Profiles of 1776 | The Wolcott Family

ew anecdotes from America’s pivotal year of 1776 are as delightful as the one involving Founding Father, soldier, and Connecticut representative Oliver Wolcott and his remarkable little family of “rebels.” When the year began, Wolcott was juggling two careers: as his state’s principal delegate to the Continental Congress, and as Commander of the Connecticut militia. Congress had also appointed him Commissioner of Indian Affairs, his previous service in the French and Indian War having made him well suited for the role.

Oliver Wolcott, Sr. (1726-1797)

He proved Congress’s trust in his merits by hammering out a treaty with the Northern Indian nations, binding them to remain neutral during the upcoming conflict. He did this three separate times, all successfully. By these treaties, many settler families were spared the atrocities that had been inflicted upon them in previous wars.

All these achievements aside, Wolcott’s greatest disappointment of 1776 was his absence from Congress during the momentous vote for Independence. Gravely ill at the time and far away with his militia, he missed the proceedings in Philadelphia on July 4. It would be months before he could affix his name to the document he had helped to craft. But it was this sad absence that allowed him to witness a scene most of his contemporaries missed.

Signature of Oliver Wolcott, Sr.

When the irreparable break from Great Britain was decided upon, General George Washington’s irregular Continental Army was in New York City, preparing to repulse an imminent and massive invasion by both the British army and navy. It was therefore of the utmost importance for the President of Congress, Mr. John Hancock, to quickly dispatch a fresh copy of the Declaration of Independence to the Commander in Chief. And so it was that on July 9, in New York City, the ordinary militiamen from every state—who had fought for over a year under a variety of banners and for a cause still nebulous in its desired outcome—first learned that they now had a country of their own. The reaction was tremendous and not entirely orderly.

Oliver Wolcott was in New York for this occasion, and there he witnessed not only the joy of the soldiers and the effusion of passion many citizens displayed, but also one of the most bizarre demonstrations of patriotic fervor ever expressed in colonial America. For General Washington had hardly finished reading the document when a motley group of soldiers, citizens, and ne’er-do-wells stormed Bowling Green in the Wall Street area. In their zeal, they toppled the stately and gigantic equestrian statue of His Majesty—chief enemy number one—King George III. Having done this, the mob proceeded to smash it to bits on the green before taking its head and parading it on a pike through the city streets. It was rumored to have later been sent to London as a taunt.

King George III’s statue on Bowling Green in New York being toppled by the excited mob

The mob then moved on to other celebratory actions, many equally destructive but of less political impact. Yet Wolcott remained on the green amidst the wreckage. The statue had weighed about four thousand pounds and was made of pure lead with a fine coating of gold leaf. As a militiaman and an old soldier accustomed to providing his own kit, Wolcott looked at that heap of rubble and had an epiphany. Bullets were made of lead, and bullets had been terribly hard to come by for the Americans. His soldiers often had to meet the enemy with no more than five or ten bullets each, if they were lucky, and Congress had proven unable to supply more.

Wolcott collected the salvageable pieces and arranged for a ship to take the heavy material by sea to the port of Norwalk, Connecticut. It was then loaded onto oxcarts and hauled sixty miles to his house in Litchfield. There, in the family orchard behind his house, he enlisted the help of his wife, children, and the local ladies to smelt and mold the rubble into ammunition.

The Oliver Wolcott House, Litchfield, CT, front

The Oliver Wolcott House, Litchfield, CT, front/side

Wolcott’s son, Frederick Wolcott, would later attest that his father—tall, muscular, and still in the prime of life—took an axe to the larger portions himself, dividing them into manageable pieces for Mrs. Wolcott’s great cauldrons, which were themselves sacrificed for the cause. Frederick also kept careful accounts of the production rate of their merry little band of melters, reporting a grand total of 42,088 bullets formed from the statue. It was recorded that Laura Wolcott, age fifteen, made 8,378; Mary Ann Wolcott, age eleven, made 10,790; and Frederick himself, at age nine, a respectable 936.

Proud papa Wolcott took these bullets with him into the Battle of Saratoga, furnishing his men with them and thus helping to defeat General John Burgoyne’s army with “hot blasts of His Melted Majesty.”

Wolcott would eventually sign the Declaration of Independence in October 1776 and later added his name to the Articles of Confederation in 1777. He survived the war, as did his wife and children. This most industrious and utilitarian Founding Father then took a well-deserved retirement at his home in Litchfield, although he remained active as Lieutenant Governor and took an enthusiastic part in local deliberations on the formation of our Constitution.

