Our Lives, Our Fortunes and Our Sacred Honor

by Richard R. Beeman

  In fact, though, however much Dickinson may have dissented from the opinions expressed in Common Sense, he not only refrained from engaging in the debate over it, but also went on record as disavowing the sentiments expressed in the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting’s testimony. Dickinson was struggling mightily to remain true to what he conceived to be “Quaker principles,” but he never came close to advocating the sort of submission implicit in the Yearly Meeting’s testimony. In describing his Quaker principles he talked about actions that were simultaneously “turbulent” and “pacific,” at one point indicating in his notes that he favored a “peaceable War.”36

  Nor was it the statement of the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting alone that caused Philadelphians, and Americans more generally, to question Dickinson’s steadfastness in support of the patriot cause. In April of 1776 a wealthy Maryland plantation owner and future loyalist, James Chalmers, published Plain Truth, an anonymous, and militantly hostile, response to Common Sense, praising the “beautiful system” created by the English constitution and attacking the “demagogues” within America advocating for independence. Not only was the pamphlet dedicated to Dickinson, but rumors circulated widely that Dickinson was in fact the pamphlet’s author. Dickinson was sufficiently concerned about those rumors that he penned a response under the pseudonym “Rusticus” emphatically denying both authorship and any agreement with the views put forward in Plain Truth. At the same time, however, he made it clear that he was not at that moment prepared “to declaim in favor of Independency.”37

  As the events of 1776 unfolded, John Dickinson truly did stand between several rocks and several hard places. On the one hand, he was on record as rejecting the pronouncements of King George III, disagreeing with the principles espoused in the Quaker Yearly Meeting and publicly disassociating himself from one of Paine’s critics. But at the same time, he found himself increasingly alienated from his fellow congressional delegate John Adams and many of Adams’s colleagues and quietly dissenting from the arguments of a pamphlet from an obscure Englishman that was being rapidly embraced by tens of thousands of Americans. He was left with the only option of repeating—again and again in slightly varying forms—his fundamental items of political faith: “The first wish of my soul,” he wrote, “is for the Liberty of America. The next is for constitutional reconciliation with Great Britain. If we cannot obtain the first without the second, let us seek a new establishment.” That statement of political faith would, in the end, cause him to embrace, however reluctantly, American independence. But neither John Dickinson, nor many of his congressional colleagues, nor, indeed, many colonists throughout America, were prepared, even in the spring of 1776, to make that difficult choice.38

  Whatever anguish John Dickinson may have felt over the difficult personal and political decision that he faced, and whatever animus John Adams may have felt toward both Dickinson and the English pamphleteer who had dropped the printed bombshell upon the American people and helped move them to embrace the position that Adams had long advocated, there was no denying the fact that the publication of Common Sense had caused the scales to fall from many Americans’ eyes. Common Sense, because of its enormous impact on public opinion throughout America, would without question propel the movement for independence forward. But it remained to be seen whether either the members of the Continental Congress or the provincial legislatures that had elected them were inclined to keep up with the rapidly changing temper of public opinion throughout their country.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “THE CHILD INDEPENDENCE IS NOW STRUGGLING FOR BIRTH”

  THE PUBLICATION OF Common Sense marked a moment when many in America would, in their zeal for independence, move well beyond their representatives to the Continental Congress. As Paine’s message spread around the colonies, and the war escalated, the delegates suddenly found themselves out of touch and, at least occasionally, out of synch with the people. But it was not the members of Congress alone who found themselves in that situation. They were, after all, only the servants of the colonial legislatures that had elected them, and in many colonies—particularly those in the mid-Atlantic and in parts of the South—the politicians serving in those legislatures were lagging even further behind public opinion.

  The Congress had not yet become a true agency of the “people.” At least a part of the reason for the disjunction between the reaction to Common Sense among the delegates to the Congress and that of the people at large lay in the fact that the Congress remained a body that was conducting its meetings entirely in secret. Its members were sternly enjoined not to discuss their business with members of the public out of doors. Not only were the people of Philadelphia, and of America, kept in the dark about what was going on inside the Assembly Room of the Pennsylvania State House, but it sometimes seemed as if the members inside that room were either oblivious to or simply neglectful of what was going on outside their secret conclave.1

  In the unlikely event that there was a regular reader of all of Philadelphia’s six newspapers during the months between January and May of 1776, that reader would have found precious little information about what the members of the Congress were actually doing. They continued to meet every day, but little of what they were discussing or of actions they were taking was ever shared with the public. Occasionally they would order the publication of certain events—the memorial for General Montgomery, decisions relating to the appointment of military commanders or an occasional announcement of the election of new delegates from one of the colonies—but there was little that a Philadelphia resident could learn, outside of the rumor mill, about what was actually being debated in the Congress.

