250 Days Countdown March
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March 1, 1776
The Memo That Began a Secret Alliance
March 1, 1776 – The Memo That Led to a Secret Alliance
A playwright’s pen began the diplomatic dance that would one day save a revolution.
Paris hummed with rumor as a sealed memo from Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais was laid before the royal government on this first day of March. Ministers had tiptoed for months around the American rebellion, fearful of provoking Britain or appearing too eager for conflict. But Beaumarchais—playwright, court insider, and unofficial intelligence gatherer—had grown impatient. The moment for France to act, he warned, was slipping away.
For weeks he had sifted letters from London merchants, reports from European ports, and fragments of news from across the Atlantic. Where others saw colonial disorder, he saw an opportunity. Supporting the Americans could weaken Britain, restore France’s standing, and shape the future balance of power. His memo stated so plainly, in terms few officials dared to speak aloud.
France need not declare war, he argued. Instead, it could move in the shadows: funnel powder, muskets, and money through a front company, disguise shipments as trade, and deny everything publicly. Above all, he urged France to arouse no suspicion while quietly enabling what the Americans requested. If the king hesitated, he warned, Britain would regain the initiative, and the chance would be lost.
The memorandum reached Louis XVI through proper channels, carrying all the weight of Beaumarchais’s intelligence work and political daring. The king did not commit immediately, but the audacity of the proposal began reshaping conversations within the Foreign Ministry. Over the next months, the foreign minister refined Beaumarchais’s plan and pressed the case that covert aid—not open alliance—offered France the safest path.
With a brief royal approval, the machinery of secret aid soon began turning. By early summer, powder, muskets, and money were traveling quietly across the Atlantic through Beaumarchais’s channel—supplies the king himself later admitted had reached an American army “destitute” of arms and ammunition.
Years later, the world would remember France’s later, open alliance with the United States. But that alliance had a quieter beginning: a playwright’s memo placed before a cautious king, written with enough boldness to tilt French policy toward a rebellion an ocean away. On March 1, 1776, the secret lifeline that would help sustain the American Revolution began with ink, conviction, and a calculated act of political courage.
Sources: Beaumarchais, Paix ou Guerre (1776); Lossing, Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1.
Additional Background: Beaumarchais and the War of American Independence, Vol. 1.
Themes: Diplomacy
Tags: France, Beaumarchais, Louis XVI, Secret Aid, French Alliance, 1776.
March 1, 1776 – The Memo That Led to a Secret Alliance
A playwright’s pen began the diplomatic dance that would one day save a revolution.
Paris hummed with rumor as a sealed memo from Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais was laid before the royal government on this first day of March. Ministers had tiptoed for months around the American rebellion, fearful of provoking Britain or appearing too eager for conflict. But Beaumarchais—playwright, court insider, and unofficial intelligence gatherer—had grown impatient. The moment for France to act, he warned, was slipping away.
For weeks he had sifted letters from London merchants, reports from European ports, and fragments of news from across the Atlantic. Where others saw colonial disorder, he saw an opportunity. Supporting the Americans could weaken Britain, restore France’s standing, and shape the future balance of power. His memo stated so plainly, in terms few officials dared to speak aloud.
France need not declare war, he argued. Instead, it could move in the shadows: funnel powder, muskets, and money through a front company, disguise shipments as trade, and deny everything publicly. Above all, he urged France to arouse no suspicion while quietly enabling what the Americans requested. If the king hesitated, he warned, Britain would regain the initiative, and the chance would be lost.
The memorandum reached Louis XVI through proper channels, carrying all the weight of Beaumarchais’s intelligence work and political daring. The king did not commit immediately, but the audacity of the proposal began reshaping conversations within the Foreign Ministry. Over the next months, the foreign minister refined Beaumarchais’s plan and pressed the case that covert aid—not open alliance—offered France the safest path.
With a brief royal approval, the machinery of secret aid soon began turning. By early summer, powder, muskets, and money were traveling quietly across the Atlantic through Beaumarchais’s channel—supplies the king himself later admitted had reached an American army “destitute” of arms and ammunition.
Years later, the world would remember France’s later, open alliance with the United States. But that alliance had a quieter beginning: a playwright’s memo placed before a cautious king, written with enough boldness to tilt French policy toward a rebellion an ocean away. On March 1, 1776, the secret lifeline that would help sustain the American Revolution began with ink, conviction, and a calculated act of political courage.
Sources: Beaumarchais, Paix ou Guerre (1776); Lossing, Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1.
Additional Background: Beaumarchais and the War of American Independence, Vol. 1.
Themes: Diplomacy
Tags: France, Beaumarchais, Louis XVI, Secret Aid, French Alliance, 1776.
March 2, 1776
The Battle of the Rice Boats
March 2, 1776 – The Battle of the Rice Boats
A river became a battlefield—and Georgia stepped into the Revolution.
The tide was running out on a gray March evening when the people of Savannah saw British transports slipping quietly up the river. Lanterns bobbed on their decks as sailors worked the rigging, steering the vessels behind Hutchinson’s Island—close enough for every watcher on the bluff to know trouble was coming. Just weeks earlier, Royal Governor James Wright had broken his parole and vanished from the town he was sworn to govern.
Wright had been under house arrest since January, forbidden to contact the British warships near Tybee Island. In February, after the town settled into darkness and the watchfires along the bluff burned low, Wright slipped out a side door with his family. Fog clung to the riverbank, muffling every sound as a small boat ferried them to HMS Scarborough. With their governor no longer a hostage, British commanders were free to act. They quickly prepared a bold upriver raid to seize shipments of rice the Navy badly needed.
Colonel Lachlan McIntosh had little to oppose them: a few hundred Georgia militia, a hundred South Carolina volunteers, and a handful of small cannon. But they knew the river, the tides, and the marsh shadows better than any British sailor. Local seamen worked through the night on March 2, cutting rigging and hauling down canvas to disable the merchant vessels, then guiding Patriots to likely landing places.
The British came at dawn. Two armed vessels rounded Hutchinson’s Island, firing to cover their landing parties. Boats crowded with sailors and marines rowed hard toward the rice fleet. Patriots on both banks answered, their musket volleys echoing off the warehouses. Smoke drifted low across the water as firing intensified.
Patriots set a large rice ship ablaze and cut her cables. Drifting, she grounded mid-river and burned to her waterline. A sloop caught fire next, flames leaping from deck to deck as other vessels collided or ran aground. McIntosh’s men kept up steady fire at the crowded British boats.
By late afternoon, the British pulled back toward Tybee with what rice they had seized. It was a small victory by the war’s standards, but for Georgia it was the first. In the smoke and tide of that March morning, the colony’s revolution had truly begun.
Source: Force, American Archives, 4th Series, Vol. 5.
Additional background: Jackson, “The Battle of the Riceboats.”
Themes: Campaigns of the War, Courage and Ingenuity
Tags: Georgia, Savannah, Rice Boats, Lachlan McIntosh, James Wright, Hutchinson’s Island, 1776
March 2, 1776 – The Battle of the Rice Boats
A river became a battlefield—and Georgia stepped into the Revolution.
The tide was running out on a gray March evening when the people of Savannah saw British transports slipping quietly up the river. Lanterns bobbed on their decks as sailors worked the rigging, steering the vessels behind Hutchinson’s Island—close enough for every watcher on the bluff to know trouble was coming. Just weeks earlier, Royal Governor James Wright had broken his parole and vanished from the town he was sworn to govern.
Wright had been under house arrest since January, forbidden to contact the British warships near Tybee Island. In February, after the town settled into darkness and the watchfires along the bluff burned low, Wright slipped out a side door with his family. Fog clung to the riverbank, muffling every sound as a small boat ferried them to HMS Scarborough. With their governor no longer a hostage, British commanders were free to act. They quickly prepared a bold upriver raid to seize shipments of rice the Navy badly needed.
Colonel Lachlan McIntosh had little to oppose them: a few hundred Georgia militia, a hundred South Carolina volunteers, and a handful of small cannon. But they knew the river, the tides, and the marsh shadows better than any British sailor. Local seamen worked through the night on March 2, cutting rigging and hauling down canvas to disable the merchant vessels, then guiding Patriots to likely landing places.
The British came at dawn. Two armed vessels rounded Hutchinson’s Island, firing to cover their landing parties. Boats crowded with sailors and marines rowed hard toward the rice fleet. Patriots on both banks answered, their musket volleys echoing off the warehouses. Smoke drifted low across the water as firing intensified.
Patriots set a large rice ship ablaze and cut her cables. Drifting, she grounded mid-river and burned to her waterline. A sloop caught fire next, flames leaping from deck to deck as other vessels collided or ran aground. McIntosh’s men kept up steady fire at the crowded British boats.
By late afternoon, the British pulled back toward Tybee with what rice they had seized. It was a small victory by the war’s standards, but for Georgia it was the first. In the smoke and tide of that March morning, the colony’s revolution had truly begun.
Source: Force, American Archives, 4th Series, Vol. 5.
Additional background: Jackson, “The Battle of the Riceboats.”
Themes: Campaigns of the War, Courage and Ingenuity
Tags: Georgia, Savannah, Rice Boats, Lachlan McIntosh, James Wright, Hutchinson’s Island, 1776
March 3, 1776
A Sunday of Quiet Resolve
March 3, 1776 – A Sunday of Quiet Resolve
An outwardly quiet day masked a storm of preparation.
The Sabbath dawned cold over the towns east of Boston, where the fields and marshes were stiff with frost. From Cambridge to Roxbury, church bells called families to worship, but the quiet that settled over the countryside was uneasy. Rumors had drifted through the villages all week of some major action in the works, so even in the stillness of Sunday, people kept watch.
General George Washington felt the strain as well. He had written to the Massachusetts Council about a movement he expected would “bring the Enemy out of Boston,” urging that nearby towns keep their militia ready. “Victory, under Providence,” he wrote, depended not only on strength but on readiness and discipline.
Two days earlier, a false alarm had swept the camp when a sentry thought he saw British troops landing at Dorchester Point. The report raced through the ranks; Washington sent Captain Baylor galloping off to investigate. It proved unfounded—just figures moving along the shoreline—but it was enough to show how quickly fear might crack the fragile calm.
Now, on this quiet Sunday, Washington labored with heavier thoughts. He knew the British were “almost certainly apprised” of American intentions and how little time remained. Along the frozen causeways, groups of soldiers had been felling trees for barriers, cutting turf from the marshes, and preparing fascines for a swift night’s work. In one of his most unusual defensive measures, Washington approved rolling barrels filled with earth—single casks, he advised, with the hoops nailed tight—that could be hurled downhill to scatter an advancing force. It was the kind of simple ingenuity that New Englanders understood well.
Yet outwardly, all was still. Soldiers attended abbreviated Sabbath services; townspeople walked to meetinghouses with their cloaks drawn close; lookouts scanned the bay while lanterns flickered in farmhouses along the roads. The day passed with no musket fired, no alarm sounded, and only the quiet hum of a camp waiting for something it could not yet name.
As evening fell, Washington sent new instructions to Major General Ward. The time was nearly upon them. But for this one Sabbath, the army held its breath—working, praying, watching—and trusting that Providence, which had carried them through the winter, would not leave them now.
Source: The Writings of George Washington, Vol. 4.
Additional background: Lossing, Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1; Frothingham, History of the Siege of Boston.
Themes: Faith and Providence; Siege of Boston
Tags: Washington, Cambridge, Roxbury, Dorchester Point, militia, Sabbath, Providence, 1776
March 3, 1776 – A Sunday of Quiet Resolve
An outwardly quiet day masked a storm of preparation.
The Sabbath dawned cold over the towns east of Boston, where the fields and marshes were stiff with frost. From Cambridge to Roxbury, church bells called families to worship, but the quiet that settled over the countryside was uneasy. Rumors had drifted through the villages all week of some major action in the works, so even in the stillness of Sunday, people kept watch.
General George Washington felt the strain as well. He had written to the Massachusetts Council about a movement he expected would “bring the Enemy out of Boston,” urging that nearby towns keep their militia ready. “Victory, under Providence,” he wrote, depended not only on strength but on readiness and discipline.
Two days earlier, a false alarm had swept the camp when a sentry thought he saw British troops landing at Dorchester Point. The report raced through the ranks; Washington sent Captain Baylor galloping off to investigate. It proved unfounded—just figures moving along the shoreline—but it was enough to show how quickly fear might crack the fragile calm.
Now, on this quiet Sunday, Washington labored with heavier thoughts. He knew the British were “almost certainly apprised” of American intentions and how little time remained. Along the frozen causeways, groups of soldiers had been felling trees for barriers, cutting turf from the marshes, and preparing fascines for a swift night’s work. In one of his most unusual defensive measures, Washington approved rolling barrels filled with earth—single casks, he advised, with the hoops nailed tight—that could be hurled downhill to scatter an advancing force. It was the kind of simple ingenuity that New Englanders understood well.
Yet outwardly, all was still. Soldiers attended abbreviated Sabbath services; townspeople walked to meetinghouses with their cloaks drawn close; lookouts scanned the bay while lanterns flickered in farmhouses along the roads. The day passed with no musket fired, no alarm sounded, and only the quiet hum of a camp waiting for something it could not yet name.
As evening fell, Washington sent new instructions to Major General Ward. The time was nearly upon them. But for this one Sabbath, the army held its breath—working, praying, watching—and trusting that Providence, which had carried them through the winter, would not leave them now.
Source: The Writings of George Washington, Vol. 4.
Additional background: Lossing, Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1; Frothingham, History of the Siege of Boston.
Themes: Faith and Providence; Siege of Boston
Tags: Washington, Cambridge, Roxbury, Dorchester Point, militia, Sabbath, Providence, 1776
March 4, 1776
The Miracle on Dorchester Heights
March 4, 1776 – The Miracle on Dorchester Heights
In a single night, the Continental Army built what should have taken a month.
Frost clung to the ground as the moon rose over the quiet fields south of Boston. Near the Roxbury lines, men gathered in silence, their breath rising in the cold air. One by one, companies formed up under General John Thomas. Behind them waited three hundred carts piled high with shovels, timber frames, and bundles of sticks called fascines. Every wheel and bit of metal was wrapped in straw or cloth to muffle the sound. Tonight, everything depended on silence.
Since the council in February, Washington’s plan had taken shape. Two nights of cannon fire had distracted British General William Howe. Boston’s garrison had spent hours answering the bombardment from Cobble Hill, Lechmere’s Point, and the Roxbury lines. If all went well, they would be watching the northern hills tonight too—while the army slipped south for a sudden strike across Dorchester Neck.
Just after seven o’clock, Thomas gave the signal. The covering party moved first, eight hundred men fanning out across the Neck to guard the approach. Then the first carts creaked forward, their wheels whispering over the straw. The main force followed: twelve hundred men moving in darkness, each step chosen with care. Not a lantern gleamed. Not a musket clanged. From Boston, only the distant boom of British guns broke the stillness.
Reaching the base of the Heights, the men set to work. The frozen ground made digging nearly impossible, but Washington had prepared for that. Prefabricated timber frames—“chandeliers”—were lifted into place. Fascines were stacked and packed into walls. Piles of hay were dragged to shield the men from any sudden British fire. Under the watchful eye of the veteran engineer Richard Gridley, the raw shapes of two forts began to rise.
Above them arched a brilliant moon, lighting every movement. Yet still the British did not see.
By four in the morning, the relief party arrived to continue the labor. The last loads of timber went up, and as light crept across the harbor, Knox’s cannon followed, dragged into position before dawn.
When Boston woke on March 5, the Heights were transformed. “The rebels have done more in one night,” Howe said, “than my whole army would have done in a month.”
Sources: Frothingham, History of the Siege of Boston; Writings of George Washington; Force, American Archives, Fourth Series.
Additional background: Lossing, Field Book of the Revolution.
Themes: Siege of Boston; Courage and Ingenuity.
Tags: Washington, John Thomas, Dorchester Heights, Fascines, Night March, Boston Siege, 1776.
March 4, 1776 – The Miracle on Dorchester Heights
In a single night, the Continental Army built what should have taken a month.
Frost clung to the ground as the moon rose over the quiet fields south of Boston. Near the Roxbury lines, men gathered in silence, their breath rising in the cold air. One by one, companies formed up under General John Thomas. Behind them waited three hundred carts piled high with shovels, timber frames, and bundles of sticks called fascines. Every wheel and bit of metal was wrapped in straw or cloth to muffle the sound. Tonight, everything depended on silence.
Since the council in February, Washington’s plan had taken shape. Two nights of cannon fire had distracted British General William Howe. Boston’s garrison had spent hours answering the bombardment from Cobble Hill, Lechmere’s Point, and the Roxbury lines. If all went well, they would be watching the northern hills tonight too—while the army slipped south for a sudden strike across Dorchester Neck.
Just after seven o’clock, Thomas gave the signal. The covering party moved first, eight hundred men fanning out across the Neck to guard the approach. Then the first carts creaked forward, their wheels whispering over the straw. The main force followed: twelve hundred men moving in darkness, each step chosen with care. Not a lantern gleamed. Not a musket clanged. From Boston, only the distant boom of British guns broke the stillness.
Reaching the base of the Heights, the men set to work. The frozen ground made digging nearly impossible, but Washington had prepared for that. Prefabricated timber frames—“chandeliers”—were lifted into place. Fascines were stacked and packed into walls. Piles of hay were dragged to shield the men from any sudden British fire. Under the watchful eye of the veteran engineer Richard Gridley, the raw shapes of two forts began to rise.