Coat of arms of Oliver Wolcott

He was pulled from his ease in 1796 upon being elected Governor. Himself the fifteenth child of a previous governor of Connecticut, he was proud to step into the office his father had held forty-five years earlier—but now within a radically different and sovereign nation that he had helped to create. Of Wolcott’s character, which produced his own great contributions and those of his distinguished family, his biographer Sanderson wrote this glowing summation:

“As a patriot and statesman, a Christian and a man, Governor Wolcott presented a bright example; for inflexibility, virtue, piety and integrity, were his prominent characteristics. His integrity was inflexible, his morals were strictly pure, and his faith that of a humble Christian, untainted by bigotry or intolerance. Mr. Wolcott was personally acquainted with, and esteemed by, most of the great actors of the American Revolution, and his name is recorded in connexion with many of its most important events. It is the glory of our country, that the fabric of American greatness was reared by the united toils and exertions of patriots in every state, supported by a virtuous and intelligent people. It is peculiar to our revolution, and distinguishes it from every other, that it was recommended, commenced, conducted, and terminated under the auspices of men, who, with few exceptions, enjoyed the public confidence during every vicissitude of fortune. It is therefore sufficient for any individual to say of him, that he was distinguished for his virtues, his talents, and his services.”

Grave of Oliver Wolcott, Sr. and his wife, Laura

Image Credits: 1 Oliver Wolcott, Sr. (wikipedia.org) 2 Signature of Oliver Wolcott (wikipedia.org) 3 Toppling King George III (wikipedia.org) 4 Wolcott House, front (wikipedia.org) 5 Wolcott House, front/side (wikipedia.org) 6 Wolcott Coat of Arms (wikipedia.org) 7 Oliver & Laura Wolcott Grave (wikipedia.org)

John Dunlap | Profiles of 1776

he distribution of truth has been labeled a treasonous act many times throughout the ages. Publishers have often been persecuted—whether for printing Bibles, tracts, or treatises—and have been executed, exiled, or otherwise had their livelihoods destroyed, not for material they themselves crafted, but for daring to propagate another’s words in the common tongue.

In her colonial days, America had already faced the issue of certain banned works, with treatises like Thomas Morton’s New English Canaan (1637) being forcibly suppressed by the colony of Massachusetts. Likewise, one of our most prestigious Founding Fathers, Benjamin Franklin, was himself a newspaper printer, and his brother James, under whom he apprenticed, was arrested for seditious libel in the 1720s.

Arrest of Thomas Morton, author of the first banned book in our nation’s history, New English Canaan

Such measures against the free press were not particularly common, nor were their sentences as severe as in England, but the cost had been proven to the colonists long before the need arose for someone to print the most seditious article ever seen in North America—the Declaration of Independence.

The final unanimous vote for secession from England was held by Congress on July 2. On July 3, John Adams predicted in a letter home that this day would enjoy all the fanfare of future celebrations, which July 4 now holds. On July 4 itself, Congress made small alterations to the text of the document, and once approved later that day, representatives began to affix their names.

By the evening of the 4th, the handwritten final draft was taken four blocks down the road to the print shop to be set for dispersal.

Earlier in the year, Irish-born printer John Dunlap had secured a lucrative—if somewhat risky—contract with the outlawed Continental Congress.

Strabane Fair (center square), Strabane, County Tyrone, Ireland, hometown of John Dunlap

At age twenty-nine, Dunlap owned his own press and had made himself successful by printing sermons. Now he printed the Congress’ various entreaties and proclamations that preceded the drastic breaking with the mother country. And then, on the 4th, there came into his hands the most significant article of writing in our nation’s history—the publishing of which could bring down upon him an easy death sentence for crime of treason in the Americas.

Dunlap and his crew worked tirelessly throughout the night of the 4th. It is assumed that one or more members of the Committee of Five charged with drafting the document—these being Adams, Jefferson, Franklin, Sherman, and Livingston—superintended the work in some capacity.

The Committee of Five—Adams, Sherman, Livingston, Jefferson and Franklin

There is no official record of just how many broadsides Dunlap produced in this first prestigious effort, but the general consensus is around 150 to 200 copies. The ink smudges and off-kilter settings of some of them remain as indelible proof of the haste with which they were dried and then bundled for couriers to take to each corner of the thirteen newly free and independent states.

By the morning of July 5th, President Hancock was industriously sending out what became known as the Dunlap Broadsides with his own personal notes. To General Washington at New York he enclosed this note:

“The Congress, for some Time past, have had their Attention occupied by one of the most interesting and important Subjects, that could possibly come before them, or any other Assembly of Men. Altho it is not possible to foresee the Consequences of Human Actions, yet it is nevertheless a Duty we owe ourselves and Posterity, in all our public Counsels, to decide in the best Manner we are able, and to leave the Event to that Being who controuls both Causes and Events to bring about his own Determination. Impressed with this Sentiment, and at the same Time fully convinced, that our Affairs may take a more favourable Turn, the Congress have judged it necessary to dissolve the Connection between Great Britain and the American Colonies, and to declare them free & independent States; as you will perceive by the enclosed Declaration, which I am directed to transmit to you, and to request you will have it proclaimed at the Head of the Army in the Way you shall think most proper.”

When President Hancock ran out of broadsides, Dunlap eagerly complied with the printing of more. Soon every town in America had heard it read aloud.