  By contrast, there was no shortage of commentary in those newspapers from letter writers and essayists about the proper course that the colonies and the Congress should take. Indeed, the period leading up to independence in Philadelphia and in America at large witnessed something like a communications revolution, with the number of newspapers being published expanding rapidly, and the number of individuals from all walks of life voicing their political opinions in those newspapers increasing accordingly. Because of the continuing political influence both of the Quakers and other conservative members of the Philadelphia elite, much of what was published in that city’s newspapers continued to support the Pennsylvania Assembly’s efforts at slowing down any move toward independence. But elsewhere in America, Common Sense prompted numerous writers to urge for bold steps to combat British oppression. As a correspondent from Virginia, writing in New York’s Constitutional Gazette, observed, “[Tom Paine] has made many converts here. Indeed every man of sense and candour, with whom I have had an opportunity of conversing, acknowledges the necessity of setting up for ourselves, having already tried in vain every reasonable mode of accommodation.”2

  It would have been impossible for any member of Congress to ignore entirely the growing body of sentiment out of doors in favor of independence. But the cautious way in which the Congress proceeded during the months between January and May of 1776 may have given that impression. As late as April 22, 1776, a writer in John Dunlap’s Pennsylvania Packet asserted approvingly that “a re-union with Great Britain upon constitutional principles has been the favorite object of the Continental Congress, whose conduct has been steadily marked with defensive movements, and nowhere giving way to revenge or resentment. . . . They have made a redress of grievances, and the protection of America, their only care.”3

  The Congress was not, as some have since claimed, divided between patriots and future loyalists. Joseph Galloway was the one future loyalist who left the Congress early, refusing to attend the opening session of the Second Continental Congress in May of 1775. Only four other congressional delegates—Joachim Zubly of Georgia, Robert Alexander of Maryland, Andrew Allen of Pennsylvania and Isaac Low of New York—would ultimately side with the British. Rather, the division—which seemed by late January to be approaching a stalemate—was between those who were advocating independence and those, like J
ohn Dickinson, his fellow Pennsylvania delegate James Wilson and New Yorkers James Duane and John Jay, who were asking for more time to make further attempts at reconciliation.4

  As we have seen, James Wilson, aided by John Dickinson and almost certainly supported by members of the New York delegation, had attempted to draft a conciliatory response to the king’s combative October speech to Parliament. The Congress had only learned about the speech on January 8, two days before the publication of Common Sense. But Wilson’s proposed address, which vowed that “an independent empire is not our wish,” went nowhere. Yet most delegates, including those who were unequivocally in favor of independence, knew that the time was not yet ripe for a formal proposal advocating that momentous step.5

  Increasingly though, others were not so cautious when it came to independence. John Adams fumed about the unnecessary delay in moving forward with a resolution for independence. Writing to Abigail in mid-February, he claimed, perhaps disingenuously, that he would support any credible plan for reconciliation but added that there was “no Prospect, no Probability, no Possibility” of such an outcome. He then launched into a rant, aimed most likely at John Dickinson: “I cannot but despise the Understanding, which sincerely expects an honourable Peace, for its Credulity, and detest the hypocritical Heart, which pretends to expect it, when in Truth it does not.” Sam Adams, though no doubt just as earnest in his desire to move a proposal for independence forward, had a much better sense of where the votes would fall if his hotheaded cousin were to push for a precipitous decision. As late as April of 1776, he was still urging the importance of having all of the colonies—even the often maddeningly recalcitrant New York and Pennsylvania—on board. Although he confessed that he was disappointed that things seemed to be moving so slowly, perhaps relying on his Puritan faith, he wrote that he was “disposd to believe that every thing is ordered for the best.” He went on to observe, sagely, that “we cannot make Events [for] it requires time to bring honest Men to think & determine alike even in important Matters.” But however necessary—and wise—Sam Adams’s patience may have been, the months from mid-January to mid-May were nevertheless frustrating ones, as the Congress continued to oversee the often depressing military situation, attempted to deal with the demands and needs of the individual colonies, and, most important, to forge a consensus among its delegates about America’s ultimate relationship with Great Britain.6

  By the end of February, the delegates had learned of yet another action by the king and Parliament that erected further obstacles to any possible path toward reconciliation. On December 22, 1775, Parliament had passed the Prohibitory Act, essentially declaring war on American commerce and stipulating that any ships found trading with the colonies would have their cargoes confiscated and be treated “as if the same were the ships and effects of open enemies.” If the colonies and the British had initiated their land war at Lexington and Concord on April 19, 1774, the passage of the Prohibitory Act, which went into effect on January 1, 1776, marked the beginning of the naval war.7

  Not surprisingly, when news of the act reached the colonies in late February of 1776, those already in favor of independence saw this as the final proof, if such proof were needed, of the inevitability of their separation from England. Connecticut’s Oliver Wolcott, who had earlier been among those delegates counseling moderation, labeled it “the inhuman pirating Act,” and resolved that the time had come for “us therefore to take care of ourselves.” Joseph Hewes of North Carolina, who as recently as December of 1775 had been among those urging further attempts at peacemaking, had clearly changed his mind as well. Upon hearing news of the passage of the Prohibitory Act, he admitted that he could no longer see any “prospect of a reconciliation; nothing is left now but to fight it out.” And of course John Adams could only say “I told you so.” As if he needed any further evidence of the impossibility of reconciliation, Adams noted that the act was being referred to by a variety of names—the “restraining Act, or prohibitory Act, or piratical Act, or plundering Act, or Act of Independency.” Of all of those, he believed that the “Act of Independency” was the most apt, for, he predicted, by “throw[ing the] thirteen Colonies out of the Royal Protection,” its effect would surely be to unite those colonies once and for all in a desire for independence.8

