American Rebels

by Nina Sankovitch

  The Quero would reach England by the end of May. Within days, the account prepared by the Provincial Congress was printed in newspapers; when the British version of events finally arrived two weeks later, the horrors and losses of the battles were the same as those recounted by the Americans. As Thomas Hutchinson wrote in his diary after reading both accounts, “The material difference is the declaration by … the commander … that the inhabitants fired first.”17 The answer to the question of who fired first would, in the end, remain unknown.

  * * *

  On the night following the Battles of Lexington and Concord, John Hancock and Sam Adams were on the run for hours before finally finding refuge in Billerica, a small village north of Concord, on a small farm owned by Amos Wyman. Wyman was a patriot, and his isolated homestead, surrounded by dense woods and with only one narrow path winding its way in, was the perfect hiding place. Word was sent to Dolly and Aunt Lydia, still in Lexington. The gilded Hancock carriage, its woodwork now sullied with dust and its wheels muddied, brought the women to the farm as first sunlight broke through the trees.

  Dolly was sick with worry for her father and sister, and insisted that she be allowed to take the carriage and return to Boston for them. But John Hancock wouldn’t hear of it; as his known fiancée, the British might use Dolly as bait to make Hancock return to Boston, where he would be arrested and most certainly executed. He’d heard the ballad sung outside his windows in Boston and knew that with the first shots of war having been fired, the Redcoats would not hesitate to kill him; “As for their King, that John Hancock, / And Adams, if they’re taken, / Their heads for signs shall hang up high, / Upon the hill called Beacon!”18

  “No, madam,” he told her, “you shall not return as long as there is a British bayonet left in Boston.”

  Dolly, scared for her family and exhausted after twenty-four hours of alternating hell and tedium while she waited for word from Hancock, lashed out.

  “Recollect, Mr. Hancock, I am not under your authority yet. I shall go to my father’s tomorrow!”19

  But in the end, as more reports reached the farmhouse in Billerica of the mayhem around Boston, Dolly agreed to travel with John and the others to Worcester. She could only pray that her father had left Boston in time; Hancock promised messages would be sent in an effort to find out. They remained for a few days in Worcester, while John and Sam waited for the arrival of the other Massachusetts delegates to the Second Continental Congress, due to meet in Philadelphia in June.

  From Worcester, Hancock wrote a letter to the Provincial Congress meeting again in Watertown, asking for news—“I beg to hear from you.… Are our men in good spirits? For God’s sake do not suffer the spirit to subside”—and hoping that Boston had not been burned to the ground by the British: “Boston must be entered; the troops must be sent away … our country must be saved.”20

  Hancock also asked about the other delegates: Where were they? Cushing, Paine, John Adams—he needed all the delegates together for the long trip to Philadelphia so that they would have time to plan for the future: the future of their colony, now engaged in war, and the future of their country.

  Hancock and Adams couldn’t wait any longer for the other delegates; it was just too dangerous to remain in Massachusetts, with the price on their heads getting higher by the hour. They decided to move on to Hartford in Connecticut and wait there for the other delegates before going on to Philadelphia. Aunt Lydia and Dolly would go to Fairfield, Connecticut, and find refuge in the home of Thaddeus Burr, a wealthy patriot, sheriff of Fairfield County, and friend to John Hancock. Lydia no longer thought of a June wedding; the nuptials could wait.

  * * *

  Abigail Phillips Quincy arrived safely in Norwich, as did little Josiah and Abigail’s two sisters. Josiah had passed the journey in his mother’s lap, his fever of the past weeks returning during the long flight to safety. It continued unabated for days. Abigail worried for her son, and thought of her daughter. Forty-nine Americans had been killed during the Battles of Lexington and Concord, and seventy-three British. She prayed her son, Josiah, would not become yet another victim of the growing conflict between England and America, joining the men laid dead by musket shot, blunderbuss, and bayonet.

  And what of her husband? She’d received no word from him for weeks.