A Dunlap Broadside, held by the Library of Congress

It is important to remember the timeline when considering the impact the dispersal of this momentous document had on the populace in general and Washington’s army in particular. Major land battles had been fought, martial law imposed, New York was on the brink of being leveled, and foreign mercenaries had been sent in to repress what was deemed a wholesale rebellion.

Up to that point, the men fighting these invaders and the populace enduring their rapacity felt a great sense of aimlessness. Were they fighting for redress of grievances? Were they fighting to keep their homes from being burned? Was all this expenditure of lives and fortunes only to result in submitting yet again to King George’s yoke? Reports from Congress up until now had hardly heartened them; all seemed bogged down in endless discussion and gridlock. One can only imagine the encouragement and resolve that receiving this firm “expression of the American mind,” as Thomas Jefferson called it, produced in patriot hearts.

But Dunlap’s story does not end with his momentous role in publishing our founding document. In the true Spirit of 1776, later that year the printer threw off his printing leathers and took up the uniform, serving in the cavalry at the rank of captain. In this capacity Dunlap led a troop at Trenton and later at Princeton, closing out the year with a miraculous victory and was observed to “boldly demand the surrender” of a group of Hessians.

When freedom had been won, John Dunlap fittingly resumed his work at the press and was aptly chosen to print the final ratified version of our glorious Constitution. Despite being responsible for proliferating the works of America’s greatest minds, Dunlap left behind no written letters or memoirs of his own, only business records.

Original broadside printing of the United States Constitution, printed by Dunlap & Claypoole, 1787

In eulogy of him, Founding Father and signer of the Declaration Benjamin Rush wrote:

“From small beginnings as a printer he acquired by his business, but chiefly by speculation, an estate of perhaps three or four thousand dollars. So humble was his beginning in life that he slept upon a blanket under his counter and ate pepper-pot only bought in the market from his inability to purchase a bed or any other food. He was a staunch Revolutionary Whig, and active as a dragoon in the most perilous stages of the war. In the parties which divided his country he was always moderate, candid and just to both sides. To public institutions he was liberal, to the poor charitable and to his friends kind and affectionate. In his family he was less amiable and respectable than in society. He was early and uniformly my friend.”

Image Credits: 1 Arrest of Thomas Morton (wikipedia.org) 2 Strabane, Ireland (wikipedia.org) 3 Committee of Five (wikipedia.org) 4 Dunlap Broadside—Declaration of Independence (wikipedia.org) 5 Dunlap Broadside—Constitution (wikipedia.org)

“It is God who arms me with strength and keeps my way secure.”—Psalm 18:32

Caesar Rodney | Profiles of 1776

erilous times produce heroes of all types, and it was God’s particular grace on America during her founding era to possess men whose courage matched their vast intellect. Each delegate who met at the Second Continental Congress in the spring of 1776 faced severe repercussions even for attending. By summer, each had been made aware by King George’s proclamation that the cost of their convening could be their lives.

King George’s ‘A Proclamation for Suppressing Rebellion and Sedition’ issued on August 23, 1775, declared elements of the American colonies in a state of “open and avowed rebellion” and ordered officials of the empire “to use their utmost endeavours to withstand and suppress such rebellion”, as well as encouraging loyal Royalists—both in America and Britain—to report anyone carrying on “traitorous correspondence” with the rebels so that they could be punished.

A brave contingent of the members refused to abandon what they considered their duty. They determined among themselves to resist the impending doom of their liberties—and the results of this stubbornness they surrendered to God. They continued their meetings and, most importantly, contended over the Lee Resolution: a motion proposing a vote for an immediate proclamation of independence from the mother country.

All was not harmonious in these discussions. The firebrands of Congress were greatly outnumbered by many who were violently opposed to such a motion on principle, while others thought it rash considering the full might of the British navy was even then sailing with full canvas to conquer New York. Yet it became increasingly clear that if such an irrevocable action were to be undertaken, it must be done with absolute unity or the entire endeavor would fall apart. Each colony must depend upon the other for support and cooperation in the upcoming struggle. In most cases, their respective legislatures back home had already voted on the matter throughout the spring and sent their delegates back to Congress with clear instructions.

When, on July 1, 1776, an unofficial vote was held on the Lee Resolution, it became apparent that Delaware would be one of the colonies presenting serious obstacles to unanimity. The colony had sent three delegates to Philadelphia that year, but Caesar Rodney—a soldier-statesman—had dashed home to deal with Loyalist uprisings. His two colleagues who remained, Thomas McKean and George Read, were of opposing convictions and became hopelessly deadlocked.

Thomas McKean (1734-1817)

George Read (1733-1798)

McKean, an outspoken rebel, wanted independence, while the cautious Read did not think the time was right to break with England. After the unofficial vote, John Adams was stunned to find that what had been a reliable colony could suddenly no longer be counted on. He urgently advised McKean to dispatch a message to Rodney, begging him to make all haste and appear for the official vote the very next day.

