by Brad Meltzer
In other words, the primary goal was reconciliation—and restoration of once-friendly relations—only with more favorable terms.
But by the spring months, this goal increasingly began to seem both unrealistic and profoundly disappointing.
The reasons for this shift are vast and there are too many to describe easily. But England’s belligerence in the wake of the Boston evacuation—including the continuation of punitive trade embargoes, the burning of some colonial coastal cities, and Parliament’s refusal to accept the legitimacy of the Continental Congress—certainly contributed to it.
Also critical was the publication, back in January, of Thomas Paine’s landmark essay Common Sense. Paine’s full-throated argument for a complete break with Great Britain had a clarity and force that made the treatise a sensation. In many ways, Paine was ahead of the politicians when it came to grasping public sentiment; Common Sense sold an unprecedented 100,000 copies in three months.
More and more, the radicals’ vision for the future is gaining momentum: they should now forego any attempt to compromise, and seek to free themselves from the mother country.
As John Adams, one of the most outspoken and influential radicals among all the delegates at the Continental Congress, puts it in May 1776: “Great Britain has at last driven America, to the last step, a complete separation from her, a total absolute Independence, not only of her Parliament but of her Crown.”
What’s more, the long-term ambiguity of Congress’s political position has consistently hampered the war effort. When the political leaders’ posture is so tentative, the army’s morale is lowered; soldiers, maybe more than any others, crave clarity of purpose.
The political leaders at Congress must ask: Are these young soldiers really going to sacrifice their lives in order to negotiate a slightly better tax policy? Or are they going to sacrifice their lives in pursuit of something bigger?
The Continental army needs something to fight for, not just something to fight against.
And of course, these fierce debates touch upon the deeper ideals at stake in the conflict—the ideals about liberty, freedom, and justice. Once these hopes had been roused in the hearts of colonists, the notion of a return to a modified form of subservience to Great Britain became increasingly hard to accept.
Having come this far, the colonists want self-government, not monarchy. The colonists want to rule themselves, not be ruled by another. The colonists want rights derived from a just government, based on liberty and enshrined in law—rights they believe are currently denied them by the all-powerful Parliament and King.
For all these reasons and more, the radicals began to gain ground in the early months of 1776, despite the continued resistance of both the conservative delegates and some of the colonies’ local governments, whose will the Continental Congress could not legally ignore.
After a complicated series of legislative gambits throughout the spring, by June 1776, the pro-independence faction within Congress gains support to at least form a committee to draft a sample document, based on some previous resolutions already seen, that outlines their position. Later, this document—a so-called Declaration—can be put to a vote.
The formation of this drafting committee in early June, on its face a mundane bureaucratic development, nonetheless opens the door to a new energy and hope. Even the contemplation of independence begins to reshape the sense of possibility, changing the entire notion of what the war is about.
Everything these delegates have been working toward takes on a heightened meaning and significance. With independence as the goal, the war can be considered a genuine revolution. If successful, all the grandiose principles and ideals can soon be put into practice—a chance to reshape human society with a brand-new political system. As Adams writes:
Objects of the most stupendous magnitude, and measures in which the lives and liberties of millions yet unborn are intimately interested, are now before us. We are in the midst of a revolution, the most complete, unexpected and remarkable, of any in the history of nations.
For help in crafting a draft document in committee, Adams selected an unexpected candidate—a relatively little-known delegate named Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson, a thirty-three-year-old Virginian, was only in the Continental Congress as a sort of understudy—he had been rushed up to Philadelphia as a quick replacement to fill a slot after Patrick Henry, the eldest of the Virginia delegates, fell ill in late summer of 1775 and could no longer serve.
Since that time, Jefferson, a skinny redhead, had not exactly become a powerhouse in the convention hall. Indeed, he was usually shy and quiet. However, the Virginian had one very notable quality: He was good with his pen. Adams and the others in the drafting committee had noticed the quality of Jefferson’s prose, and decided to take a chance and let the young delegate write the first draft.
For two weeks, starting on June 14, Jefferson went to work. Toward the end of that time, Adams and some of the other committee members weighed in and suggested revisions. For the most part, they left Jefferson’s original prose—written with the inspiration born of a tight deadline—largely intact.
Then, on the morning of Friday, June 28, 1776—at almost the same hour that Thomas Hickey is approaching the gallows—Adams presents Jefferson’s legendary first draft of this document to the Continental Congress.
Throughout the day, the various members of the Continental Congress, representing all thirteen colonies, read the now-famous passages in this new “Declaration of Independence” for the very first time.
