Our Lives, Our Fortunes and Our Sacred Honor

by Richard R. Beeman

  July 1: The Debate Begins

  The operations of the Continental Congress on the morning of July 1 seemed little different from that on many others, with John Hancock spending the first part of the day going over routine business, reading letters from General Washington and several other army officers reporting on the state of military affairs, reading a report from the army’s paymaster in the southern colonies and agreeing to draw $6,000 from the treasury to pay for defense costs in Virginia.1

  But July 1, 1776, would not be just any other day. Earlier that morning, an express rider had appeared suddenly to report that the Maryland Provincial Congress had unanimously instructed its delegates to the Congress to support independence. With the news of Maryland’s change of heart before them, the Congress was ready to begin what John Adams termed “the greatest Debate of all”—the discussion of the resolution for independence first introduced by Richard Henry Lee on June 7.2

  The first step in organizing that discussion was to agree to operate as a committee of the whole. The Congress then selected Virginia’s Benjamin Harrison to moderate the discussion, so he took John Hancock’s place behind the table on the raised dais in the front of the room. As the debate began, the delegates knew that their congressional colleagues from New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia and now Maryland were solidly in the pro-independence camp. The state of play in New Jersey and Delaware was still unknown. The South Carolina delegates, though they had been given permission to vote in favor of independence, were, at best, divided on the question. The balance of opinion among the Pennsylvania delegation was still an open question, and New York’s delegates, still under a restriction from their legislature, were known to be required to abstain from any vote on the question. Under the rules of the Congress, approval of nine of the thirteen colonies was necessary for the resolution to pass. That left the advocates of independence one colony short. More important, most delegates understood that the nine-vote minimum was a formality. If colonies such as South Carolina, Pennsylvania and New York continued to dissent, or even to abstain, the legitimacy of any vote on independence would be problematic.

  Of all the men in the Assembly Room of the Pennsylvania State House that day, John Dickinson perhaps faced the most pressure. He likely knew that the position he was about to take against independence would not only not prevail, but might also cast him indelibly as a weak and cowardly servant to his British masters. But Dickinson would not back down. A better writer than an orator, he had spent the weekend carefully laying out the argument that he intended to present on Monday.

  Sometime in the early afternoon, Dickinson would be the first to rise behind the closed doors and windows of the Assembly Room of the State House, on one of the hottest days of the year thus far, with the temperature above ninety degrees. “The Consequences involved in the Motion now lying before You are of such Magnitude,” he began, “that I tremble under the oppressive Honor of sharing in its Determination. I feel Myself unequal to the Burthen assigned Me. I believe, I had almost said, I rejoice, that the Time is approaching, when I shall be relieved from its Weight.” Noting that his position was unlikely to improve his popularity, he insisted that he would rather sacrifice the latter than put in danger “the Blood and Happiness of my Countryman. . . . I must speak, tho I should lose my Life, tho I should lose the Affections of my Countrymen.”

  Dickinson, ever pious even though, all his life, he rejected any formal religious affiliation, ended his prefatory remarks with a prayer, imploring “Almighty God” not only to “enlighten the Members of the House,” but also to “enable Me to speak the Precepts of sound Policy on the important Question that now engages our Attention.” Then he launched into the main body of his speech, a carefully argued reiteration of all of his fears about a precipitous leap into independence that he had been voicing for the better part of a year. The continuing theme, the continuing plea, in his speech was the need for “prudence.” At this point, having given up any hope that the British would come around to accept the righteousness of America’s constitutional position, prudence, for Dickinson meant delaying a decision on independence until America had received firm assurance from the French of their aid to the cause. To do otherwise, he argued, was to treat them with “Contempt,” thus endangering the possibility of French aid. Prudence also meant putting aside unrealistic expectations about the good will of either France or Spain. In the case of France, that nation might well be more interested in using its leverage in the conflict to retake Canada from the British. And the Spanish were more likely to view a united and independent American nation at their door as a threat rather than a benefit. Prudence required therefore, that rather than “proclaiming American independence to the world,” America should engage in careful, behind-the-scenes negotiations with those powers.

  Dickinson then proceeded to catalogue the catastrophic cost to America that would surely result from an unlimited war with Great Britain—a staggering financial debt, “Burning Towns, [and] Letting Loose Indians on our Frontiers.” Reminding his listeners of the travail already suffered by the Continental Army—the debacle in Canada firmly in mind—he warned that a rash war for independence might well leave the Americans in a position where they were forced “to brave the Storm in a Skiff made of Paper.”

