22
“WE HAVE RESTORED THE SOVEREIGN”
Yes, we should seek reconciliation with Great Britain, was the opinion that prevailed in Philadelphia, where an almost fantasy-like refusal to accept the reality of what had already taken place seems to have held the colonial representatives firmly in its thrall. So strong was it that they spent much time carefully drafting a conciliatory appeal (the Olive Branch Petition) addressed directly to King George. When it was presented to him, he disdained to even look at it.
The situation was reminiscent of the Israelites in the wilderness, convinced that they had been better off in Egypt and growing daily more certain that the only thing to do was to go back. Out in the wilderness they were facing the unknown and were forced to put their entire trust in God because there was no one else to trust. Forgotten was all memory of the slave pits and the grinding, hopeless existence they knew before the Lord God of Hosts delivered them. All they could remember now was that their bellies had been full, and they had known where their next meal was coming from, even if it was only stale crusts.
It may well have been the unknown—of having to trust in God because there was nowhere else to turn—that was causing many delegates to Congress in 1776 to wistfully turn their thoughts back to less perilous times.
There were, however, delegates in Congress who were not lingering in unreality about the possibilities of reconciliation with Britain, such as John and Samuel Adams, Patrick Henry, and the others from Virginia. John Adams, often the most persevering of the realists, had the benefit of having a wife with an extraordinary awareness of exactly what was at stake. As Abigail wrote to him on June 18:
I feel no anxiety at the large armament designed against us. The remarkable interpositions of heaven in our favor cannot be too gratefully acknowledged. He who fed the Israelites in the wilderness, who clothes the lilies of the field and who feeds the young ravens when they cry, will not forsake a people engaged in so righteous a cause, if we remember His loving kindness.1
Adams and the other realists saw clearly that events had progressed beyond the point of no return; to go back now would be to go back under England’s terms—under a far-from-benevolent dictatorship. For despite the support of eloquent and high-minded members of Parliament, the prevailing sentiment there reflected the King’s own intransigence (as well it might, since George III’s personal patronage had bought the majority of the seats). In the King’s eyes, the only way to deal with rebellion was to crush it. To show even the slightest mercy was to invite a recurrence in the future.
When hearts are thus hardened, the most compelling persuasion in the world cannot move them. Nine plagues in swift succession had failed to soften Pharaoh’s heart, and the comparison between him and George III was now being made in sermons throughout the colonies. Nevertheless, great Parliamentarians like Pitt, Burke, and Fox, in speaking out for the cause of America, reached heights of oratory seldom heard since the days of Rome.
The Bishop of Saint Asaph had summed up the position of the pro-American minority and set the tone when he said:
My Lords, I look upon North America as the only great nursery of freedom now left on the face of the earth. . . . we seem not to be sensible of the high and important trust which Providence has committed to our charge. The most precious remains of civil liberty that the world can now boast of are lodged in our hands, and God forbid that we should violate so sacred a deposit.2
Pitt, England’s great former Prime Minister, put it in strictly civil terms:
The spirit which now resists your taxation in America is the same which formerly . . . established the great fundamental, essential maxim of your liberties—that no subject of England shall be taxed but by his own consent. This glorious spirit . . . animates three millions in America, who prefer poverty with liberty, to gilded chains and sordid affluence, and who will die in deference of their rights as men, as freemen.
When your lordships look at the papers transmitted us from America, when you consider their decency, firmness and wisdom, you cannot but respect their cause, and wish to make it your own. For myself, I must declare and avow that in all my reading and observation . . . for solidity of reasoning, force of sagacity, and wisdom of conclusion, under such a complication of difficult circumstances, no nation or body of men can stand in preference to the general Congress at Philadelphia.
That was the considered opinion of the foremost British statesman of the eighteenth century. Did it make any impression on King George? He dismissed it contemptuously, calling Pitt “a trumpet of sedition.”
The debate over the fate of America was hardly confined to Parliament. All of England, to say nothing of Scotland and Ireland, seemed to feel more intensely about it than anything since the Glorious Revolution in the previous century. Some of the highest officers in both the Royal Army and Royal Navy resigned their commission rather than serve. Lord Jeffrey Amherst, the Crown’s greatest general in the French and Indian Wars, repeatedly rejected the King’s offers of an active command. And General Henry Conway, only slightly less famous, not only refused to take any part in the war but openly opposed it at every point.