Above them arched a brilliant moon, lighting every movement. Yet still the British did not see.
By four in the morning, the relief party arrived to continue the labor. The last loads of timber went up, and as light crept across the harbor, Knox’s cannon followed, dragged into position before dawn.
When Boston woke on March 5, the Heights were transformed. “The rebels have done more in one night,” Howe said, “than my whole army would have done in a month.”
Sources: Frothingham, History of the Siege of Boston; Writings of George Washington; Force, American Archives, Fourth Series.
Additional background: Lossing, Field Book of the Revolution.
Themes: Siege of Boston; Courage and Ingenuity.
Tags: Washington, John Thomas, Dorchester Heights, Fascines, Night March, Boston Siege, 1776.
March 5, 1776
Howe Faces the Heights
March 5, 1776 – Howe Faces the Heights
A sudden line of American cannon turned Boston from a stronghold into a trap.
As dawn broke over Boston on March 5, British General William Howe stepped to the window and stared in astonishment. The ridge of Dorchester Heights—bare the night before—now bristled with American cannon. Black muzzles pointed directly into the town, the camps, and the harbor. Dorchester had been the last unguarded rise in the chain of hills that nearly ringed Boston, and Washington had taken it in a single night.
For months, the city had been under siege. But with Dorchester fortified, the British position was impossible to defend. Boston lay low at the end of a narrow peninsula, surrounded now by American guns at Charlestown, Cambridge, Roxbury, and Dorchester. The new cannon commanded the harbor so thoroughly that the fleet could not even enter without exposing every ship to cannonballs. The supply line that had sustained Boston through the winter was suddenly cut.
Howe saw at once what this meant. Remaining in Boston would leave the army, the navy, and every British civilian exposed. He only had two options: either abandon Boston or drive the Americans from that hill. The problem was that an assault on the Heights would be devastating. Howe convened his officers in council. Their conclusion was unmistakable: “It was determined, at whatever cost, to save the army.”
But it was more than the army. Inside Boston were Crown officials, Loyalist families, merchants, clergy, wives, children, the sick and wounded—thousands of people who depended on Howe’s protection. He later wrote, “My letter of the 21st of March . . . accounts for my carrying the army, with the incumbrances then belonging to it, to Halifax.”
Preparations began at once, in strict secrecy. Patriot sympathizers still lived within the town, including members of the old Sons of Liberty network. Any hint of Howe’s plans could bring panic on the docks or send word across the lines to Washington. Quietly, carefully, supplies were gathered and transports readied. If all went well, Howe hoped to withdraw his force intact—soldiers and civilians alike—and live to fight again.
Where that fight would take place, no one yet knew. But before the year was out, the army Howe preserved here would meet Washington on another battleground: the shores of New York.
Source: William Howe, Narrative of Lieut. Gen. Sir William Howe (1780); Frothingham, Siege of Boston.
Additional background: Lossing, Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1.
Themes: Siege of Boston, Campaigns of the War
Tags: Dorchester Heights, General William Howe, Evacuation of Boston, Loyalists, Blockade, 1776.
March 5, 1776 – Howe Faces the Heights
A sudden line of American cannon turned Boston from a stronghold into a trap.
As dawn broke over Boston on March 5, British General William Howe stepped to the window and stared in astonishment. The ridge of Dorchester Heights—bare the night before—now bristled with American cannon. Black muzzles pointed directly into the town, the camps, and the harbor. Dorchester had been the last unguarded rise in the chain of hills that nearly ringed Boston, and Washington had taken it in a single night.
For months, the city had been under siege. But with Dorchester fortified, the British position was impossible to defend. Boston lay low at the end of a narrow peninsula, surrounded now by American guns at Charlestown, Cambridge, Roxbury, and Dorchester. The new cannon commanded the harbor so thoroughly that the fleet could not even enter without exposing every ship to cannonballs. The supply line that had sustained Boston through the winter was suddenly cut.
Howe saw at once what this meant. Remaining in Boston would leave the army, the navy, and every British civilian exposed. He only had two options: either abandon Boston or drive the Americans from that hill. The problem was that an assault on the Heights would be devastating. Howe convened his officers in council. Their conclusion was unmistakable: “It was determined, at whatever cost, to save the army.”
But it was more than the army. Inside Boston were Crown officials, Loyalist families, merchants, clergy, wives, children, the sick and wounded—thousands of people who depended on Howe’s protection. He later wrote, “My letter of the 21st of March . . . accounts for my carrying the army, with the incumbrances then belonging to it, to Halifax.”
Preparations began at once, in strict secrecy. Patriot sympathizers still lived within the town, including members of the old Sons of Liberty network. Any hint of Howe’s plans could bring panic on the docks or send word across the lines to Washington. Quietly, carefully, supplies were gathered and transports readied. If all went well, Howe hoped to withdraw his force intact—soldiers and civilians alike—and live to fight again.
Where that fight would take place, no one yet knew. But before the year was out, the army Howe preserved here would meet Washington on another battleground: the shores of New York.
Source: William Howe, Narrative of Lieut. Gen. Sir William Howe (1780); Frothingham, Siege of Boston.
Additional background: Lossing, Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1.
Themes: Siege of Boston, Campaigns of the War
Tags: Dorchester Heights, General William Howe, Evacuation of Boston, Loyalists, Blockade, 1776.
March 6, 1776
The Capture of the Amboy Packet
March 6, 1776 — The Capture of the Amboy Packet
A mail boat went missing off Amboy—and everyone knew what that meant.
The express rider left before sunrise, the sealed bundle of affidavits strapped tight against his saddle. Frost clung to the King’s Highway, and the air stung with the kind of cold that made horses’ breath billow like smoke. If he rode hard and changed mounts without delay, he might reach Congress by tomorrow. The news he carried was too urgent to lose a moment more: the Amboy packet boat York had been taken by the British.
To lose a boat along a regular passage line was to lose the colonies’ lifeline. Packets were swift, predictable carriers, moving letters, committee business, and intelligence along the narrow water routes that connected New Jersey and New York. Their predictability was also their downfall. The York’s course from Perth Amboy took her past Sandy Hook and the Narrows, places where the Royal Navy watched every tide.
The surviving crew told their story under oath. The York had sailed late on February 26 with passengers aboard, her master hoping to cross Raritan Bay before dusk. Near the Narrows, a warning shot boomed from HMS Phoenix. The crew swung her toward Staten Island, but the tide was against them and the wind fell slack. A British tender slipped out from the Long Island shore as an armed barge rowed hard under the frigate’s guns. The York’s men did “everything in their power” to escape, but the small boats closed in quickly. Lines were thrown, the barge grappled her rail, and in moments their vessel was seized.
Now the danger was greater than the loss of the boat itself. Letters meant for Patriot hands, private correspondence, muster lists, even military intelligence, were in British possession. Lord Stirling—William Alexander, the energetic New Jersey officer Americans called “Lord” despite his disputed Scottish title—gathered the crew’s affidavits, sealed them, and sent his express rider galloping south.
Whether the intercepted mail would harm the Patriot cause was unknown, but one truth was unmistakable: the colonies’ fragile chain of communication could be broken by a single captured boat, and recovering it would take speed, vigilance, and no small measure of Providence.
Sources: Force, American Archives, Fourth Series, Vol. 4; Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 7, 1776).
Additional Background: Lossing, Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1; The Papers of Benjamin Franklin.
Themes: Campaigns of the War
Tags: Perth Amboy; Packet Boats; New York Harbor; Lord Stirling; Intelligence; Express Riders; 1776.
March 6, 1776 — The Capture of the Amboy Packet
A mail boat went missing off Amboy—and everyone knew what that meant.
The express rider left before sunrise, the sealed bundle of affidavits strapped tight against his saddle. Frost clung to the King’s Highway, and the air stung with the kind of cold that made horses’ breath billow like smoke. If he rode hard and changed mounts without delay, he might reach Congress by tomorrow. The news he carried was too urgent to lose a moment more: the Amboy packet boat York had been taken by the British.
To lose a boat along a regular passage line was to lose the colonies’ lifeline. Packets were swift, predictable carriers, moving letters, committee business, and intelligence along the narrow water routes that connected New Jersey and New York. Their predictability was also their downfall. The York’s course from Perth Amboy took her past Sandy Hook and the Narrows, places where the Royal Navy watched every tide.
The surviving crew told their story under oath. The York had sailed late on February 26 with passengers aboard, her master hoping to cross Raritan Bay before dusk. Near the Narrows, a warning shot boomed from HMS Phoenix. The crew swung her toward Staten Island, but the tide was against them and the wind fell slack. A British tender slipped out from the Long Island shore as an armed barge rowed hard under the frigate’s guns. The York’s men did “everything in their power” to escape, but the small boats closed in quickly. Lines were thrown, the barge grappled her rail, and in moments their vessel was seized.
Now the danger was greater than the loss of the boat itself. Letters meant for Patriot hands, private correspondence, muster lists, even military intelligence, were in British possession. Lord Stirling—William Alexander, the energetic New Jersey officer Americans called “Lord” despite his disputed Scottish title—gathered the crew’s affidavits, sealed them, and sent his express rider galloping south.
Whether the intercepted mail would harm the Patriot cause was unknown, but one truth was unmistakable: the colonies’ fragile chain of communication could be broken by a single captured boat, and recovering it would take speed, vigilance, and no small measure of Providence.
Sources: Force, American Archives, Fourth Series, Vol. 4; Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 7, 1776).
Additional Background: Lossing, Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1; The Papers of Benjamin Franklin.
Themes: Campaigns of the War
Tags: Perth Amboy; Packet Boats; New York Harbor; Lord Stirling; Intelligence; Express Riders; 1776.
March 7, 1776
A Letter from the North: the Canada Crisis
March 7, 1776 – A Letter from the North: the Canada Crisis
Schuyler’s plea reveals a northern army near collapse in winter’s grip.
Snow drifted against the windows of Philip Schuyler’s Albany headquarters as he unfolded yet another bitter report from the northern line. The ink was smudged in places—frozen hands made for clumsy writing—but the meaning was plain. Provisions for the Canada campaign had spoiled, vanished, or stalled. Sleds could not be hired. Roads were impassable. Nails for essential batteaux had never arrived. Even vessels on Lake Champlain were now in British hands. Winter had choked the life out of the supply chain, and the army beyond Quebec was paying the price.
Schuyler’s frustration deepened with every sheet of testimony. Pork barrels were stranded miles from Montreal. Flour was left for weeks in wagons until it molded. Shoes had worn through before replacements could reach the men. He had warned Congress already, but now the crisis was undeniable. Sitting at his writing table, he took up a fresh page and began the hardest letter he had yet drafted. “I am under the greatest apprehensions,” he wrote plainly. Without immediate help the army would “inevitably suffer.”
When the express rider finally left Albany with the sealed dispatch, Schuyler stood in the doorway listening to the fading rhythm of hoofbeats on the frozen road. Whether Congress truly understood the danger, he did not know. But the letter had to reach them—and quickly.
By midday on March 7, it did. Congress opened Schuyler’s report and read the grim inventory of a supply chain so broken that troops starved and carpenters were unable even to build boats for a lack of nails. Every detail pointed to the same truth—the northern campaign was collapsing not from battle but from winter, distance, and broken logistics.
Washington had sensed the danger a week earlier, worried that hauling so much artillery from Fort Ticonderoga had left the Northern Department dangerously under-armed. Schuyler’s report confirmed his fears. Nothing was reaching Canada when it was needed. Nothing was moving as it should.
Congress could not fix everything that day, but the urgency was unmistakable. In the days ahead, they would scramble for money, carpenters, and new supplies. But on March 7, they saw the northern reality at last: the northern army was not merely fighting the British—it was fighting the winter itself.
Source: Force, American Archives, 4th Series, Vol. 4.
Additional background: Journals of Congress, March 7, 1776; Writings of George Washington, Vol. 4.
Themes: Continental Army in Canada; Campaigns of the War.
Tags: Canada Campaign; Northern Department; Philip Schuyler; Logistics; Continental Army, 1776.
March 7, 1776 – A Letter from the North: the Canada Crisis
Schuyler’s plea reveals a northern army near collapse in winter’s grip.
Snow drifted against the windows of Philip Schuyler’s Albany headquarters as he unfolded yet another bitter report from the northern line. The ink was smudged in places—frozen hands made for clumsy writing—but the meaning was plain. Provisions for the Canada campaign had spoiled, vanished, or stalled. Sleds could not be hired. Roads were impassable. Nails for essential batteaux had never arrived. Even vessels on Lake Champlain were now in British hands. Winter had choked the life out of the supply chain, and the army beyond Quebec was paying the price.
Schuyler’s frustration deepened with every sheet of testimony. Pork barrels were stranded miles from Montreal. Flour was left for weeks in wagons until it molded. Shoes had worn through before replacements could reach the men. He had warned Congress already, but now the crisis was undeniable. Sitting at his writing table, he took up a fresh page and began the hardest letter he had yet drafted. “I am under the greatest apprehensions,” he wrote plainly. Without immediate help the army would “inevitably suffer.”
When the express rider finally left Albany with the sealed dispatch, Schuyler stood in the doorway listening to the fading rhythm of hoofbeats on the frozen road. Whether Congress truly understood the danger, he did not know. But the letter had to reach them—and quickly.
By midday on March 7, it did. Congress opened Schuyler’s report and read the grim inventory of a supply chain so broken that troops starved and carpenters were unable even to build boats for a lack of nails. Every detail pointed to the same truth—the northern campaign was collapsing not from battle but from winter, distance, and broken logistics.
Washington had sensed the danger a week earlier, worried that hauling so much artillery from Fort Ticonderoga had left the Northern Department dangerously under-armed. Schuyler’s report confirmed his fears. Nothing was reaching Canada when it was needed. Nothing was moving as it should.
Congress could not fix everything that day, but the urgency was unmistakable. In the days ahead, they would scramble for money, carpenters, and new supplies. But on March 7, they saw the northern reality at last: the northern army was not merely fighting the British—it was fighting the winter itself.
Source: Force, American Archives, 4th Series, Vol. 4.
Additional background: Journals of Congress, March 7, 1776; Writings of George Washington, Vol. 4.
Themes: Continental Army in Canada; Campaigns of the War.
Tags: Canada Campaign; Northern Department; Philip Schuyler; Logistics; Continental Army, 1776.
March 8, 1776
Drawing the Line
March 8, 1776 – Drawing the Line
Facing the world’s strongest empire, Congress chose not to widen the fight.
Wars rarely stay where leaders expect them to. Only a few years earlier, fighting on the American frontier had spread far beyond marching armies, reaching farms, villages, and families. Many of the men now serving in Congress remembered the French and Indian War well. When troubling reports arrived in early March—warning that Native nations were receiving conflicting messages and summons—Congress realized the current war could widen.
The timing could not have been worse. The colonies were already facing the strongest military power on earth. British armies were trained and experienced; the Royal Navy ruled the seas. Congress knew the struggle ahead would be hard enough without creating new enemies. Yet reports from the northern frontier showed that Native nations were being contacted by different colonial officials, sometimes without coordination. Confusion, Congress understood, could quickly lead to conflict.
Members of Congress also knew from experience that alliances mattered. During the French and Indian War, Native nations had played a decisive role. When those alliances shifted, frontier warfare followed different rules, spreading beyond formal armies and into civilian life—and once it did, it was far harder to control. That memory shaped the debate now unfolding in Philadelphia. If Native nations were drawn into the war without clear consent and careful oversight, the Revolution could turn into something far larger and far more dangerous.
On March 8, 1776, Congress chose restraint. It ruled that Native nations were not to be employed as soldiers in the armies of the United Colonies unless their own leaders had agreed in council—and even then, only with the express approval of Congress. No colony, no commander, and no individual was allowed to widen the war on their own.
The decision was not dramatic. There were no speeches recorded and no celebrations. But it mattered. In a moment of fear and uncertainty, Congress drew a line. The Revolution would be fought against the British Empire—but it would not be allowed to spill outward without consent, control, and responsibility.
In choosing restraint, Congress revealed something important about the kind of government it was becoming. Power, the delegates believed, carried limits. Even in war, not every possible action was a wise one. Some choices, once made, could not be undone.
Source: Journals of Congress (March 8, 1776);
Additional background: Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 4; MountVernon.org.
Themes: Diplomacy; Forging Unity
Tags: Indian Affairs, Congress, French and Indian War, 1776
March 8, 1776 – Drawing the Line
Facing the world’s strongest empire, Congress chose not to widen the fight.
Wars rarely stay where leaders expect them to. Only a few years earlier, fighting on the American frontier had spread far beyond marching armies, reaching farms, villages, and families. Many of the men now serving in Congress remembered the French and Indian War well. When troubling reports arrived in early March—warning that Native nations were receiving conflicting messages and summons—Congress realized the current war could widen.
The timing could not have been worse. The colonies were already facing the strongest military power on earth. British armies were trained and experienced; the Royal Navy ruled the seas. Congress knew the struggle ahead would be hard enough without creating new enemies. Yet reports from the northern frontier showed that Native nations were being contacted by different colonial officials, sometimes without coordination. Confusion, Congress understood, could quickly lead to conflict.