Up to that point in his life, Caesar Rodney had undertaken a veritable catalogue of roles in service to his colony: high sheriff of Kent County, member (and later Speaker) of the Delaware colonial legislature, delegate to the Stamp Act Congress, chairman of Delaware’s first patriotic convention, delegate to the Continental Congress, and—most recently, since the commencement of hostilities—a brigadier general in command of Delaware’s militia.

Caesar Rodney (1728-1784)

Such vigorous public service might suggest a man of means, but Caesar Rodney had faced a difficult path since his father’s death in childhood. He had been educated almost entirely by his mother, whom he supported throughout his life, and his pursuit of law and public office was regularly beleaguered by accumulating health issues. He was severely asthmatic throughout his youth, and the onset of gout soon compounded his mobility problems.

Just as relations between Britain and America began to heat up in the late 1760s—and Rodney’s role in them became more taxing—he was afflicted by a growing facial cancer. This malady would eventually spread across the entirety of one cheek. An operation to remove one of the tumors left him with a deep gash, which he hid in public by ingeniously wrapping a cloth across his face. Rodney’s surgeon had recommended that he go to London to seek a specialist’s help before the cancer claimed his life. Yet with the course the Continental Congress was taking, it seemed more likely Rodney would go to London in chains than for treatment.

Upon meeting this frail but deeply committed man, John Adams was so struck by him that he wrote in his diary with typical candor:

“Caesar Rodney is the oddest-looking man in the world; he is tall, thin, and slender as a reed, pale; his face is not bigger than a large apple, yet there is sense and fire, spirit, wit and humor in his countenance.”

His “fire and spirit” were proven beyond doubt when Rodney received the urgent appeal from McKean. Despite the night being far advanced and the weather teeming with storms, he had his horse saddled for the long dash back to Philadelphia—an eighty-mile journey.

Statue of Caesar Rodney in the US Capitol Building

In Philadelphia the next morning, the air was humid after the previous night’s tumultuous rains, and heavy clouds threatened another deluge. Delaware’s rebel delegate, Thomas McKean, paced the hall, peering anxiously out from the tall windows. To him, it seemed that the fate of the resolution rested on one sick man—his friend and colleague, Caesar Rodney.

John Hancock, as President of Congress, called the session to order. Proceedings on the vote were imminent. Then, suddenly, with all the drama of Paul Revere’s own midnight ride, the pounding of horse’s hooves sounded on the cobblestone streets. Along came Caesar Rodney in his three-cornered hat up Chestnut Street—mud-splattered and bedraggled, a veritable picture of fatigue and suffering.

A panel from the pedestal of the Caesar Rodney memorial in Rodney Square, Wilmington, Delaware depicting McKean greeting Rodney upon his arrival

McKean greeted him with grateful fervor and learned that Rodney had ridden for eighteen hours, not even stopping to change clothing, and had switched horses only twice. What the demurring Mr. Read felt upon seeing his vote thus overruled by Rodney’s sheer force of zeal is not recorded.

When President Hancock called for Delaware’s vote, Caesar Rodney pulled himself to his feet. He made bold to speak for his colony, saying:

“As I believe the voice of my constituents and of all sensible and honest men is in favor of Independence, and my own judgment concurs, I vote for Independence!”

A panel from the pedestal of the Caesar Rodney memorial in Rodney Square, Wilmington, Delaware depicting Rodney’s vote for Independence on behalf of his Delaware constituents, and according to his own conscience

Having done his duty, this great man then sank exhausted into his seat. All three Delaware delegates would eventually affix their names to the Declaration of Independence later that month. Rodney would lose his local position due to political opposition, yet despite increasingly poor health and crippling pain, he continued to serve as a general in the coming war. He was elected President of Delaware in 1778 for a three-year term, expended himself in that role, and was later re-elected to Congress and the Delaware Assembly, though he never served again. He had reached the end of his strength and had nearly bankrupted himself in service to his state.

Memorial to the 56 Signers of the Declaration of Independence in Constitution Gardens, National Mall, Washington, D.C.—These three blocks commemorate the Delaware delegates: Caesar Rodney (top), George Read (bottom left) and Thomas McKean (bottom right)

Caesar Rodney died at age fifty-six, childless but far from friendless, at his home near Dover on June 26, 1784. He left what remained of his estate to his nephew, Caesar Augustus Rodney, and in his will provided for the gradual emancipation of his slaves.

A modest man of great fortitude, Rodney did not expect adulation for his role in the vote for Independence, and during his lifetime it remained simply a matter of family pride. But today his home state rightfully honors him in many ways: a giant equestrian statue stands in Rodney Square in Wilmington, schools and dormitories bear his name, and a handsome statue represents Delaware in the Capitol’s Statuary Hall in Washington, D.C. The Delaware state quarter fittingly shows Rodney galloping on his quest to break the tie.

Delaware State Quarter commemorating Caesar Rodney’s magnificent ride for Independence

Next time you read our nation’s founding document and its famous opening boast—“the unanimous Declaration of the thirteen United States of America”—I hope you will remember what a wondrously formidable yet frail man our God used to bring about such a miracle.

