AFTER LEXINGTON
ON October 28th, Mr. Adams set out on his return homeward. The Diary
reads:
"Took our departure, in a very great rain, from the happy, the peaceful,
the elegant, the hospitable, and polite city of Philadelphia. It is not
very likely that I shall ever see this part of the world again, but I
shall ever retain a most grateful, pleasing sense of the many civilities
I have received in it, and shall think myself happy to have an
opportunity of returning them."
John Adams was to see a good deal more of Philadelphia; but he spent
this winter of 1774-5 at home with Portia and the four children,
happily, so far as home life went, but beset by anxieties and tasks. He
was immediately elected into the Provincial Congress; besides this, he
was writing weekly letters, signed "Novanglus," for the Boston
_Gazette_, important letters answering those of "Massachusettensis" in
Draper's paper, which "were conducted with a subtlety of art and
address wonderfully calculated to keep up the spirits of their party, to
depress ours, to spread intimidation, and to make proselytes among those
whose principles and judgment give way to their fears; and these compose
at least one-third of mankind." Mr. Adams notes soberly that "in New
England, they [his own letters] had the effect of an antidote to the
poison of Massachusettensis, and," he adds, "the battle of Lexington, on
the 19th of April, changed the instruments of warfare from the pen to
the sword."
Abigail, naturally, has nothing to say about Lexington and Concord; how
should she? Her John was at home with her, and she kept no diary. But
John _might_ have given us a word about Paul Revere and the rising of
the countryside, about the gathering of the minute-men on that green
over which "the smoke of the battle still seems to hang": might have
mentioned at least that toy pistol of Major Pitcairn's--a pretty thing,
gold and mother-of-pearl, given him by admiring friends--which we are
told fired the actual first shot of the Revolution, provoking that other
which was "heard round the world": he might have told--as his son, long
years after when he was President of the United States, loved to
tell--how, the day after the battle, the minute-men came, and took Mrs.
Adams' pewter spoons to melt them into bullets: but no!
"A few days after this event," he says, "I rode to Cambridge, where I
saw General Ward, General Heath, General Joseph Warren, and the New
England army. There was great confusion and much distress. Artillery,
arms, clothing were wanting, and a sufficient supply of provisions not
easily obtained. Neither the officers nor men, however, wanted spirits
or resolution. I rode from thence to Lexington, and along the scene of
action for many miles, and inquired of the inhabitants the
circumstances. These were not calculated to diminish my ardor in the
cause; they, on the contrary, convinced me that the die was cast, the
Rubicon passed, and, as Lord Mansfield expressed it in Parliament, if we
did not defend ourselves, they would kill us. On my return home, I was
seized with a fever, attended with alarming symptoms; but the time was
come to repair to Philadelphia to Congress, which was to meet on the
fifth of May. I was determined to go as far as I could, and instead of
venturing on horseback, as I had intended, I got into a sulky, attended
by a servant on horseback, and proceeded on the journey."
This was an anxious journey for Mr. Adams, knowing as he did, that he
was leaving his beloved family exposed to many and grave dangers.
Parliament had, in February, 1775, declared the Colony of Massachusetts
to be in a state of rebellion, and things went from bad to worse in
Boston. The following letter gives the full measure of his anxiety:
"Mr. Eliot, of Fairfield, is this moment arrived, on his way to Boston.
He read us a letter from the Dr., his father, dated yesterday sennight,
being Sunday. The Dr.'s description of the melancholy of the town is
enough to melt a stone. The trials of that unhappy and devoted people
are likely to be severe indeed. God grant that the furnace of affliction
may refine them. God grant that they may be relieved from their present
distress.
"It is arrogance and presumption, in human sagacity, to pretend to
penetrate far into the designs of Heaven. The most perfect reverence and
resignation becomes us, but I cannot help depending upon this, that the
present dreadful calamity of that beloved town is intended to bind the
colonies together in more indissoluble bonds, and to animate their
exertions at this great crisis in the affairs of mankind. It has this
effect in a most remarkable degree, as far as I have yet seen or heard.
