Best Little Stories from the American Revolution

by C. Brian Kelly

  Delegates, that is to say, from twelve of the colonies…and a single, fervent Patriot representing a single, county-size parish in that one remaining sister of the original sisterhood, Georgia.

  He was Lyman Hall of St. John’s Parish on the Georgia coast—physician, former minister, and a transplanted Connecticut Yankee at that. From May 13, 1775, through the next four months, he alone would be Georgia’s contribution to the deliberations of the revolutionary body convened in Philadelphia in the name of all the American colonists.

  By the history-making days of July 1776, however, Georgia could claim full representation at the Philadelphia gathering by three delegates, who, along with their brethren from the other twelve colonies, would be signers of the Declaration of Independence—and what an unusual threesome they were!

  Lyman Hall himself was a rarity, not only as a lone delegate in Congress from one of the Original Thirteen, but also as one of only five physicians destined to be signers of the Declaration. A second Georgian attending the historic Philadelphia sessions of 1776 was George Walton, at age twenty-six one of the youngest of the great document’s signers. The last of the trio, Button Gwinnett, sadly enough, would not live to see the revolutionary Spirit of Seventy-Six prevail. His unfortunate destiny, fulfilled in 1777, was to be fatally wounded in a duel with a fellow Georgia Patriot.

  Why was Georgia such a latecomer to the revolutionary movement? The fact is, Georgia, the last of the colonial sisterhood to be established upon the Atlantic seaboard, definitely was lukewarm at first to any notion of breaking with its recent benefactors and founders from across the Atlantic. Stated another way, Georgia, baby of the colonial brood, still clung to Mother England’s apron strings. The colony’s leaders felt, moreover, that they and their people had been relatively well treated. And most were happy with the diligent, evenhanded performance of Royal Governor James Wright.

  Once Georgia did jump into the revolutionary fray, it was with not one, but two Whig factions seeking redress against the Crown, each by its own lights, each in its own image. The unfortunate Gwinnett, second president of the Georgia Council of Safety, was both a victim and an advocate of that sharply, even murderously, divided house of rebels.

  Murderously? Well, there was, of course, Gwinnett’s own unhappy and highly visible fate in the spring of 1777, less than a year after he signed off on the document declaring independence from Great Britain. Just weeks before-hand, furthermore, his predecessor as Council president, Archibald Bulloch (an ancient ancestor to Eleanor Roosevelt), died quite suddenly. Poisoned was the never-proved, possibly unfounded, but nonetheless prevalent rumor.

  When Gwinnett, as a fellow Council member, succeeded Bulloch at the body’s helm, it was by virtue of a solid membership vote—with only one negative vote registered against him. That vote came from an old political enemy symbolic of the Whig factions in Georgia, one George McIntosh. And it was George’s brother, militia General Lachlan McIntosh, who would wound Gwinnett fatally in their duel by pistols not three months later…after Gwinnett in the meantime had been instrumental in putting George McIntosh in irons as an alleged traitor.

  To sort all this out, it helps to look at Georgia a bit earlier, on the eve of the Revolution. For at that moment in time, as a symbol of the old order, there was a strong, largely well-intended royal governor seated in Savannah. And not all that dissimilar in their authoritarian views were the aristocratic Whigs of Christ Church Parish, also Savannah-based. And finally, as the third corner of the triangle, there was the far more radical, populist-leaning Whig faction of St. John’s Parish, located on the Atlantic Coast.

  It was the latter group that produced the restless Lyman Hall, a rice-grower and physician living near Georgia’s port city of Sunbury at the mouth of the Medway River. Hall, born in Wallingford, Connecticut, in 1724, was educated at Yale and once had been a Congregationalist minister. He had joined fellow New England Congregationalists in migrating south, first to South Carolina, then to Georgia, then back again to South Carolina, and finally to Georgia one more time, as part of the New Englanders’ Medway settlement in St. John’s Parish. His rice plantation, “Hall’s Knoll,” was but one occupation, since he also spent time doctoring the sick and the dying among his neighbors.