Image Credits: 1 Proclamation of Rebellion (wikipedia.org) 2 Thomas McKean (wikipedia.org) 3 George Read (wikipedia.org) 4 Caesar Rodney (wikipedia.org) 5 Rodney in the Capitol (wikipedia.org) 6 Rodney’s arrival (wikipedia.org) 7 Rodney’s vote (wikipedia.org) 8 Delaware delegates (wikipedia.org) 9 Delaware quarter (wikipedia.org)

“…I have filled him with the Spirit of God, with wisdom, with understanding, with knowledge and with all kinds of skills.”—Exodus 31:3

John Glover & His Marblehead Sailors | Profiles of 1776

n the good old colony days, all along New England’s great north shore, a certain breed of American had sprung up. They were rugged maritime pioneers—Indian converts, religious fugitives, and intrepid sailors. All toiled along its rocky coast in an odd yet industrious fusion that created a culture which prized its whale oil almost as much as its non-conformist preaching.

Resourceful and independent, there was nothing more quintessential of the type than those who belonged to the “codfish aristocracy”: personages recognized as the arbiters of coastal trade. One, Mr. John Glover was a staple of that tight-knit community.

John Glover (1732-1797)

John Glover had embraced responsibility early in his life. He had become his widowed mother’s sole provider before his teenage years. To supply this provision, the Glovers had established themselves in the bustling town of Marblehead, Massachusetts, and there young John embraced the rigorous life of a sailor. Through hard work and honesty he rose to prominence, became the proud owner of his own fishing schooner while still a young man, then owned a whole fleet of schooners, and soon was considered among the most influential men in Marblehead.

Bay of Marblehead, Massachussetts

Glover was not a radical by nature, but as a merchant sailor he suffered repeated insults and meddling from a thieving mercantile system. Merchants like Glover—and his more famous counterpart, the inimitable John Hancock—were among the first to feel the sting of British tyranny in writs of assistance, corrupt customs officers, and illegal impressments of their crews into His Majesty’s Navy. As early as 1760 he was making his grievances known, and later joined Sam Adams’ illicit Committee of Correspondence to participate in their potential solution.

By the time shots were fired at Lexington, Glover was a colonel in command of the Marblehead Militia that he had helped to raise, comprising about 500 men in total. They marched to the relief of Boston in 1775, and in the general pandemonium of the early Continental Army—with its almost continuous comings and goings of armed men without distinctive uniforms or flags—the arrival of the Marblehead men caused a stir. In fact, Glover’s unit was one of the few to earn the privately expressed approbation of the newly appointed Commander in Chief, George Washington.

It is recorded that his tough Massachusetts fishermen wore the blue jackets of sailors, with white shirts, white breeches, and caps, while their short, stocky, red-haired commander distinguished himself with silver lace trim on his blue broadcloth coat and by carrying an enviable brace of silver pistols.

The schooner Hannah—one of John Glover’s ships and named for his wife

Their arrival brought a degree of hope and discipline that was greatly needed among the general ranks. They also brought with them their unique coastal culture. Glover’s militia unit was integrated to an almost unprecedented degree. As was the case with the average American merchant crew, his militia reflected the ethnic composition of New England maritime towns. It was noted in the muster rolls of the time that roughly one-third of his men were “dark complexioned”: these included men from the melting pot of the West Indies, Hispanics from the Caribbean, Native Americans, and upwards of fifty free Blacks.

Despite being sailors, Glover and his men turned themselves to engineering and built fortifications better than most of their compatriots, the farmers, and in doing so proved themselves in possession of the marked virtue that would come to define the success of the American War for Independence—adaptability.

When Washington decided to create a navy, he charged Glover with acquiring ships and converting them for war. The decision soon produced its first results. Glover’s men captured the British HMS Nancy with its desperately needed cargo of guns, flints, and ammunition. In doing so, Glover gave Washington almost as many supplies in one single stroke as Congress had provided all year. The mutual endearment that sprang up between the two men in their shared cause was lasting, and Colonel Glover would enjoy General Washington’s trust and friendship ever after.

A model of the HMS Nancy

With these successes also came reprisals. Around this time, Admiral Samuel Graves, commander in chief of the Royal Navy in America, adopted a policy of total attrition against coastal towns. This campaign of terror was begun under Captain Henry Mowat, who received orders to “lay waste, burn and destroy.” These orders he obeyed to the letter by bombarding the town of Falmouth, Maine, for nine hours, with marines setting fire to any remaining structures and driving the defenseless populace of about one thousand women, children, and the elderly into the winter wilderness.

It was made clear that all of New England could expect the same treatment. If any stiffening of spine had been needed in Glover’s already ferocious men, such barbaric tactics employed against their wives and children certainly had a galvanizing effect.

