily; he would be held to his duty.

  The temporary desire to flee faded, and Hancock once again accepted his obligation to his country, to be met not on the battlefield but in Congress. He got back to the work at hand and took over lobbying every colony in America to send whatever funds, arms, goods, and soldiers they could to support the new government.

  For Hancock, it was not just a temporary administration he was working toward; it was a new country, and he would do everything he could to ensure its survival. “Let us … exert every Nerve to distinguish ourselves. I entreat you to quicken your Preparations, and to stimulate the good people of our Government,” he wrote in letter after letter to representatives of the colonies. He was intent on garnering the men, supplies, and monetary support needed to carry the new government and its army forward to freedom.24

  Washington must have been relieved to receive the letter from his good friend Benjamin Harrison, fellow Virginia delegate to the Congress: “Our President is … Noble, Disinterested, and Generous to a very Great Degree.”25 Keeping Hancock out of the army and firmly in charge of Congress had been the right thing to do.

  * * *

  Following the Battle of Bunker Hill, living conditions in Boston deteriorated even further. So many people were dying in Boston, including soldiers wounded in battle, that Governor Gage forbade the ringing of bells to announce a death. George Washington heard from his spies of “the great mortality” of British soldiers, due not only to wounds but also to “the want of fresh vegetables and meat.”26

  And soldiers weren’t the only ones dying. “The Condition of the Inhabitants detained in Boston is very distressing,” Washington wrote to John Hancock, “they are … destitute of the Comfort of fresh Provisions, & many of them are so reduced in their Circumstances, as to be unable to supply themselves.”27

  Abigail Adams heard from a fisherman who had recently escaped from Boston by boat that “all the fresh provisions they can procure they are obliged to give to the sick and wounded.” Milch cows were being killed and their meat sold at precipitously high prices, too dear for most to afford.28

  Governor Gage began arresting more and more citizens of Boston, taking them into custody on charges of treason and promoting rebellion; “such Suspicion & Jealousy prevails, that they can scarcely speak, or even look, without exposing themselves to some Species of military Execution.”29 James Lovell, Josiah Quincy Jr.’s good friend (and son of John Lovell, Tory schoolmaster of Boston Latin School), was arrested along with Peter Edes, son of the publisher of the Boston Gazette. They languished in prison, enduring miserable conditions, fearful of death by infection, or lack of food, or a wound left untreated; they knew that of the nineteen wounded colonists taken after Bunker Hill, every one of them had died in the British prison.

  The Old South Meeting House was turned into a riding school for the British officers, and the pews and galleries torn out and burned for heat; other churches were turned into barracks. The houses of rebels and Loyalists alike were plundered to the needs of the soldiers and citizens; ransacked for what supplies the homes might contain, and bits and pieces hacked away for fuel, barter, or simply out of malice.

  Abigail wrote to John that she had heard that General Burgoyne, who had taken over the home of Samuel and Hannah Quincy, treated the belongings with little care; “raw meat [was] cut and hacked upon her Mahogonay Tables, and her superb damask curtain and cushings exposed to the rain as if they were of no value.”30

  Somehow, Hancock’s mansion on Beacon Hill remained intact; probably because it had been appropriated by the British general Henry Clinton, an opinionated and quarrelsome man who nevertheless insisted on a gentleman’s code of conduct at all times, even during war.

  The earlier optimism of Jonathan Sewall had evaporated in the gloom of hunger, death, and despair: “Funerals are now so frequent that … you meet as many dead folks as live ones in Boston Streets,” he wrote to a friend, “and we pass them with less emotion and attention than we used to pass dead sheep and oxen in days of yore.”31 Still displaying his wry sense of humor, he added, “Musketry, bombs, great guns, redoubts, lines, batterys, enfilades, battle sieges, murder, plague, famine, rebellion, and the Devil have at length brought me to a determination to quit the scene.” Jonathan, Esther, and the children would be leaving Boston as soon as Jonathan could find them a ship out.

