Americanism Redux
July 2, your today, on the journey to the American Founding, 250 years ago, in 1776
Tick. Tock.
In a field along Bowery Lane, a patch of fresh dirt that was hard earlier in the day has softened with tonight’s rainfall.
Tick. Tock.
In a bedroom along Chestnut Street, a man struggles to sleep. On the nightstand lies a green veil.
Tick. Tock.
Only a few cannon balls remain in the palmetto-tree walls of the fort on Sullivan’s Island.
From one end of the Atlantic coast to the other, clocks in belfries wind down the minutes of July 2.
* * * * * * *
(Bowery in the rain)
Today, July 2, the rain’s been falling for the past few hours. A stiff wind came with it, dropping the scorching temperatures to a more pleasant chill. Off either side of the wide, dirt road stand large trees, planted and tended in stately rows. Whether at night, like now, or in the daytime, every traveler of this Bowery Lane agrees: they’re “grand”.
A hundred hours ago, 20,000 people walked past the trees and along the fields of Bowery Lane and crowded together. They easily made for the biggest crowd in North America for a single event in the last ten years, likely much longer than that. Boiling in the heat while standing on the baked ground, they had strained to catch a look of one, single face.
Did you see it?
Only some of the 20,000 could answer honestly that, yes, they had. It was the round face of a stout man. His weight plunged him to the end of the rope where the noose snapped tight, his throat closed shut, and strangulation produced death. Swaying beneath the sun, the man quivered. A moment later, a life became a body that was left hanging as a message and then buried in a nameless grave, marked only by fresh dirt disturbed along Bowery Lane.
The 20,000 people in attendance were more than viewers. They were witnesses, they were soldiers. They belonged to units of the Continental Army. A few were militia, temporary volunteers. All of them were recipients of a statement by General George Washington, a steely command and ghastly invitation to observe this action: “The unhappy fate of Thomas Hickey, executed this day for mutiny, sedition, and treachery, the General hopes will be a warning to every soldier in the Army to avoid those crimes, and all others, so disgraceful to the character of a soldier, and pernicious to his country, whose pay he receives and bread he eats.”
Hickey had been identified as one of the central participants in a plot involving perhaps as many as five hundred Loyalists recruited to arm themselves, rise up when British units landed, kill as many officers (including Washington, for whom Hickey was a bodyguard) as they could, and hold possession of key transport routes for the Redcoat inland invasion.
That Washington, the armed force’s commanding general, concluded the soldiers must watch the hanging veritably screamed his inner thoughts. The sound was made all the more deafening the next day, June 29, when almost as if in concert with the uncovered plot, a British invasionary force of 130 vessels arrived off New York harbor. An observer compared them to a “swarm of locusts escaped from the bottomless pit.” The timing was freakish, speaking on a level of life at its most instinctive.
* * * * * * *
Today, July 2, captive to a scene of immeasurable pressures, tensions, and forebodings, Washington issues this general order to the same soldiery: “The time is now near at hand which must probably determine, whether Americans are to be, Freemen, or Slaves; whether they are to have any property they can call their own; whether their Houses, and Farms, are to be pillaged and destroyed, and they consigned to a State of Wretchedness from which no human efforts will probably deliver them. The fate of unborn Millions 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 we can expect—We have therefore to resolve to conquer or die: Our own Country’s Honor, all call upon us for a vigorous and manly exertion, and if we now shamefully fail, we shall become infamous to the whole world—Let us therefore rely upon the goodness of the Cause, and the aid of the supreme Being, in whose hands Victory is, to animate and encourage us to great and noble Actions—The Eyes of all our Countrymen are now upon us, and we shall have their blessings, and praises, if happily we are the instruments of saving them from the Tyranny meditated against them. Let us therefore animate and encourage each other, and show the whole world, that a Freeman contending for Liberty on his own ground is superior to any slavish mercenary on earth.”
So declared, in the largest community of Continental soldiers in the world, by the leader of the Union’s armed force.
* * * * * * *
(after surgery, he preferred side views)
The green veil at his bedside is for public work. That’s when he wears it, to cover up the shocking hole in his nose and the chunk cut from the side of his face. The tumor is gone from his head but left behind is a sharp consciousness and awkwardness over his appearance. Caesar Rodney of Delaware is now asleep in his temporary quarters off Chestnut Street in Philadelphia.