After their victory at Boston, Washington moved his army to New York City in expectation that the British would strike there next. His prediction proved right. In June of 1776 a total of 130 British ships anchored in New York Harbor. By July 12 an additional 150 joined them, and British forces numbered over 30,000 men. One American militiaman, hailing from the inland farms of Pennsylvania, recorded feeling as if the entirety of Britain were afloat to attack them. Washington faced this gigantic force with a poorly trained, poorly fed, and almost encircled army. To make matters worse, in a scenario that appeared to be forming all the key characteristics of a naval battle, the much-needed American navy was still practically nonexistent.

Battle of Long Island

By August of 1776, the situation faced by Washington and the army was critical. Having been outsmarted and outfought on Long Island, they were now hemmed in at Brooklyn in an area about three miles around, their backs to the East River, which could serve as an escape route only as long as the wind cooperated. With a change in the wind, it would take only a few British warships to make escape impossible. Poor strategy and limited ammunition made it a certainty that the men would be overrun and the entire American army destroyed.

It was then that General Mifflin, one of Washington’s young commanders and an erstwhile delegate to the Continental Congress, suggested a preemptive retreat. Lest anyone call him a coward, Mifflin insisted he would provide the rear guard himself. This motion was accepted by the council of war, and the tremendous task of secretly evacuating 9,000 men, their supplies and ammunition, horses, and artillery was undertaken.

And who other than Colonel John Glover could be entrusted to organize this great feat? By sheer ingenuity and resilience, his sailors purloined any vessel that could float and, in an orderly but urgent manner, conducted a significant portion of the evacuation in a single night. According to historian David McCullough:

“In a feat of extraordinary seamanship, at the helm and manning oars hour after hour, Glover’s men negotiated the river’s swift, contrary currents in boats so loaded with troops and supplies, horses and cannon, that the water was often but inches below the gunnels—and all in pitch dark, with no running lights. Few men ever had so much riding on their skill, or were under such pressure, or performed so superbly.”

Retreat from Long Island

So it was that when morning broke and the providential fog of the night before lifted, the British Army realized they had been duped. Of course, they moved quickly to cut off any further escape, but yet again Glover’s men saved the day. Having gotten their precious cargo to the mainland, they took it upon themselves to act as both sailors and marksmen, placing themselves between the opposing armies and slowing the British advance by their harassment. The British losses inflicted by the Marblehead men that day proved greater than those at the Battle of Long Island itself, and the delay allowed Washington to move his army intact from Manhattan to White Plains.

Wars are not won by retreats, however glorious their execution; further defeats, desertion, smallpox, and a host of woes continued to afflict the army’s morale, supplies were exhausted, and volunteers were nearing the end of their enlistment, and soon the American Army was in absolute crisis. It was at this point that General Washington made his bold move to attack the British encampment at Trenton, requiring a crossing of the mighty Delaware—a frozen river, in the pitch dark of a stormy night, on Christmas Day.

An icy Delaware River at the crossing point in January 2025, showing conditions likely similar to the ones Washington faced on the night of the crossing

It was the evacuation of New York all over again but even more perilous. And again, Washington called on Glover, and again Glover and his Marblehead sailors responded with tenacious fortitude. The crossing of Washington’s force was largely made in big flat-bottomed, high-sided Durham boats, as they were known—normally used to transport iron on the Delaware from the Durham Iron Works to Philadelphia. Painted black and pointed at both ends, they were an unwieldy forty to sixty feet long. The biggest of them could carry as many as forty men standing up, and fully loaded they drew only about two feet and so could be brought close to shore. The oars—or sweeps, as they were called—used to propel the boats were a hefty eighteen feet long.

One of the militiamen they carried was hardly a man by today’s standards. John Greenwood, a sixteen-year-old fifer under strict orders to make not a single noise, had picked up a musket instead. He later recalled that brutal night:

“Over the river we then went in a flat-bottomed scow. After a while it rained, then hailed, snowed, and froze, and at the same time blew a perfect hurricane.”

The now iconic painting ‘Washington Crossing the Delaware’, by artist Emanuel Leutze—Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City

The conditions couldn’t have been more miserable, but the sailors, accustomed as they were by their trade to brave such brutal weather, were by all accounts indomitable in the face of it. As for those art critics who have enjoyed picking apart the now-famous renditions of this iconic moment, one such being ‘Washington Crossing the Delaware’, a common complaint has been the portrayal of men precariously standing up in small boats. But while those boats are indeed rarely portrayed as the flat-bottomed barges they were, historian David Hackett Fisher points out that sitting in the bottom of the real scows would have been a death sentence with the amount of ice water the men recorded sloshing around on the journey over. At the end of the day, critics might not be satisfied with composition and lighting, but their greater ambition—particularly in academia—has been to cast doubt on whether such a moment actually occurred, and in turn whether such valor ever existed, and thus whether it should be honored by us, the recipients of their fortitude.