  Perhaps even more serious than the cost in money or in human life was the danger to the internal unity of the colonies. Dickinson was convinced that a premature declaration of independence would result in “partition” rather than union. In his position as chair of the other committee created in response to Richard Henry Lee’s resolution for independence—that charged with drafting a plan for a “confederation” among the independent states—he was already beginning to see the way in which the jealousies and self-interests of individual colonies might thwart an effort toward a workable union. Dickinson was convinced that the “Calamities” of war would only increase those jealousies, leaving the so-called common cause of America’s revolution a cruel joke, an idea undermined by jealousy and animosity.3

  It was an unusually long speech, lasting perhaps until two in the afternoon, and the day was growing hotter. And Dickinson’s rhetoric, normally so cool and controlled, even legalistic in its tone, grew more overheated as he reached his conclusion. “I should be glad,” he concluded, “to read a little more in the Doomsday Book of America—Not all—that like the Book of Fate might be too dreadful.” In his reference to the Domesday Book—the ancient survey of the lands of England—Dickinson no doubt intended to call attention once again to the fragility of any attempt at union among the colonies across the vast American landscape; and his reference to Voltaire’s Zadig: Or the Book of Fate was yet another warning about attempting to tamper with matters beyond human control—both illusions highly revelatory of his essential conservatism. Dickinson concluded with a different vision for America—a different reading of America’s Domesday book. If Americans could achieve reconciliation with Great Britain, if they could avoid the calamities that would surely result from a rash rush into independence, then, Dickinson told his fellow delegates, perhaps they would see “in 20 or 30 Years this Commonwealth of Colonies”—a commonwealth happily existing within the British Empire, in a content and prosperous state.4

  John Adams, in the heat of the moment, told Samuel Chase that he considered the whole debate over independence that day to be “an idle Mispence of Time, for nothing was Said but what had been repeated and hackneyed in that Room before an hundred Times, for Six Months past.” But looking back on the event a quarter of a century later, he had a slightly more benign view of the nature of the debate that day and a decidedly more laudatory view of his own role in that debate. Writing in his Autobiography, Adams acknowledged that his nemesis, although relying on nothing but “familiar” arguments, had nevertheless spoken “not only with great Ingenuity and Eloquence, but with equal Politeness and Candour.” But perhaps this uncharacteristic generosity toward his rival was
only a means of putting the spotlight on his own role following Dickinson’s speech. According to Adams, “No member rose to answer” Dickinson, and “after waiting some time, in hopes that someone less obnoxious than myself, who had been all along for a Year before, and still was represented and believed to be the Author of all the Mischief, I determined to speak.” Unlike Dickinson, who had carefully prepared his speech, Adams used no notes. In fact, he could later remember little of what he had said, other than an opening statement to the effect “that this was the first time of my Life that I had ever wished for the Talents and Eloquence of the ancient Orators of Greece and Rome, for I was very sure that none of them ever had before him a question of more Importance to his Country.”5

  John Adams was no Demosthenes or Cicero, but he had, through hard work, become a darned good courtroom lawyer. Over the past year and more, he had been making the case for the necessity of independence, and so doubtless he provided a convincing rebuttal to Dickinson’s argument—convincing at least to those who already agreed with him. According to Adams’s later recollection, as he was finishing his rebuttal, three newly elected delegates from New Jersey—Richard Stockton, John Witherspoon and Francis Hopkinson—entered the chamber and Stockton asked if Adams could summarize his remarks for them. Adams then recalled:

  All was silence. No one would speak: all eyes were Turned upon me. Mr. Edward Rutledge came to me and said laughing: Nobody will speak but you, upon this Subject. You have all the Topicks so ready, that you must satisfy the Gentlemen from New Jersey. I answered him laughing, that it had so much the Air of exhibiting like an Actor or Gladiator, for the Entertainment of the Audience, that I was ashamed to repeat what I had said twenty times before, and that nothing new could be advanced by me. The New Jersey Gentlemen however, still insisting, on hearing at least a Recapitulation of the arguments and no other Gentleman being willing to speak, I summed up the Reasons, Objections, and Answers, in as concise a manner as I could, till at length the Jersey Gentlemen said they were fully satisfied and ready for the Question, which was then put and determined in the Affirmative.6

  Adams’s recollection is misleading on a number of counts. Although it is indeed likely that he made one of the most impassioned and persuasive speeches that day, it is unlikely that he was the only one who spoke in favor of independence. And while it appears to be the case that at least two members of the New Jersey delegation arrived that day and, by the casting of their votes, added a ninth colony to the ranks of those favoring independence, there is little evidence beyond Adams’s twenty-five-year-old recollection that his summary of his earlier speech was the deciding factor in their decision. The New Jersey legislature had, after all, already ordered the arrest of their royal governor, William Franklin, and by their vote on June 22 authorizing their congressional delegates to vote in favor of independence if they considered it “necessary and expedient” for the purpose of defending American liberty, had taken all but the final step in committing itself to independence.7

  By the time Adams ended his speech, it was probably well after the Congress’s usual four p.m. adjournment time. The temperature inside the Assembly Room had cooled considerably, for a powerful thunderstorm had passed over the city during Adams’s speech, heavy rainfall driving down the temperature. The delegates, still operating as an informal committee of the whole, apparently took the equivalent of a straw vote to see where they stood on the question they had been debating all afternoon. Pennsylvania and South Carolina voted against Lee’s resolution for independence; Delaware, which at that moment had only two delegates present, was divided; and New York’s delegation had been prohibited by its legislature from casting a vote on the question.8

  Nine in favor, two opposed, one colony divided and another abstaining. Could that be considered a sufficient endorsement of a decision of this magnitude? Few believed that it could. But what to make of it, and what to do next?