  * * *

  John Adams rode his horse slowly along the road that led from Lexington to Concord. It was a battlefield that he rode through under damp and heavy skies, a descent into a hellish world of grays and browns, pounded dirt mixed with blood, rotting carcasses of horses, and torn garments, bloodied and burnt with powder, remnants of the injured and the dead. The edging of bright green spring grass seemed cruel in its taunting promise of life when everywhere around him were signs of death.

  He spoke to men and women he met on the way, who told him they had fought against terrible odds: “if We did not defend ourselves they would kill Us.” John became convinced that “the Die was cast, the Rubicon passed,” and a civil war had begun.21

  As he wrote later, “The Battle of Lexington on the 19 of April, changed the instruments of warfare from the pen to the sword.”22 He would never again write as Novangelus; but would he fight? He had a role to play, but not on the battlefield. John turned his horse around and returned to Braintree, feeling sick to his stomach all the way, with all that he had seen and heard.

  He arrived at home “seized with a fever, attended with allarming Symptoms.” But there was no time to convalesce; he was “determined to go” to the Continental Congress in Philadelphia; there was so much now for him to do there.23

  Abigail worried for him; as she wrote to him later, “I feared much for your health, when you went away.” But she understood “the Duty you owe your Country,” and it was that consideration—their country—that “prevaild with me to consent to your departure.” She would be left home alone, again, and “in a time so perilous and so hazardous to your family,” but what was to happen at Philadelphia was too important for John to miss.24

  For John too, it was that consideration of what he owed his colony that drove him on, first to Hartford to meet up with John Hancock and Sam Adams, and then on to Philadelphia. He was heartened to find that his fellow delegates were also in favor of pursuing an aggressive agenda to protect their colony: creation of a strong army, formalizing the union of the colonies, and forcing Governor Gage to withdraw his cannons from the perimeter of Boston.

  While there would be no talk of independence yet, the idea was already percolating in the minds of the New Englanders. Blood had been drawn of their own brethren; reconciliation with the perpetrators seemed a violation of the duty they owed to their threatened, and hurting, colony.

  * * *

  The ship carrying Josiah Quincy Jr. from England arrived in Gloucester Harbor on April 26 (three days before the Quero left for England to deliver news of the Battles of Lexington and Concord). Josiah was too ill to disembark, or even be carried to land. He died on board that evening, without learning of the battles or about the death of his infant daughter.

  Five days earlier he had dictated his last words to a sailor, who recorded them dutifully as best he could. Josiah was already hovering toward death then, vacillating between consciousness and delirium. But the sailor was patient and sat beside Josiah for hours, taking down what Josiah whispered to him word by word, and then waiting through periods of silence until Josiah was ready to speak again. For his vigilance at the side of the dying man, Josiah’s family would always be grateful.

  Josiah’s final sentence was for his wife: “my most Dear and Beloved wife will Consent to her being Laid by me at her Death … for it is the last Desire of a Dying Man the Last Request [of] that Expiring Husband that she may Lay by my side at her Death.”25

  And what of Josiah’s secret messages, to be entrusted only to certain trusted patriots? The sailor copied down Josiah’s words stating that his intention had been “Immediately upon my Arrival to Assemble Certain Persons to w
hom I was to Communicate my trust.” But the passage to America proved both too rough—“Most Inclement and Damp”—and too long: “Had Providence been pleased that I should reach America Six days ago I should have been able to converse with my friends.” Josiah resigned himself to his fate: “This Voyage and Passage [have] put an End to my Being. His Holy Will be done.”26 There would be no final messages for the patriots. The knowledge that he brought home from England—information of “Extreme Urgency”—died with him, never to be shared.27

  The selectmen of Gloucester sent messages to Braintree and Boston, in an effort to contact Josiah’s father and wife. But no response came, and after a few days, Josiah was buried in the public burial ground at Gloucester. When Abigail finally arrived in the port town, having traveled from Connecticut with her sister Mary, all that remained for her were Josiah’s trunks and a thick envelope.

