As if in response to a statement by John Adams that American independence ought to be celebrated with “Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other”, American troops bombarded and set on fire a small British warship that had wandered within range between Staten Island, where the huge British army had just landed, and the New Jersey shore, where the Americans still held their ground. This took place at daybreak of July 4th, 1776, and the ship was still on fire, with the flames and smoke visible from the town of New York, at noon.
Meanwhile, according to one source, a more spectacular fireworks show was taking place in Little Egg Harbor, at the mouth of the Mullica River in southern New Jersey. John Hancock, relying on hearsay, wrote from Philadelphia that an American ship loaded with guns and gunpowder had been run ashore by a British warship:
Sketch of Major General Charles Lee by American artist John Trumbull.
General Charles Lee, who fought on the American side during the Revolution, is a rather problematical figure, in my view. Among other things, a few months after he had been captured by the British, he submitted to the British commanders a “scheme for putting an end to the war” — by defeating the Americans. He said that although America might be able to draw out the war for a while, she (people generally referred to nations as “she” back then) had “no chance” of winning the war and gaining independence. So, to prevent America from inevitably suffering “great desolation havock and slaughter,” and to spare Britain the “serious expence both in blood and money” that would be required to finally defeat America, he gave his suggestions on how the British could “unhinge or dissolve…the whole system or machine of resistance, or in other terms, Congress Government”.
Although it wasn’t actually passed into law until 1786, Thomas Jefferson’s bill for establishing religious freedom in Virginia was printed “for the consideration of the PEOPLE” shortly after it was introduced in the Virginia legislature in 1779.
One of the things that Thomas Jefferson most wished to be remembered for was his bill for religious freedom in Virginia. In it, he not only stated that people’s beliefs should not impact their civil rights in any way, but he explained why. “Almighty God hath created the mind free,” he said, and rather than compelling everyone to believe the same thing, “as was in his Almighty power to do,” God allows us to believe as we see fit — and if He doesn’t force belief on us, then why should we force it on each other? Furthermore, trying to force people to conform to a particular set of religious beliefs leads to “hypocrisy and meanness,” as people conform outwardly but insincerely in order to get rewards or avoid punishment.
This contemporary American artist’s depiction of the Battle of Lexington asserts that the British fired first.
Since today is the anniversary of the so-called Battle of Lexington (personally, I think it’s a stretch to call it a battle) and the beginning of the Revolutionary War, I’ll take a minute to discuss one of the questions that has caused a lot of “inkshed” in the two and a half centuries since then: who fired the first shot?
The great majority of contemporary American accounts that I’ve read, whether from eyewitnesses or hearsayers, stated that the British fired first, without any provocation from the Americans. This, if true, would mean that the Americans were innocent, and that the king’s troops had started a war by slaughtering civilians. Most of the British accounts, on the other hand, claimed that the Americans fired first, and that the British fired in response. This, if true, would mean that the Americans provoked the whole thing, while the British were justifiably acting in self-defense.
I would probably have more confidence in the eyewitness accounts if more of the people were blaming their own side (“A guy I know named Bill fired his gun without orders, and that started the whole thing…”). But when it seems like most people were (so to speak) voting along party lines, it’s hard to tell which candidate was the real villain.
At the time, the question of who fired first was considered greatly important by both sides, because they wanted to prove the justice of their actions. But does it really matter? Not much. Even if we knew exactly who fired the first shot, where they were standing, what kind of gun they had, and what they had eaten for breakfast, would it make a difference? No (except for trivia games). The situation in Massachusetts in 1775 was such that the war was pretty much bound to start — at least, it seems that way to me — and who pulled the trigger first is pretty insignificant. Neither side was entirely innocent, and it’s not as if that one person, whoever they were, can be held responsible for starting the war. Personally, I don’t think that historians will ever be able to figure out who fired first, yet somehow it seems that we can’t stop wondering about it.
And speaking of historical trivia, here’s some for you: The first shot fired on Lexington Green was not “the shot heard ’round the world.” That phrase refers instead to the shots fired later that day by the Americans at Concord’s North Bridge — where, incidentally, it was the British who fired first.
The same American artist’s depiction of the fighting at the North Bridge in Concord.
Tuesday, Dec. 3, 1776. Abundance of Political puffs and lies told to amuse the public [i.e., to keep them hoping]. It is a matter of dispute with me whether the Whigs or Torys are the greatest propagators of falsehood.
Journal of Nicholas Cresswell
Nicholas Cresswell, a young Englishman visiting America, was strongly (though not very openly) opposed to the Revolution. More than anything else at the time, he wanted to get back to England. Rumors of all sorts were flying around as to who was winning the war; it was hard to tell what was true, and Cresswell was frustrated with it all.