They read them, they think about them, and they start to debate them feverishly.
In a few days, Congress will vote whether to ratify this document—and potentially change the war … and the world … forever.
75
New York, New York
June 1776
In New York City on the afternoon of June 28, 1776, the vast majority of soldiers, citizens, and even most officers have no idea that anything of interest is happening in Philadelphia. The efforts of a special committee to write a draft document for the delegates of the Continental Congress are probably the last thing on their minds.
So after the massive public spectacle of a public hanging just north of New York City, soldiers and citizens return to their stations or go back to their normal workdays.
But this is 1776—and normalcy can never last very long.
In fact, it won’t even last a full afternoon.
That day, out at sea, the captain of a colonial sloop sailing along the New Jersey coastline south of New York City spies an unusual ship passing by in the distance.
After circling back and communicating with another captain who saw something similar, the captain takes another look.
It’s a ship called the Greyhound.
That’s a British vessel, and not just any. It’s Gen. William Howe’s ship—the Commander of British forces in North America.
If Gen. Howe’s ship is here, that means something else. The main British fleet isn’t far behind.
According to the officers on the sloop, the Greyhound was last spotted heading toward Sandy Hook, south of Long Island and not far from the entry into New York Harbor.
In the late afternoon of June 28, 1776, George Washington receives a message originally sent from the sloop’s captain, informing the army of what he’s seen.
As soon as Washington reads the note, he quickly sends messages of his own to the surrounding colonies with a simple order: Send all the extra militia troops you have, and send them fast.
New York will need all the reinforcements it can get.
Only a matter of hours after Thomas Hickey swung from the gallows, the British aren’t just coming. The British are here.
76
Just after dawn the next morning, Saturday, June 29, a young Continental rifleman named Daniel McCurtin is standing sentry on a small hill with an elevated view of New York’s Lower Bay.
He takes a break to use an outhouse that happens to provide a
view toward the water.
The young rifleman recounts what happens next: “[I] was upstairs in an out-house and spied as I peeped out the bay something resembling a wood of pine trees trimmed … I could not believe my eyes.”
What McCurtin actually sees are vertical masts, basically a forest of them, spread wide across the harbor.
As he describes further, “In about ten minutes the whole bay was full of ship[s] as ever it could be. I declare that I thought all London was afloat.”
This first wave of General Howe’s fleet is between forty and fifty ships, sailing just above Sandy Hook, and east of Staten Island. Soon, everyone in the area can see them.
In New York City, everyone promptly begins to panic.
Residents start running to the streets away from shore, soldiers run to stand guard at their positions, and the paths leading out of the city become choked with people ready to flee.
Later that afternoon a second wave of ships sails in; now it’s over one hundred ships instead of forty or fifty. The ships make no sign of attack, but their sheer number is awesome to behold. Still, there is little that the Continental army can do but wait.
By the next day, Washington and his officers can discern the British strategy. They’re disembarking and setting up encampments on Staten Island, about three miles due south of Manhattan by water. Based on observation and intelligence reports, the British plan becomes clear. They’ll take control of the harbor and waterways, encamp thousands of troops on Staten Island, continue to wait for reinforcements, and take their time preparing an offensive.
On Sunday, June 30, the New York Provincial Congress—including the Committee on Conspiracies—vacates New York City for fear of the impending invasion. They make hasty plans to reconvene in White Plains, away from battle.
In this situation, there’s not much Washington and the Continental army can do but watch helplessly. With no navy to speak of—not a single genuine fighting vessel—there is no real way to challenge or threaten the British warships, frigates, and transports now anchoring or docking all along the Staten Island shores.
A few more tense days pass, and more ships continue to pour into the harbor. Washington sends messages to the Continental Congress with regular updates: 110 ships, now 150, now over 200.
Meanwhile, Washington tries to put his army on a footing for the impending battle. On July 2, he writes a general order to be read to all troops. It’s about as rousing a call to arms as could be put into words:
The time is now near at hand, which must probably determine whether Americans are to be … consigned to a state of wretchedness, from which no human efforts will probably deliver them. The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves us no choice, but a brave resistance or the most abject submission. This is all that we can expect. We have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or die.
Interestingly, Washington uses the phrase “Conquer or Die,” which is the Life Guards’ motto. Perhaps he’s signaling that whatever some of the Life Guards did or didn’t do in the past, they all have to forget about that and move forward to confront the challenge at hand.
From this point on, the soldiers shift to a constant state of being on guard, filling every post, monitoring every lookout, ready for battle every single day.
More days pass. The British take their time, setting up a full headquarters and base of operations on Staten Island.