Members of Congress also knew from experience that alliances mattered. During the French and Indian War, Native nations had played a decisive role. When those alliances shifted, frontier warfare followed different rules, spreading beyond formal armies and into civilian life—and once it did, it was far harder to control. That memory shaped the debate now unfolding in Philadelphia. If Native nations were drawn into the war without clear consent and careful oversight, the Revolution could turn into something far larger and far more dangerous.
On March 8, 1776, Congress chose restraint. It ruled that Native nations were not to be employed as soldiers in the armies of the United Colonies unless their own leaders had agreed in council—and even then, only with the express approval of Congress. No colony, no commander, and no individual was allowed to widen the war on their own.
The decision was not dramatic. There were no speeches recorded and no celebrations. But it mattered. In a moment of fear and uncertainty, Congress drew a line. The Revolution would be fought against the British Empire—but it would not be allowed to spill outward without consent, control, and responsibility.
In choosing restraint, Congress revealed something important about the kind of government it was becoming. Power, the delegates believed, carried limits. Even in war, not every possible action was a wise one. Some choices, once made, could not be undone.
Source: Journals of Congress (March 8, 1776);
Additional background: Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 4; MountVernon.org.
Themes: Diplomacy; Forging Unity
Tags: Indian Affairs, Congress, French and Indian War, 1776
March 9, 1776
No Liberty Without Civil Authority
March 9, 1776 – No Liberty Without Civil Authority
Congress defends liberty by placing civil authority above military command.
General Charles Lee meant well. Commanding troops near New York, he worried about Loyalist activity and the uncertain loyalties of civilians caught between armies. So, acting on military authority, he imposed a political “test oath” on the inhabitants of the region—a vow meant to reveal who supported the American cause and who did not. He believed he was protecting the people. Instead, he alarmed their representatives.
The news reached Congress on March 9. Lee’s letter admitted frankly that he had ordered civilians to declare their allegiance under military authority. The New York delegates immediately recognized the danger. However noble Lee’s intentions might be, he had crossed a line older than the Revolution itself. As they later explained, “There can be no liberty where the military is not subordinate to the civil power in everything not immediately connected with their operations.”
That sentence captured the heart of the matter. The American cause could not succeed by allowing generals to decide questions of loyalty, citizenship, or civil duty. Those powers belonged to Congress and to elected assemblies, not to officers in the field. Even a popular commander battling real threats could not be allowed to legislate by the sword.
Congress acted at once. It resolved “that no oath by way of test be imposed upon, exacted, or required of any of the inhabitants of these colonies, by any military officers.”
And it ordered the resolution published immediately, so that no commander anywhere could mistake the limits of his authority.
The decision was more than administrative. It affirmed that the Revolution would not repeat the very abuses it protested. America would be defended by soldiers, but governed by civilians. English liberty had long taught that military power must answer to civil law—principles drawn from the Magna Carta, refined by Locke, and repeated by Blackstone. Congress now carried that inheritance forward.
The stand taken on March 9 would echo into the future. The Constitution would later enshrine civilian control of the military, making the President a civilian Commander in Chief. But the impulse behind it was already present here, in Congress’s firm reply to General Lee. The Revolution would not trade one tyranny for another.
Source: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 9, 1776).
Additional Background: Force, American Archives, 4th Series, Vol. 5; Locke, Second Treatise on Government; Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England.
Themes: Moral Foundations; Founding Principles
Tags: Charles Lee, Test Oath, Civil versus Military Authority, Congress, Founding Principles, 1776.
March 9, 1776 – No Liberty Without Civil Authority
Congress defends liberty by placing civil authority above military command.
General Charles Lee meant well. Commanding troops near New York, he worried about Loyalist activity and the uncertain loyalties of civilians caught between armies. So, acting on military authority, he imposed a political “test oath” on the inhabitants of the region—a vow meant to reveal who supported the American cause and who did not. He believed he was protecting the people. Instead, he alarmed their representatives.
The news reached Congress on March 9. Lee’s letter admitted frankly that he had ordered civilians to declare their allegiance under military authority. The New York delegates immediately recognized the danger. However noble Lee’s intentions might be, he had crossed a line older than the Revolution itself. As they later explained, “There can be no liberty where the military is not subordinate to the civil power in everything not immediately connected with their operations.”
That sentence captured the heart of the matter. The American cause could not succeed by allowing generals to decide questions of loyalty, citizenship, or civil duty. Those powers belonged to Congress and to elected assemblies, not to officers in the field. Even a popular commander battling real threats could not be allowed to legislate by the sword.
Congress acted at once. It resolved “that no oath by way of test be imposed upon, exacted, or required of any of the inhabitants of these colonies, by any military officers.”
And it ordered the resolution published immediately, so that no commander anywhere could mistake the limits of his authority.
The decision was more than administrative. It affirmed that the Revolution would not repeat the very abuses it protested. America would be defended by soldiers, but governed by civilians. English liberty had long taught that military power must answer to civil law—principles drawn from the Magna Carta, refined by Locke, and repeated by Blackstone. Congress now carried that inheritance forward.
The stand taken on March 9 would echo into the future. The Constitution would later enshrine civilian control of the military, making the President a civilian Commander in Chief. But the impulse behind it was already present here, in Congress’s firm reply to General Lee. The Revolution would not trade one tyranny for another.
Source: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 9, 1776).
Additional Background: Force, American Archives, 4th Series, Vol. 5; Locke, Second Treatise on Government; Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England.
Themes: Moral Foundations; Founding Principles
Tags: Charles Lee, Test Oath, Civil versus Military Authority, Congress, Founding Principles, 1776.
March 10, 1776
Sunday: A People Who Chose Freedom’s Side
March 10, 1776 – Sunday: A People Who Chose Freedom’s Side
Stockbridge Mohicans stand with Washington’s army in the final weeks of the siege.
The road from Stockbridge to Boston ran over frozen hills, but the warriors made the journey willingly. They were the Stockbridge Mohicans—an Algonquian people who spoke a language similar to tribes known in Plymouth or Jamestown, yet with their own distinct history and identity. Many had embraced Christianity a generation earlier, when Jonathan Edwards served as pastor at Stockbridge in western Massachusetts during the Great Awakening. He also served as a missionary to the Mohican people. His son Timothy continued that ministry in 1776, teaching Scripture, translating letters, and helping guide the community in a troubled time.
On February 20, Timothy Edwards wrote to General Philip Schuyler, sending Captain Solomon, “one of the chiefs of the Stockbridge Indians,” to give information about the warriors’ readiness and to receive direction “concerning their going against our enemies in Canada.” The letter reached Schuyler, and his February 23 letters—including the Stockbridge correspondence—were read in Congress on March 4.
Long before Congress ruled that their nation’s consent would be required, the Stockbridge Mohicans had already made their choice. By early 1776, a company of Stockbridge warriors had joined the American lines outside Boston, serving as scouts and skirmishers during the closing phase of the siege. They brought with them not only bows, muskets, and woodland skill but also their own chaplain, continuing a pattern begun in their Stockbridge mission community. Their service blended courage and faith in a way that echoed both their ancestral traditions and the Christian teaching they had embraced under Edwards’s ministry.
Later, a Stockbridge leader who served as a Continental soldier would describe the spirit that guided them. Hendrick Aupaumut said, essentially, “We fight for the land that gave us birth, and for the cause of right. The Great Spirit looks on the hearts of men.” That conviction—part moral duty, part spiritual calling—carried them through the bitter months of the Revolution.
Their numbers were not large, but their loyalty ran deep. Long before formal treaties, long before the Declaration of Independence, these Mohican warriors chose the American side. They stood with Washington’s army not out of compulsion but conviction, bringing with them a legacy of faith and a determination to defend the land they called home.
Sources: Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 4; Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 4, 1776).
Additional Background: Aupaumut, A Short Narration . . . (c. 1792).
Themes: Faith and Providence; Forging Unity
Tags: Stockbridge Mohicans, Captain Solomon, Timothy Edwards, Jonathan Edwards, Hendrick Aupaumut, 1776
March 10, 1776 – Sunday: A People Who Chose Freedom’s Side
Stockbridge Mohicans stand with Washington’s army in the final weeks of the siege.
The road from Stockbridge to Boston ran over frozen hills, but the warriors made the journey willingly. They were the Stockbridge Mohicans—an Algonquian people who spoke a language similar to tribes known in Plymouth or Jamestown, yet with their own distinct history and identity. Many had embraced Christianity a generation earlier, when Jonathan Edwards served as pastor at Stockbridge in western Massachusetts during the Great Awakening. He also served as a missionary to the Mohican people. His son Timothy continued that ministry in 1776, teaching Scripture, translating letters, and helping guide the community in a troubled time.
On February 20, Timothy Edwards wrote to General Philip Schuyler, sending Captain Solomon, “one of the chiefs of the Stockbridge Indians,” to give information about the warriors’ readiness and to receive direction “concerning their going against our enemies in Canada.” The letter reached Schuyler, and his February 23 letters—including the Stockbridge correspondence—were read in Congress on March 4.
Long before Congress ruled that their nation’s consent would be required, the Stockbridge Mohicans had already made their choice. By early 1776, a company of Stockbridge warriors had joined the American lines outside Boston, serving as scouts and skirmishers during the closing phase of the siege. They brought with them not only bows, muskets, and woodland skill but also their own chaplain, continuing a pattern begun in their Stockbridge mission community. Their service blended courage and faith in a way that echoed both their ancestral traditions and the Christian teaching they had embraced under Edwards’s ministry.
Later, a Stockbridge leader who served as a Continental soldier would describe the spirit that guided them. Hendrick Aupaumut said, essentially, “We fight for the land that gave us birth, and for the cause of right. The Great Spirit looks on the hearts of men.” That conviction—part moral duty, part spiritual calling—carried them through the bitter months of the Revolution.
Their numbers were not large, but their loyalty ran deep. Long before formal treaties, long before the Declaration of Independence, these Mohican warriors chose the American side. They stood with Washington’s army not out of compulsion but conviction, bringing with them a legacy of faith and a determination to defend the land they called home.
Sources: Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 4; Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 4, 1776).
Additional Background: Aupaumut, A Short Narration . . . (c. 1792).
Themes: Faith and Providence; Forging Unity
Tags: Stockbridge Mohicans, Captain Solomon, Timothy Edwards, Jonathan Edwards, Hendrick Aupaumut, 1776
March 11, 1776
A New Economy for a New Nation
March 11, 1776 – A New Economy for a New Nation
Independence grew in the small acts of governing an economy.
Two days after Adam Smith published The Wealth of Nations in London, Congress found itself facing the very problems his book described—the basic struggles of managing a national economy.
The entries for March 11 were not dramatic. Congress voted to pay for shoes, settle accounts, supply medicine chests, and reimburse a craftsman for canteens. It was the quiet work of a government learning to exist.
The colonies were still tied to Britain by law, yet here was a legislature raising funds, outfitting armies, and paying bills. What had begun as a protest congress now had to act like a nation. It faced shortages, made decisions about money, and tried to build a single supply system out of thirteen separate economies.
Shoes, for example, were not trivial. Generals had written repeatedly that soldiers were marching barefoot on frozen ground, leaving tracks of blood behind them in the snow. A simple line item in the ledger was a matter of survival. Medicine chests carried similar urgency: one chest could serve an entire battalion, and without it, even a minor fever could sweep through a regiment. Supply decisions were economic choices—but also moral ones.
Across the ocean, on March 9, Adam Smith had released The Wealth of Nations (under a much longer title). He argued that nations grew strong when people could trade freely, without royal monopolies, heavy regulations, or burdensome taxes. Smith built on natural-law thinkers like Locke and Blackstone, showing that liberty had economic consequences—and that economic freedom supported civil liberty.
In America, no one in Congress had yet read Smith’s book, but the issues he addressed filled the chamber: Who controls trade? Who supplies the army? Who pays for the war? How do free people fund a government without becoming subjects again?
Even the simple orders of March 11—shoes, canteens, medicine—reflected the same truth Smith articulated: economic choices shape political destiny.
Congress had not declared independence, but it was behaving like a nation out of necessity. The work of liberty was fought not only in battle but also in ledgers, supply rooms, and committees. Two days after Smith published his book, Congress was already proving its thesis: a free people must guide their own economy.
Sources: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 11, 1776); Smith, The Wealth of Nations.
Additional background: The Writings of George Washington, Vol. 4.
Themes: Self-Government, Founding Principles.
Tags: Adam Smith, Congress, economic independence, supplies, liberty, 1776
March 11, 1776 – A New Economy for a New Nation
Independence grew in the small acts of governing an economy.
Two days after Adam Smith published The Wealth of Nations in London, Congress found itself facing the very problems his book described—the basic struggles of managing a national economy.
The entries for March 11 were not dramatic. Congress voted to pay for shoes, settle accounts, supply medicine chests, and reimburse a craftsman for canteens. It was the quiet work of a government learning to exist.
The colonies were still tied to Britain by law, yet here was a legislature raising funds, outfitting armies, and paying bills. What had begun as a protest congress now had to act like a nation. It faced shortages, made decisions about money, and tried to build a single supply system out of thirteen separate economies.
Shoes, for example, were not trivial. Generals had written repeatedly that soldiers were marching barefoot on frozen ground, leaving tracks of blood behind them in the snow. A simple line item in the ledger was a matter of survival. Medicine chests carried similar urgency: one chest could serve an entire battalion, and without it, even a minor fever could sweep through a regiment. Supply decisions were economic choices—but also moral ones.
Across the ocean, on March 9, Adam Smith had released The Wealth of Nations (under a much longer title). He argued that nations grew strong when people could trade freely, without royal monopolies, heavy regulations, or burdensome taxes. Smith built on natural-law thinkers like Locke and Blackstone, showing that liberty had economic consequences—and that economic freedom supported civil liberty.
In America, no one in Congress had yet read Smith’s book, but the issues he addressed filled the chamber: Who controls trade? Who supplies the army? Who pays for the war? How do free people fund a government without becoming subjects again?
Even the simple orders of March 11—shoes, canteens, medicine—reflected the same truth Smith articulated: economic choices shape political destiny.
Congress had not declared independence, but it was behaving like a nation out of necessity. The work of liberty was fought not only in battle but also in ledgers, supply rooms, and committees. Two days after Smith published his book, Congress was already proving its thesis: a free people must guide their own economy.
Sources: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 11, 1776); Smith, The Wealth of Nations.
Additional background: The Writings of George Washington, Vol. 4.
Themes: Self-Government, Founding Principles.
Tags: Adam Smith, Congress, economic independence, supplies, liberty, 1776
March 12, 1776
The Commission and the Never-Ending List
March 12, 1776 – The Commission and the Never-Ending List
The road to Canada began with delays, debates, and a swelling list of demands.
Congress had been struggling with the same unfinished business for a month: instructions for the three-man commission bound for Canada. Benjamin Franklin, Samuel Chase, and Charles Carroll were willing to go, but Congress could not stop adding to their assignment. The commissioners still sat in Philadelphia, waiting for Congress to decide what they were supposed to accomplish. Franklin wrote hopefully that they “purposed setting out some day this week,” not yet knowing that Congress would spend the next two weeks enlarging their instructions line by line.
The debate had begun on February 12, when Congress was informed that a “gentleman was arrived from Canada, who had some matters of consequence to communicate.” Prudent la Jeunesse, a trusted messenger from Montreal, carried fresh intelligence: the clergy were uneasy, American paper money was distrusted, and without swift action “our affairs there will meet with continual difficulty and obstruction.” His report convinced the delegates to send a diplomatic mission.
But urgency did not bring efficiency. Congress launched into a piecemeal construction of an instruction list that grew more unwieldy with every session. They wanted the commissioners to soothe clergy, reassure merchants, stabilize currency, support the army, award commissions, form a battalion, manage supplies, examine accounts, and “introduce and give credit” to Continental money—all in a province where morale was faltering and the winter campaign had stalled.
Today, March 12, Congress made only modest progress. They reviewed more materials from the northern theater, including the committee’s findings on Colonel Moses Hazen’s losses—several of which had been overrated or “reducible to exactness in number,” a reminder of how tangled Canadian accounts had become. After “some time spent” revisiting the commission’s instructions, the delegates postponed the matter yet again—until tomorrow.
For Franklin, Chase, and Carroll, the delay meant another wasted day in Philadelphia. But their departure was close. By the end of March, they would finally set out, riding north along roads turning soft with the thaw of early spring. Rivers were breaking open, ferries strained, and every mile became a slog through mud and slush. It took nearly a month to reach Montreal.
But on March 12, the commissioners could only wait as Congress added yet another paragraph to an already staggering list of instructions.
Source: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (February 12–March 28, 1776).
Additional background: The Papers of Benjamin Franklin.
Themes: Self-Government; Diplomacy.
Tags: Canada Commission, Benjamin Franklin, Samuel Chase, Charles Carroll, Prudent la Jeunesse, Quebec, 1776.
March 12, 1776 – The Commission and the Never-Ending List
The road to Canada began with delays, debates, and a swelling list of demands.
Congress had been struggling with the same unfinished business for a month: instructions for the three-man commission bound for Canada. Benjamin Franklin, Samuel Chase, and Charles Carroll were willing to go, but Congress could not stop adding to their assignment. The commissioners still sat in Philadelphia, waiting for Congress to decide what they were supposed to accomplish. Franklin wrote hopefully that they “purposed setting out some day this week,” not yet knowing that Congress would spend the next two weeks enlarging their instructions line by line.