Glover’s indomitable sailors, with their uniquely American blend of origins brought under the banner of justice into a cohesive unity of purpose, were beautifully portrayed in Emanuel Leutze’s famous painting, which depicts Glover’s sailors as the motley band of heroes that they were. They were the stuff of American legend, the soul and sacrifice of which must never be forgotten! In this brief retelling of one man’s role with his militiamen in preserving the American cause through her first year, I hope you have had your admiration confirmed anew and your gratitude rekindled as a result.

The scale of the now-famous crossing and the resultant battle are small in comparison to many amphibious operations now taught in history. But it was the sheer daring, the utter ingenuity required to use the poor equipment on hand, and the almost jubilant spirit of determination animating the men that desperate night which has placed it as a magnificent proof of American heroism and Divine sanction in our nation’s preservation.

An annual memorial service held at General Glover’s grave, commemorating his many and significant contributions to the cause of freedom for our nation

Image Credits: 1 John Glover (wikipedia.org) 2 Marblehead, MA (wikipedia.org) 3 Hannah (wikipedia.org) 4 HMS Nancy (wikipedia.org) 5 Battle of Long Island (wikipedia.org) 6 Retreat from Long Island (wikipedia.org) 7 The Delaware River, frozen (wikipedia.org) 8 ‘Washington Crossing the Delaware’ (wikipedia.org) 9 General Glover’s grave (wikipedia.org)

“Whatever you do, do your work heartily, as for the Lord rather than for men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the reward of the inheritance. It is the Lord Christ whom you serve.”—Colossians 3:23

Joseph Reed | Profiles of 1776

oseph Reed was a charming and proficient London-trained attorney residing in Philadelphia when George Washington accepted command of the American Army in 1775. With the Continental Congress deliberating in his city of residence, and Reed serving as the president of Pennsylvania’s second Provincial Congress, he followed the progress of the various committees with great interest.

Joseph Reed (1741-1785)

When an honorary escort was organized to accompany General Washington to his new command at Boston, Joseph Reed was one of those chosen to ride with him. Reed intended to go only as far as New York, but a deep attachment sprung up between commander and lawyer, and soon Reed found himself writing a letter to his wife explaining that he had indeed gone on to Boston, had joined the militia, was serving as Washington’s main secretary, and had no imminent plans to return home! As Reed explained it, Washington had “expressed himself to me in such terms that I thought myself bound by every tie of duty and honor to comply with his request to help him through this sea of difficulties.”

To her everlasting credit, Mrs. Esther Reed then managed the welfare of her three young children and her husband’s law practice without him or any provision being made by him. And while doing so, she remained stalwartly supportive of her husband’s spontaneous dedication to the call of duty, evidenced by her answering correspondence.

Esther Reed, née de Berdt (1746-1780)

In this particular chain of events, the Reeds were particularly representative of the hundreds—if not thousands—of Americans whose hearts and vision were slow to awaken to the weight of this struggle and their responsibility in it, but once aware they answered it with appropriate ferocity and devout courage to the great expense of their comfort and security. It also exemplified the unparalleled draw that George Washington’s bearing and character had on those men he encountered and thus recruited.

In the scales of history, Joseph Reed’s place among the first of Washington’s Indispensable Men proved incalculable. Beyond becoming a trusted advisor on deeply confidential matters and proving himself an abiding source of encouragement during bleak circumstances—of which the year 1776 was never lacking—, Washington came to rely upon Reed to “think for me, as well as execute orders.”

Much of the ingenuity on display during the siege of Boston, the occupation of Dorchester Heights, and the fortification of New York, can be traced in part to the advice of Joseph Reed who rode everywhere with Washington, jotting down observations and orders from the saddle. But it was in New York, with the full might of the British fleet, the British army and their Hessian mercenaries choking Washington’s entrenchments on Long Island, that Reed’s ebullient spirit at last faced demoralization.

Boston, viewed from Dorchester Heights

To his wife he raged about the Tory population, the feckless militiamen, and the rampant rate of desertion. He wrote:

“When I look round, and see how few of the numbers who talked so largely of death and honor are around me, and that those who are here are those from whom it was least expected… I am lost in wonder and surprise… Your noisy sons of liberty are, I find, the quietest in the field… An engagement, or even the expectation of one, gives a wonderful insight into character.”

For her part, Esther Reed dared only to hope her husband might return home in time for the birth of their fourth child. Instead, throughout the Battle of Brooklyn, Joseph Reed was with Washington and for six days there was no time even for a change of clothes, much less any sleep to be had for several nights.

During this summer of despair, Washington not only talked Reed out of quitting the army multiple times but in turn promoted him to the rank of colonel, while making him adjutant general—administrative head—of the rapidly disintegrating Continental Army. Within days Reed wanted to quit again, but Washington needed him and reports from the countryside of the rapacious attitude of the British toward civilians cemented the terms of the war—there was no going back for anyone, it was do or die.

