Independence (33 page)

George III by Johann Zoffany. Britain's monarch after 1762, George III took a hard line toward the colonists, refusing to negotiate or to receive Congress's petitions. He ultimately advocated the use of force to suppress the American rebellion. (Royal Collection. All rights reserved © 2010 Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II)

For a second time the king had proclaimed that America was in rebellion. For a second time he had pledged to crush the insurgency by armed might. He offered no concessions and said nothing about negotiations. However, there was one intriguing line in the address. The king had spoken enigmatically of giving “authority to certain persons upon the spot” who would be “so commissioned” to “restore [to the empire] such provinces or colony so returning to its allegiance.”
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The meaning of that sentence was unclear, and during the months that followed, it spawned rampant speculation. Rumors floated, but all in all the king's answer to the events in America seemed unmistakable. He was going to wage war on America.

The First Continental Congress had met for eight weeks before adjourning. The Second Congress adjourned on August 2 after only twelve weeks, its members crying that they had “Set much longer than … expected” and “We are all exhausted.” As war was raging and soldiers and civilians alike were being asked to make enormous sacrifices, it may seem odd that the congressmen laid aside their responsibilities at this juncture, especially as the only reasons they gave for returning home were fatigue and a desire to escape Philadelphia's “Very Close & Hot” summer.
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Actually, this was a good time for a break. Until the delegates learned of the king's response to the Olive Branch Petition—which was not expected until deep into the fall—many thought Congress was at a standstill. Besides, they had done what could be done to prepare for America's defense, and with the beleaguered British army apparently incapable of emerging from Boston until reinforcements arrived, there was little likelihood of another major battle in Massachusetts any time soon. There was another reason for suspending activities at this point. Many congressmen thought it prudent that they be at home to assist the local authorities in implementing the war measures that Congress had taken since May.
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John Adams, for instance, spent the break serving on the Massachusetts Council, which acted as the rebel government's executive authority within the province. A member of a congressional munitions committee charged with finding lead, Adams also took the initiative in pushing his colony to obtain and refine the metal. En route home, Jefferson swung by Richmond, where the Virginia Convention was meeting, and assisted with the expansion of Virginia's militia and the selection of Patrick Henry as its commander in chief. Franklin, Silas Deane of Connecticut, Samuel Chase of Maryland, and James Duane of New York spent a portion of their recess procuring powder for the army of the Northern Department, which was preparing to invade Canada. Franklin also oversaw the manufacture of arms in Pennsylvania. Samuel Ward was engaged in the erection of shore batteries in Providence.
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After their working vacations, the congressmen reassembled on September 13, a week later than scheduled because of the want of a quorum. The entire New Hampshire and North Carolina delegations arrived a week late, and numerous other delegates were tardy. One notable event occurred during the Massachusetts delegation's trek back to Philadelphia: After much tutoring by John Adams, Samuel Adams learned to mount and ride a horse. Though plagued with saddle sores, he stayed with it for three hundred miles, and by the time the party reached its destination, he made what one colleague called “an easy, genteel Figure upon the Horse.” Samuel Adams's aide could not resist baiting the other Massachusetts delegates by proclaiming in Philadelphia that his boss now rode “fifty per Cent better” than any of them.
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Some congressmen returned to Philadelphia expecting Congress to mark time, and in fact much of September and October was consumed with the wearisome yet crucial task of managing the war. Contracts were let for the acquisition of flints, powder, muskets, and field artillery. Innumerable army officers were commissioned. On occasion Congress interviewed a candidate who aspired to become a general officer. Atop all this, Congress directed the completion of defensive works, looked after recruiting, found winter clothing for the soldiers, took care to keep inflation in check, and audited the books to determine what it had spent since convening in May. After the angry clashes and momentous decisions made early on by the Second Congress, these sessions were tame and tedious, moving one delegate to sigh: “Much precious Time is indiscreetly expended” on “Points of little Consequence” by “long winded and roundabout” oratory.
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At times there were bitter wrangles, but on the whole the congressmen got on remarkably well. Several reserved a table at the City Tavern and dined together each evening. Moreover, the practice begun by the First Congress of all the delegates joining for a Saturday repast was continued through 1775. Relations between the delegates were so good that after a few weeks a Southerner even exclaimed that the “Character of the New Yorkers is no longer suspicious.” The glaring exception to what one described as the prevailing “perfect harmony” was the relationship of Dickinson and John Adams.
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Four days after Congress resumed in September—by which time Adams's intercepted letter about Dickinson had been published in a Tory newspaper—the two congressmen encountered one another while walking along Chestnut Street. “We met, and passed near enough to touch Elbows,” Adams said, but Dickinson “passed without moving his Hat, or Head or Hand. I bowed and pulled off my Hat. He passed hautily by.… I shall for the future pass him, in the same manner,” Adams vowed.
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Of course, from time to time other feathers were ruffled. The intercepted packet containing Adams's letter about Dickinson also included a missive from Virginia's Benjamin Harrison to Washington in which he commiserated with the general for having to deal with New Englanders. Harrison knew how exasperating that could be, he said, based on “the Sample [of Yankees] we have here.” The Loyalist newspaper editor gleefully published that letter as well.
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Most of the problems that arose sprang up between delegates from different sections of the country, but at times congressmen from the same delegation did not get along. Some had been foes in provincial politics long before the Anglo-American conflict, but in some instances divisions over congressional policies produced enmity. For instance, John Adams's relations were strained with both Thomas Cushing and Robert Treat Paine. The Adams-Paine clash may have been nourished by their long rivalry as lawyers in pre-Revolutionary Massachusetts. At times, it was said, Adams and Paine barely exhibited “Decency and Civility” toward one another. As the fall session wore on and the delegates faced an escalating number of difficult issues, the strains between the congressmen increased. “[W]e grow tired, … Captious, Jealous and want a recess,” one congressman sighed at the beginning of December.