It will plead with all America with more irresistible persuasion than
angels trumpet-tongued.
"In a cause which interests the whole globe, at a time when my friends
and country are in such keen distress, I am scarcely ever interrupted in
the least degree by apprehensions for my personal safety. I am often
concerned for you and our dear babes, surrounded, as you are, by people
who are too timorous and too much susceptible of alarms. Many fears and
jealousies and imaginary dangers will be suggested to you, but I hope
you will not be impressed by them. In case of real danger, of which you
cannot fail to have previous intimations, fly to the woods with our
children. Give my tenderest love to them, and to all."
"Fly to the woods with our children"! The words tell only too plainly
how terrible was the danger the writer apprehended. The woods were--or
at any moment might be--full of prowling savages, from whom no mercy
could be expected; yet John Adams would choose to run this risk rather
than others that threatened, or seemed to threaten, his dear ones. One
feels through all the years the thrill of his anxiety.
"For the space of twelve months," says John Quincy Adams, "my mother
with her infant children dwelt liable every hour of the day and night
to be butchered in cold blood or taken into Boston as hostages by any
foraging or marauding detachment of men like that actually sent forth on
the 19th of April to capture John Hancock and Samuel Adams, on their way
to attend the Continental Congress at Philadelphia. My father was
separated from his family on his way to attend the same congress, and
then my mother and her children lived in unintermitted danger of being
consumed with them all in a conflagration kindled by a torch in the same
hands which on the 17th of June lighted the fires of Charlestown."
Abigail, in Braintree, no longer "calm and happy," laments over the
sufferings of her friends and former neighbors.
"5 May, 1775.
"The distresses of the inhabitants of Boston are
beyond the power of language to describe; there are
but very few who are permitted to come out in a day;
they delay giving passes, make them wait from hour to
hour, and their counsels are not two hours alike. One
day, they shall come out with their effects; the next
day, merchandise is not effects. One day, their
household furniture is to come out; the next, only
wearing apparel; the next, Pharaoh's heart is
hardened, and he refuseth to hearken to them, and will
not let the people go. May their deliverance be
wrought out for them, as it was for the children of
Israel. I do not mean by miracles, but by the
interposition of Heaven in their favor. They have
taken a list of all those who they suppose were
concerned in watching the tea, and every other person
whom they call obnoxious, and they and their effects
are to suffer destruction.
"Yours, PORTIA."
"24 May, 1775.
"I suppose you have had a formidable account of the
alarm we had last Sunday morning. When I rose, about
six o'clock, I was told that the drums had been some
time beating, and that three alarm guns were fired;
that Weymouth bell had been ringing, and Mr. Weld's
was then ringing. I immediately sent off an express to
know the occasion, and found the whole town in
confusion. Three sloops and one cutter had come out
and dropped anchor just below Great Hill. It was
difficult to tell their designs; some supposed they
were coming to Germantown, others to Weymouth;
people, women, children, from the iron-works, came
flocking down this way; every woman and child driven
off from below my father's; my father's family flying.
The Dr. is in great distress, as you may well imagine,
for my aunt had her bed thrown into a cart, into which
she got herself, and ordered the boy to drive her to
Bridgewater, which he did. The report was to them that
three hundred British had landed, and were upon their
march up into town. The alarm flew like lightning, and
men from all parts came flocking down, till two
thousand were collected. But it seems their expedition
was to Grape Island for Levett's hay. There it was
impossible to reach them for want of boats; but the
sight of so many people, and the firing at them,
prevented their getting more than three tons of hay,
though they had carted much more down to the water. At
last a lighter was mustered, and a sloop from Hingham,
which had six port-holes. Our men eagerly jumped on
board, and put off for the Island. As soon as they
perceived it, they decamped. Our people landed upon
the island, and in an instant set fire to the hay,
which, with the barn, was soon consumed,--about eighty
tons, it is said. We expect soon to be in continual
alarms, till something decisive takes place. . . . Our
house has been, upon this alarm, in the same scene of
confusion that it was upon the former. Soldiers coming
in for a lodging, for breakfast, for supper, for
drink, etc. Sometimes refugees from Boston, tired and
fatigued, seek an asylum for a day, a night, a week.