Then there came a day in mid-September 1776 that required from Reed a display of martial courage and steely nerve hitherto untried in his secretarial role. With reliable officers in shorter supply than healthy soldiers, Washington sent Reed into the heat of battle to lead the men forward personally. In the midst of this mêlée, Reed saw the first of his soldiers to turn and run from the enemy. Ordered to stop and return to the front, the deserter, a Connecticut private named Ebenezer Leffingwell, raised his musket, took aim at Reed from a distance of only a few yards, and pulled the trigger on his own colonel.

By God’s will, the deserter’s gun lock merely snapped, and no bullet was fired. Reed’s own pistol jammed when he drew it to return fire. Then Joseph Reed, this mild mannered Philadelphia lawyer, drew his unblemished sword and, striking twice, wounded Leffingwell on the head, severed a thumb, and forced him to at last surrender.

“I should have shot him, could I have got my gun off,” Reed admitted at Leffingwell’s court-martial held two days later. He would have been perfectly justified in doing so, and the court martial found Leffingwell guilty not only of desertion but of “presenting his firelock at his superior officer.” He was sentenced to be executed before the assembled troops the following day.

“To attempt to introduce discipline and subordination into a new army must always be a work of much difficulty,” Reed mused quite generously to his wife about the incident. This constant balancing act between personal independence and lawful subordination to those in authority was an inner struggle that marked the American experiment from its outset.

Perhaps influenced by such philosophizing, at the very last moment of the execution, indeed at the very moment Private Leffingwell knelt to be shot, Joseph Reed begged General Washington to pardon the man. Washington granted Reed’s request, although he remained doubtful of the merit of this mercy, and hard-line disciplinarians like General Nathanael Greene noted such benevolence was not for one man alone to withhold or dispense.

But as Providence would ordain it, by late fall Joseph Reed himself became the needful recipient of such mercy. After the disastrous fall of New York to the British, yet more calamities befell the Continental Army in devastating succession, many of them brought upon themselves by poor planning and indecision.

Reed was in a most intimate position to observe all deficiencies and blundering in his commander up close, and being terrified of the outcome of this collapsing cause, Reed took it upon himself to write to Washington’s second-in-command, General Charles Lee, and divulge to him how spent his erstwhile faith was in Washington’s abilities. He even hinted in plaintive language that Lee should perhaps take charge of the army instead. “As soon as the season will permit, I think yourself and some others should go to Congress and form the plan of a new army” he wrote.

Charles Lee (1732-1782)

Charles Lee, an easily flattered man who proved traitor and informant for the British later in the war, wrote Reed a lengthy letter in response. This letter arrived at Washington’s headquarters while Reed was absent. With all communications being shared between the men, and indeed many missives being addressed to both, Washington thought nothing of tearing open a letter from one of his trusted generals addressed to his secretary. It surely held news of a relief party or else scouting reports.

Instead, it revealed a most crushing betrayal of trust, compounded by an indictment of his capabilities by his closest advisor and friend. What Washington thought upon discovering this letter is unknown; in the typical fashion of his ever restrained and composed character, we only know that he forwarded the letter to Reed with a scribbled note: “The enclosed was put into my hands by an express [rider]… Having no idea of its being a private letter.. I opened it…. This, as it is the truth, must be my excuse for seeing the contents of a letter which neither inclination or intention would have prompted me to.”

Strikingly we also have little record of a resolution between the two men, although one was seemingly achieved. We do have an account from Reed relaying how Washington took almost uncharacteristic pains to divulge his feelings on the subject once reunited: “I was hurt not because I thought my judgment wronged by the expressions contained in it [the letter], but because the same sentiments were not communicated immediately to myself.”

In short order, we see a resumption of the old trust and reliance that Washington placed in Reed. By the close of 1776 the Commander in Chief once again depended upon his secretary to arrange what became the famous Crossing of the Delaware on Christmas night. Those who are merciful will be shown mercy, perhaps, but it didn’t spare Reed from one last amusing hint at his old indelicacy when Washington wrote him the night of December 25, “For Heaven’s sake keep this to yourself, as discovery of it may prove fatal to us… but necessity, dire necessity, will, nay must, justify this attempt.“

Pine Tree Flag

Joseph Reed served loyally in a variety of roles both in the army and congress for the remainder of the war. He is credited with designing the Pine Tree flag which bears the motto “An Appeal to Heaven”, and touchingly named his third son George Washington Reed in 1780. In the same year his wife Esther Reed co-founded the Ladies Association of Philadelphia with Sarah Franklin Bache, Benjamin Franklin’s daughter, to provide monetary support for Washington’s troops; Esther died later that year. Joseph followed her in 1786 at age forty-three, having enjoyed only two years of the Independent country he had given so much to see preserved.

Sarah Bache, née Franklin (1743-1808)

Image Credits: 1 Joseph Reed (wikipedia.org) 2 Esther Reed (wikipedia.org) 3 Dorchester Heights (wikipedia.org) 4 Charles Lee (wikipedia.org) 5 Deleware River Crossing (wikipedia.org) 6 Pine Tree Flag (wikipedia.org) 7 Sarah Franklin Bache (wikipedia.org)