  He had a preoccupation, as well: revolutionary politics. In this regard, he and his fellow New Englanders of Puritan stock were way ahead of their fellow Georgians. As late as 1774, many Georgians were fairly satisfied with the annual grants that Parliament bestowed upon their colony—and with the lucrative trade in rice and indigo they enjoyed with the Mother Country. They were aware of the mounting disquiet among their brethren to the north, of course, and some Georgia settlers outside of St. John’s Parish also were paying close attention. Indeed, Savannah could boast its own “chapter” of the Sons of Liberty, and the conservative-dominated Assembly had gone so far as to protest the increasingly restrictive British policies toward the American colonies.

  Even so, Georgia as a whole failed to respond to the call in 1774 to join in the formation of the First Continental Congress in Philadelphia. The more restive settlers from all over Georgia did assemble at Tondee’s Tavern in Savannah to discuss the summons from the north—and, indeed, to rail against the latest British measures—but they balked at sending delegates to Philadelphia.

  The participants from St. John’s Parish were far from satisfied with that result. They went home, continued their agitation and, at further meetings, decided to send Lyman Hall to the Philadelphia gathering on behalf of Georgia. He declined the honor at first, but later a threat by the Patriots assembled in Philadelphia to boycott uncooperative colonies—i.e., Georgia—stirred St. John’s Parish anew. There was talk of seceding from the rest of Georgia, there was an attempt to align with Patriot groups in Charleston, South Carolina, immediately to the north (which was rebuffed), and there was general consternation over the prospect of losing trade with the outside world.

  This time, shortly after the shooting had begun at Lexington and Concord, Lyman Hall agreed to travel north…but primarily to carry his community’s appeal against the Patriot-ordered trade embargo. He took two hundred barrels of locally grown rice with him, a donation for the Patriots in the north.

  As a result, on May 13, 1775, the Second Continental Congress (rather than Georgia itself) recognized him as a delegate to the Philadelphia proceedings. No honorary onlooker, he shared official duties with delegates from all the remaining colonies—he served on one committee with Virginia’s fiery Patrick Henry, with Pennsylvania’s legendary Ben Franklin, and with the great mover from Massachusetts, John Adams.

  By now, events were moving rapidly and irrevocably, even back home in Georgia. There in early 1776, local Patriots arrested Royal Governor Wright, then gave him parole that allowed him to flee to the British warships in the Savannah River. A battle erupted in the river over British attempts to seize Georgia-grown rice. A Georgian provincial congress chose Hall, his neighbor and occasional patient from St. John’s Parish, Button Gwinnett, and young Savannah lawyer George Walton as the colony’s three delegates to the Continental Congress in Philadelphia.

  As destiny would have it, they would be on hand for what John Adams would call “the greatest debate of all”—the session in July devoted to considering the proposed Declaration of Independence.

  That was the very phrase Adams used in a letter he wrote on July 1, 1776, to Archibald Bulloch, president of Georgia’s provincial congress. Adams wrote: “A declaration, that these colonies are free and independent states, has been reported by a committee appointed some weeks ago for that purpose, and this day or tomorrow is to determine its fate…”

  Adams assured Bulloch that Georgia finally would be well represented in the deliberations of the historic Patriot body assembled in Philadelphia. He didn’t mention the Savannah-based Walton, but he did write Bulloch that his colleagues Hall and Gwinnett “are here in good health and spirits, and as firm as you yourself could wish them.”

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  Additional note: The Second Continental Congress that gathered in Philadelphia in May of 1775—after Lexington, Concord, and Menotomy—shifted its meeting place from the tight-fitting Carpenters’ Hall to the grander Pennsylvania State House, known today as Independence Hall. The Second Congress counted some now famous faces among its newer members—Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, and John Hancock, to name a few.

  Early housekeeping steps included the resignation of Virginia’s Peyton Randolph as presiding officer, to be succeeded in that post by Hancock of Massachusetts. The major policy issue overriding all considerations by this Congress, now that shooting had actually erupted, would be a choice between declaring full independence or seeking reconciliation with Mother England.

