Saturday Evening, 2 March, 1776.
I was greatly rejoiced at the return of your servant, to find you had
safely arrived, and that you were well. I had never heard a word from
you after you had left New York, and a most ridiculous story had been
industriously propagated in this and the neighboring towns to injure the
cause and blast your reputation; namely, that you and your
President[126] had gone on board of a man-of-war from New York, and
sailed for England. I should not mention so idle a report, but that it
had given uneasiness to some of your friends; not that they in the least
credited the report, but because the gaping vulgar swallowed the story.
One man had deserted them and proved a traitor, another might, etc. I
assure you, such high disputes took place in the public-house of this
parish, that some men were collared and dragged out of the shop with
great threats, for reporting such scandalous lies, and an uncle of ours
offered his life as a forfeit for you, if the report proved true.
However, it has been a nine days' marvel, and will now cease. I heartily
wish every Tory was extirpated from America; they are continually, by
secret means, undermining and injuring our cause.
I am charmed with the sentiments of "Common Sense," and wonder how an
honest heart, one who wishes the welfare of his country and the
happiness of posterity, can hesitate one moment at adopting them. I want
to know how these sentiments are received in Congress. I dare say there
would be no difficulty in procuring a vote and instructions from all the
Assemblies in New England for Independency. I most sincerely wish that
now, in the lucky moment, it might be done.
I have been kept in a continual state of anxiety and expectation ever
since you left me. It has been said "to-morrow" and "to-morrow," for
this month, but when the dreadful to-morrow will be, I know not. But
hark! The house this instant shakes with the roar of cannon. I have been
to the door, and find it is a cannonade from our army.[127] Orders, I
find, are come for all the remaining militia to repair to the lines
Monday night by twelve o'clock. No sleep for me to-night. And if I
cannot, who have no guilt upon my soul with regard to this cause, how
shall the miserable wretches who have been the procurers of this
dreadful scene, and those who are to be the actors, lie down with the
load of guilt upon their souls?
Sunday Evening, 3 March.
I went to bed after twelve, but got no rest; the cannon continued
firing, and my heart beat pace with them all night. We have had a pretty
quiet day, but what to-morrow will bring forth, God only knows.
Monday Evening.
Tolerably quiet. To-day the militia have all mustered, with three days'
provision, and are all marched by three o'clock this afternoon, though
their notice was no longer ago than eight o'clock, Saturday. And now we
have scarcely a man, but our regular guards, either in Weymouth,
Hingham, Braintree, or Milton, and the militia from the more remote
towns are called in as seacoast guards. Can you form to yourself an idea
of our sensations?
I have just returned from Penn's hill, where I have been sitting to hear
the amazing roar of cannon, and from whence I could see every shell
which was thrown. The sound, I think, is one of the grandest in nature,
and is of the true species of the sublime. 'T is now an incessant roar;
but oh! the fatal ideas which are connected with the sound! How many of
our dear countrymen must fall!
Tuesday Morning.
I went to bed about twelve, and rose again a little after one. I could
no more sleep than if I had been in the engagement; the rattling of the
windows, the jar of the house, the continual roar of twenty-four
pounders, and the bursting of shells, give us such ideas, and realize a
scene to us of which we could form scarcely any conception. About six,
this morning, there was quiet. I rejoiced in a few hours' calm. I hear
we got possession of Dorchester Hill last night; four thousand men upon
it to-day; lost but one man. The ships are all drawn round the town.
To-night we shall realize a more terrible scene still. I sometimes think
I cannot stand it. I wish myself with you, out of hearing, as I cannot
assist them. I hope to give you joy of Boston, even if it is in ruins,
before I send this away. I am too much agitated to write as I ought, and
languid for want of rest.
Thursday, Fast-day.
All my anxiety and distress is at present at an end. I feel
disappointed. This day our militia are all returning, without effecting
anything more than taking possession of Dorchester Hill. I hope it is
wise and just, but, from all the muster and stir, I hoped and expected
more important and decisive scenes. I would not have suffered all I have
for two such hills. Ever since the taking of that, we have had a perfect
calm; nor can I learn yet what effect it has had in Boston. I do not
hear of one person's escaping since.
I was very much pleased with your choice of a committee for Canada. All
those to whom I have ventured to show that part of your letter, approve
the scheme of the priest as a master-stroke of policy. I feel sorry that
General Lee has left us, but his presence at New York was no doubt of
great importance, as we have reason to think it prevented Clinton from
landing and gathering together such a nest of vermin as would at least
have distressed us greatly. But how can you spare him from here? Can you
make his place good? Can you supply it with a man equally qualified to
save us? How do the Virginians relish the troops said to be destined for
them? Are they putting themselves into a state of defense? I inclose to
you a copy of a letter sent by Captain Furnance, who is in Mr. Ned
Church's employ, and who came into the Cape about ten days ago. You will
learn the sentiments of our cousin by it. Some of which may be true, but
I hope he is a much better divine than politician. I hear that in one of
his letters he mentions certain intercepted letters which he says have
made much noise in England, and laments that you ever wrote them. I
cannot bear to think of your continuing in a state of supineness this
winter.
"There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures."
Sunday Evening, 10 March.
I had scarcely finished these lines when my ears were again assaulted by
the roar of cannon. I could not write any further. My hand and heart
will tremble at this "domestic fury and fierce civil strife," which
"cumber all" our "parts;" though "blood and destruction" are "so much in
use," "and dreadful objects so familiar," yet is not "pity choked," nor
my heart grown callous. I feel for the unhappy wretches who know not
where to fly for safety. I feel still more for my bleeding countrymen,
who are hazarding their lives and their limbs. A most terrible and
incessant cannonade from half after eight till six this morning. I hear
we lost four men killed, and some wounded, in attempting to take the
hill nearest the town, called Nook's Hill. We did some work, but the
fire from the ships beat off our men, so that they did not secure it,
but retired to the fort upon the other hill.
I have not got all the particulars; I wish I had; but, as I have an
opportunity of sending this, I shall endeavor to be more particular in
my next.
If there are reinforcements here, I believe we shall be driven from the
seacoast; but, in whatever state I am, I will endeavor to be therewith
content.
"Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
You will excuse this very incorrect letter. You see in what perturbation
it has been written, and how many times I have left off. Adieu.
Yours.
P. S. Took's grammar is the one you mention.