  When dysentery descended on the town, Sewall grew even more desperate to leave; “I have seen, heard and felt enough of the rabies—I wish to be out of the noise,” he wrote in mid-August. By the end of the month, he and the family were aboard a ship sailing for London.32

  Edmund Quincy wrote to Dolly in Fairfield, to tell her of Esther’s imminent departure; “I wish them a safe journey, and peace and comfort to Esther, for of late, she could not enjoy any great share.”33 But for all his wishes for her happiness, he also grieved to think he might never see his daughter again: “I was afraid I should lose a Daughter to the quarrel: But we must learn to submit to whatever way be the will of Heaven concerning us or ours.”34

  * * *

  In early August, the Second Continental Congress adjourned for the summer, to meet again in the fall. King George’s response to their petition would determine Congress’s next steps; many were hopeful that a conciliation still might be possible, forestalling all the proposals made by the New England delegates for outfitting the army, creating a navy, and other plans that had more to do with war than peace. But John Hancock and Sam and John Adams knew that the colonists had to be prepared for the worst. It would do no harm to ensure the colonies’ strong position in the event of a proposed compromise from the king; and if instead of peace, the king pursued war, the colonists would be ready.

  Abigail rejoiced when she heard John was finally coming home—“The return of thee my dear partner after a four months absence is a pleasure I cannot express”—but in fact, there would be no rest for either John Adams or John Hancock.35 Both would spend the summer shoring up support throughout their province and New England for a coming confrontation with Great Britain.

  John Adams would do it from the very cramped quarters of his home in Braintree. Refugees from Boston were still ensconced in rooms of the farmhouse, from the attic on down, and even in the barn; to make room, Abigail had removed all the trappings of John’s office into her own chamber, where she slept now with the children, John’s books, and stacks of paper.

  As happy as John was to be home again, it must have been with some relief that he left again to attend the Provincial Congress meeting in Watertown, where he would enjoy a quiet room of his own. And Abigail, invited to join him there, was very pleased to do it. To have time alone with her husband, away from the demands of the farm, was a needed indulgence.

  Abigail was with John when the news broke that two of his letters from Philadelphia to Massachusetts had been intercepted, taken from the messenger who carried them and then printed in Tory newspapers. One was the letter in which John had spoken of Dickinson as “a piddling genius” and belittled other delegates for their “Whims, Caprice, and Vanity,” while also expressing his desires for all-out preparation for war. The other letter was the one he had written to James Warren, in which he had made fun of General Charles Lee.

  The letters were published not only in America but also in England. In Boston, beleaguered Loyalists responded with fury and ridicule, while in England, Adams’ letters were held up as proof of the colonists’ perfidy and their treasonous desires for war. Within days of the letters’ publication in London, King George received the Olive Branch Petition sent by Congress; although he was alread
y prepared to ignore it, Adams’ letters were further proof that a desire for conciliation was not universally felt on the part of the colonists.

  But for the most part, the letters did little to hurt John either politically or personally. Although his relationship with Dickinson was further damaged, he had never really thought it might be repaired after all the rancor shared in the spring. Surprisingly, John found both a fan and a friend in General Lee, who wrote to Adams thanking him for the moniker of “eccentric,” which he took as a compliment, adding, “my love of Dogs passes with me as a still higher complement.”

  Lee added, in explanation, “when once I can be convinced that Men are as worthy objects as Dogs I shall transfer my benevolence” to them, but until that point, dogs would remain his favorites. Lee called John an excellent “biped,” endowed with “generosity, valor, good sense, patriotism and zeal for the rights of humanity,” and he promised John his own lasting “friendship and passion.” He closed the missive by sending the love of his dog Spada, who was very grateful for Adams’ published letter, as the little black Pomeranian now enjoyed ample petting and caressing “by all ranks, sexes, and Ages.”36

  * * *

  John Hancock wrote to Dolly that he would be on his way to Fairfield just as soon as he took care of some essential business, including reporting to the Provincial Congress in Watertown; delivering half a million dollars to George Washington in Cambridge so that Washington could pay army salaries (the money came from taxes collected from the colonies, and from Hancock’s own coffers as well); and picking up Dolly’s trunks, which had been left in Worcester after the flight from Lexington.