You can hardly imagine how we live; yet,--
To the houseless child of want,
Our doors are open still;
And though our portions are but scant,
We give them with good will.
"My best wishes attend you, both for your health and
happiness, and that you may be directed into the
wisest and best measures for our safety and the
security of our posterity. I wish you were nearer to
us; we know not what a day will bring forth, nor what
distress one hour may throw us into. Hitherto, I have
been able to maintain a calmness and presence of mind,
and hope I shall, let the exigency of the time be what
it will. . . ."
"Weymouth, 15 June, 1775.
"I sat down to write to you on Monday, but really
could not compose myself sufficiently; the anxiety I
suffered from not hearing one syllable from you for
more than five weeks, and the new distress arising
from the arrival of recruits, agitated me more than I
have been since the never-to-be-forgotten 14th of
April. I have been much revived by receiving two
letters from you last night. . . .
"We cannot but consider the great distance you are
from us as a very great misfortune, when our critical
situation renders it necessary to hear from you every
week, and will be more and more so, as difficulties
arise. We now expect our seacoast ravaged; perhaps the
very next letter I write will inform you that I am
driven away from our yet quiet cottage. Necessity will
oblige Gage to take some desperate steps. We are told
for truth that he is now eight thousand strong. We
live in continual expectations of alarms. Courage I
know we have in abundance; conduct I hope we shall not
want; but powder,--where shall we get a sufficient
supply? I wish we may not fail there. Every town is
filled with the distressed inhabitants of Boston. Our
house[14] among others is deserted, and by this time,
like enough, made use of as a barrack. . . .
"I have a request to make of you; something like the
barrel of sand, I suppose you will think it, but
really of much more importance to me. It is, that you
would send out Mr. Bass, and purchase me a bundle of
pins and put them in your trunk for me. The cry for
pins is so great that what I used to buy for seven
shillings and sixpence are now twenty shillings, and
not to be had for that. A bundle contains six
thousand, for which I used to give a dollar; but if
you can procure them for fifty shillings, or three
pounds (ten dollars), pray let me have them.
"I am, with the tenderest regard,
"Your PORTIA."
On June 17th, John Adams writes:
"I can now inform you that the Congress have made
choice of the modest and virtuous, the amiable,
generous and brave George Washington, Esquire, to be
General of the American army, and that he is to
repair, as soon as possible, to the camp before
Boston. This announcement will have a great effect in
cementing and securing the union of these colonies.
The continent is really in earnest, in defending the
country. They have voted ten companies of riflemen to
be sent from Pennsylvania, Maryland and Virginia, to
join the army before Boston. These are an excellent
species of light infantry. They use a peculiar kind of
musket, called a rifle. It has circular or--(word
effaced in manuscript) grooves within the barrel, and
carries a ball with great exactness to great
distances. They are the most accurate marksmen in the
world. . . .
"America is a great, unwieldy body. Its progress must
be slow. It is like a large fleet sailing under
convoy. The fleetest sailors must wait for the dullest
and slowest. Like a coach and six, the swiftest horses
must be slackened, and the slowest quickened, that all
may keep an even pace. . . ."
Mr. Adams little thought that even while he wrote, the cannon were
roaring on Bunker Hill, and that on its slopes,
In their ragged regimentals
Stood the old Continentals,
Yielding not,
When the grenadiers were lunging,
And like hail fell the plunging
Cannon-shot.
Abigail Adams heard the cannon, and taking her seven-year-old Johnny
with her, mounted Penn's Hill, at the foot of which the house stood.
Standing there, mother and son saw with terror the smoke of burning
Charlestown, listened with beating hearts to the beating drums and
roaring cannon. The boy never forgot that hour. Long after he would tell
of it, and of his mother's deep distress on hearing of the death of
Warren.