If “Whigs or Torys” were replaced with “Republicans or Democrats” or the names of various politicians or pundits, I think this journal entry could well have been written today.
Technically, although privateer vessels were neither owned nor manned by the state, they had to get authorization from the government before starting to attack enemy ships. (This was one of the things that distinguished them from pirates.) For example, a privateer sloop called the Montgomery — presumably named after General Richard Montgomery who was killed in the attack on Quebec — applied for and received such authorization from the Rhode Island governor on August 8, 1776.
But while getting the proper paperwork, Captain William Rhodes and the other owners of the Montgomery were also busy gathering a crew. Privateers and other warships had to have bigger crews than commercial vessels — partly to man the guns, and partly to take charge of any ships they might capture — so recruiting was important. In the Montgomery’s case, somebody went so far as to even write a recruiting song (with some atrocious spelling, most of which I’ve corrected here for the sake of clarity):
Many different kinds of paper money were used during the Revolution. Perhaps it was a bill like this one that Captain Jabez Whipple mentioned in his ship’s log.
The first line in the ship’s log of the Rhode Island privateer sloop Independence on August 4th, 1776, was this:
At 8 AM One Eight Dollar Bill Lost
Odd as it may seem that Captain Jabez Whipple would bother recording such a thing, it makes sense if you consider that eight dollars was more than a month’s pay for many sailors.
Pardon my speculations on trivial historical matters, but I have to wonder how the bill got lost. Maybe someone in the crew had stolen it; but if Captain Whipple had suspected that, I’m sure he would have made a search for it, and the log doesn’t mention anything of the sort. More likely, it seems to me, a breeze took it overboard. The log says that they had “plesent wether” and a “smuth See” that morning, but surely there was enough wind to carry off a piece of paper. I’m afraid I’ll just have to keep on wondering.
In the meanwhile, I’d also really like to know what it means when the log says that at 6:00 AM on August 14th, all hands were busy “a Dancing”. Was that a nautical term that I haven’t yet found the meaning of? Or were Wednesday mornings always set aside for recreation aboard the Independence? We may never know.
British merchant ships during the Revolutionary War ran the risk of being captured by American privateers, and shipping insurance costs went up accordingly.
What did the Revolutionary War have to do with the price of insurance? Plenty.
Shipping insurance, specifically. American privateers — privately-owned ships that were authorized by the new American governments to attack British ships — cruised the Atlantic, looking for British merchant ships carrying valuable cargo. When they succeeded in capturing one, they would put a few of their own men on board and sail the “prize” back home, where they would sell ship and cargo, and the crewmen of the privateer would each get a share of the money. (Of course, the captain and other officers would get bigger shares than the men before the mast.) It was a profitable business — as long as you didn’t get caught by the Royal Navy ships that were out cruising to intercept rebel ships.
But for the merchants in Britain, this kind of war was a nightmare. It didn’t matter whether they were for or against American independence: the privateers were simply out for profit and to hurt Britain, and every British vessel they captured was another step toward both of those objectives. Merchants who invested money in shipping cargo to or from places like the West Indies or the Mediterranean might lose both their ships and their cargo.
In December 1776, a British newspaper called the Middlesex Journal printed the following not-so-complimentary recipe for making a patriot. No doubt they had in mind the rebellious Americans, as well as their supporters in England.
Take two drachms of reason and six ounces of resolution; half a pound of eloquence and a pound of logic; three grains of truth and a pound of falsehood; stir them up together in a quart of opposition, with the necessary ingredients of poverty and distress; strain out all the pernicious juice of principle or honesty, and leave the dregs of treachery to settle at the bottom. Thus, after being boiled in the heat of ministerial vengeance, you will have a MODERN PATRIOT. N. B.—If the least use is made of that attracting weed called pension, the compound will instantly dissolve.
Note: Drachmas and grains were very small units of weight. A grain was a twentieth of a scruple, which was a third of a drachma, which was an eighth of an ounce. Such measures of weight were used by apothecaries (i.e., pharmacists) in concocting medicines and so forth. N. B. basically means “note.” The last sentence in the recipe basically means that money will cause the “patriot” to lose his patriotism.
Take your pick of these portraits of Major General Charles Lee. I, for one, am really not sure which one is most true to life. Only in one thing are they really consistent: he seems to have had a fairly prominent nose.
An intriguing and important figure in the Revolutionary War, but one whom most people aren’t familiar with, is Charles Lee. He was British, but he was a major-general in the American army. He had a lot of military experience, and many people considered him vital to winning the war. But in December 1776, he made a simple yet disastrous mistake.
While marching his army through New Jersey, he for some reason decided to spend the night in a house at Basking Ridge, a couple of miles away from the rest of the army, with only about a dozen men to guard him. Somehow the British got word of it, and they sent a cavalry detachment rushing to capture him on the morning of Friday, December 13.