  But then, he promised, he would “ride on to Fairfield as quick as I can … as I am very desirous of being with you soon.”37

  Everywhere he went, Hancock was met with admiring crowds. Newborn babies were held up to him; he was surprised to learn how many had been named after him, a whole legion of infant John Hancocks. Dolly’s sister Sarah had named her baby boy, born in April, John Hancock Greenleaf, and in July, Edmund wrote to Dolly that Mrs. Rice, a friend of the family, gave birth to twins: the boy and the girl had been named John and Dorothy, respectively.

  Hancock continued to write his messages pleading for support as he traveled north. He asked his colonial compatriots for their support, not only spiritual but also material, in the form of concrete contributions, such as much-needed gunpowder and always welcome arms and other supplies. Stockpiles of powder were dangerously low, and Hancock received almost weekly requests from George Washington begging for more gunpowder to be sent, and soon.

  By the end of the summer Hancock would write to the legislative assembly of every single colony, beseeching them for funds and supplies in the name of “the Liberties of your Country, and the Happiness of Posterity” and reminding them that “you stand engaged in the most solemn Ties of Honour to support the Common Cause.”

  And the colonies responded: Pennsylvania, South Carolina, and Maryland all sent arms and powder, supplementing reserves sent earlier by Connecticut, Rhode Island, and New York. The colonies were joining together, not just in words but in deeds. Josiah Quincy Jr. had planned for this joint effort on behalf of liberty—and now the seeds he had planted were producing fruit, even though he was not there to see it.

  In mid-August, John Hancock finally arrived in Fairfield. And on August 28, 1775, in the home of Thaddeus Burr, the long-awaited wedding between John and Dolly finally took place. People from the village stood by the fenced garden, eager to catch a look at the festivities. One onlooker reported, “Silver buckles, white silk stockings, knee breeches of various hues, scarlet vest and velvet coats with ruffled shirts and broad fine neckwear adorned the masculine fraternity, while the ladies were radiant in silks and laces, lofty head-dress, resplendent jewelry and the precious heirlooms of old families.”38

  With John Hancock a wanted man, and British spies everywhere, there were many who marveled at the couple marrying in such public circumstances. John and Dolly were heralded for their bravery, their romance, and their patriotism for “marrying now, while all the colonies are as much convulsed as Rome when Hannibal was at her gates.”39

  Edmund Quincy, still in Lancaster with his daughter Sarah, would have no inkling of his daughter’s change in status until he received a letter on September 8, dated August 29 and sent from John Hancock. The letter was cosigned, the writing at the bottom of the note clear and strong: Dorothy Hancock.

  It was a gift from daughter to father. In July, Edmund had written to Dolly, “I hope in some months to see you with a new name.”40 Now, seeing her signature at the bottom of the page, Edmund understood that his wish had been granted. As he wrote to Aunt Lydia, in undisguised relief and muted joy, it was thanks to the letter lately received that he “became acquainted with their being married on the evening before.”41

  Edmund had also expressed in that July letter the equally fervent “wish [that] peace may by that time be restored to our Israel, but let us wait patiently.”42

  His second wish, for peace, would not be granted so easily.

  30

  Complications of Evil and Misfortune

  The Critical Period has arrived, that will seal the fate,

  not only of ourselves, but of Posterity.