The news of Bunker Hill reached Philadelphia on June 22d: on the 27th,
John Adams writes:
"This moment received two letters from you. Courage, my dear. We shall
be supported in life or comforted in death. I rejoice that my countrymen
behaved so bravely, though not so skilfully conducted as I could wish. I
hope this defeat will be remedied by the new modeling of the army.
"My love everywhere."
This brief letter crossed one from Abigail, dated June 25th.
"I hear that General Howe said that the battle upon the Plains of Abram
was but a bauble to this. When we consider all the circumstances
attending this action, we stand astonished that our people were not all
cut off. They had but one hundred feet intrenched, the number who were
engaged did not exceed eight hundred, and they with not half ammunition
enough; the reinforcement not able to get to them seasonably. The tide
was up, and high, so that their floating batteries came upon each side
of the causeway, and their row-galleys kept a continual fire. Added to
this, the fire from Copp's Hill, and from the ships; the town in flames,
all around them, and the heat from the flames so intense as scarcely to
be borne; the day one of the hottest we have had this season, and the
wind blowing the smoke in their faces,--only figure to yourself all
these circumstances, and then consider that we do not count sixty men
lost. My heart overflows at the recollection.
"We live in continual expectation of hostilities. Scarcely a day that
does not produce some; but, like good Nehemiah, having made our prayer
unto God, and set the people with their swords, their spears, and their
bows, we will say unto them, 'Be ye not afraid of them; remember the
Lord, who is great and terrible, and fight for your brethren, your sons,
and your daughters, your wives and your houses.'
"I have just received yours of the 17th of June, in seven days only;
every line from that far country is precious. . . . O North, may the
groans and cries of the injured and oppressed harrow up thy soul!"
While she wrote, Washington was on the march. He reached Watertown on
July 2d, and on the 3d, standing under the tree which still (1917) marks
the spot, he took command of the Continental Army.
On July 5th, she writes:
"I should have been more particular, but I thought you knew everything
that passed here. The present state of the inhabitants of Boston is
that of the most abject slaves, under the most cruel and despotic
tyrants. Among many instances I could mention, let me relate one. Upon
the 17th of June, printed handbills were posted up at the corners of the
streets, and upon houses, forbidding any inhabitants to go upon their
houses, or upon any eminence, on pain of death; the inhabitants dared
not to look out of their houses, nor to be heard or seen to ask a
question. Our prisoners were brought over to the Long Wharf, and there
lay all night, without any care of their wounds, or any resting-place
but the pavements, until the next day, when they exchanged it for the
jail, since which we hear they are civilly treated. Their living cannot
be good, as they can have no fresh provisions; their beef, we hear, is
all gone, and their wounded men die very fast, so that they have a
report that the bullets were poisoned. Fish they cannot have, they have
rendered it so difficult to procure; and the admiral is such a villain
as to oblige every fishing schooner to pay a dollar every time it goes
out. The money that has been paid for passes is incredible. Some have
given ten, twenty, thirty, and forty dollars, to get out with a small
proportion of their things. It is reported and believed that they have
taken up a number of persons and committed them to jail, we know not
for what in particular. Master Lovell is confined in the dungeon; a son
of Mr. Edes is in jail, and one Wiburt, a ship-carpenter, is now upon
trial for his life. God alone knows to what length these wretches will
go, and will, I hope, restrain their malice.
"I would not have you distressed about me. Danger, they say, makes
people valiant. Hitherto I have been distressed, but not dismayed. I
have felt for my country and her sons. I have bled with them and for
them. Not all the havoc and devastation they have made has wounded me
like the death of Warren. We want him in the Senate; we want him in his
profession; we want him in the field. We mourn for the citizen, the
senator, the physician, and the warrior. May we have others raised up in
his room. . . .