  Before addressing such a momentous decision, however, this Congress had to act quickly in several areas. Thus it issued a call for all the colonies to prepare for possible war, appropriated funds to buy military supplies, announced the raising of six rifle companies from Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Maryland to reinforce the New Englanders holding Boston under siege and, last but far from least, appointed Virginia’s George Washington as commander of the tiny, newly created Continental Army.

  The Congress of colonists also named four men with extensive military experience as his chief subordinates for now and gave each the rank of major general—Charles Lee, Israel Putnam, Philip Schuyler, Artemas Ward. Eight more men were appointed as lesser-ranking brigadier generals, some of them easily recalled today, most not. The best known of this lot were John Sullivan, Nathanael Greene, and Richard Montgomery. In related action, Congress named Horatio Gates as adjutant general.

  On other fronts, Congress urged British-controlled Canada to join in the American crusade for greater freedoms while also, on the now-inauspicious date of July 5, 1775, adopting John Dickinson’s so-called “Olive Branch Petition,” addressed to King George III and seeking reconciliation. The legislative conclave next took up and adopted the Declaration of the Causes and Necessity for Taking Up Arms, a manifesto written by Pennsylvania’s Dickinson and Virginia’s Thomas Jefferson. The document accused Parliament of using force to enslave the colonies and sought to justify their use of force to meet force.

  This same action-oriented Congress soon created a colonies-wide postal system, with Ben Franklin appointed as the future nation’s first postmaster general. Before briefly adjourning on August 2, the body rejected as inadequate an early British effort at conciliation, which had been received on May 26 from King George’s latest prime minister, Lord Frederick North.

  Resuming its deliberations in Philadelphia five weeks later, Congress could now greet a newly named Georgia delegation of three members, Lyman Hall among them. Two months later, on November 19, Congress was informed that back in August King George III not only had turned aside its Olive Branch Petition, but had declared the colonies to be in a state of rebellion.

  Still seeking reconciliation, Congress moved on December 6 to send the Mother Country yet another statement of loyalty—to the Crown, but not to Parliament.

  Even so, as the year ended, momentum was building in the direction of real independence rather than accommodation of any kind. Soon, there came a new edict from King George ordering the closure of American ports to normal commerce. That only intensified the American mood in favor of total and irrevocable separation from England.

  Two Hills Known as One

  OUTSIDE OF BOSTON, THE AMERICAN MILITIAMEN BESIEGING GENERAL THOMAS Gage and his redcoats in the port city moved during the night to a key hill and began fortifying it for the British assault sure to come.

  Right idea, but wrong hill. Or was it?

  Their orders said Bunker Hill, but the smaller knob they decided to fortify—in the dark and on the spot—was Breed’s Hill, just forward of the intended Bunker Hill. The two were connected by a long ridge called Charlestown Heights, a substantial rise on the Charlestown peninsula across the Charles River from Boston proper, which in June 1775 was a port city of sixteen thousand. Whoever held the Charlestown high ground and armed it with artillery could bombard the northern end of the city and thus control access to the river passageway into Boston’s Back Bay.

  Supplied by sea, the British figured they could hold out in Boston until the amateurish American militiamen wearied of their insurrectional activity and returned to farms and shops scattered throughout Massachusetts and adjoining New England colonies. The hot tempers that flared up in the unfortunate Lexington-Concord-Menotomy fracas in April might even cool down; negotiation might yet restore a peace of sorts, albeit an uneasy one.

  First, though, it would be essential for the British to hold both the Charlestown Heights across the river to the north and the Dorchester Heights to the south. Otherwise, the errant colonial leaders might bring heavy artillery into play—a dangerous possibility for the British force quartered in the city between the heights north and south.

  Charlestown, town and peninsula, already had figured in the maneuvering of the two sides in the weeks since real shooting had broken out April 19. Retreating from the aroused militia swarming out of the Massachusetts countryside that unforgettable day, the British had briefly paused on the peninsula and had even spent time placing light fortifications on Bunker Hill. But General Gage then pulled all his men into the city itself.

