Founding Myths (26 page)

Patrick Henry, like many white Virginians, speculated in western lands. In 1767 he acquired two tracts from his father-in-law that he couldn't even find when he went looking for them. According to notes he made in his fee book, he knew these were cut off by territory that had been “allotted to the Indians by a treaty,” but he purchased them anyway, “hoping that line would be altered.” Eventually it was: “After many contests and much altercation with the Indians,” as well as with other colonists and British officials on both sides of the Atlantic, the line was changed so he could secure most of the land. Henry knew, as did other white Virginians, that both native people and imperial officials stood in the way of land speculation and white settlement of the West.
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With access to land at issue, it is little wonder that Henry advocated military invasions of Indian country. In 1778, as governor of Virginia, he increased the military support for frontier settlements and sanctioned a company of “Volunteers” who set out to raid Indian territory.
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The following year he authorized an expedition into
distant territory inhabited by the Chickamaugas, militant Cherokees who resisted white domination.
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Following the Revolutionary War, while arguing for American rights to navigate the Mississippi River, he declared he would sooner part from the Union than with the Mississippi.
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Before, during, and after the Revolution, Henry was an avid expansionist. His own self-interest, as well as the interest of many other Virginians, demanded it.

In his efforts to arouse public opinion against Britain, which had tried to shut down white settlement of the trans-Appalachian territories, Patrick Henry likely made some appeal to the prevailing anti- Indian sentiments. Since western lands would be easier to acquire with Britain out of the way, playing to fears of a British-Indian alliance would aid Revolutionary recruitment (see
chapter 14
). Likewise, it is difficult to imagine that Henry did
not
play the “slave card”—his ace in the hole—in his politicking. Yet nowhere in any of his speeches, as rendered by later writers, do we see even a hint of pandering to instincts less noble than the love of liberty. His speeches, quite literally, have been whitewashed.

ANOTHER DOCTORED SPEECH

“Liberty or death” was not the only speech to receive a touch-up. Ten years earlier, in his first year as a representative to Virginia's House of Burgesses, Henry had stepped forth to offer a dramatic denunciation of the Stamp Act. According to William Wirt:

It was in the midst of this magnificent debate, while he was descanting on the tyranny of the obnoxious act, that he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, and with the look of a god, “Caesar had his Brutus—Charles the first, his Cromwell—and George the third—(‘Treason,' cried the speaker—‘treason, treason,' echoed from every part of the house.—It was one of those trying moments which is decisive of character.—Henry faltered not for an instant; but rising to a loftier attitude, and fixing on the
speaker an eye of the most determined fire, he finished his sentence with the firmest emphasis)—
may profit by their example.
If
this
be treason, make the most of it.”
²²

In this version of the story, reconstructed a half century after the fact, Patrick Henry dramatically defied his detractors. At the time, however, a French traveler who observed the event firsthand noted that Henry responded to the charge of “treason” quite differently:

Shortly after I Came in one of the members stood up and said he had read that in former times tarquin and Julius had their Brutus, Charles had his Cromwell, and he Did not Doubt but some good American would stand up, in favour of his Country, but (says he) in a more moderate manner, and was going to Continue, when the speaker of the house rose and Said, he, the last that stood up had spoke treason, and was sorey to see that not one of the members of the house was loyal Enough to stop him, before he had gone so far.

[U]pon which the Same member stood up again (his name is henery) and said that if he had affronted the speaker, or the house, he was ready to ask pardon, and he would shew his loyalty to his majesty King G. the third, at the Expence of the last Drop of his blood, but what he had said must be attributed to the Interest of his Country's Dying liberty which he had at heart, and the heat of passion might have lead him to have said something more than he intended, but, again, if he said anything wrong, he begged the speaker and the houses pardon. Some other Members stood up and backed him, on which that afaire was droped.
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The discrepancies between these two accounts are striking. While nineteenth-century Romantics depicted Henry as defiant in the face of numerous critics, the firsthand witness stated clearly and emphatically that Henry apologized for his excess not once but twice, and that the charge of “treason” came only from the Speaker of the House, not
from a chorus of members. Henry was not a solitary hero standing tall in the face of numerous adversaries; instead, he tried to cover his bases when it appeared he had overreached his bounds. By backpedaling, Henry acted wisely and astutely—but not heroically.

The Romantic versions of both these speeches—“liberty or death” and “Caesar had his Brutus”—glorify bold defiance. They also glorify oratory itself. At a time when many Americans did not have the ability to read learned dissertations on politics, everybody could hear and respond to a speech. Oratory was crucial to the creation of American nationalism. It is no surprise that William Wirt was something of an orator himself: he served as the keynote speaker to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence in Washington, D.C., on July 4, 1826.

Oratory has its uses, but it can also drown out compromise, reasoned consideration, and dissent. Hawkish oratory, taken at face value, functions as military recruitment. Noble sentiments lead impressionable boys and young men to offer up their lives in service to their nation or cause. This danger intensifies when one orator pumps up the words of another, as with Wirt and Henry. Patriots of the early republic sanctified their nationalism and expansionism by appealing to the hallowed tradition of the Revolution. Even if the words came from Wirt, the “liberty or death” speech played better when attributed to the “Son of Thunder,” the legendary orator from a generation past.