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Part of the problem was that the congressmen faced long days—and evenings—of hard work six days a week. With the exception of Tuesday, October 24, when Congress adjourned for the funeral of Peyton Randolph—the president of Congress since its inception who died suddenly of a stroke two days earlier—Congress never missed a session that fall. It met for about six hours each day, and nearly every day one or more committees met prior to the day's session or following its adjournment. The daily schedule that faced Silas Deane was typical. “I rise at Six, write [letters] untill Seven dress & breakfast by Eight go to the Committee of Claims untill Ten, then in Congress untill half past Three or perhaps four—Dine by five, & then go [to additional committee meetings] until Nine, then Sup & go to Bed by Eleven.” His routine, he lamented, “leaves little Room for Diversion, or any thing else.” Several delegates complained of a “Want of Exercise as we are obliged to Set” for hours on end.
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Many congressmen were voluminous letter writers, devoting hours to keeping in touch with family, friends, and political allies at home. Franklin, who was at home, spent some of his time writing influential acquaintances in England whom he knew to be foes of the war. Doubtless hoping that David Hartley would continue to speak in the House of Commons against hostilities, Franklin told him that the colonists looked on the people of England as friends, but “Our respect for them will proportionately diminish” the longer hostilities continued. “[S]end us over hither fair Proposals of Peace,” Franklin advised a friend in London, and he would use his influence in Congress “to promote their Acceptation.” To others he wrote that in 1775 the entire British army in America had lost 1,500 men while it killed only 150 colonists—which came to a cost of “£20,000 a head,” he calculated—and during “the same time 60,000 children have been born in America.” At that rate, he asked, how much will it cost and “how long will it take for England to conquer America?”
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The delegates worried that their businesses—mostly farms and legal practices—would suffer irreparable harm during their absence, but nothing was as painful as being separated from one's family. Some sent instructions to their wives about managing affairs while they were away, and a few utilized what might best be described as insider information as they urged them to hold or sell the produce of their farms. Others were content not to intrude on their wives' management of family matters. Elizabeth Adams, Samuel's wife, moved from one house to another without consulting her husband. When he learned what had occurred, Samuel responded that he was “exceedingly pleasd with it.”
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Several delegates felt guilt pangs at their lengthy separation from their young children. Samuel Ward wanted his children to understand that he did not enjoy being away from them. He exhorted his wife to make the children aware that their “most indulgent Father” was serving his country “at the Risque of Life” and at the “Expence of many of the Amusements & Pleasures of this World.” John Adams said that he felt “like a Savage” because of his protracted absence from his family, but he justified his months—and eventually years—of separation by saying that he believed his patriotic sacrifices would result in the establishment of greater opportunities for his children.
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As the delegations were large and each colony had but one vote, many delegates slipped away every three months or so on brief trips home. Sometimes that was not possible. At one point in the fall of 1775, for instance, with some delegates already on leave, some out with illness, and 10 percent of the congressional membership away on committee assignments in Cambridge and Fort Ticonderoga, Congress refused to give John Jay a leave of absence to return home. When he was finally permitted to go home, Jay told his wife that “nothing but actual Imprisonment” could now keep him in Philadelphia.
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A spate of humdrum days, and even weeks, was not uncommon for the congressmen, but trouble was never long in resurfacing. The dull and wearisome late-summer sessions were soon enough interrupted by the first wartime crisis. It unfolded in stages and involved the new Continental army. Late in September, Congress was jolted by a disturbing letter from General Washington. The period of enlistment for the several thousand soldiers who had entered the Grand American Army under General Ward back in April and May was due to expire at year's end. Happily, Washington advised that he believed most men would reenlist. However, he told Congress that he feared the officers would leave the army if changes were not forthcoming. The problem, said Washington, was that the pay of the subalterns—the ensigns, lieutenants, and captains—was “inadequate to their Rank.” If their remuneration was not increased for 1776, the commander in chief thought it likely that most would resign their commissions at the end of the year. Washington urged that their pay be increased. He did not request a pay raise for the enlisted men. In fact, he asked that they be paid by the calendar month rather than the lunar month—a New England militia tradition that had been continued in the Grand American Army and carried over by Congress into the Continental army—a step that would result in an 8 percent annual pay cut for the men.
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It was readily apparent that if most of the junior officers quit, the army would face a potential calamity. But something subtler lay behind Washington's letter and Congress's ultimate response. General Washington was attempting to reshape the very nature of the Continental army. New England, the most egalitarian section within the American colonies, had historically fielded militia characterized by relative equality between the ranks. The pay of a Massachusetts lieutenant, for instance, was only twice that of a private, and the pay of the highest-ranking officer—a colonel—was just six times greater than that of the lowest-ranking soldier. In the southern colonies, the least egalitarian American provinces, militia lieutenants were paid about five times as much as privates and colonels about twenty times as much. When Congress established the Continental army in June, it more or less adopted the New England pay schedule, save for the general officers, which were newly created ranks. Thus, a Continental lieutenant's stipend was twice that of a private, and a Continental colonel's pay was just seven and one-half times that of a private. But general officers were paid twenty to twenty-five times what privates were. Washington's remuneration as commander in chief was seventy-five times greater than that of his lowest-ranking soldier.
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