The debate had begun on February 12, when Congress was informed that a “gentleman was arrived from Canada, who had some matters of consequence to communicate.” Prudent la Jeunesse, a trusted messenger from Montreal, carried fresh intelligence: the clergy were uneasy, American paper money was distrusted, and without swift action “our affairs there will meet with continual difficulty and obstruction.” His report convinced the delegates to send a diplomatic mission.
But urgency did not bring efficiency. Congress launched into a piecemeal construction of an instruction list that grew more unwieldy with every session. They wanted the commissioners to soothe clergy, reassure merchants, stabilize currency, support the army, award commissions, form a battalion, manage supplies, examine accounts, and “introduce and give credit” to Continental money—all in a province where morale was faltering and the winter campaign had stalled.
Today, March 12, Congress made only modest progress. They reviewed more materials from the northern theater, including the committee’s findings on Colonel Moses Hazen’s losses—several of which had been overrated or “reducible to exactness in number,” a reminder of how tangled Canadian accounts had become. After “some time spent” revisiting the commission’s instructions, the delegates postponed the matter yet again—until tomorrow.
For Franklin, Chase, and Carroll, the delay meant another wasted day in Philadelphia. But their departure was close. By the end of March, they would finally set out, riding north along roads turning soft with the thaw of early spring. Rivers were breaking open, ferries strained, and every mile became a slog through mud and slush. It took nearly a month to reach Montreal.
But on March 12, the commissioners could only wait as Congress added yet another paragraph to an already staggering list of instructions.
Source: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (February 12–March 28, 1776).
Additional background: The Papers of Benjamin Franklin.
Themes: Self-Government; Diplomacy.
Tags: Canada Commission, Benjamin Franklin, Samuel Chase, Charles Carroll, Prudent la Jeunesse, Quebec, 1776.
March 13, 1776
As Precious as Salt: The Quiet Crisis on the Home Front
March 13, 1776 — As Precious as Salt: The Quiet Crisis on the Home Front
An old tale warned of salt’s quiet worth. It proved painfully true in the spring of 1776.
Once upon a time, a king asked his daughters how much they loved him. One praised him above gold; another, above jewels. But the youngest said simply, “Father, I love you like salt.”
Offended, the king banished her—until the day the cook forgot to use salt. The richest dishes tasted flat, the bread was bland, and the king understood at last: some gifts are so essential that one doesn’t miss them until they are gone.
In the spring of 1776, the American colonies learned the same truth.
While armies watched each other across Boston’s frozen lines, a quieter crisis spread through the towns and farms of the colonies. Salt was running desperately short. The British blockade had choked off imports from the West Indies, and shallow coastal saltworks could never meet winter demand. Without salt, families could not preserve pork or fish. With the spring thaws, this became even more critical. Meat spoiled, and the lean weeks between winter and spring grew leaner still.
Colonists tried what they could. Neighbors traded what they had. Along New England’s shores, families boiled seawater in great kettles, skimming off thin crystals that gathered like frost. Inland communities located old salt licks—places where deer came to nibble the mineral-rich soil. They leached dirt through cloth and boiled brine down to a few precious spoonfuls. It was slow, smoky, backbreaking work, but it meant survival.
Even Congress felt the pinch. Reports arriving in Philadelphia warned of “extravagant” prices asked by men hoarding salt in warehouses. Delegates debated whether to fix prices for the common good or to leave the market free, aware that strict controls could worsen scarcity. In the end, they took a middle path—advising local committees to regulate prices only if absolutely necessary, while leaving final authority to the colonies themselves.
There was no neat ending to the crisis, no feast that reunited the king and his daughter. But throughout the colonies, families learned what the old story had taught: that the humblest gifts are often the most precious. And in a year shadowed by war, it was the quiet, unseen efforts of ordinary people—tending kettles, sharing provisions, watching out for their neighbors—that helped a struggling nation endure.
Sources: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4.
Additional background: Earle, Home Life in Colonial Days.
Themes: Courage and Ingenuity; Voices of the Revolution
Tags: salt shortage, home front, blockade, price controls, colonial life, Congress debates, 1776
March 13, 1776 — As Precious as Salt: The Quiet Crisis on the Home Front
An old tale warned of salt’s quiet worth. It proved painfully true in the spring of 1776.
Once upon a time, a king asked his daughters how much they loved him. One praised him above gold; another, above jewels. But the youngest said simply, “Father, I love you like salt.”
Offended, the king banished her—until the day the cook forgot to use salt. The richest dishes tasted flat, the bread was bland, and the king understood at last: some gifts are so essential that one doesn’t miss them until they are gone.
In the spring of 1776, the American colonies learned the same truth.
While armies watched each other across Boston’s frozen lines, a quieter crisis spread through the towns and farms of the colonies. Salt was running desperately short. The British blockade had choked off imports from the West Indies, and shallow coastal saltworks could never meet winter demand. Without salt, families could not preserve pork or fish. With the spring thaws, this became even more critical. Meat spoiled, and the lean weeks between winter and spring grew leaner still.
Colonists tried what they could. Neighbors traded what they had. Along New England’s shores, families boiled seawater in great kettles, skimming off thin crystals that gathered like frost. Inland communities located old salt licks—places where deer came to nibble the mineral-rich soil. They leached dirt through cloth and boiled brine down to a few precious spoonfuls. It was slow, smoky, backbreaking work, but it meant survival.
Even Congress felt the pinch. Reports arriving in Philadelphia warned of “extravagant” prices asked by men hoarding salt in warehouses. Delegates debated whether to fix prices for the common good or to leave the market free, aware that strict controls could worsen scarcity. In the end, they took a middle path—advising local committees to regulate prices only if absolutely necessary, while leaving final authority to the colonies themselves.
There was no neat ending to the crisis, no feast that reunited the king and his daughter. But throughout the colonies, families learned what the old story had taught: that the humblest gifts are often the most precious. And in a year shadowed by war, it was the quiet, unseen efforts of ordinary people—tending kettles, sharing provisions, watching out for their neighbors—that helped a struggling nation endure.
Sources: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4.
Additional background: Earle, Home Life in Colonial Days.
Themes: Courage and Ingenuity; Voices of the Revolution
Tags: salt shortage, home front, blockade, price controls, colonial life, Congress debates, 1776
March 14, 1776
Congress Secures Arms for Patriots
March 14, 1776 – Congress Secures Arms for Patriots
Muskets belonged in the hands of those committed to the common defense.
The wind off Sandy Hook cut like a knife as the small transport pulled away from the Asia. John Young, William Elder, and the others huddled on deck—British sailors, hired hands, and Loyalist couriers carrying letters meant for the King’s commanders. They had slipped often between Perth Amboy and the warships offshore, passing news of militia movements and ferry traffic to the fleet. But tonight, the weather turned treacherous. A sudden gale drove their vessel hard onto the Long Island shore. The men scrambled to save the dispatches, but local Patriots boarded the wreck before they could burn the evidence, marching the prisoners and papers under guard to Easthampton.
Congress was growing concerned about these sympathizers on land—men who moved quietly between Loyalist households and British ships. Some openly proclaimed allegiance to the Crown; others just declined to stand with their neighbors. Either could prove dangerous. Reports from New York and New Jersey warned that such men could guide British landings or carry intelligence that placed whole towns at risk.
The delegates in Philadelphia knew they had to act. British reinforcements were expected soon, and no one doubted that New York—or Philadelphia—might be their first target.
On March 14, Congress recommended that each colony disarm those who were “notoriously disaffected to the cause of America.” These were not ordinary civilians—they were men who would not join the common defense while an enemy fleet hovered at their shores. Congress directed that any weapons seized should be used first to supply Continental troops, then colonial defense forces, and finally the associators who had pledged their aid.
The resolve reflected a simple truth understood across the colonies: liberty required unity. Those who stood ready to defend their homes needed the means to do so.
In a season of uncertainty, this measure drew a clear line. The colonies were fighting for survival, and muskets—always scarce—belonged in trustworthy hands. By reinforcing their defenses and removing tools of war from those loyal to the Crown, Congress sought to protect families, strengthen the lines of communication, and prepare for the storm they knew was coming.
The spring of 1776 would test their resolve. On March 14, they took one step to meet that test together.
Sources: Force, American Archives, 4th Series, Vol. 5; Journals of Congress (March 14, 1776).
Additional Background: The Papers of John Adams (13 February 1776); Pennsylvania Gazette (March 20, 1776).
Themes: Campaigns of the War; Loyalty or Independence.
Tags: Congress, Loyalists, Internal Security, Perth Amboy, Committees of Safety, 1776
March 14, 1776 – Congress Secures Arms for Patriots
Muskets belonged in the hands of those committed to the common defense.
The wind off Sandy Hook cut like a knife as the small transport pulled away from the Asia. John Young, William Elder, and the others huddled on deck—British sailors, hired hands, and Loyalist couriers carrying letters meant for the King’s commanders. They had slipped often between Perth Amboy and the warships offshore, passing news of militia movements and ferry traffic to the fleet. But tonight, the weather turned treacherous. A sudden gale drove their vessel hard onto the Long Island shore. The men scrambled to save the dispatches, but local Patriots boarded the wreck before they could burn the evidence, marching the prisoners and papers under guard to Easthampton.
Congress was growing concerned about these sympathizers on land—men who moved quietly between Loyalist households and British ships. Some openly proclaimed allegiance to the Crown; others just declined to stand with their neighbors. Either could prove dangerous. Reports from New York and New Jersey warned that such men could guide British landings or carry intelligence that placed whole towns at risk.
The delegates in Philadelphia knew they had to act. British reinforcements were expected soon, and no one doubted that New York—or Philadelphia—might be their first target.
On March 14, Congress recommended that each colony disarm those who were “notoriously disaffected to the cause of America.” These were not ordinary civilians—they were men who would not join the common defense while an enemy fleet hovered at their shores. Congress directed that any weapons seized should be used first to supply Continental troops, then colonial defense forces, and finally the associators who had pledged their aid.
The resolve reflected a simple truth understood across the colonies: liberty required unity. Those who stood ready to defend their homes needed the means to do so.
In a season of uncertainty, this measure drew a clear line. The colonies were fighting for survival, and muskets—always scarce—belonged in trustworthy hands. By reinforcing their defenses and removing tools of war from those loyal to the Crown, Congress sought to protect families, strengthen the lines of communication, and prepare for the storm they knew was coming.
The spring of 1776 would test their resolve. On March 14, they took one step to meet that test together.
Sources: Force, American Archives, 4th Series, Vol. 5; Journals of Congress (March 14, 1776).
Additional Background: The Papers of John Adams (13 February 1776); Pennsylvania Gazette (March 20, 1776).
Themes: Campaigns of the War; Loyalty or Independence.
Tags: Congress, Loyalists, Internal Security, Perth Amboy, Committees of Safety, 1776
March 15, 1776
The Next Battleground: New York
March 15, 1776 – The Next Battleground: New York
As Boston held its breath, Washington prepared New York for the coming storm.
Snow and slush crusted the edges of the roads as messengers rode hard between Cambridge, Philadelphia, and New York. By March 15, soldiers and statesmen alike could feel the center of the war shifting. Boston’s fate was still unsettled, but the next struggle was already forming to the south.
General John Sullivan put the mood plainly in his letter to John Adams that day. Part of the army had already marched toward New York “to prevent them getting possession of that important post,” and he expected to follow within “two or three days.” His words carried the urgency of a man who knew the army was racing against events it could not see.
Washington shared that urgency. He had already warned Lord Stirling that British talk of Halifax was likely a ruse. “I am of opinion that New York is the place of their destination,” he wrote. If the enemy controlled the Hudson, they could split the colonies in two. He had already sent reinforcements south—riflemen first, then a regiment, with more brigades preparing to follow as soon as Boston was secure.
That same week, Congress had been working from the other end of the problem. They reviewed Major General Charles Lee’s sweeping defensive plan for New York: block key waterways, strengthen high ground, and build defenses approaching King’s Bridge. Lee’s point was that the city could not be walled like a fortress, but its terrain could be shaped into a “field of battle” to make any British landing costly. Congress ordered eight thousand troops to help him and directed four battalions to march “with all expedition.”
Meanwhile, Stirling—newly commanding at New York—was already implementing those measures. The Provincial Convention had “very cheerfully and spiritedly” approved every step he proposed. Local militia threw themselves into the backbreaking work of digging, hauling timber, and building earthworks. Powder arriving from Philadelphia was repacked into new casks to keep it dry. “We have . . . been taking every measure in our power to secure this place,” he wrote Washington.
Boston still watched and waited. New York was already bracing for impact. And although the British fleet had not yet sailed, one truth had become clear: the Americans were already moving to meet the blow wherever it fell.
Sources: Journals of Congress (March 12–14, 1776); Writings of George Washington, vol. 4; Papers of John Adams; US: Founders Online.
Additional Background: New York: Journals of the Provincial Congress (March 13–17, 1776).
Themes: Campaigns of the War; American Armed Services.
Tags: Washington, Lord Stirling, Charles Lee, New York, Manhattan, Long Island, Hudson River, Congress, 1776.
March 15, 1776 – The Next Battleground: New York
As Boston held its breath, Washington prepared New York for the coming storm.
Snow and slush crusted the edges of the roads as messengers rode hard between Cambridge, Philadelphia, and New York. By March 15, soldiers and statesmen alike could feel the center of the war shifting. Boston’s fate was still unsettled, but the next struggle was already forming to the south.
General John Sullivan put the mood plainly in his letter to John Adams that day. Part of the army had already marched toward New York “to prevent them getting possession of that important post,” and he expected to follow within “two or three days.” His words carried the urgency of a man who knew the army was racing against events it could not see.
Washington shared that urgency. He had already warned Lord Stirling that British talk of Halifax was likely a ruse. “I am of opinion that New York is the place of their destination,” he wrote. If the enemy controlled the Hudson, they could split the colonies in two. He had already sent reinforcements south—riflemen first, then a regiment, with more brigades preparing to follow as soon as Boston was secure.
That same week, Congress had been working from the other end of the problem. They reviewed Major General Charles Lee’s sweeping defensive plan for New York: block key waterways, strengthen high ground, and build defenses approaching King’s Bridge. Lee’s point was that the city could not be walled like a fortress, but its terrain could be shaped into a “field of battle” to make any British landing costly. Congress ordered eight thousand troops to help him and directed four battalions to march “with all expedition.”
Meanwhile, Stirling—newly commanding at New York—was already implementing those measures. The Provincial Convention had “very cheerfully and spiritedly” approved every step he proposed. Local militia threw themselves into the backbreaking work of digging, hauling timber, and building earthworks. Powder arriving from Philadelphia was repacked into new casks to keep it dry. “We have . . . been taking every measure in our power to secure this place,” he wrote Washington.
Boston still watched and waited. New York was already bracing for impact. And although the British fleet had not yet sailed, one truth had become clear: the Americans were already moving to meet the blow wherever it fell.
Sources: Journals of Congress (March 12–14, 1776); Writings of George Washington, vol. 4; Papers of John Adams; US: Founders Online.
Additional Background: New York: Journals of the Provincial Congress (March 13–17, 1776).
Themes: Campaigns of the War; American Armed Services.
Tags: Washington, Lord Stirling, Charles Lee, New York, Manhattan, Long Island, Hudson River, Congress, 1776.
March 16, 1776
The Walk to Third Street
March 16, 1776 – The Walk to Third Street
A Saturday walk led John Adams past a familiar church and steadied his resolve.
Late afternoon light stretched long and thin across Philadelphia’s streets as John Adams left the State House. Congress had finally adjourned after hours of debate—nothing settled, everything strained. Talk of independence continued, yet still the delegates hesitated. Adams felt the weariness of it in every step. He had once written that Congress was “a great, unwieldy body,” forced to move only as fast as its slowest members.
Meanwhile, rumors trickled in from Boston: Washington had fortified the Heights; the British seemed uneasy. But no one could say whether deliverance was days away or still a distant hope. Adams prayed it was near.
He walked southward through the cooling air, letting the bustle of Philadelphia fade behind him. Adams often walked after Congress adjourned, seeking clarity where the streets were quieter and the city’s clamor softened. His route drew him toward Third and Pine, where the tall steeple of the Third Presbyterian Church caught the setting sun.
The doors were shut, as they always were on a Saturday. Tomorrow, the sanctuary would be filled—pews creaking, families murmuring, the steady voice of Reverend George Duffield preaching. Adams had been attending there since the first Continental Congress. “His principles, prayers, and sermons,” he wrote Abigail, “more nearly resemble those of our New England clergy than any that I have heard.”
Reverend Duffield was later called “an earnest and powerful advocate of civil and religious liberty.” Adams knew the truth of that long before the historian wrote a word. Duffield preached that conscience was the gift of God, that virtue was the guardian of liberty, that fear must not govern a free people.
Adams paused across from the silent church, imagining tomorrow’s gathering. He needed that hour of stillness, that reminder of Providence’s rule in the affairs of nations. Congress was divided, and the road ahead was fraught, but liberty was not born of convenience. It demanded the courage of statesmen as much as soldiers.
He turned back as dusk settled over the city. Tomorrow he would take his place in Duffield’s pews. A week later, he would learn that Boston was free. But on this quiet March evening, Adams carried with him a settled conviction: whatever news might come, the cause of liberty must not falter.
Sources: The Adams Papers; Morris, Christian Life and Character.