  Although the Prohibitory Act was in essence a declaration of naval war, some in the Congress discerned a glimmer of hope in it. Lord North, in drafting the act, had included the creation of a “peace commission,” which, if it found that some or all of the American colonies were willing to cease their belligerent behavior, would have the power to suspend some of the most punitive features of the Prohibitory Act. Historians on both sides of the Atlantic have differed on whether the inclusion of the idea of a peace commission represented a genuine effort at reconciliation or merely a ploy to keep the moderates within America from going over to the side of those favoring independence. It seems likely that Lord North himself was genuinely serious about exploring every possible avenue toward reconciliation, even in the face of opposition from members of Parliament, many of whom had no desire to soften their stance toward the rebellious Americans. But however sincere North may have been, “peace,” if there were to be peace, would be on his terms, not on those that would have been found acceptable by virtually any member of the Continental Congress.9

  As relations with England continued to worsen, John Dickinson found himself in an increasingly uncomfortable position. On the one hand, he went out of his way to demonstrate his determination to defend America at all costs. Although he was entitled to a waiver from military duty because of his service both in the Pennsylvania Assembly and the Continental Congress, he not only refused that waiver but requested he be made commander of the four Philadelphia battalions then being mobilized to defend that city against possible British attack. That request was granted, and on February 13 Dickinson gave a rousing speech to the troops, filled with “great vehemence and pathos,” that even John Adams agreed was “much talked of and applauded.”10

  But Dickinson continued to spend a good deal of time drafting lengthy speeches, none of them ever delivered, in which he tried to find some small areas—mostly relating to the regulation of trade and the king’s control over Crown lands—in which the colonies could cede authority to the king and Parliament without ceding their liberties. And in anticipation of the formation of a peace commission, he spent much of his time writing proposals, never formally presented, laying out the guidelines by which a peace negotiation might be conducted. Finally, as the most influential man serving in the Pennsylvania Assembly, he persuaded a majority of members of that body to continue to state their explicit objection to any move that would lead toward independence. As Dickinson’s biographer Milton Flower has observed, all of Dickinson’s patriotic actions and beliefs, including his willingness to alienate most of his Quaker friends and relatives by assuming a position of leadership in the Philadelphia militia, were becoming “invisible” to his opponents in both the Assembly and the Congress, for, increasingly, their litmus test of “patriotism” was whether one supported or opposed independence.11

  To make matters worse for individuals like Dickinson, the promise of a peace commission was daily growing more dubious. Some had always believed that the whole idea was either a ruse by the British or simply unworkable. Oliver Wolcott referred to the proposal as an “insidious Manoeuvre.” Josiah Bartlett believed it a mere “pretence” on the part of the British ministry. And William Whipple, a New Hampshire delegate who had just joined the Congress in late January of 1776, labeled the still-invisible commissioners “their Low Mightenesses” and said that though he hoped they would be treated with civility, he also believed that they should be “sent back with a flea in the ear, for I cannot possibly think they are commissioned for any good.” Whipple added that, however much some in the Congress may have been pinning their hopes on the commissioners, “some people here (I mean out of doors) are for shutting them up the moment they land.�
� And of course John Adams, who had been contemptuous of the idea from the beginning, became more and more irate as each day passed without their appearance. Writing to Abigail, he fulminated against the way in which the whole idea had “duped” the colonies into paralysis: “A more egregious Bubble was never blown up than the Story of Commissioners coming to treat with the Congress. Yet it has gained Credit like a Charm.” Sam Adams had very much the same views on the subject. As late as mid-April, noting that “moderate gentlemen” in the Congress were still “flattering themselves with the prospect of reconciliation” as soon as the peace commissioners arrived, he characterized their hope as a “mere Amusement indeed. When are these Commissioners to arrive?”12

  As time passed and there was still no sign of the commissioners, that question was on everyone’s mind. Robert Morris, Philadelphia’s wealthiest merchant and a recently elected delegate to the Congress, had urged patience and reconciliation, but by early April he was running out of patience. Writing to General Horatio Gates, he exclaimed in frustration: “Where the plague are these commissioners? If they are to come, what is it that detains them?” Morris too was coming to believe that “it is time we should be on a Certainty & know positively whether the Libertys of America can be established & Secured by reconciliation, or whether we must totally renounce Connection with Great Britain & fight our way to a total Independence.” A few weeks earlier, Oliver Wolcott had derisively spoken of the way in which the moderates in the Congress had deluded themselves into believing in the “Phanptom of Commissioners coming over with the Proffers of Peace.”13