Independence (37 page)

The bright and sunny day was a holiday of sorts, and sixty thousand Londoners—twice the number of residents of America’s largest city—turned out to watch the parade of royal grandeur. The pomp was in marked contrast to the simple ceremonies that had attended the gathering of the American Congress or General Washington’s departure for the front. Mounted grenadiers, with swords drawn, led the long procession of majestic carriages filled with noblemen and noblewomen. Horse guards and footmen in red and gold livery surrounded the king’s splendid coach, a massive vehicle weighing four tons and drawn by eight cream-colored horses.

At about three o’clock the thunderous roar of artillery announced that George III had completed his journey from St. James’s Palace to Westminster. The monarch alighted to the cheers of the spectators and, moments later, was escorted by peers wearing red robes to the throne in the forefront of the House of Lords. The Lords sat. Members of the House of Commons, lacking chairs, stood in the rear of the chamber. The king was not introduced. He simply began his address, the entirety of which concerned America.
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He added little to the proclamation he had issued sixty-four days before. Demagogues have “successfully laboured to inflame my people in America.” The deluded colonists “now openly avow their revolt, hostility, and rebellion. They have raised troops … and assumed to themselves legislative, executive, and judicial powers.” Parliament had offered “conciliatory propositions” during the winter, but they were spurned by the “authors and promoters of this desperate conspiracy.” The end they sought was the establishment of “an independent empire.” He had augmented Britain’s army and navy in America in order to “give a further extent and activity to our military operations.” He also said that he had “received the most friendly offers of foreign assistance,” the first official hint that foreign mercenaries might be sent to assist the redcoats in quelling the colonial rebellion. The king vowed “to put a speedy end to these disorders by the most decisive exertions” of force. He pledged “pardons and indemnities” to the “deluded multitude” when they “shall become sensible of their error.” He did not promise mercy for the leaders of the “conspiracy.”

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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