Additional background: Sprague, Annals of the American Pulpit; Journals of Congress, Vol. 8.
Themes: Moral Foundations; Voices of the Revolution
Tags: John Adams, George Duffield, Philadelphia, Third Presbyterian Church, Congress, 1776
March 16, 1776 – The Walk to Third Street
A Saturday walk led John Adams past a familiar church and steadied his resolve.
Late afternoon light stretched long and thin across Philadelphia’s streets as John Adams left the State House. Congress had finally adjourned after hours of debate—nothing settled, everything strained. Talk of independence continued, yet still the delegates hesitated. Adams felt the weariness of it in every step. He had once written that Congress was “a great, unwieldy body,” forced to move only as fast as its slowest members.
Meanwhile, rumors trickled in from Boston: Washington had fortified the Heights; the British seemed uneasy. But no one could say whether deliverance was days away or still a distant hope. Adams prayed it was near.
He walked southward through the cooling air, letting the bustle of Philadelphia fade behind him. Adams often walked after Congress adjourned, seeking clarity where the streets were quieter and the city’s clamor softened. His route drew him toward Third and Pine, where the tall steeple of the Third Presbyterian Church caught the setting sun.
The doors were shut, as they always were on a Saturday. Tomorrow, the sanctuary would be filled—pews creaking, families murmuring, the steady voice of Reverend George Duffield preaching. Adams had been attending there since the first Continental Congress. “His principles, prayers, and sermons,” he wrote Abigail, “more nearly resemble those of our New England clergy than any that I have heard.”
Reverend Duffield was later called “an earnest and powerful advocate of civil and religious liberty.” Adams knew the truth of that long before the historian wrote a word. Duffield preached that conscience was the gift of God, that virtue was the guardian of liberty, that fear must not govern a free people.
Adams paused across from the silent church, imagining tomorrow’s gathering. He needed that hour of stillness, that reminder of Providence’s rule in the affairs of nations. Congress was divided, and the road ahead was fraught, but liberty was not born of convenience. It demanded the courage of statesmen as much as soldiers.
He turned back as dusk settled over the city. Tomorrow he would take his place in Duffield’s pews. A week later, he would learn that Boston was free. But on this quiet March evening, Adams carried with him a settled conviction: whatever news might come, the cause of liberty must not falter.
Sources: The Adams Papers; Morris, Christian Life and Character.
Additional background: Sprague, Annals of the American Pulpit; Journals of Congress, Vol. 8.
Themes: Moral Foundations; Voices of the Revolution
Tags: John Adams, George Duffield, Philadelphia, Third Presbyterian Church, Congress, 1776
March 17, 1776
Sunday: The Day Boston Breathed Free
March 17, 1776 — Sunday: The Day Boston Breathed Free
After months of siege and years of occupation, the British left without a battle.
The Sabbath dawned without the boom of artillery. For nearly a year, Boston had lived under the rumble of cannon, the rattle of sentries, and the shouts of British patrols. But today, only the wharves were bustling. Soldiers, sailors, Loyalist families, and wagonloads of supplies crowded the decks of British transports to leave the town they had controlled since 1768.
From his headquarters in Cambridge, General George Washington studied the shoreline through a spyglass. For days, the British fleet had gathered in Nantasket Roads—a stretch of deep anchorage outside Boston Harbor. Their masts were packed together like a forest on the water. Washington had expected a brutal fight for Boston: an assault on Dorchester Heights, or perhaps an attempt to burn the town. But the cannon on Dorchester Heights made the town impossible for the British to defend.
Even with the British withdrawing, Washington would take no chances. He gave strict orders that no one was to enter the town until the army could secure it safely. Retreating forces sometimes left powder traps or set buildings to explode. The Commander in Chief knew that one careless step could bring disaster to the very people the army hoped to protect. So American troops watched and waited as British General William Howe’s men boarded the crowded ships.
Over a week later, as the tide turned, the fleet began to move. One by one, the ships lifted anchor and drifted toward open water, raising sail only when they had room to catch the wind. The canvas billowed, and the long convoy slipped toward the open sea. As the final ships passed Castle Island, cheers erupted along the American lines.
When Washington allowed a small detachment to cross into the city, they found battered houses, broken earthworks, and abandoned cannon, but the town itself still stood. The British had not burned Boston after all. At last, the Sabbath ended with hope instead of fear.
Later, when Washington himself rode in, people filled the streets to welcome him. Children waved, bells rang, and old men wiped tears from their eyes. After months of fear and hunger, the people of Boston were free again. The siege that had begun after the shots at Lexington in April 1775 was finally over.
Source: Frothingham, History of the Siege of Boston; Writings of George Washington; Force, American Archives, Fourth Series.
Additional background: Lossing, Field Book of the Revolution.
Themes: Siege of Boston; Campaigns of the War.
Tags: Washington, John Thomas, Dorchester Heights, Fascines, Night March, Boston Siege, 1776.
March 17, 1776 — Sunday: The Day Boston Breathed Free
After months of siege and years of occupation, the British left without a battle.
The Sabbath dawned without the boom of artillery. For nearly a year, Boston had lived under the rumble of cannon, the rattle of sentries, and the shouts of British patrols. But today, only the wharves were bustling. Soldiers, sailors, Loyalist families, and wagonloads of supplies crowded the decks of British transports to leave the town they had controlled since 1768.
From his headquarters in Cambridge, General George Washington studied the shoreline through a spyglass. For days, the British fleet had gathered in Nantasket Roads—a stretch of deep anchorage outside Boston Harbor. Their masts were packed together like a forest on the water. Washington had expected a brutal fight for Boston: an assault on Dorchester Heights, or perhaps an attempt to burn the town. But the cannon on Dorchester Heights made the town impossible for the British to defend.
Even with the British withdrawing, Washington would take no chances. He gave strict orders that no one was to enter the town until the army could secure it safely. Retreating forces sometimes left powder traps or set buildings to explode. The Commander in Chief knew that one careless step could bring disaster to the very people the army hoped to protect. So American troops watched and waited as British General William Howe’s men boarded the crowded ships.
Over a week later, as the tide turned, the fleet began to move. One by one, the ships lifted anchor and drifted toward open water, raising sail only when they had room to catch the wind. The canvas billowed, and the long convoy slipped toward the open sea. As the final ships passed Castle Island, cheers erupted along the American lines.
When Washington allowed a small detachment to cross into the city, they found battered houses, broken earthworks, and abandoned cannon, but the town itself still stood. The British had not burned Boston after all. At last, the Sabbath ended with hope instead of fear.
Later, when Washington himself rode in, people filled the streets to welcome him. Children waved, bells rang, and old men wiped tears from their eyes. After months of fear and hunger, the people of Boston were free again. The siege that had begun after the shots at Lexington in April 1775 was finally over.
Source: Frothingham, History of the Siege of Boston; Writings of George Washington; Force, American Archives, Fourth Series.
Additional background: Lossing, Field Book of the Revolution.
Themes: Siege of Boston; Campaigns of the War.
Tags: Washington, John Thomas, Dorchester Heights, Fascines, Night March, Boston Siege, 1776.
March 18, 1776
After the Surrender at Fort Nassau
March 18, 1776 — After the Surrender at Fort Nassau
A successful raid felt like defeat without its main objective.
By mid-March 1776, the Continental fleet lay anchored off the island of New Providence in the Bahamas. The heavy-laden ships looked victorious. Below decks, they carried cannon, mortars, round shot, and military stores taken from British forts. Yet something important was missing.
Two weeks earlier, Continental Marines had landed on the eastern end of the island and marched toward Fort Montagu, which offered little resistance. The next day, British Governor Montfort Browne gave up Fort Nassau as well.
But the Americans needed gunpowder—desperately. Without powder, cannon were useless. During the night before the Americans entered Nassau, however, Browne had quietly shipped most of the island’s gunpowder north to St. Augustine in British East Florida, sending it out of American reach.
When the Americans took inventory, the barrels of powder were gone. It was a bitter discovery. The expedition had succeeded—but not in the way its leaders had hoped.
Still, what they carried mattered. Even heavy guns could strengthen the American cause. Commodore Esek Hopkins ordered the captured stores to be secured and prepared the fleet to leave quickly. Every extra day increased the risk that British warships might appear on the horizon.
No one knew how much time they had. British ships sailed these waters regularly, and a single sighting could turn departure into a fight. The longer the fleet waited, the more exposed it became.
By March 18, the fleet was ready to sail. Boats moved between shore and ship as the last supplies were loaded. Heavy cannon were lowered through open hatches, their weight pulling the ships deeper into the water. Prisoners were brought aboard under guard, including Governor Browne himself.
Historians would later describe the landing at New Providence as the first American amphibious assault. But no one in Congress yet knew what had happened. No praise had been offered. No blame had been assigned. The fleet sailed north, uncertain whether it had done enough.
British ships still patrolled the coast. Storms could scatter the fleet. The expedition’s true cost and value would be judged later. For now, the ships left Nassau heavy with iron, light on powder, and shadowed by the question every sailor understood: What if the British were already in pursuit?
Source: Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 5.
Additional Background: U.S. Navy, Naval History and Heritage Command, “Hopkins I (DD-6).”
Themes: American Armed Services, Campaigns of the War.
Tags: Continental Navy; Continental Marines; Esek Hopkins; Fort Nassau; New Providence, Bahamas; 1776.
March 18, 1776 — After the Surrender at Fort Nassau
A successful raid felt like defeat without its main objective.
By mid-March 1776, the Continental fleet lay anchored off the island of New Providence in the Bahamas. The heavy-laden ships looked victorious. Below decks, they carried cannon, mortars, round shot, and military stores taken from British forts. Yet something important was missing.
Two weeks earlier, Continental Marines had landed on the eastern end of the island and marched toward Fort Montagu, which offered little resistance. The next day, British Governor Montfort Browne gave up Fort Nassau as well.
But the Americans needed gunpowder—desperately. Without powder, cannon were useless. During the night before the Americans entered Nassau, however, Browne had quietly shipped most of the island’s gunpowder north to St. Augustine in British East Florida, sending it out of American reach.
When the Americans took inventory, the barrels of powder were gone. It was a bitter discovery. The expedition had succeeded—but not in the way its leaders had hoped.
Still, what they carried mattered. Even heavy guns could strengthen the American cause. Commodore Esek Hopkins ordered the captured stores to be secured and prepared the fleet to leave quickly. Every extra day increased the risk that British warships might appear on the horizon.
No one knew how much time they had. British ships sailed these waters regularly, and a single sighting could turn departure into a fight. The longer the fleet waited, the more exposed it became.
By March 18, the fleet was ready to sail. Boats moved between shore and ship as the last supplies were loaded. Heavy cannon were lowered through open hatches, their weight pulling the ships deeper into the water. Prisoners were brought aboard under guard, including Governor Browne himself.
Historians would later describe the landing at New Providence as the first American amphibious assault. But no one in Congress yet knew what had happened. No praise had been offered. No blame had been assigned. The fleet sailed north, uncertain whether it had done enough.
British ships still patrolled the coast. Storms could scatter the fleet. The expedition’s true cost and value would be judged later. For now, the ships left Nassau heavy with iron, light on powder, and shadowed by the question every sailor understood: What if the British were already in pursuit?
Source: Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 5.
Additional Background: U.S. Navy, Naval History and Heritage Command, “Hopkins I (DD-6).”
Themes: American Armed Services, Campaigns of the War.
Tags: Continental Navy; Continental Marines; Esek Hopkins; Fort Nassau; New Providence, Bahamas; 1776.
March 19, 1776
The “Supposed” Lord Stirling
March 19, 1776 — The “Supposed” Lord Stirling
A titled nobleman stood with rebels while Britain questioned his pedigree.
Writing from Boston, a British officer complained of “bad news from New York this morning.” He sneered that a man who “calls himself Lord Stirling” had placed himself at the head of three thousand men. Alongside “that arch Rebel Lee,” the self-styled noble had driven loyal inhabitants from the city.
Written in early March, the letter already pointed toward the war’s next theater.
British troops had abandoned Boston in haste, but the fleet remained stubbornly in sight, riding at anchor in the deep waters of Nantasket and King’s Roads just outside the harbor. Favorable winds came and went, yet the ships did not sail. What they meant to do next remained an open question.
George Washington refused to guess. Though the town was free, he would not march off with the main body of the army “until I should be fully satisfied they had quitted the Coast.” Congress agreed.
On March 19, that certainty had not arrived. Powder was the question. Some had already reached Boston; the rest were stopped on the road. If they took it from Boston too soon, Washington feared, they would be caught short if the enemy returned. If he held too much back, New York would be in danger if the fleet shifted south.
Then came a surprise. As American troops entered Boston, Washington discovered how much the British had left behind in their hurry: heavy cannon, mortars, shot and shell, artillery wagons, stores, and most importantly, powder wagons. What had been a winter of scarcity suddenly yielded unexpected abundance. Boston’s immediate need eased. The balance shifted.
Days later, with the fleet still lingering at Nantasket Roads, Washington wrote again—this time advising Stirling that if the message arrived before the powder departed, he would “do well to keep it.” New York now stood as the likely target of British attention.
The British officer’s mockery missed the point. In America, titles mattered less than judgment and ability. On March 19, under watchful enemy sails and without firm intelligence, Stirling, Washington, and Congress all chose restraint over assumption. Powder was divided, halted, and redirected. Preparations continued. The war turned not on a battle, but on decisions made before the next one came.
Sources: Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 5; Writings of George Washington.
Additional Background: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4.
Themes: Campaigns of the War; Voices of the Revolution
Tags: Lord Stirling; George Washington; New York; Nantasket Roads; Powder shortages; 1776.
March 19, 1776 — The “Supposed” Lord Stirling
A titled nobleman stood with rebels while Britain questioned his pedigree.
Writing from Boston, a British officer complained of “bad news from New York this morning.” He sneered that a man who “calls himself Lord Stirling” had placed himself at the head of three thousand men. Alongside “that arch Rebel Lee,” the self-styled noble had driven loyal inhabitants from the city.
Written in early March, the letter already pointed toward the war’s next theater.
British troops had abandoned Boston in haste, but the fleet remained stubbornly in sight, riding at anchor in the deep waters of Nantasket and King’s Roads just outside the harbor. Favorable winds came and went, yet the ships did not sail. What they meant to do next remained an open question.
George Washington refused to guess. Though the town was free, he would not march off with the main body of the army “until I should be fully satisfied they had quitted the Coast.” Congress agreed.
On March 19, that certainty had not arrived. Powder was the question. Some had already reached Boston; the rest were stopped on the road. If they took it from Boston too soon, Washington feared, they would be caught short if the enemy returned. If he held too much back, New York would be in danger if the fleet shifted south.
Then came a surprise. As American troops entered Boston, Washington discovered how much the British had left behind in their hurry: heavy cannon, mortars, shot and shell, artillery wagons, stores, and most importantly, powder wagons. What had been a winter of scarcity suddenly yielded unexpected abundance. Boston’s immediate need eased. The balance shifted.
Days later, with the fleet still lingering at Nantasket Roads, Washington wrote again—this time advising Stirling that if the message arrived before the powder departed, he would “do well to keep it.” New York now stood as the likely target of British attention.
The British officer’s mockery missed the point. In America, titles mattered less than judgment and ability. On March 19, under watchful enemy sails and without firm intelligence, Stirling, Washington, and Congress all chose restraint over assumption. Powder was divided, halted, and redirected. Preparations continued. The war turned not on a battle, but on decisions made before the next one came.
Sources: Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 5; Writings of George Washington.
Additional Background: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4.
Themes: Campaigns of the War; Voices of the Revolution
Tags: Lord Stirling; George Washington; New York; Nantasket Roads; Powder shortages; 1776.
March 20, 1776
A Call to Prayer for a Nation in Need
March 20, 1776 – A Call to Prayer for a Nation in Need
In a moment of crisis, Congress called the nation to its knees.
Only days had passed since the British evacuated Boston, yet Congress knew the moment demanded far more than celebration. The war was still young, the danger still immense, and the stakes were growing sharper with every British reinforcement crossing the Atlantic. Even with the first great victory of the Revolution won, the path ahead was steep and uncertain.
On March 16, Congress had debated a resolution brought forward by William Livingston of New Jersey. When they adopted it, the delegates did something deeply characteristic of the age: they turned not toward triumph, but toward humility. Four days later, on March 20, the Pennsylvania Gazette printed Congress’s proclamation appointing Friday, May 17, as a day of “humiliation, fasting, and prayer” throughout the United Colonies.
Its language was striking—even for an age steeped in Scripture. Congress declared it the “indispensable duty” of the colonies to acknowledge “the over ruling providence of God,” to confess their sins, and to seek His mercy in a time when liberty itself was “imminently endangered.” The proclamation warned that the British ministry, “insidious and vindictive,” was preparing to subdue America “by fire and sword.” In such a crisis, Congress urged every rank of society to be “duly impressed with a solemn sense of God’s superintending providence” and to rely on His aid “in all their lawful enterprises.”
The call was both spiritual and civic. Congress asked God to restrain the enemy, strengthen the colonies’ civil rulers, fortify their union, and inspire a spirit of “incorruptible patriotism.” It appealed for divine protection for the army and the “continental arms, by sea and land,” and prayed that pure religion and public virtue might flourish together.
The delegates closed with a plea that spoke to the heart of the Revolution: that God would “speedily restore” the continent to peace and liberty and enable Americans to preserve those blessings “to the latest posterity.”