  —JOHN HANCOCK

  Abigail Quincy took her time going through her husband’s travel chests. For the first weeks after she finally arrived back in Norwich, the chests had remained in the back hall of the house, an obstruction to all who entered that way. But no one said a word to Abigail. The annoyance was too small, and her grief too large. Finally, as June gave way to July, she asked that the chests be brought upstairs to the sunny room she had hoped to share with a returning husband. She would share it with him still, she vowed, and slowly, slowly she began to go through the contents of the chests, one by one.

  She marveled over the “curiosities” he had picked up in London, worn volumes of history and philosophy.1 Packets of pamphlets on political issues. Stacks of letters, tied with ribbons. Sheets of drawing paper, revealing the long hours he had spent designing the rings for his father and her. She wore her ring now as the symbol of immortality he had planned for it to be. He had known when he commissioned the ring in February that he might not make it back to her. But then, she had known as well.

  “Everything in his chests [were] safe except his watch which I suspect was stolen as one of the chests was broken open,” she wrote to her father-in-law, Josiah Quincy Sr., “but in the same chest I found near one hundred £ sterling in cash, and it seems strange they should take a watch and leave the money.”2

  She promised to send her father-in-law all the pamphlets that his son had collected in England, along with the books he’d purchased—except for those too fragile to make the now perilous and uncertain trip into Massachusetts, “for fear of their being damaged.”3

  Abigail spent over a month reading through Josiah’s London journal. “Spent the evening at Covent Garden,” he wrote in December, “Milton’s Masque of Comus was altered much for the worse; and no part was performed well but the part by Ms. Catley, which being wanton was done admirably by her.”4 It was like having a conversation with her husband, and she must have felt like answering, But you never trusted the theater, did you, my Josiah?

  It took Abigail close to another month to read the speeches made in Parliament that Josiah had copied out, word for word (and from memory), given on behalf of the colonies in Parliament by Lord Chatham, Lord Cambden, Lord Shelburne. With such friends in Parliament, how could the cause of American liberty fail? And yet even Josiah had noted that such friends had not power enough to override the will of the king, Lord North, and those in Parliament intent on punishing the American colonists for daring to talk “about their natural and divine rights, their rights as men and citizens; their rights from God and nature.”5

  Abigail took special notice of Josiah’s mentioning an evening in which Ben Franklin told the story when, decades earlier, Char
les Pratt (who would become Lord Camden) predicted the colonists would “one day throw off … dependence upon this Country and … set up for Independence.” Franklin had countered then—and still believed now—only if England “grossly abuse” the colonists.6

  For the next few weeks, Josiah’s chests remained closed, their contents hidden away. Abigail needed breathing room to think about all she had read. And then her son fell ill. It was the end of summer, with thunderstorms raging over the Connecticut fields, and her child lay in bed with a high fever and splotches of red on his cheeks.

  Josiah Quincy Sr. wrote from Braintree, “The Dysentery has lately prevailed in the neighboring Towns & especially in the Army; has proved mortal to some: I hope not too many & that you & all the Family have escaped it.”7 John Adams’ brother Elihu died of the “bloody flux”—dysentery—in mid-August. Elihu had caught the illness in the army camps at Cambridge; by the end of summer, hundreds of New Englanders, soldiers and civilians alike, would die of it.

  Abigail Quincy sat beside her child in his bed and prayed for the “goodness of God” to carry him through.8 She could not bear another loss.

  * * *

  Once settled in London, Samuel Quincy found that his presence went largely unnoticed by the men to which he’d hoped to plead the American cause. He was just one American in a sea of indifferent British. Even Thomas Hutchinson, with all his connections, lamented that “we Americans are plenty here and very cheap. Some of us at first coming are apt to think ourselves important but other people do not think so and few if any of us are consulted or enquired after.”9

  Samuel sought what comfort he could find in the company of old friends at the newly formed New England Club. The club, an invitation-only fraternity for Americans, met at different taverns and coffeehouses every week. There, the exiled men shared what little news they’d received from Massachusetts—the news of Bunker Hill was a terrible shock—and together fretted over the fate of their country.