General Howe, among other things, is still waiting for his brother’s naval fleet to arrive, a fleet that will be accompanied by thousands of Hessian reinforcements.
Meanwhile, General Howe also sends a message: He requests a diplomatic meeting with the American leadership. England still hopes to reconcile with the colonies without further hostilities.
Without a doubt, this standoff will take longer than everyone expected. Washington and his army look as if they’ll have to wait helplessly, on the verge of war, possibly for weeks, with no realistic way to attack the enemy.
Yet whatever diplomatic attempt the British have planned, they’re in for a surprise—because the Americans have something very different in mind.
77
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
July 1776
After receiving Thomas Jefferson’s first draft of the new Declaration on June 28, the Continental Congress orders that it “lie on the table” for a few days, a process by which the document can be edited and amended.
Meanwhile, as some revisions are made, the delegates engage in the furious politics of determining who will vote for it, who won’t, and how to get the governing body of every single colony on board.
Remarkably, during this three- or four-day period, the delegates also learn of the arrival of the British fleet in New York Harbor, signaling the pending start of the largest battle of the war.
The stakes couldn’t feel higher, and the sense of epochal world events unfolding in real time must be palpable for every delegate there.
On July 2, after furious debates, machinations and no small amount of editing, the Declaration is finally put to a vote.
The ayes have it.
The Declaration has passed the Continental Congress.
The colonies are no longer part of the British Empire, or at least they’re ready to fight to make it so.
After another round of revisions, the wording of the Declaration is finalized for good on July 4, 1776. Contrary to popular belief, there is no signing ceremony on this day; that won’t happen for another few weeks. But the delegates’ signatures aren’t what matters. As of July 4, the colonies’ Declaration is final—and now there’s no turning back.
That night, the Congress sends a handwritten version of the Declaration to a printer named John Dunlop, who runs a press near the Pennsylvania State House. Dunlop prints two hundred copies overnight, now ready to be mailed or delivered.
The next day, the delegates send copies to each colony’s governing body, as well as to key officials in different cities.
John Hancock, who has served as the president of the Continental Congress since the day it voted to form an army just over a year ago, personally sends a copy to New York City.
This copy has George Washington’s name on it.
78
New York, New York
July 1776
It’s about time.
There are few people in the colonies who have been waiting for this document, the Declaration of Independence, more than George Washington, the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental army.
For months, Washington has been frustrated by the ambiguity of the Continental Congress’s position with regard to the war. Up to this point, he’s been tasked to lead an army without a clear vision of what they’re fighting for.
Since the early part of the year, Washington had given up on the idea of a diplomatic solution to the war. In fact, he had once gently mocked the Continental Congress for dining on the “dainty food of reconciliation” while the harsh reality of full-scale war lay right before them.
Now, with this Declaration, the war has clarity and moral purpose.
Now, the great threats that Washington and his soldiers face are no longer part of some ambiguous, long-drawn-out, confusing diplomatic plan.
Now, his army is fighting a War of Independence.
Now, it’s a revolution—an American Revolution.
Washington first receives his printed copy of the Declaration at his New York City headquarters the morning of Tuesday, July 9, 1776.
There is no record of how George Washington reacted when he read the words of the Declaration for the first time, but his actions speak louder than any words he can say or write.
Right away, he has his aides send out a general order with a special request.
Even with hundreds of British warships sitting in New York Harbor at that very moment, he orders each brigade of soldiers to be ready to stand at attention at six o’clock that evening. Those stationed in lowe
r Manhattan are to converge in the Commons, New York City’s town green, centrally located near Broadway.
For the second time in eleven days the Continental army—officers and soldiers—will gather for a special ceremonial event.
This occasion, however, could not be more different from the one eleven days ago, on June 28. The execution of Thomas Hickey was an event of solemnity and death, the harsh outcome of treasonous acts.
Tonight’s gathering is about something very different.
At the designated time the troops converge on the Commons, with the uniformed soldiers standing divided by company.
According to George Washington’s orders, one of his officers—which one exactly is not known—stands on an elevated platform and holds the special document the Commander-in-Chief has given him to read.
With thousands of troops and other onlookers listening, with George Washington himself standing nearby—and with the British warships not far away in the harbor—the officer begins to read.
Of course, today we’ve all heard the phrases countless times—but on this night in 1776, the vast majority of these officers and soldiers hear the words for the very first time:
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.…
These are the words.
These words are why they are fighting.
These words are worth not just fighting for, but dying for.
The reading continues, even as the light begins to fade. Soon the officer gets to the final sentence: “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”