  Barely a month later, Gage’s American spy, Dr. Benjamin Church, reported that the Patriots planned to take over both the Charlestown and Dorchester Heights. Gage should have moved immediately to counter them, but he didn’t. He remained strangely inert in the city.

  His secret? He was expecting significant reinforcements from England, led by a trio of British major generals destined to win historical fame, if not outright fortune, in the Revolutionary War years ahead—Sir William Howe, Sir Henry Clinton, and John (“Gentleman Johnny”) Burgoyne.

  On May 13, true to Doctor Church’s warning, three thousand American militiamen moved onto Charlestown Heights, but then, like the British before them, pulled back…cleared out.

  For the British, meanwhile, the newcomer generals arrived aboard the Cerberus May 25, and for the next three weeks they consulted with Gage over various schemes to seize the initiative from the loosely organized militia surrounding them on three sides. No real surprise, the strategy that emerged was to march on the two sets of high ground, north and south of the city, as well as the American center at Cambridge. In detail, the plan was to assault the Dorchester Heights first, then swing through nearby Roxbury while another force crossed the Back Bay by boat and struck out for the Cambridge center.

  Through their own spies, the Americans heard about the British forces’ intentions right away and moved quickly to forestall them…in part. Lacking cannon and the manpower to defend both heights, the Americans decided to rush back onto the Charlestown peninsula and fight for possession of the high ground there. Doctor Church, busy delivering dispatches to the Continental Congress in Philadelphia, this time was out of the picture—the Americans surprised the British by moving back onto the peninsula in force before Gage and his generals could launch their own operation.

  For the Americans, it was cautious Major General Artemas Ward, in command of the New England militia, who dispatched 1,500 to 1,600 men under Colonel William Prescott on the night of June 16. The colonel marched off with three Massachusetts regiments, 200 Connecticut men, a small number of New Hampshire militia, and the legendary Colonel Israel Putnam of Connecticut by his side. Their orders were to filter through the abandoned town that gave the peninsula its name, then to build fortifications on Bunker Hill.

  At the urging of Putnam—like Prescott a hero of the French and Indian War—the Americans instead set to digging furiously on smaller Breed’s Hill, closer to Boston proper. From there Prescott’s light artillery could reach into the city. The position on this rise—sometimes itself called Bunker Hill—was so close to the British that they would have to react to it and thus ignore Dorchester and Roxbury for now.

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nbsp; The British in the city and aboard ships indeed were startled by the next dawn’s light to see the major earthworks the Americans had thrown up on Breed’s Hill during the night. Highly visible from Boston, their redoubt was 160 feet long and 80 feet across, with protective walls of dirt piled 6 feet high. And they were still digging their entrenchments.

  With supporting fortifications added on Bunker Hill, it appeared, and rightly so, that the Americans could inflict severe punishment on any attacking force.

  They didn’t have long to wait, either. With the first light of day, two nearby British warships began a steady bombardment of the earthen fort on Breed’s Hill—soon joining in was a battery on Copp’s Hill. The solid walls proved effective at smothering most of the cannonballs before they could do real damage, but the cannonade did lead to one gruesome incident. To the horror of every onlooker, a random cannonball took off a militiaman’s head.

  Prescott reacted quickly. He ordered the body buried, then sought to rally his green and jittery troops by parading back and forth on the parapet in front of them…under fire, of course. And it undoubtedly did encourage many to see him eventually step down unharmed.

  In Boston, meanwhile, the British generals had hurried into conference to decide their best response to the radically altered situation. Their assault on Dorchester, Roxbury, and the American center at Cambridge would have opened the next day, a Sunday. What to do for now, a bright and warm Saturday?

  Howe urged an amphibious landing on the Charlestown peninsula that very afternoon, before the Americans could consolidate their new position. In fact, he and his fellow brass decided, they now should turn their original plan on its head—they now would overwhelm the Americans on the high ground to the north (at Breed’s Hill), next mount their assault on the center at Cambridge, and then go after Dorchester Heights to the south last, instead of first.