  The trunks were filled with his clothes and books, his journals, and inside a round box, the rings he had made in England for her and for his father; the ring for Abigail was set with diamonds, and the one for Josiah Sr. was engraved with the image of the woman Liberty leaning against the urn of disease, a dagger at her feet. Above the urn was a circle, symbolizing immortality. Inside the ring was inscribed the motto, Oh, save my country!

  The thick envelope was handed over to Abigail. Inside she found ribbon-tied bands of golden red curls, shorn from her husband’s head before he was buried. His hair was so similar to that of his son, Josiah III. The boy had recovered from his fever and was doing well in Norwich. Abigail’s eyes closed: her son would never see his father again.

  Abigail hoped to meet the sailor who had sat beside her husband for all those long hours, but he had gone again to sea. One more item was handed over to Abigail: the parchment paper on which the sailor had written Josiah’s final words. Abigail took the paper, the packed trunks, and the envelope of hair and began her journey back to Norwich.

  28

  Clouds over Boston

  I have no reason to doubt the zeal

  of my fellow countrymen in the cause of freedom,

  and their firmness in its defense.

  —SAMUEL QUINCY

  Abigail Adams opened her door in Braintree to find Abigail Phillips Quincy on her doorstep, her sister Mary at her side. Abigail Quincy appeared wan and shrunken; her eyes were bloodshot and underscored by dark shadows. Mrs. Adams drew Mrs. Quincy to her as tenderly as if the woman were her own child and brought her inside. The rumors were true: Josiah Quincy Jr. was dead.

  John had written from Hartford that he had heard news of Josiah’s death: “a Man came in and inform’d us.… Proh Dolor!”1 Alas, what grief. He added, “I am wounded to the Heart.” After Mrs. Quincy’s appearance on her doorstep, Abigail wrote back to John, confirming the news. Her letter was punctuated by grief: “Mr. Quincys Death … a most melancholy Event … his distressed widow.… Poor afflicted woman, my heart was wounded for her.”2

  Letters of condolence began to arrive for the Quincy family, for “the disappointed father, the weeping sister, and the still more afflicted wife.”3 The loss of such “a warm, unshaken friend” was felt from South Carolina all the way to Massachusetts and farther abroad to England; and the realization of what such a loss meant was shared: “America [is] Deprived of his assistance when … had his life been spared, he might have rendered his country very eminent service.”4

  Letters addressed to Josiah himself continued to arrive, a crushing reminder of how dependent so many had become on his counsel—and now he was gone. A letter from William Lee from London was especially hard for the widow Abigail to read, for Lee had written to Josiah with such expectations of joy: “I hope the sea air, and exercise will restore you to a perfect state of health and that you will have a happy meeting with your family.”5

  * * *

  Edmund Quincy finally left Boston on April 30, stopping overnight in Cambridge to stay with his daughter Esther and her husband. Jonathan and Esther were in the midst of packing up their remaining belongings to move to Boston, the only place where such a prominent Loyalist as Jonathan could feel safe. Edmund kept his opinion to himself but both Jonathan and Esther knew of his pro-colonial leanings.

  Edmund wrote later to his son Henry of his sadness in missing Dolly before she left Massachusetts and ventured on to “Fayrefield” under the protection of John Hancock and his aunt Lydia; “I don’t expect to see her until peacable times are restored.”6 What he couldn’t have known then was that he would never see Esther again; ignorant of what the future held, he offered Esther only a simple farewell before traveling with Katy to the home of his daughter Sarah in Lancaster.

  * * *

  As the Massachusetts delegation traveled south to Philadelphia, everywhere they went they were met with an outpouring of colonial support, approbation, and adulation. In New York, as John Hancock described in a letter to Dolly, “we were Met by the Grenadier Company and the Regiment of the City Militia under Arms, Gentlemen in Carriages and on Horseback, and many Thousands of Persons on Foot, the Roads fill’d with people.”7

  John Adams wrote to Abigail that it “would take many Sheets of Paper, to give you a Description of the Reception, We found here [in New York City]. The Militia were all in Arms, and almost the whole City out to Meet us.… Our Prospect of a Union of the Colonies, is promising indeed.”8

  The support and spirit continued as they traveled farther south, and when they arrived in Philadelphia, all the city bells rang out in welcome. Coming out from their homes and businesses, people swarmed the streets to greet the Massachusetts delegates.