The same held true at the bottom of the military establishment. By his willingness to enlist, the British commoner traditionally expressed his approval or disapproval of his nation’s wars, and in the case of the American rebellion, it was the latter. Never in all Britannia’s history had she experienced such difficulty in raising an army. During the Seven Years’ War with Spain, three-hundred thousand Britons had responded to the call of the recruiting drum; now she could not raise even fifty thousand. Recruiting officers were stoned in Ireland, tarred and feathered in Wales. Even the extensive use of press-gangs, who kidnapped able-bodied seamen wherever they could find them, could not meet the Royal Navy’s needs.
In the end, a furious George III was forced to hire mercenaries from abroad. Even here he was rebuffed. Catherine of Russia did not bother to reply to the King’s request, written in his own hand. Frederick the Great of Prussia curtly refused him. Johan Derk van der Capellen of Holland let George III know exactly where he stood, as he expressed his opinion to his fellow countrymen: “But above all, it must appear superlatively detestable to me, who think the Americans worthy of every man’s esteem and look upon them as a brave people, defending in a becoming, manly and religious manner those rights which, as men, they derive from God, not from the legislature of Great Britain.”3
In England, there were those not protected by the immunity of Parliament who spoke out at great risk. The Lord Mayor and Aldermen of London were so bold as to petition the king:
As we would not suffer any man, or body of men, to establish arbitrary power over us, we cannot acquiesce in any attempt to force it upon any part of our fellow subjects. We are persuaded that, by the sacred, unalterable rights of human nature, as well as by every principle of the constitution, the Americans ought to enjoy peace, liberty and safety, [and] that whatever power invades these rights ought to be resisted. We hold such resistance, in vindication of their constitutional rights, to be their indispensable duty to God, from whom those rights are derived to themselves.4
George III was finally able to locate, among the lesser princes of Germany, three who would sell him the use of their soldiers—three princes who, in the words of Edmund Burke, “sniffed the cadaverous taint of lucrative war.”5 Altogether, he was able to buy the services of thirty thousand German mercenaries, which comprised more than half his total expeditionary force.
Of those in sympathy with the American cause, the most impressive address came not from the House of Lords but from the House of Commons. There, Mr. George Johnstone spoke in terms so ringing that he might have been standing alongside Samuel Adams or Patrick Henry:
I maintain that the sense of the best and wisest men in this country are on the side of the Americans, that three to one in Ireland are on their side, that the soldiers and sailors feel an unwillingness to serve. . . . I speak it to the credit of the fleet and army: they do not like to butcher men whom the greatest characters in this country consider as contending in the glorious cause of preserving those institutions which are necessary to the happiness, security and elevation of the human mind. . . .
To a mind who loves to contemplate the glorious spirit of freedom, no spectacle can be more affecting than the action on Bunker Hill. To see an irregular peasantry commanded by a physician [he was referring to Patriot leader Dr. Joseph Warren, killed as one of the last defenders], inferior in number, opposed by every circumstance of cannon and bombs that could terrify timid minds, calmly waiting the attack of the gallant Howe leading on the best troops in the world, with an excellent train of artillery, and twice repulsing those very troops who had often chased the chosen battalions of France, and at last retiring for want of ammunition, but in so respectable a manner that they were not even pursued—who can reflect on such scenes and not adore the constitution of government which could breed such men! Who is there that can dismiss all doubts on the justice of the cause which can inspire such conscious rectitude?
The conduct of the people of New England for wisdom, courage, temperance, fortitude and all those qualities that can command the admiration of noble minds, is not surpassed in the history of any nation under the sun. Instead of wreaking our vengeance against that colony, their heroism alone should plead their forgiveness.6
Neither the King nor any of his ministers nor any of his bought members of Parliament had ears to hear. That same day George III publicly announced his decision to crush the rebellion by force of arms, including the use of mercenaries. When the ensuing debate was finally over, the House of Lords voted in favor of the king’s address, 76 to 33, and Commons voted 278 to 108 in favor. England declared war.