Beginning late last night and continuing into today, July 2, he’d ridden veil-less an exhausting eighty miles to Philadelphia and Pennsylvania State House, stopping only long enough to change onto a fresh horse after fresh horse after fresh horse. A stab of pain followed every stride of the horses, every furlong of the route. Rodney’s trip was an ordeal that would have killed most people.
A delegate from Delaware, he’d arrived at Chestnut Street a few hours ago to cast a deciding vote for the Union’s independence. He wore his mud-splattered boots and spurs into the building—the rains have poured down on much of the Atlantic Coast. His vote pushed Delaware into the “yes” column. That made twelve out of thirteen, and with New York’s delegation officially abstaining, the Continental Congress has unanimously adopted Richard Henry Lee’s June 7 resolution for the colonies to become “free and independent states”.
Rodney’s sleep tonight is a blend of physical collapse, emotional collapse, and mental collapse. In his mind the hazy plans begin for his return ride to Delaware, at a more sensible pace, and likely with his green veil on.
* * * * * * *
(closed for the night)
The drama of Caesar Rodney’s experience is a fitting capstone to these past few days on Chestnut Street before the rain, and the temperature, started falling. The five-man committee that wrote the draft independence announcement, or declaration, if you prefer, submitted its work to the overall Continental Congress on June 28, the same day that Thomas Hickey was hanged. Over the weekend—the next two days—delegates met over food and drinks, in pairs and small groups, in private rooms and personal settings, and talked and argued and haggled over independence or no.
Two of the delegates most closely identified with yes and no, John Adams and John Dickinson, had given final speeches that delegates would remember years later. Dickinson and his fellow Pennsylvania delegate Robert Morris decided together that instead of voting no openly they would solemnly walk out of the State House meeting room. Dickinson states, “To escape the protection of Great Britain by declaring independence, unprepared as we are would be to brave a storm in a skiff made of paper”, which is a rock-hard reality about independence’s dependence on war. South Carolina delegate Edward Rutledge asked for the final vote on independence to be delayed a day; he then swung his delegation’s vote from no to yes in order to preserve a unanimous outcome. The entire New Jersey delegation arrived without warning and added their colony’s vote to the yes vote. Maryland’s delegation had changed their stance with equal abruptness. And then of course veil-less Rodney had staggered into the hall.
What no one said was what everyone knew and therefore didn’t have to say—that they were essentially still catching up to the effects of Thomas Paine’s explosion of “Common Sense” six months prior. Paine’s work is perfectly expressed, and its contents reflected, in the full June 7 resolution by Virginia’s Richard Henry Lee that called for independence, for foreign alliances, and for independent governments, each of which was assigned to committees within the Continental Congress. The first product of that work would be debated by the entire body starting tomorrow.
But that’s ahead, after the rain is over and the sun comes up. The biggest prize is now, which John Adams is already understanding: “The Second Day of July 1776, will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shows, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.”
Outside Pennsylvania State House, home to the Union’s civic and governing body, the Continental Congress, rainwater drips from rooftops onto the cobblestones of Chestnut Street.
* * * * * * *
Stick your hand into the wall of the fort and see what you feel. Follow the track of the hole. That’s been the standing order the past few days from Colonel William Moultrie in Charleston, South Carolina.
The walls, built by local residents who volunteered to defend the town from an impending British attack and invasion, are made from palmetto trees. The wood is notoriously soft and squishy and as a barricade, absorbs whatever hits it. That’s exactly what British Admiral Peter Parker and General Henry Clinton discovered when they ordered naval cannon to open fire on the Sullivan’s Island and the fort guarding the entrance into Charleston harbor.
Continental Army General Charles Lee had been dispatched to Charleston by both the Continental Congress and General George Washington to help the town prepare for the British attack. Gruff, aloof, and quick to ridicule anyone he even remotely considers unequal to his superior military ability, Lee was dismissive of the palmetto-tree fort. He urged its evacuation, but was immediately ignored. Lee expected a disaster there.
He was shocked by how wrong he proved to be.
With scarcely any loss of life, the Charleston defenders beat back a poorly planned British attack. The biggest problem the Charlestonians contended with was a lack of ammunition, especially for their cannon. This was why Colonel William Moultrie had ordered soldiers to retrieve as many of the British cannonballs stuck in the palmetto-walls as they could find.