For a people standing between deliverance and danger, the proclamation offered direction more profound than strategy. It reminded the colonies that the fight for freedom demanded not only strength but also repentance, humility, and steadfast trust in the God they believed governed nations as surely as He governed men.
Source: Journals of Congress, March 16, 1776; Pennsylvania Gazette, March 20, 1776.
Additional background: Lossing, Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1; Frothingham, History of the Siege of Boston; Morris, Christian Life and Character.
Themes: Faith and Providence; Moral Foundations
Tags: William Livingston, Continental Congress, Pennsylvania Gazette, Fasting and Prayer, Providence, 1776
March 20, 1776 – A Call to Prayer for a Nation in Need
In a moment of crisis, Congress called the nation to its knees.
Only days had passed since the British evacuated Boston, yet Congress knew the moment demanded far more than celebration. The war was still young, the danger still immense, and the stakes were growing sharper with every British reinforcement crossing the Atlantic. Even with the first great victory of the Revolution won, the path ahead was steep and uncertain.
On March 16, Congress had debated a resolution brought forward by William Livingston of New Jersey. When they adopted it, the delegates did something deeply characteristic of the age: they turned not toward triumph, but toward humility. Four days later, on March 20, the Pennsylvania Gazette printed Congress’s proclamation appointing Friday, May 17, as a day of “humiliation, fasting, and prayer” throughout the United Colonies.
Its language was striking—even for an age steeped in Scripture. Congress declared it the “indispensable duty” of the colonies to acknowledge “the over ruling providence of God,” to confess their sins, and to seek His mercy in a time when liberty itself was “imminently endangered.” The proclamation warned that the British ministry, “insidious and vindictive,” was preparing to subdue America “by fire and sword.” In such a crisis, Congress urged every rank of society to be “duly impressed with a solemn sense of God’s superintending providence” and to rely on His aid “in all their lawful enterprises.”
The call was both spiritual and civic. Congress asked God to restrain the enemy, strengthen the colonies’ civil rulers, fortify their union, and inspire a spirit of “incorruptible patriotism.” It appealed for divine protection for the army and the “continental arms, by sea and land,” and prayed that pure religion and public virtue might flourish together.
The delegates closed with a plea that spoke to the heart of the Revolution: that God would “speedily restore” the continent to peace and liberty and enable Americans to preserve those blessings “to the latest posterity.”
For a people standing between deliverance and danger, the proclamation offered direction more profound than strategy. It reminded the colonies that the fight for freedom demanded not only strength but also repentance, humility, and steadfast trust in the God they believed governed nations as surely as He governed men.
Source: Journals of Congress, March 16, 1776; Pennsylvania Gazette, March 20, 1776.
Additional background: Lossing, Field-Book of the Revolution, Vol. 1; Frothingham, History of the Siege of Boston; Morris, Christian Life and Character.
Themes: Faith and Providence; Moral Foundations
Tags: William Livingston, Continental Congress, Pennsylvania Gazette, Fasting and Prayer, Providence, 1776
March 21, 1776
Till They Could Make New Ones
March 21, 1776 – Till They Could Make New Ones
Shortages forced Americans to make what could no longer be bought.
During the Stamp Act crisis, Benjamin Franklin was called before Parliament and questioned about the American colonies. He answered without bluster: if Britain pressed too hard, Americans would do without. They would wear out their old clothes until they could make new ones.
A decade later, that quiet resolve was no longer a distant warning. It had become daily life.
By the winter of 1775–76, shortages touched nearly everything. British trade was disrupted, imports were uncertain, and what had once been purchased was not always available. The strain fell heaviest on the army. General George Washington warned repeatedly that blankets could not be obtained and that clothing already in use was worn beyond service. Winter, he wrote, was approaching “upon a naked Army.”
Congress had tried to secure supplies abroad. Early in the war, it authorized the importation of vast quantities of cloth, arms, and military stores. But ships were delayed, cargoes were lost, and needs continued to outpace supply. What could not be bought would have to be made.
The shift was already underway. Committees were formed to oversee the production of muskets and bayonets. Contracts were issued for shoes and clothing. Across the colonies, households spun, wove, stitched, and mended, supplying what markets could not. The work was uneven and often inadequate, but it was essential.
On March 21, 1776, Congress gave that effort formal shape. It urged the colonies’ assemblies, conventions, and committees of safety to promote the cultivation of hemp, flax, and cotton, and the growth of wool. All were essential for rope, sailcloth, and durable textiles. It called for societies to improve agriculture, manufacturing, commerce, and especially to produce steel. The message was plain: the resources of the country must be fully utilized.
This was not a sudden inspiration. It was the acceptance of a truth long understood. A generation earlier, Franklin had told Parliament that Americans would choose endurance over dependence. Now Congress asked them to do exactly that—to lean into labor, to accept inconvenience, and to sustain the cause with their own hands.
The Revolution would be fought with muskets and cannon. But it would also be carried forward by fields planted, looms worked, and old clothes worn thin, until new ones could be made.
Sources: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 21, 1776); Bigelow, Life of Benjamin Franklin, Vol. 1.
Additional background: Writings of George Washington.
Themes: Forging Unity; Courage and Ingenuity
Tags: Benjamin Franklin; George Washington; Wartime Shortages; Manufacturing; Self-Reliance; 1776
March 21, 1776 – Till They Could Make New Ones
Shortages forced Americans to make what could no longer be bought.
During the Stamp Act crisis, Benjamin Franklin was called before Parliament and questioned about the American colonies. He answered without bluster: if Britain pressed too hard, Americans would do without. They would wear out their old clothes until they could make new ones.
A decade later, that quiet resolve was no longer a distant warning. It had become daily life.
By the winter of 1775–76, shortages touched nearly everything. British trade was disrupted, imports were uncertain, and what had once been purchased was not always available. The strain fell heaviest on the army. General George Washington warned repeatedly that blankets could not be obtained and that clothing already in use was worn beyond service. Winter, he wrote, was approaching “upon a naked Army.”
Congress had tried to secure supplies abroad. Early in the war, it authorized the importation of vast quantities of cloth, arms, and military stores. But ships were delayed, cargoes were lost, and needs continued to outpace supply. What could not be bought would have to be made.
The shift was already underway. Committees were formed to oversee the production of muskets and bayonets. Contracts were issued for shoes and clothing. Across the colonies, households spun, wove, stitched, and mended, supplying what markets could not. The work was uneven and often inadequate, but it was essential.
On March 21, 1776, Congress gave that effort formal shape. It urged the colonies’ assemblies, conventions, and committees of safety to promote the cultivation of hemp, flax, and cotton, and the growth of wool. All were essential for rope, sailcloth, and durable textiles. It called for societies to improve agriculture, manufacturing, commerce, and especially to produce steel. The message was plain: the resources of the country must be fully utilized.
This was not a sudden inspiration. It was the acceptance of a truth long understood. A generation earlier, Franklin had told Parliament that Americans would choose endurance over dependence. Now Congress asked them to do exactly that—to lean into labor, to accept inconvenience, and to sustain the cause with their own hands.
The Revolution would be fought with muskets and cannon. But it would also be carried forward by fields planted, looms worked, and old clothes worn thin, until new ones could be made.
Sources: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 21, 1776); Bigelow, Life of Benjamin Franklin, Vol. 1.
Additional background: Writings of George Washington.
Themes: Forging Unity; Courage and Ingenuity
Tags: Benjamin Franklin; George Washington; Wartime Shortages; Manufacturing; Self-Reliance; 1776
March 22, 1776
“Destroy This Letter”
March 22, 1776 – “Destroy This Letter”
What had begun as a secret mission now ended in the open proceedings of Congress.
“We beg you will destroy this as soon as read.”
Lord Stirling received the warning on a cold Sunday night in January. Rushed by express from the New York Committee of Safety, the letter carried intelligence from a seized messenger and letters found on him. A British transport lay off Sandy Hook, damaged by winter storms, deeply laden with stores for the army, and waiting for help from the nearest man-of-war. With that assistance, the ship would proceed to aid the British in Boston.
Speed and silence were essential. Stirling moved quickly. A small force crossed the water by night and seized the vessel before warships could intervene. No shot was fired. The cargo of coal and food was brought ashore, and the crew was secured. Within days, Congress praised the alertness and good conduct of Stirling and the volunteers who assisted him, calling their actions “laudable and exemplary.”
But the daring winter seizure was only the beginning of the story. Once the excitement passed, practical realities intervened. Local authorities moved quickly to distribute the perishable food before it spoiled. What remained raised a different question. The cargo was no longer merely a prize taken in secrecy; it was now a national resource. Who had the right to decide its fate? And could a collection of colonies act as a single nation in doing so?
On March 22, Congress provided the answer. The delegates resolved that the coal taken from the seized vessel could be sold under congressional authority, placing its value at the service of the United Colonies. With that decision, Congress asserted national control over the spoils of war—turning a secret, local action into open public policy.
The resolution marked the final act of a mission that had begun with a letter meant to be destroyed. Intelligence gathered in secrecy, action carried out under cover of winter darkness, and praise first given for individual initiative now culminated in an open decision of a national legislature. In small but telling ways, Congress was learning how to fight a war—not only with arms but with governance.
What had begun as a secret warning off Sandy Hook ended as a precedent on the floor of Congress.
Sources: Naval Documents of the American Revolution, Vol. 3; Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 22, 1776).
Additional background: Duer, Life of Lord Stirling; Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 5.
Themes: Self-Government, Campaigns of the War
Tags: Continental Congress, Lord Stirling, Committees of Safety, Intelligence and Secrecy, Sandy Hook, 1776.
March 22, 1776 – “Destroy This Letter”
What had begun as a secret mission now ended in the open proceedings of Congress.
“We beg you will destroy this as soon as read.”
Lord Stirling received the warning on a cold Sunday night in January. Rushed by express from the New York Committee of Safety, the letter carried intelligence from a seized messenger and letters found on him. A British transport lay off Sandy Hook, damaged by winter storms, deeply laden with stores for the army, and waiting for help from the nearest man-of-war. With that assistance, the ship would proceed to aid the British in Boston.
Speed and silence were essential. Stirling moved quickly. A small force crossed the water by night and seized the vessel before warships could intervene. No shot was fired. The cargo of coal and food was brought ashore, and the crew was secured. Within days, Congress praised the alertness and good conduct of Stirling and the volunteers who assisted him, calling their actions “laudable and exemplary.”
But the daring winter seizure was only the beginning of the story. Once the excitement passed, practical realities intervened. Local authorities moved quickly to distribute the perishable food before it spoiled. What remained raised a different question. The cargo was no longer merely a prize taken in secrecy; it was now a national resource. Who had the right to decide its fate? And could a collection of colonies act as a single nation in doing so?
On March 22, Congress provided the answer. The delegates resolved that the coal taken from the seized vessel could be sold under congressional authority, placing its value at the service of the United Colonies. With that decision, Congress asserted national control over the spoils of war—turning a secret, local action into open public policy.
The resolution marked the final act of a mission that had begun with a letter meant to be destroyed. Intelligence gathered in secrecy, action carried out under cover of winter darkness, and praise first given for individual initiative now culminated in an open decision of a national legislature. In small but telling ways, Congress was learning how to fight a war—not only with arms but with governance.
What had begun as a secret warning off Sandy Hook ended as a precedent on the floor of Congress.
Sources: Naval Documents of the American Revolution, Vol. 3; Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 22, 1776).
Additional background: Duer, Life of Lord Stirling; Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 5.
Themes: Self-Government, Campaigns of the War
Tags: Continental Congress, Lord Stirling, Committees of Safety, Intelligence and Secrecy, Sandy Hook, 1776.
March 23, 1776
The Anniversary of “Liberty or Death”
March 23, 1776 – The Anniversary of “Liberty or Death”
A year after Patrick Henry’s speech, Congress set out rules for lawful self-defense.
One spring day in 1775, a voice rose among Virginia’s lawmakers. The royal governor had disbanded the House of Burgesses, but they met anyway.
Patrick Henry was done pretending that gentle words could stop muskets. Britain was not calming down. It was gearing up. Henry warned that waiting would only make things worse. Peace was precious, yes. But peace purchased by fear was not peace at all.
“Is life so dear,” he declared, “or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!”
The room fell silent. Henry’s words did not settle the argument—they ended it. The delegates voted to prepare for armed defense, knowing the path ahead would be costly.
One full year passed. Now the Continental Congress had to decide what those words would mean.
On March 23, 1776, Congress faced what Henry had predicted. They did not write like men arguing about possibilities. They wrote like men describing facts. They stated that the colonies’ petitions had been rejected with contempt and that an unjust war had already begun against them. Parliament had treated Americans not as fellow subjects with rights, but as rebels whose property could be seized.
Congress did something else as well. They called the colonies to act together and to do so by rules recognized among other nations. Congress authorized Americans to fit out armed vessels against the enemies of the United Colonies—but insisted that captured ships and goods be judged through proper courts.
Congress was not only deciding that the colonies would defend themselves. They were deciding how. Just weeks earlier, on February 13, the delegates had written a careful explanation of colonial rights—but they were not ready to publish it. On March 23, it was time. They ordered their decision to be printed in the Pennsylvania Gazette for the public to read.
In Virginia, Henry had spoken a warning: the danger was real, and delay was no longer safe. In Philadelphia, Congress turned that warning into a public, lawful course of action. Words had become responsibility—written down, signed, and made public.
Sources: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 23, 1776); Wirt, Life of Patrick Henry.
Additional background: Pennsylvania Gazette (March 27, 1776); Tyler, Patrick Henry.
Themes: Moral Foundations, Founding Principles
Tags: Patrick Henry, Liberty or Death, Continental Congress, lawful self-defense, laws and customs of nations, 1776
March 23, 1776 – The Anniversary of “Liberty or Death”
A year after Patrick Henry’s speech, Congress set out rules for lawful self-defense.
One spring day in 1775, a voice rose among Virginia’s lawmakers. The royal governor had disbanded the House of Burgesses, but they met anyway.
Patrick Henry was done pretending that gentle words could stop muskets. Britain was not calming down. It was gearing up. Henry warned that waiting would only make things worse. Peace was precious, yes. But peace purchased by fear was not peace at all.
“Is life so dear,” he declared, “or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!”
The room fell silent. Henry’s words did not settle the argument—they ended it. The delegates voted to prepare for armed defense, knowing the path ahead would be costly.
One full year passed. Now the Continental Congress had to decide what those words would mean.
On March 23, 1776, Congress faced what Henry had predicted. They did not write like men arguing about possibilities. They wrote like men describing facts. They stated that the colonies’ petitions had been rejected with contempt and that an unjust war had already begun against them. Parliament had treated Americans not as fellow subjects with rights, but as rebels whose property could be seized.
Congress did something else as well. They called the colonies to act together and to do so by rules recognized among other nations. Congress authorized Americans to fit out armed vessels against the enemies of the United Colonies—but insisted that captured ships and goods be judged through proper courts.
Congress was not only deciding that the colonies would defend themselves. They were deciding how. Just weeks earlier, on February 13, the delegates had written a careful explanation of colonial rights—but they were not ready to publish it. On March 23, it was time. They ordered their decision to be printed in the Pennsylvania Gazette for the public to read.
In Virginia, Henry had spoken a warning: the danger was real, and delay was no longer safe. In Philadelphia, Congress turned that warning into a public, lawful course of action. Words had become responsibility—written down, signed, and made public.
Sources: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 23, 1776); Wirt, Life of Patrick Henry.
Additional background: Pennsylvania Gazette (March 27, 1776); Tyler, Patrick Henry.
Themes: Moral Foundations, Founding Principles
Tags: Patrick Henry, Liberty or Death, Continental Congress, lawful self-defense, laws and customs of nations, 1776
March 24, 1776
Sunday: By the Blessing of a Kind Providence
March 24, 1776 – Sunday: By the Blessing of a Kind Providence
Washington believed freedom depended on character—and the blessing of Heaven.
March 24, 1776, fell on a Sunday. The Sabbath brought a rare pause to the steady demands of command, and George Washington used that respite to take up his pen. What he wrote that day revealed how deeply he believed the American cause depended on more than arms.
From the beginning of his command, Washington warned that an army without discipline was “no better than a commissioned mob.” Courage alone would not secure liberty; character mattered, and discipline was its outward form.
Yet even discipline, Washington believed, had limits. It could shape behavior, but it could not, by itself, secure the cause. That was why, from his earliest orders, he required soldiers to attend divine services: “to implore the blessings of Heaven.” Human effort mattered, but it was not enough. Victory rested, as he often said, under Providence.
Woodstock, Virginia, had already heard sermons about the cost of liberty. Now, a different church faced that cost: giving up its minister to serve as a chaplain in the army.
When the church appealed for his return, Washington did not argue strategy or manpower. He wrote instead of morals. The minister, he explained, was engaged in “the glorious work of attending to the morals” of those fighting for their liberties, and “the liberties of all America.” Such work, Washington believed, strengthened the army at its core.
Washington acknowledged the sacrifice being asked. A congregation would be without its minister for a time. But he framed that loss as service to the public good, not abandonment. When the struggle ended, he assured them, the minister would be welcomed home again. For now, the needs of the nation came first.
This was not an unusual request. Congress itself regulated chaplain service and pay, recognizing that moral guidance was essential and often stretched thin. Some chaplains served multiple regiments, even the army as a whole. Washington’s letter reflected a shared understanding: liberty required restraint, and restraint required moral formation.