  In spite of South Carolina’s “no” vote that day, it was likely that a majority of the delegation favored independence, and that the vote in the negative was a temporary gesture of respect to Edward Rutledge, who was the South Carolinian most opposed to independence. There was, therefore, some hope that South Carolina would come around. Pennsylvania’s delegation found itself in an awkward situation, as many of its delegates were at odds with the newly elected Provincial Congress, which emphatically favored independence. That body had scheduled a vote to replace its delegates for July 20, and until then Dickinson and his colleagues were lame ducks. John Morton, Benjamin Franklin and James Wilson voted in favor of Richard Henry Lee’s resolution for independence; Dickinson, Robert Morris, Thomas Willing and Charles Humphreys against. The Delaware vote on that day had Thomas McKean voting in the affirmative, George Read in the negative. The third delegate, Caesar Rodney, back home in Delaware dealing with a potential Loyalist uprising, was absent. And of course New York’s delegates were left with no choice but to remain silent.

  Faced with a less than unanimous endorsement of the resolution for independence, the Congress, still sitting as a committee of the whole, embraced a motion by Edward Rutledge that “the determination thereof [be] postponed till tomorrow.”9

  July 2: Day of Decision

  We know frustratingly little about what happened between the time that the Congress adjourned on July 1, possibly as late as seven p.m., and the morning of July 2. John Adams was hopeful that the resolution would pass by a larger majority the second time around, “perhaps with almost Unanimity.” But he remained concerned, and annoyed, about the situation with the Pennsylvania delegation, for he feared that Dickinson and his moderate Pennsylvania colleagues would continue to “vote point blank against the known and declared sense of their constituents.” And although few may have been aware of it at the time, Delaware’s Thomas McKean had sent a message to Caesar Rodney, a known supporter of independence since the spring of 1776, that he had better get on his horse and get to Philadelphia post haste.10

  The weather on July 2 had improved a bit. The heat of the previous day had been reduced by the heavy rain the previous evening. Once again John Hancock began the day’s proceedings by introducing some routine business—a letter from George Washington accompanied by reports on several military matters, a communication from the Council of Massachusetts Bay dated June 26 and other letters related to the details of financing the war. At that point, Charles Thomson’s pitifully scant journal of the proceedings reads:

  The Congress resumed the consideration of the resolution reported from the committee of the whole; which was agreed to as follows: “Resolved, That these United Colonies are, and, of right, ought to be, Free and Independent States; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British crown, and that all political connexion between them, and the state of Great Britain, is, and ought to be, totally dissolved.”11

  What is absent from that monumentally unhelpful journal entry is any hint on how much time was spent on the question, any hint of the nature of the debate on the matter and any details on the actual vote on the question. In fact, there is ample testimony from delegates who were present on that day that the vote was unanimous among the twelve colonies that voted, with the New York delegates continuing to abstain. But we are left only to make educated guesses about what happened between the early evening of July 1 and the morning of July 2 to cause the South Carolina, Delaware and Pennsylvania delegations to decide to support the resolution for independence.

  South Carolina’s Edward Rutledge gave some hint of the likely switch in his delegation’s vote as the debate came to a close on July 1. According to Thomas Jefferson’s account of the proceedings, Rutledge, when he had asked the Congress to put off their decision for another day, indicated that “he believed his colleagues, tho’ they disapproved of the resolution, would then join in it for the sake of unanimity.” Since Rutledge himself was the South Carolinian most adamantly opposed to independence, the “colleagues” he was speaking of were actually probably only one: himself! At
the time, the South Carolina delegation consisted of four delegates—Rutledge, Thomas Heyward, Arthur Middleton and Thomas Lynch, Jr. Whatever the reasons for the switch in the South Carolina vote—a willingness to sacrifice their own views for the sake of American unity, the massaging of Rutledge’s own sense of pride and prestige, an understanding that their constituents back home favored independence—all four ended up voting for independence and signing the Declaration of Independence. And, by so doing, they would have one more opportunity, on July 3, to influence the final outcome of the American decision for independence.12

  We are able to identify the reasons for Delaware’s change from a “divided” vote on July 1 to an affirmative one on July 2 with more certainty. Caesar Rodney’s role in the adoption of the resolution for independence has long been part of the lore of American history—a mythology etched even deeper in Americans’ minds by the Broadway musical, later made into a highly popular motion picture, 1776. In that utterly charming, and occasionally accurate, bit of historical artistry, the very decision for independence hangs on the heroic actions of the forty-eight-year-old Delaware lawyer. John Adams described him as “the oddest looking Man in the World,” an observation provoked in part by the fact that Rodney was suffering from the effects of advanced skin cancer, which had badly disfigured his nose and one side of his face, a condition which was sufficiently visible that he often hid that part of his face with a silk scarf.13