For eleven years the colonies had repeatedly sought reconciliation with the mother country, only to have their peaceful entreaties met with armed force. The Patriots had felt Biblically justified in taking up arms to defend their homes and families because they had not sought war and had never fired the first shot—not in the Boston Massacre of 1770, not at Lexington and Concord, and not at Breed’s Hill. Their understanding of Biblical teaching was that God condones defensive wars, not offensive ones.
And now, King George III had decided to send a large invasion army against his own subjects—to forcibly enter their homes, take their property, and imprison them without trial—all in complete violation of British common law, the English Bill of Rights, and the Magna Carta.7
It is not surprising, then, that Samuel Adams would declare to British officials in the midst of the war:
There is One above us who will take exemplary vengeance for every insult upon His majesty. You know that the cause of America is just. You know that she contends for that freedom to which all men are entitled—that she contends against oppression, rapine, and more than savage barbarity. The blood of the innocent is upon your hands, and all the waters of the ocean will not wash it away. We again make our solemn appeal to the God of heaven to decide between you and us. And we pray that, in the doubtful scale of battle, we may be successful as we have justice on our side, and that the merciful Savior of the world may forgive our oppressors.8
As the first week of June 1776 drew to a close, with the invasion fleet on its way to subdue the Patriots in the American colonies, the majority of delegates to the Congress in Philadelphia were hoping against hope that some eleventh-hour formula for reconciliation might be found. They were aware of what it would mean and how much it might personally cost them if they were to cast their votes with those who were now calling for an open declaration of independence. Such a move would close the door forever to any possibility of rapprochement with the Crown. And with the full might on both land and sea of the greatest military power on earth about to come down on them, even if the colonies were truly united, they could not hope to stand up to such a force for long.
But all their debates over the past weeks had indicated how utterly separated and individualistic these thirteen colonies actually still were. It would take a miracle of God to bring them into unity. Dare they cut the final ties to Britain and commit the colonies they represented to such peril?
Though none of the delegates openly spoke of their personal jeopardy, it was surely on the mind of more than a few. Those who signed such a declaration would, in the quite probable event of America’s defeat, be held personally responsible. And throughout the British Empire, the penalty for instigating rebellion against the Crown was death. As Ben Franklin put it wryly, “Gentlemen, we must indeed all hang together, or most assuredly we will all be hanged separately.”9
The yearning to be free and stay free was gaining momentum. On May 10, town meetings all over Massachusetts had unanimously voted in favor of independence.10 On May 15, the Virginia Convention voted for independence. And on June 7, documented evidence arrived of the treaties that George III had made with the German princes, purchasing the use of their mercenaries in America.
In the face of that, Richard Henry Lee of Virginia formally proposed that Congress make a declaration of independence, stating that these united colonies are, and of a right ought to be, free and independent states. John Adams immediately seconded the proposal. After a day’s debate, Congress adjourned for three weeks to let the doubtful representatives of the middle colonies go home to sound out the will of their constituents.
In the meantime, Franklin, Adams, Sherman of Connecticut, Livingston of New York, and young Jefferson of Virginia hurried to draw up a draft of the proposed declaration.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. . . . We, therefore, the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States. . . . 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.
Jefferson did most of the final composing, borrowing heavily from the popular phraseology of the day—except for the two phrases, “appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions” and “with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence.” Congress insisted upon including these phrases, over Jefferson’s vehement objection, for he was a confirmed “enlightened rationalist,” soon to become privately a Unitarian.11 (So resentful was Jefferson at their tampering with his prose, that he sent copies of his original draft to his friends, so they might better appreciate his unedited effort.)
June 28: The convention of Maryland voted for independence. Word reached Philadelphia that New Jersey had dismissed its old delegates and was sending new ones, who were instructed to vote for independence.