On that Sunday in March 1776, Washington reminded Americans that the fight for independence was not only a test of strength. It was a test of character. Discipline and courage were essential—but the outcome of the struggle, he believed, depended on “the blessing of a Kind Providence.”
Source: The Writings of George Washington, Vol. 3.
Additional background: The Journals of Congress, Vol. 4.
Themes: Faith and Providence, Moral Foundations
Tags: George Washington, Continental Army. Chaplains, Providence, Discipline, 1776
March 24, 1776 – Sunday: By the Blessing of a Kind Providence
Washington believed freedom depended on character—and the blessing of Heaven.
March 24, 1776, fell on a Sunday. The Sabbath brought a rare pause to the steady demands of command, and George Washington used that respite to take up his pen. What he wrote that day revealed how deeply he believed the American cause depended on more than arms.
From the beginning of his command, Washington warned that an army without discipline was “no better than a commissioned mob.” Courage alone would not secure liberty; character mattered, and discipline was its outward form.
Yet even discipline, Washington believed, had limits. It could shape behavior, but it could not, by itself, secure the cause. That was why, from his earliest orders, he required soldiers to attend divine services: “to implore the blessings of Heaven.” Human effort mattered, but it was not enough. Victory rested, as he often said, under Providence.
Woodstock, Virginia, had already heard sermons about the cost of liberty. Now, a different church faced that cost: giving up its minister to serve as a chaplain in the army.
When the church appealed for his return, Washington did not argue strategy or manpower. He wrote instead of morals. The minister, he explained, was engaged in “the glorious work of attending to the morals” of those fighting for their liberties, and “the liberties of all America.” Such work, Washington believed, strengthened the army at its core.
Washington acknowledged the sacrifice being asked. A congregation would be without its minister for a time. But he framed that loss as service to the public good, not abandonment. When the struggle ended, he assured them, the minister would be welcomed home again. For now, the needs of the nation came first.
This was not an unusual request. Congress itself regulated chaplain service and pay, recognizing that moral guidance was essential and often stretched thin. Some chaplains served multiple regiments, even the army as a whole. Washington’s letter reflected a shared understanding: liberty required restraint, and restraint required moral formation.
On that Sunday in March 1776, Washington reminded Americans that the fight for independence was not only a test of strength. It was a test of character. Discipline and courage were essential—but the outcome of the struggle, he believed, depended on “the blessing of a Kind Providence.”
Source: The Writings of George Washington, Vol. 3.
Additional background: The Journals of Congress, Vol. 4.
Themes: Faith and Providence, Moral Foundations
Tags: George Washington, Continental Army. Chaplains, Providence, Discipline, 1776
March 25, 1776
A Nation Gave Thanks
March 25, 1776 – As a Nation Gave Thanks
Washington appealed to the One Who is powerful to save: Who holds the fate of nations.
On March 25, 1776, the guns around Boston were finally silent, though the harbor was not yet cleared. In Philadelphia, John Adams proposed a resolution of thanks to General Washington and the officers and soldiers under his command. Congress went further, ordering that a gold medal be struck in Washington’s honor, a rare public tribute for extraordinary service.
In Massachusetts, the mood was turning from endurance to gratitude. The enemy had withdrawn from Boston without the bloodshed so many feared. Civil leaders began preparing formal thanks, convinced that careful leadership—not reckless force—had preserved their capital.
Washington himself was far less ready to relax. From his headquarters, he watched the British fleet still lingering in the deep water offshore. Signals flew from mast to mast. Ships shifted position. Reinforcements were rumored. “The Enemy have the best knack at puzzling people I ever met with,” Washington admitted privately. He did not yet know whether the fleet would depart peacefully, strike elsewhere, or attempt to recover its honor before sailing away.
Along the coast, trusted observers sent Washington hour-by-hour reports. Lanterns were raised. Sails were counted. By the evening of March 25, ship after ship hoisted sail. Within two days, most of the fleet was gone. Only then did celebrations begin.
On March 28, the Massachusetts General Court presented Washington with a sweeping address of thanks. They praised not conquest, but character: his refusal of pay, his care for the lives and health of his soldiers, his respect for civil authority, and the wisdom and prudence that had compelled the enemy to abandon Boston “without that effusion of blood we so much wished to avoid.”
Washington’s reply revealed why Congress’s confidence had been well placed. He claimed no personal glory. The bloodless victory, he said, “must be ascribed to the interposition of that Providence, which has manifestly appeared in our behalf.” He prayed not only for success, but for restraint—that God would “smile upon their councils and arms,” and the entire continent would enjoy “peace, liberty, and safety secured upon a solid, permanent, and lasting foundation.”
As a nation gave thanks, its commander still watched, still prayed, and still entrusted the fate of nations to Hands greater than his own.
Source: The Writings of Washington, Vol. 3.
Additional background: The Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 25, 1776), The Adams Papers.
Themes: Faith and Providence, Moral Foundations.
Tags: George Washington, Siege of Boston, Providence, gratitude, leadership, humility, 1776.
March 25, 1776 – As a Nation Gave Thanks
Washington appealed to the One Who is powerful to save: Who holds the fate of nations.
On March 25, 1776, the guns around Boston were finally silent, though the harbor was not yet cleared. In Philadelphia, John Adams proposed a resolution of thanks to General Washington and the officers and soldiers under his command. Congress went further, ordering that a gold medal be struck in Washington’s honor, a rare public tribute for extraordinary service.
In Massachusetts, the mood was turning from endurance to gratitude. The enemy had withdrawn from Boston without the bloodshed so many feared. Civil leaders began preparing formal thanks, convinced that careful leadership—not reckless force—had preserved their capital.
Washington himself was far less ready to relax. From his headquarters, he watched the British fleet still lingering in the deep water offshore. Signals flew from mast to mast. Ships shifted position. Reinforcements were rumored. “The Enemy have the best knack at puzzling people I ever met with,” Washington admitted privately. He did not yet know whether the fleet would depart peacefully, strike elsewhere, or attempt to recover its honor before sailing away.
Along the coast, trusted observers sent Washington hour-by-hour reports. Lanterns were raised. Sails were counted. By the evening of March 25, ship after ship hoisted sail. Within two days, most of the fleet was gone. Only then did celebrations begin.
On March 28, the Massachusetts General Court presented Washington with a sweeping address of thanks. They praised not conquest, but character: his refusal of pay, his care for the lives and health of his soldiers, his respect for civil authority, and the wisdom and prudence that had compelled the enemy to abandon Boston “without that effusion of blood we so much wished to avoid.”
Washington’s reply revealed why Congress’s confidence had been well placed. He claimed no personal glory. The bloodless victory, he said, “must be ascribed to the interposition of that Providence, which has manifestly appeared in our behalf.” He prayed not only for success, but for restraint—that God would “smile upon their councils and arms,” and the entire continent would enjoy “peace, liberty, and safety secured upon a solid, permanent, and lasting foundation.”
As a nation gave thanks, its commander still watched, still prayed, and still entrusted the fate of nations to Hands greater than his own.
Source: The Writings of Washington, Vol. 3.
Additional background: The Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 25, 1776), The Adams Papers.
Themes: Faith and Providence, Moral Foundations.
Tags: George Washington, Siege of Boston, Providence, gratitude, leadership, humility, 1776.
March 26, 1776
South Carolina Adopts a Constitution
March 26, 1776 – South Carolina Adopts a Constitution
What England left to common law and custom, Americans chose to write down.
By March 1776, in colonies where royal governors had withdrawn, civil power evaporated and legal processes ground to a halt. In South Carolina, the crisis reached a point that could not be ignored: judges refused to hold court.
This refusal was not defiance. Under English law, courts acted only under recognized civil authority. With the royal governor gone, judges could not proceed. Contracts went unenforced. Disputes had no remedy. Law itself had stalled.
Committees of Safety had filled the gap for a time. South Carolina’s Provincial Congress inherited that responsibility in November 1775. But emergency measures could not sustain civil order indefinitely. If justice were to continue, authority had to be restored.
On March 26, 1776, South Carolina’s Provincial Congress acted. With representatives chosen by the people, it adopted a constitution and immediately put it into effect. The document was examined, approved, signed, and followed at once by the election of officers. John Rutledge was chosen as President of South Carolina and its Commander in Chief. (He was the older brother of Edward Rutledge, a delegate to the Continental Congress and later a signer of the Declaration of Independence.)
The constitution did not proclaim independence. Instead, it restored civil order. It established a General Assembly, a Legislative Council, courts, and an executive bound by clear limits. Existing laws remained in force. Continental Congress resolutions were preserved. Even the executive was restrained: no war or peace could be made without legislative consent. This was self-government shaped by continuity rather than rupture.
Faith and moral accountability undergirded the new order. Officeholders swore oaths to uphold the constitution, invoking God as their witness. Public authority was treated not as raw power, but as a trust exercised under divine judgment. In language echoed elsewhere that spring, South Carolinians submitted their cause to the “Director of the fate of empires.”
English constitutional history offered a familiar precedent. In 1688, Parliament acted when James II abdicated and lawful government failed, restoring authority to preserve the rule of law. This event, the Glorious Revolution, was widely regarded as England’s constitutional moment.
In 1776, South Carolina followed the same logic. But where England relied on a mixture of written law, common law, and custom, Americans were beginning a new habit: writing their constitutions down.
Source: Journals of the South Carolina Provincial Congress (March 26, 1776).
Additional Background: Ramsay, History of the Revolution of South Carolina, Vol. 1.
Themes: Self-Government, Founding Principles
Tags: South Carolina, Constitutions, Provincial Congress, Glorious Revolution, Rule of Law, 1776.
March 26, 1776 – South Carolina Adopts a Constitution
What England left to common law and custom, Americans chose to write down.
By March 1776, in colonies where royal governors had withdrawn, civil power evaporated and legal processes ground to a halt. In South Carolina, the crisis reached a point that could not be ignored: judges refused to hold court.
This refusal was not defiance. Under English law, courts acted only under recognized civil authority. With the royal governor gone, judges could not proceed. Contracts went unenforced. Disputes had no remedy. Law itself had stalled.
Committees of Safety had filled the gap for a time. South Carolina’s Provincial Congress inherited that responsibility in November 1775. But emergency measures could not sustain civil order indefinitely. If justice were to continue, authority had to be restored.
On March 26, 1776, South Carolina’s Provincial Congress acted. With representatives chosen by the people, it adopted a constitution and immediately put it into effect. The document was examined, approved, signed, and followed at once by the election of officers. John Rutledge was chosen as President of South Carolina and its Commander in Chief. (He was the older brother of Edward Rutledge, a delegate to the Continental Congress and later a signer of the Declaration of Independence.)
The constitution did not proclaim independence. Instead, it restored civil order. It established a General Assembly, a Legislative Council, courts, and an executive bound by clear limits. Existing laws remained in force. Continental Congress resolutions were preserved. Even the executive was restrained: no war or peace could be made without legislative consent. This was self-government shaped by continuity rather than rupture.
Faith and moral accountability undergirded the new order. Officeholders swore oaths to uphold the constitution, invoking God as their witness. Public authority was treated not as raw power, but as a trust exercised under divine judgment. In language echoed elsewhere that spring, South Carolinians submitted their cause to the “Director of the fate of empires.”
English constitutional history offered a familiar precedent. In 1688, Parliament acted when James II abdicated and lawful government failed, restoring authority to preserve the rule of law. This event, the Glorious Revolution, was widely regarded as England’s constitutional moment.
In 1776, South Carolina followed the same logic. But where England relied on a mixture of written law, common law, and custom, Americans were beginning a new habit: writing their constitutions down.
Source: Journals of the South Carolina Provincial Congress (March 26, 1776).
Additional Background: Ramsay, History of the Revolution of South Carolina, Vol. 1.
Themes: Self-Government, Founding Principles
Tags: South Carolina, Constitutions, Provincial Congress, Glorious Revolution, Rule of Law, 1776.
March 27, 1776
The Legal End of Loyalty
March 27, 1776 – The Legal End of Loyalty
A chief justice explained why the colonies no longer owed loyalty to the Crown.
On March 27, 1776, South Carolina took another decisive step away from royal rule. The day before, the colony had adopted a new constitution and chosen its officers. Now, those officers were sworn in, courts were constituted, and the work of law began again—without a king.
Among those installed was William Henry Drayton, elected chief justice under the new government. In a moment when critics warned that resistance meant lawlessness, South Carolina answered by placing the law itself at the center of authority.
Drayton was not inventing new principles. He was applying old ones. English constitutional law had long taught that government existed for a purpose, and that purpose was protection. As Blackstone explained in his Commentaries on the Laws of England, allegiance bound the people to the Crown in return for protection. The bond was mutual, not absolute.
By early 1776, that protection had failed. Royal courts no longer functioned. Governors ruled by force or withdrew altogether. Parliament had declared the colonies outside the king’s peace. Under English law itself, the condition that sustained loyalty had collapsed.
That legal principle now governed action, shaping the oaths taken that day: to “defend the Constitution of South Carolina . . . so help me God.” Officials no longer swore allegiance to a distant monarch, but to the laws they were charged to uphold. Loyalty, once personal, became constitutional—owed not to a ruler, but to the rule of law itself, under God.
South Carolina’s answer was not rebellion, but order. Judges took oaths. Courts reopened. Authority was grounded not in royal commission, but in law. When Drayton later explained these actions from the bench, he framed them plainly: when protection ended, the obligation of loyalty ended with it.
This legal reasoning explained why Americans did not all choose the same side. Some still believed the Crown protected their rights and remained loyal. Others, seeing that protection withdrawn, concluded that obedience was no longer owed. The divide was not merely emotional or political—it was legal.
On March 27, South Carolina treated that conclusion as operative law. By establishing constitutional authority, the colony declared that loyalty to the king had not been cast off lightly. It had ended because English law itself said it must.
Sources: Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 5; Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, Vol. 1.
Additional background: Journals of the South Carolina Provincial Congress (March 26, 1776); Ramsay, History of the Revolution of South Carolina, Vol. 1.
Themes: Self-Government; Founding Principles; Loyalty or Independence
Tags: William Henry Drayton, Blackstone, allegiance, loyalty, constitutional law, South Carolina, 1776
March 27, 1776 – The Legal End of Loyalty
A chief justice explained why the colonies no longer owed loyalty to the Crown.
On March 27, 1776, South Carolina took another decisive step away from royal rule. The day before, the colony had adopted a new constitution and chosen its officers. Now, those officers were sworn in, courts were constituted, and the work of law began again—without a king.
Among those installed was William Henry Drayton, elected chief justice under the new government. In a moment when critics warned that resistance meant lawlessness, South Carolina answered by placing the law itself at the center of authority.
Drayton was not inventing new principles. He was applying old ones. English constitutional law had long taught that government existed for a purpose, and that purpose was protection. As Blackstone explained in his Commentaries on the Laws of England, allegiance bound the people to the Crown in return for protection. The bond was mutual, not absolute.
By early 1776, that protection had failed. Royal courts no longer functioned. Governors ruled by force or withdrew altogether. Parliament had declared the colonies outside the king’s peace. Under English law itself, the condition that sustained loyalty had collapsed.
That legal principle now governed action, shaping the oaths taken that day: to “defend the Constitution of South Carolina . . . so help me God.” Officials no longer swore allegiance to a distant monarch, but to the laws they were charged to uphold. Loyalty, once personal, became constitutional—owed not to a ruler, but to the rule of law itself, under God.
South Carolina’s answer was not rebellion, but order. Judges took oaths. Courts reopened. Authority was grounded not in royal commission, but in law. When Drayton later explained these actions from the bench, he framed them plainly: when protection ended, the obligation of loyalty ended with it.
This legal reasoning explained why Americans did not all choose the same side. Some still believed the Crown protected their rights and remained loyal. Others, seeing that protection withdrawn, concluded that obedience was no longer owed. The divide was not merely emotional or political—it was legal.
On March 27, South Carolina treated that conclusion as operative law. By establishing constitutional authority, the colony declared that loyalty to the king had not been cast off lightly. It had ended because English law itself said it must.
Sources: Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 5; Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, Vol. 1.
Additional background: Journals of the South Carolina Provincial Congress (March 26, 1776); Ramsay, History of the Revolution of South Carolina, Vol. 1.
Themes: Self-Government; Founding Principles; Loyalty or Independence
Tags: William Henry Drayton, Blackstone, allegiance, loyalty, constitutional law, South Carolina, 1776
March 28, 1776
A Plot Stopped Before It Started
March 28, 1776 — A Plot Stopped Before It Started
America’s most wanted sat inside a Philadelphia jail cell—but not, he hoped, for long.
As long as John Connolly could speak, write, or receive visitors, he had little downside to waiting. If escape became possible, he would walk free. If it did not, he could still pass messages, coordinate allies, and remain useful to the Loyalist cause. Confinement did not necessarily mean silence. Not yet.
Connolly had reason to be optimistic. Others had visited before. Letters had a way of moving quietly in and out of prisons, carried by sympathetic hands or overlooked by distracted guards. Even behind bars, influence could travel.
Either escape or further conspiracy would be dangerous to the colonies. On March 28, 1776, Congress acted to ensure that neither could happen.
The change was abrupt. Guards were summoned to the Philadelphia jail in force. Connolly and his associates were immediately separated and confined in different cells. All visitors were barred. Conversation was forbidden. Pens and ink were taken away. No one was to speak with the prisoners without written permission from the President of Congress himself.