Through much of the nineteenth century, countless schoolchildren practiced memorization and recitation by delivering and dramatizing the “liberty or death” speech. Little did they know that the words they spoke did not come from Patrick Henry, or that the noble sentiments they expressed concealed baser motives. Today, we do know these things, yet Henry's call to arms is still featured in many current texts. Students no longer recite the speech, but “give me liberty, or give me death” still tells them that marching off to war is admirable and patriotic. In her
History of US
, Joy Hakim provides a complete stage set for the speech, which she repeats verbatim with no credit to Wirt: “Henry stepped into the aisle, bowed his head, and held out his arms.
He pretended his arms were chained.” After quoting several sentences, she concludes, “Then Patrick Henry threw off the imaginary chains, stood up straight, and cried out, ‘Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!' ”
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This story works because the words have been teased and the context ignored. A speech that called the king a “fool,” and Englishmen, Scots, and Britons “wretches,” would not be so celebrated today, and a man who catered to fears of slaves and Indians would not be quite so honored.

 

“ ‘Don't throw away a single shot, my brave fellows,' said old Putnam, 'till you can see the white of their eyes.' ”

The Battle of Bunker Hill.
Engraving, 1850s, based on painting by Alonzo Chappel.

10

THE WHITES OF THEIR EYES

D
uring the Battle of Bunker Hill, the story goes, Israel Putnam (some say William Prescott) issued a command: “Do not fire till you see the whites of their eyes!” Displaying great courage and discipline in the face of advancing Redcoats, the untested patriots stood their ground and withheld their fire until they could gaze into the eyes of the enemy.

According to depositions of those who participated in the battle, American officers issued many commands: “Fire low.” “Aim at their waistbands.” “Pick off the commanders.” “Aim at the handsome coats.” “Powder must not be wasted.” “Wait until you see the white of their eyes.”
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What is so special about the last one? Why has this particular idiom, which now exemplifies the story of Bunker Hill, been included among the classic tales of the American Revolution?

Soldiers who see the whites of the eyes of their adversaries must be fighting a very personalized, intimate sort of war—not like the industrialized warfare of later years. Man-to-man and honorably, a soldier could prove his valor by facing off against his adversary. This is what “the whites of their eyes” story gives us. It sets the Revolutionary War in a class by itself. Those were the days, we imagine, when a man could look the enemy directly in the eyes before shooting him down.

AN EXPERIMENT

The “whites of their eyes” command was not new to the American Revolution. Prince Charles of Prussia supposedly issued it in 1745, as did Frederick the Great in 1757. They were probably not the only ones. During the Revolution itself, other officers at other battles were said to have spoken these words.
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“Do not fire until you see the whites of their eyes” was a figure of speech, a common idiom used by eighteenth-century officers to gain control over their soldiers' fire.

Let's imagine Revolutionary soldiers
did
obey the order exactly as stated. When would they be allowed to shoot? At what distance can a person see the whites of another person's eyes?

Try this experiment. Have someone charge at you, then signal when you can see the whites of the aggressor's eyes. Have a third party note the spot and measure how close it is to you. If you actually do see the whites of eyes at more than ten yards, you have unusually keen vision.

Now repeat the experiment in a battlefield simulation. Have hundreds of people march toward you in full battle gear and kicking up dust, or if that is too difficult to arrange, settle for just a dozen or two marching toward you with long sticks to represent muskets and bayonets, finally breaking their rhythmic gait into a rapid assault. At what point, exactly, can you see the whites of the eyes of the enemy? Five yards? Perhaps less? Certainly not much more. Do you really wish to wait that long until you fire? How could you and your compatriots possibly reload for a second volley?

Clearly, the command was not meant to be taken literally, as we infer now. When officers issued this order, as many did, they were telling their soldiers to focus hard on the enemy and hold their fire until further command. They were not telling them to fire only when the enemy had advanced to within five or ten yards.

Once, an American officer did insist that soldiers hold their fire till the enemy was only about ten yards away. On May 29, 1780, at Waxhaws, South Carolina, Colonel Abraham Buford ordered his troops not to shoot until the British legion, commanded by Banastre
Tarleton, was almost upon them. The single volley proved insufficient to stop the charge, and the patriots were immediately overrun.
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One hundred thirteen patriots were killed immediately and another 203 were captured, most of whom had been wounded. British losses, by contrast, were only five killed and twelve wounded. This real-life experiment at close firing failed miserably.

Americans often point to the “massacre” at Waxhaws as an example of British cruelty (see
chapter 12
). Whether or not Tarleton's men killed soldiers trying to surrender, as patriots later claimed, the battle certainly revealed the ugly face of close combat. When soldiers fought each other with swords, musket butts, and bayonets, battles were likely to turn into slaughters. If “the whites of their eyes” were actually sighted, things could turn nasty indeed.

“CANNONS ROARING MUSKETS CRACKING DRUMS BEATING BUMBS FLYING ALL ROUND”

Sometimes, a Revolutionary soldier could see into the whites of the eyes of the enemy; far more often, he could not. Most men who died never even saw their slayers. In fact, the majority of soldiers who perished did so from diseases or while languishing in prisons. With soldiers coming together in crowded and often unsanitary conditions, typhoid fever, typhus, dysentery, and smallpox ran rampant. Close contact with one's fellow soldiers took more lives than close contact with the enemy. According to military historian Howard Peckham, approximately 10,000 patriots died in camp. Another 7,000 died as prisoners of war, primarily by catching diseases from each other. By contrast, Peckham recorded 6,824 deaths from battle casualties.
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