"I hope we shall not now have famine added to war. Grain, grain is what
we want here. Meat we have enough, and to spare. Pray don't let Bass
forget my pins. Hardwick has applied to me for Mr. Bass to get him a
hundred of needles, number six, to carry on his stocking weaving. We
shall very soon have no coffee, nor sugar, nor pepper, here; but
whortleberries and milk we are not obliged to commerce for. . . . Good
night. With thought of thee do I close my eyes. Angels guard and
protect thee; and may a safe return ere long bless thy
"PORTIA."
Dr. Lovell, who was "confined in the dungeon," was the Boston
schoolmaster, a worthy man, and a stout patriot. The story is told that
on the morning of the 19th of April, 1775, sitting at his desk in the
schoolroom, he saw Earl Percy march by with his troops, on the way to
Lexington. The master closed his book.
"War's begun, school's done!" he said. "_Deponite libros._"
On the 16th, Abigail writes again:
"The appointment of the generals Washington and Lee gives universal
satisfaction. The people have the highest opinion of Lee's abilities,
but you know the continuation of the popular breath depends much upon
favorable events. I had the pleasure of seeing both the generals and
their aids-de-camp soon after their arrival, and of being personally
made known to them. . . .
"I was struck with General Washington. You had prepared me to entertain
a favorable opinion of him, but I thought the half was not told me.
Dignity with ease and complacency, the gentleman and the soldier, look
agreeably blended in him. Modesty marks every line and feature of his
face. These lines of Dryden instantly occurred to me:--
Mark his majestic fabric; he's a temple
Sacred by birth, and built by hands divine;
His soul's the deity that lodges there,
Nor is the pile unworthy of the god.
"General Lee looks like a careless, hardy veteran, and by his appearance
brought to my mind his namesake, Charles the Twelfth, of Sweden. The
elegance of his pen far exceeds that of his person. . . .
"As to intelligence from Boston, it is but very seldom we are able to
collect anything that may be relied on; and to report the vague flying
rumors would be endless. I heard yesterday, by one Mr. Roulstone, a
goldsmith, who got out in a fishing schooner, that their distress
increased upon them fast. Their beef is all spent; their malt and cider
all gone. All the fresh provisions they can procure they are obliged to
give to the sick and wounded. Thirteen of our men who were in jail, and
were wounded at the battle of Charlestown, were dead. No man dared now
to be seen talking to his friend in the street. They were obliged to be
within, every evening, at ten o'clock, according to martial law; nor
could any inhabitants walk any street in town after that time, without a
pass from Gage. . . .
"Every article in the West India way is very scarce and dear. In six
weeks we shall not be able to purchase any article of the kind. I wish
you would let Bass get me one pound of pepper and two yards of black
calamanco for shoes. I cannot wear leather, if I go barefoot. Bass may
make a fine profit if he lays in a stock for himself. You can hardly
imagine how much we want many common small articles which are not
manufactured amongst ourselves; but we will have them in time; not one
pin to be purchased for love or money. I wish you would convey me a
thousand by any friend traveling this way. It is very provoking to have
such a plenty so near us, but, Tantalus-like, not to be able to touch. I
should have been glad to have laid in a small stock of the West India
articles, but I cannot get one copper; no person thinks of paying
anything, and I do not choose to run in debt. I endeavor to live in the
most frugal manner possible, but I am many times distressed."
"This is the 25th of July. Gage has not made any attempt to march out
since the battle of Charlestown. Our army is restless, and wish to be
doing something to rid themselves and the land of the vermin and
locusts which infest it. Since I wrote you last, the companies stationed
upon the coast, both in this town, Weymouth, and Hingham, were ordered
to Nantasket, to reap and bring off the grain, which they accomplished,
all except a field or two which was not ripe; and having whaleboats,
they undertook to go to the Lighthouse and set fire to it, which they
effected in open day, and in fair sight of several men-of-war. Upon
their return, came down upon them eight barges, one cutter, and one
schooner, all in battle-array, and poured whole broadsides upon them;
but our men all reached the shore, and not one life lost, two only
slightly wounded in their legs. They marched up a hill, and drew into
order in hopes the marines would land; but they chose rather to return
without a land engagement, though 'tis thought they will burn the town
down as soon as our forces leave it. I had this account from Captain
Vinton, who with his company, were there. These little skirmishes seem
trifling, but they serve to inure our men, and harden them to danger. I
hear the rebels are very wroth at the destruction of the Lighthouse.