The orders appear in the Journals of Congress that same day, but they did not emerge from routine deliberation. Congress had received intelligence that a rescue was imminent. The details were not recorded. The response was.
Within days, Congress authorized payment for the prisoners’ upkeep, signaling that their confinement would not be brief. A special committee was appointed to inspect the jail itself, charged with determining what alterations were necessary to hold Connolly and the others “safely and securely.” This was no ordinary imprisonment. Congress rarely involved itself in the physical condition of local prisons. Here, it did.
By April 6, the escalation was complete. A formal report warned that Connolly refused to cooperate in writing. Congress ordered that he and his associates be moved without delay and continue to be held separately. New procedures followed—lists of prisoners, stricter enforcement of paroles, and renewed attention to ensuring that no one held by order of Congress escaped.
The rescue never came. The messages never went out. Whatever Congress feared was stopped before it became visible.
Three months later, independence would be declared in public. But in the spring of 1776, it was being protected quietly—by locked doors, enforced silence, and a prisoner Congress dared not let speak.
Sources: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 28–29, 1776); Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 5.
Additional background: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (April 1–10, 1776)
Themes: Loyalty or Independence; Voices of the Revolution
Tags: John Connolly, Loyalists, Philadelphia jail, Continental Congress, intelligence and security, 1776
March 28, 1776 — A Plot Stopped Before It Started
America’s most wanted sat inside a Philadelphia jail cell—but not, he hoped, for long.
As long as John Connolly could speak, write, or receive visitors, he had little downside to waiting. If escape became possible, he would walk free. If it did not, he could still pass messages, coordinate allies, and remain useful to the Loyalist cause. Confinement did not necessarily mean silence. Not yet.
Connolly had reason to be optimistic. Others had visited before. Letters had a way of moving quietly in and out of prisons, carried by sympathetic hands or overlooked by distracted guards. Even behind bars, influence could travel.
Either escape or further conspiracy would be dangerous to the colonies. On March 28, 1776, Congress acted to ensure that neither could happen.
The change was abrupt. Guards were summoned to the Philadelphia jail in force. Connolly and his associates were immediately separated and confined in different cells. All visitors were barred. Conversation was forbidden. Pens and ink were taken away. No one was to speak with the prisoners without written permission from the President of Congress himself.
The orders appear in the Journals of Congress that same day, but they did not emerge from routine deliberation. Congress had received intelligence that a rescue was imminent. The details were not recorded. The response was.
Within days, Congress authorized payment for the prisoners’ upkeep, signaling that their confinement would not be brief. A special committee was appointed to inspect the jail itself, charged with determining what alterations were necessary to hold Connolly and the others “safely and securely.” This was no ordinary imprisonment. Congress rarely involved itself in the physical condition of local prisons. Here, it did.
By April 6, the escalation was complete. A formal report warned that Connolly refused to cooperate in writing. Congress ordered that he and his associates be moved without delay and continue to be held separately. New procedures followed—lists of prisoners, stricter enforcement of paroles, and renewed attention to ensuring that no one held by order of Congress escaped.
The rescue never came. The messages never went out. Whatever Congress feared was stopped before it became visible.
Three months later, independence would be declared in public. But in the spring of 1776, it was being protected quietly—by locked doors, enforced silence, and a prisoner Congress dared not let speak.
Sources: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 28–29, 1776); Force, American Archives, Series 4, Vol. 5.
Additional background: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (April 1–10, 1776)
Themes: Loyalty or Independence; Voices of the Revolution
Tags: John Connolly, Loyalists, Philadelphia jail, Continental Congress, intelligence and security, 1776
March 29, 1776
A Quiet Experiment on the Connecticut Coast
March 29, 1776 – A Quiet Experiment on the Connecticut Coast
A student’s secret invention would later be remembered as a naval first.
In Saybrook, Connecticut, the war loomed close. No armies marched through town, no cannon shook the ground, but across the water lay Long Island. Any day now the British fleet could appear on the horizon. Meanwhile, one Patriot was quietly doing his part.
David Bushnell stood inside the blacksmith’s shop, watching as a piece of heated iron was shaped on the anvil. When the hammering stopped, the smith set the metal aside to cool. Once it could be handled, Bushnell picked it up, turning it in his hands.
Bushnell often asked the blacksmith for unusual things—hooks that could grip from below, screws meant to turn under pressure, fittings designed to work underwater. He wrapped this latest piece carefully and left. Like many Yale students during the war, he had been sent home to finish his studies. At Yale, Bushnell had studied mathematics and natural philosophy, learning to test ideas as carefully as arguments. Now, in a barn near the river, Bushnell continued his work in secret, testing and adjusting a strange wooden vessel that few in town quite understood. Yet word of his work had eventually reached another inventor, Benjamin Franklin.
Franklin, a member of the commission bound for Canada, had begun his journey days earlier. By March 29, he had already reached New York, traveling through the Connecticut corridor where the young inventor’s experimental vessel was nearing readiness. Along the way, he stopped to see Bushnell and satisfy his own scientific curiosity.
The hopes placed on Bushnell’s machine were enormous. Britain ruled the seas, and the colonies had no navy strong enough to challenge its ships. If a single small vessel could slip beneath the water and strike a warship at anchor, it might do what armies could not. Some spoke of it as a last chance, others as a daring experiment. For now, it remained quiet work—careful tests, whispered plans, and patience while the war rushed on.
Years later, Bushnell’s creation would be remembered as the Turtle, often called the world’s first operating military submarine. But in the spring of 1776, it was simply an idea taking shape by hand—iron cooled on an anvil, wood lowered into the water, and a young inventor racing time with tools, hope, and ingenuity.
Sources: The Papers of Benjamin Franklin; Literary Diary of Ezra Stiles: Dexter, Biographical Sketches of the Graduates of Yale, Vol. 3, pt. 2.
Additional background: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 28, 1776), The Adams Papers.
Themes: Courage and Ingenuity, Voices of the Revolution
Tags: David Bushnell, Benjamin Franklin, Connecticut, Long Island Sound, submarine, invention, 1776
March 29, 1776 – A Quiet Experiment on the Connecticut Coast
A student’s secret invention would later be remembered as a naval first.
In Saybrook, Connecticut, the war loomed close. No armies marched through town, no cannon shook the ground, but across the water lay Long Island. Any day now the British fleet could appear on the horizon. Meanwhile, one Patriot was quietly doing his part.
David Bushnell stood inside the blacksmith’s shop, watching as a piece of heated iron was shaped on the anvil. When the hammering stopped, the smith set the metal aside to cool. Once it could be handled, Bushnell picked it up, turning it in his hands.
Bushnell often asked the blacksmith for unusual things—hooks that could grip from below, screws meant to turn under pressure, fittings designed to work underwater. He wrapped this latest piece carefully and left. Like many Yale students during the war, he had been sent home to finish his studies. At Yale, Bushnell had studied mathematics and natural philosophy, learning to test ideas as carefully as arguments. Now, in a barn near the river, Bushnell continued his work in secret, testing and adjusting a strange wooden vessel that few in town quite understood. Yet word of his work had eventually reached another inventor, Benjamin Franklin.
Franklin, a member of the commission bound for Canada, had begun his journey days earlier. By March 29, he had already reached New York, traveling through the Connecticut corridor where the young inventor’s experimental vessel was nearing readiness. Along the way, he stopped to see Bushnell and satisfy his own scientific curiosity.
The hopes placed on Bushnell’s machine were enormous. Britain ruled the seas, and the colonies had no navy strong enough to challenge its ships. If a single small vessel could slip beneath the water and strike a warship at anchor, it might do what armies could not. Some spoke of it as a last chance, others as a daring experiment. For now, it remained quiet work—careful tests, whispered plans, and patience while the war rushed on.
Years later, Bushnell’s creation would be remembered as the Turtle, often called the world’s first operating military submarine. But in the spring of 1776, it was simply an idea taking shape by hand—iron cooled on an anvil, wood lowered into the water, and a young inventor racing time with tools, hope, and ingenuity.
Sources: The Papers of Benjamin Franklin; Literary Diary of Ezra Stiles: Dexter, Biographical Sketches of the Graduates of Yale, Vol. 3, pt. 2.
Additional background: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 28, 1776), The Adams Papers.
Themes: Courage and Ingenuity, Voices of the Revolution
Tags: David Bushnell, Benjamin Franklin, Connecticut, Long Island Sound, submarine, invention, 1776
March 30, 1776
Dohicky Arundel’s Résumé
March 30, 1776 – Dohicky Arundel’s Résumé
Congress evaluated foreign specialists carefully before granting rank or authority.
On March 30, 1776, Congress spent part of the day doing something that rarely makes it into heroic retellings of the Revolution: sorting résumés.
The Continental Army needed trained artillerymen and engineers—skills in short supply in the colonies. From Europe, men with experience began to appear, offering their services. Congress did not reject them out of hand. Neither did it embrace them uncritically. Instead, it did what a new government had to learn to do quickly: test, verify, and decide.
One such officer was Louis O’Hickey d’Arundel, known in the Journals—by a clerk doing his best—as “Dohicky Arundel.” Born in France to an Irish family, he was first introduced to Congress in January. They sent him to senior commanders to see what he could do. Benjamin Franklin described him as a technical specialist, and he ended up serving with the artillery.
On March 30, Congress finalized their decision. Arundel was given an advance on his pay and ordered to proceed immediately to the Southern Department under General Charles Lee. It was a quiet but meaningful step: the transition from probation to trust. Congress was not rewarding enthusiasm or foreign credentials. It was confirming competence.
The same day shows how careful that process remained. Another French officer was permitted to travel only for private business, with no military appointment. Two engineers were elected by ballot. Each case was handled separately, deliberately, and without sentimentality. Congress was not “welcoming foreign officers.” It was sorting them.
Even the spelling variations in the record—Arundel’s name appears in several forms—hint at the reality of the moment. These were multilingual men moving through a government still learning its own administrative voice. The paperwork was imperfect. The standards were not.
What mattered was control. Foreign specialists, when employed, were placed firmly under American command. Reputation did not outrank accountability. Skill did not excuse independence. Congress was building a system as much as an army.
That discipline would matter later. When more famous European officers eventually offered their service, they would enter a framework already shaped by caution, evaluation, and civilian authority. But in March 1776, Congress was not thinking about future allies. It was learning how to govern—one “doohickey” at a time.
Source: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 30, 1776).
Additional background: The Papers of Benjamin Franklin
Themes: American Armed Services, Self-Government
Tags: Dohicky Arundel, Continental Army, artillery, foreign officers, Congress, 1776
March 30, 1776 – Dohicky Arundel’s Résumé
Congress evaluated foreign specialists carefully before granting rank or authority.
On March 30, 1776, Congress spent part of the day doing something that rarely makes it into heroic retellings of the Revolution: sorting résumés.
The Continental Army needed trained artillerymen and engineers—skills in short supply in the colonies. From Europe, men with experience began to appear, offering their services. Congress did not reject them out of hand. Neither did it embrace them uncritically. Instead, it did what a new government had to learn to do quickly: test, verify, and decide.
One such officer was Louis O’Hickey d’Arundel, known in the Journals—by a clerk doing his best—as “Dohicky Arundel.” Born in France to an Irish family, he was first introduced to Congress in January. They sent him to senior commanders to see what he could do. Benjamin Franklin described him as a technical specialist, and he ended up serving with the artillery.
On March 30, Congress finalized their decision. Arundel was given an advance on his pay and ordered to proceed immediately to the Southern Department under General Charles Lee. It was a quiet but meaningful step: the transition from probation to trust. Congress was not rewarding enthusiasm or foreign credentials. It was confirming competence.
The same day shows how careful that process remained. Another French officer was permitted to travel only for private business, with no military appointment. Two engineers were elected by ballot. Each case was handled separately, deliberately, and without sentimentality. Congress was not “welcoming foreign officers.” It was sorting them.
Even the spelling variations in the record—Arundel’s name appears in several forms—hint at the reality of the moment. These were multilingual men moving through a government still learning its own administrative voice. The paperwork was imperfect. The standards were not.
What mattered was control. Foreign specialists, when employed, were placed firmly under American command. Reputation did not outrank accountability. Skill did not excuse independence. Congress was building a system as much as an army.
That discipline would matter later. When more famous European officers eventually offered their service, they would enter a framework already shaped by caution, evaluation, and civilian authority. But in March 1776, Congress was not thinking about future allies. It was learning how to govern—one “doohickey” at a time.
Source: Journals of Congress, Vol. 4 (March 30, 1776).
Additional background: The Papers of Benjamin Franklin
Themes: American Armed Services, Self-Government
Tags: Dohicky Arundel, Continental Army, artillery, foreign officers, Congress, 1776
March 31, 1776
Sunday: A Marriage of Friends
March 31, 1776 – Sunday: A Marriage of Friends
John and Abigail Adams wrote with humor about power, marriage, and revolution.
In March 1776, as Congress weighed independence and armies built picket lines, John Adams waited impatiently for letters from home. “You can’t imagine what a mortification I sustain,” he wrote on March 17, “in not having received a single line from you.” When Abigail’s delayed letters finally arrived, they carried news of cannon fire, troop movements, and the weight of events unfolding around Boston.
Their correspondence that spring was a running conversation. Abigail was “charmed with the sentiments of Common Sense” and asked how it was received in Congress. John reported the debates it stirred, but dismissed its constitutional plans as better at “pulling down than building.” They spoke the same political language, applied to different fronts.
On March 31, Abigail turned that shared vocabulary inward. Writing of a “new Code of Laws” for Congress to make, she added a line that would echo far beyond their marriage: “Remember the Ladies.” Her argument borrowed the Revolution’s own logic—unchecked power, tyranny, rebellion—but its heart lay elsewhere. “Such of you as wish to be happy,” she wrote, “willingly give up the harsh title of Master for the more tender and endearing one of Friend.”
It was not a manifesto. It was part of an ongoing conversation between two people who knew each other well. Abigail assumed a model of marriage familiar to both of them: not domination, but mutual restraint, where limited legal protections—which left women vulnerable to a tyrannical mate—were softened by affection and friendship.
John’s reply two weeks later answered her in the same language. “I cannot but laugh,” he began, exaggerating that her letter marked the rise of “another Tribe more numerous and powerful than all the rest.” He protested, borrowing a familiar turn of phrase, that men must resist the “Despotism of the Petticoat,” even as he conceded what they both knew from experience: “In practice you know we are the subjects. We have only the name of Masters.”
The exchange rested on friendship and shared understanding. In a season obsessed with power, John and Abigail Adams spoke about authority—public and private—through irony, exaggeration, and political analogy. They used forms of wit familiar to their time, as partners in a serious moral debate.
Sources: Abigail Adams to John Adams, 31 March 1776; John Adams to Abigail Adams, 14 April 1776.
Additional background: Ephesians 5:21; The Adams Papers.
Themes: Voices of the Revolution; Moral Foundations
Tags: John Adams, Abigail Adams, marriage, correspondence, friendship, humor, Biblical worldview, 1776.
March 31, 1776 – Sunday: A Marriage of Friends
John and Abigail Adams wrote with humor about power, marriage, and revolution.
In March 1776, as Congress weighed independence and armies built picket lines, John Adams waited impatiently for letters from home. “You can’t imagine what a mortification I sustain,” he wrote on March 17, “in not having received a single line from you.” When Abigail’s delayed letters finally arrived, they carried news of cannon fire, troop movements, and the weight of events unfolding around Boston.
Their correspondence that spring was a running conversation. Abigail was “charmed with the sentiments of Common Sense” and asked how it was received in Congress. John reported the debates it stirred, but dismissed its constitutional plans as better at “pulling down than building.” They spoke the same political language, applied to different fronts.
On March 31, Abigail turned that shared vocabulary inward. Writing of a “new Code of Laws” for Congress to make, she added a line that would echo far beyond their marriage: “Remember the Ladies.” Her argument borrowed the Revolution’s own logic—unchecked power, tyranny, rebellion—but its heart lay elsewhere. “Such of you as wish to be happy,” she wrote, “willingly give up the harsh title of Master for the more tender and endearing one of Friend.”
It was not a manifesto. It was part of an ongoing conversation between two people who knew each other well. Abigail assumed a model of marriage familiar to both of them: not domination, but mutual restraint, where limited legal protections—which left women vulnerable to a tyrannical mate—were softened by affection and friendship.
John’s reply two weeks later answered her in the same language. “I cannot but laugh,” he began, exaggerating that her letter marked the rise of “another Tribe more numerous and powerful than all the rest.” He protested, borrowing a familiar turn of phrase, that men must resist the “Despotism of the Petticoat,” even as he conceded what they both knew from experience: “In practice you know we are the subjects. We have only the name of Masters.”
The exchange rested on friendship and shared understanding. In a season obsessed with power, John and Abigail Adams spoke about authority—public and private—through irony, exaggeration, and political analogy. They used forms of wit familiar to their time, as partners in a serious moral debate.
Sources: Abigail Adams to John Adams, 31 March 1776; John Adams to Abigail Adams, 14 April 1776.
Additional background: Ephesians 5:21; The Adams Papers.
Themes: Voices of the Revolution; Moral Foundations
Tags: John Adams, Abigail Adams, marriage, correspondence, friendship, humor, Biblical worldview, 1776.