  John hoped the fervency of the crowds would be reflected in the makeup of the congressional delegates themselves, and that progress could be made toward establishing a union of the colonies that would be both lasting and effective; but his hope was tinged with anxiety: “I feel anxious, because, there is always more Smoke than Fire—more Noise than Musick.”9

  Perhaps his apprehensions were tied to his health. Neither John Adams nor John Hancock felt physically well; Hancock was once again suffering from gout, and his “Face and Eyes are in a most shocking situation, burnt up and much swell’d and a little painfull.”10 And John Adams, sick when he left Braintree, continued to complain of “miserable health and blind eyes,” and feeling “not well,” “quite infirm,” and “weak in health.”11

  Fortunately, due to the grave events preceding the Second Continental Congress, the opulent meals and nightly socializing of the First Continental Congress were not repeated. The delegates still met—all fifty-six of them—every Saturday evening for a meal, but the seven-course dinners that ended with toasts and rich desserts were a thing of the past. Food was dear, money was tight, and a budding nation demanded the delegates’ full—and sober—attention. Now meeting two blocks up on Chestnut Street, in the State House, the work at hand was as demanding and fractious as the meetings of the First Continental Congress had been.

  Despite their physical ailments, the two Johns, raised on the same sermons of community obligation and self-sacrifice, soldiered on; they both understood it was their duty to “keep about and attend Congress very constantly,” as John wrote to Abigail.12 Both Hancock and Adams played leadership roles, with Hancock assuming the very public responsibility of president of the Congress (pending the convalescence of Virginia delegate Peyton Randolph, who previously held the position), while Adams managed things behind the scenes, cajoling, calculating, and threatening, to get things moving along.

  Georgia had finally sent one delegate to Philadelphia, Dr. Lyman Hall from the Parish of St. John’s. Hall came on his own, covering over eight hundred miles on horseback, determined to represent his county, if not his entire colony, in the Congress.

  Hall was originally from Connecticut, and his first wife was Abigail Burr, sister of Thaddeus Burr of Fairfield, with whom Dolly and Lydia were now staying. He was a friend to New England, just when the Massachusetts delegates needed friends in Congress. Some of the other delega
tes were distancing themselves from the men from Massachusetts, whom they considered too radical; at the same time, there was growing support for John Dickinson from Pennsylvania and James Duane from New York, who both favored a reconciliation with Great Britain.

  Although there seemed to be agreement about establishing a continental army and also creating a working union of colonial governments, there was no agreement in Congress as to how hard a line such a union should hold against Parliament and the Crown. The two Adams, Sam and John, were viewed as radicals for pushing offensive action against Gage’s fortification of Boston.

  John Hancock, on the other hand, was considered a moderate, because instead of voicing strong opinions in Congress, he felt it was his duty as president to manage disparate viewpoints, temperaments, and desires. As the weeks went by, Sam Adams, and even John Adams, began to doubt that Hancock would carry out the agenda agreed upon by the Massachusetts delegation—but there was no denying that Hancock was very good at getting everyone to the table to at least discuss the New England initiatives.

  Once at the table, however, the “wasting, exhausting Debates of the Congress” could go on for days; as John Adams lamented, “Oh, that I was a soldier!”13 Going to battle seemed easier to him than participating in Congress. He was finding it difficult—and tiring—to be a politician, a tactician, a coaxer, and at times even a bully, in trying to get things done.

  * * *

  The heat and humidity of a Philadelphia summer arrived early, with temperatures in May already reaching July highs. Tempers at the Congress grew short and energies flagged, slowing down the Massachusetts agenda even more; “Our Debates and Deliberations are tedious.… Our Determinations very slow,” John wrote to Abigail.14