"There has been an offer from Gage to send the poor of Boston to Salem,
by water, but not complied with on our part; they returned for answer,
they would receive them upon the lines. Dr. Tufts saw a letter from
Deacon Newall, in which he mentions the death of John Cotton; he says it
is very sickly in town. Every fishing vessel is now obliged to enter and
clear out, as though she was going a foreign voyage. No inhabitant is
suffered to partake, but obliged to wait till the army is supplied, and
then, if one [fish] remains, they are allowed to purchase it. An order
has been given out in town that no person shall be seen to wipe his face
with a white handkerchief. The reason I hear is, that it is a signal of
mutiny. General Burgoyne lives in Mr. Sam Quincy's house. A lady, who
lived opposite, says she saw raw meat cut and hacked upon her mahogany
tables, and her superb damask curtains and cushions exposed to the rain,
as if they were of no value. . . ."
Up to this time, Mrs. Adams had only the sorrows of her neighbors to
chronicle, but now her own turn was come. A violent epidemic of
dysentery broke out in the surrounding country, and "calm, happy
Braintree" was calm no longer. One after another of the family sickened;
one of the servants first, Isaac, ("there was no resting-place in the
house, for his terrible groans!") Mrs. Adams herself was the next, and
she was sorely tempted to send for her husband, who was then but a few
days on his journey back to Philadelphia.
"I suffered greatly between my inclination to have you return, and my
fear of sending lest you should be a partaker of the common
calamity." . . . "Our little Tommy was the next, and he lies very ill
now. . . . Our house is a hospital in every part; and what with my own
weakness and distress of mind for my family, I have been unhappy enough.
And such is the distress of the neighborhood that I can scarcely find a
well person to assist in looking after the sick. . . . So sickly and so
mortal a time the oldest man does not remember. . . . As to politics, I
know nothing about them. The distresses of my own family are so great
that I have not thought of them. . . ."
One of the maids died; the others recovered, though Tommy, who had been
a "hearty, hale, corn-fed boy," was now "entirely stripped of the hardy,
robust countenance, as well as of all the flesh he had, save what
remains for to keep his bones together." In October, Abigail's mother,
after visiting a soldier home from the army on sick leave, was stricken
by the pestilence and died. This was a heavy blow, and the daughter's
heart cried out to her absent mate. "Have pity on me, O thou my
beloved, for the hand of God presseth me sore."
The letter which begins thus would move any heart even at this distance
of time: to John Adams, it brought deep distress. The loving husband and
father would fain take horse and ride post haste to Braintree; the
steadfast patriot must remain at his post. All he could do was to write
her frequently and as cheerfully as might be.
"I will never," he assures her on December third, "come here again
without you, if I can persuade you to come with me. Whom God has joined
together ought not to be put asunder so long, with their own consent. We
will bring master Johnny with us; you and he shall have the small-pox
here, and we will be as happy as Mr. Hancock and his lady. Thank Abby
and John for their letters, and kiss Charles and Tom for me. John writes
like a hero, glowing with ardor for his country and burning with
indignation against her enemies. . . ."
Now and then, but rarely, he tried to amuse her with a story.
"A few days ago, in company with Dr. Zubly, somebody said there was
nobody on our side but the Almighty. The Doctor, who is a native of
Switzerland, and speaks but broken English, quickly replied, 'Dat is
enough! Dat is enough!' And turning to me says he, 'It puts me in mind
of a fellow who once said, "The Catholics have on their side the Pope,
and the King of France, and the King of Spain, and the King of Sardinia,
and the King of Poland, and the Emperor of Germany, etc., etc., etc.:
but as to these poor devils the Protestants, they have nothing on their
side but God Almighty."'"
FOOTNOTES:
[14] I.e., their house in Boston.