July 1: Congress entered what John Adams called “the greatest debate of all.” Dickinson of Pennsylvania spoke eloquently and at length against independence. When he had finished, there was a long and thoughtful silence. Adams kept hoping that someone “less obnoxious” than himself, who was “believed to be the author of all the mischief,” would rise to answer. But none did, and so, with great reluctance, Adams rose. And he spoke with such quiet power and conviction that not a man present remained unmoved, especially as he reached his conclusion:
Before God, I believe the hour has come. My judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it. And I leave off as I began, that live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment, Independence now, and Independence for ever!12
No one spoke. Just then, the door swung open and in strode a mud-spattered figure with two others behind him. It was Dr. John Witherspoon, at the head of the New Jersey delegation. Apologizing for being late, he said that although he had not heard the debate, he had not lacked sources of information on the various issues. “Gentlemen, New Jersey is ready to vote for independence. In our judgment, the country is not only ripe for independence, but we are in danger of becoming rotten for the want of it, if we delay any longer.”13
The Congress proceeded to the vote, and eight of the thirteen colonies voted with New Jersey that day: Pennsylvania and South Carolina voted no, and New York abstained. Delaware was split, one delegate to one.
Since Congress was, in effect, acting as a committee on behalf of the whole country, the delegates had agreed that any decision on the declaration would have to be unanimous. It was decided that debate would resume the next morning, to be followed by another vote. In the meantime, an express rider was dispatched to Dover to fetch Delaware’s third delegate, Caesar Rodney. He would be needed to resolve the delegation’s deadlock, which could well determine the outcome.
A Patriot of deep conviction, Rodney had been summoned home on urgent business. But the express rider arrived at his farm at two in the morning, bearing word that debate would resume in less than seven hours, after which the final vote would be taken. Quickly getting dressed and saddling his best horse, Rodney galloped off into the pitch black, stormy night. It was eighty-nine miles to Philadelphia, over stretches of road that were difficult under the best of conditions, and this night the conditions could hardly have been worse. Streams that were normally fordable with ease had become swollen torrents, and the rain had turned one portion of the road into a quagmire so deep that Rodney had to dismount and lead his horse through it to avoid its being crippled.
Unable to obtain a fresh change of horses until dawn, Rodney nevertheless arrived at the State House by 1:00 p.m. just as the final vote was being taken. Half-carried into the assembly room, he was barely able to speak: “As I believe the voice of my constituents and of all sensible and honest men is in favor of independence, my own judgment concurs with them. I vote for independence.”
Few knew the circumstances surrounding Rodney’s vote.14 Caesar Rodney had cancer of the face, which was so advanced that he had taken to wearing a scarf around his neck to hide the disfigurement of his jaw. He had been planning a trip to England because he had heard of a doctor in London who might be able to help him. But he, and every person in that room, was well aware that if they declared independence, Britain would immediately declare war on America and invade the colonies. Caesar Rodney knew that he might never see England before he died of cancer. Nonetheless, without a moment’s hesitation, he voted “aye” for independence.
The last line of the document he had just voted to approve says: “with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”
With his vote Rodney literally pledged his life—and gave us the Declaration. Had he voted “nay,” Delaware’s vote would have been “nay,” for the other two delegates had once again split their vote. Lacking a unanimous vote, the issue would have been tabled.
As it was, the vote was unanimous—twelve to none, with New York abstaining.15 The thirteen colonies had just become the United States of America.
In the silence that followed the announcement of the vote, the afternoon sun cast its soft rays through the tall windows—on a brass candlestick standing on a green felt table covering, a carved eagle over the door, a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles lying on a polished desk.
The magnitude of what they had done began to weigh upon them, and they realized that they and their countrymen were no longer citizens of England but citizens of a fledging nation barely a few minutes old. Many stared out the window. Some had tears in their eyes. A few, like Witherspoon, bowed their heads and closed their eyes in prayer.
Two days later, as president of the Continental Congress, John Hancock would legalize the Declaration by placing his famous signature on it. He broke the silence: “Gentlemen, the price on my head has just been doubled!”
A month after the vote was taken, delegates who wished to sign the Declaration of Independence began gathering in Philadelphia on August 1. That evening, Samuel Adams spoke to those who had arrived, putting into sharp spiritual focus what they had accomplished: “We have this day restored the Sovereign, to Whom alone men ought to be obedient. He reigns in heaven and . . . from the rising to the setting sun, may his Kingdom come.”16