Today, July 2, Lee writes to the preside/nt of the Continental Congress: “We had only two men killed on the spot, and twenty-two wounded, seven of whom lost their limbs; but with their limbs they did not lose their spirits, for they enthusiastically encouraged their commander never to abandon the standard of liberty and their country. This I do assure you, sir, is not in the style of gasconading romance, usual after every successful action; but literally a fact. I with great pleasure mention the circumstance, as it augurs well to the cause of freedom…I have not in my military capacity met with the least obstruction or difficulty, but that we have all worked in concert and harmony for the common good.”
A day ago, Lee wrote a similar report to his commander, General George Washington. One of the few points he chose to express to Washington that he kept out of the report to the Continental Congress was this: he praised the soldiers—men who he described as “boys” and “raw recruits”—for having the courage of “Romans”.
The people who’d come out of their private spaces of home and work and worship, and who’d insisted on acting in their own way, had prevailed. The man with the credentials decided to stand aside and gave them full credit afterwards.
Wet and warm to the touch, the palmetto-tree walls had yielded up their crop of absorbed cannonballs. Only the pesky palmetto bugs remained behind.
Also
(the French secretary of war)
Claude Louis, Count Saint Germain, is the minister of war for the French monarchy. He lives on a small estate in Alsace. Saint Germain has fought in several European wars, including Austro-Hungarian clashes against the Turks, in the war of the Austrian Succession, and in the Seven Years War of 1756-1763. His experience also runs into administrative service as the Secretary of War for the Army in Denmark. He’s been with the French monarchy for the past eight months.
Saint Germain’s primary goal this summer is to cull out dozens of officers from the French military. A reduction in their number would help lower the cost of French armed forces. At the same time, it’s his belief that an adoption of more Prussian-oriented military practices could enhance French armed power in this time of fiscal retrenchment.
Lower costs, raise effectiveness.
It’s the age-old quest.
For You Now
As we head into the 250th celebrations of Independence Day, let me be the one who tosses out a stark idea:
John Adams won, and John Adams lost. We know that now. I’ll suggest to you this won/lost dynamic within the same person is one of the most compelling realities of American Founding.
Adams won in his forecasting of what ought to be done in celebration of American independence. His quote in my entry is from a letter he writes to his wife Abigail less than twenty-four hours after July 2. The quote is used to underscore the powerful insights of the Founding Fathers. No quarrel here. We’re right to acknowledge such prescience.
However, Adams lost to Thomas Jefferson. Our Adams-like celebration skills are used for the final approval of the document of announcement, the rhetoric, NOT the vote on the political and governmental decision that preceded it by two days, the reality. Moreover, the Declaration as a document is viewed as Jefferson’s handiwork…with a little help from his friends, so to speak; all centerstage to the author, all backstage to the editors. Weirdly, Adams himself contributes to this unknowingly when on his deathbed he’s heard to mutter “Thomas Jefferson still survives”, though the Virginian had died five hours before. And double-weirdly, Jefferson’s self-scribed epitaph chiseled it in gravestone.
Yeah, in a way, it’s a kind of truth that endures, with a little help from perversity.
But I think the core of celebration is July 2, a final vote with all of the drama (and more) that’s recounted in this entry. The political outcome is foundational. The document is follow-along, primarily an expression of Paine’s work, various meetings since mid-1774, and an active list of grievances, all wrapped together by the collective efforts of the committee’s members. That’s not to minimize. It’s to realize.
I’ll keep tossing ’em out.
Washington’s general orders of July 2 are another form of declaration, one every bit as important as anything coming out of Philadelphia. Similarly, Lee’s assessment of what he saw in Charleston points to the kind of action that will make the July 2 vote stick—without war, the vote won’t matter.
As a leader, I also want to connect you to three basic truths in this entry. First, the setting and situation of leadership is anywhere and everywhere. The form of the moment won’t be limited. Second, that moment will come and go and not wait on you. You’ll do it or it moves on regardless, with you wondering why. Third, you’ll have to decide if you’re able in the moment. The opportunity may be your natural skill or talent or it may not. However it measures—in your wheelhouse or not—your decision will open or close the door.
Tick. Tock. The fuse is lit.
Suggestion
Take a moment to consider: where would you like to time-travel for July 2, 1776 and add your unique skills as a leader—to Bowery Lane or Chestnut Street or Sullivan’s Island?
(Your River)
