Today is generally agreed to be the day after American colonists declared independence from Great Britain, and I’m wondering what folks, especially those who signed the Declaration of Independence, were thinking a day later.
I hope the reader will indulge me here as I imagine what July 5, 1776 must have been like. The actual date of the signing is much disputed, and we know that many of the signers did not affix their signature to the Declaration until August.
In every group when history is discussed, there is always someone who fixes on some unimportant detail and hijacks the discussion by saying, “Well, actually…” Don’t be that person.
Instead, follow along with me as I tell the story of Bob, one of those who signed the Declaration of Independence. I am not referring to any specific signer here, but rather I use Bob as sort of an amalgam of signers.
Now, if you’ve ever taken the time to read the entire document, you will note that the document began with lofty and high-minded language. For a while, at least, the document is a measured appeal to noble ideals supported by sound reasoning.
That’s how it started out, but it didn’t take Thomas Jefferson, the primary author, to warm to the subject.
What began as an eloquent appeal to reason and conscience, soon became a scathing attack on King George III. The 26 charges leveled against the King could be succinctly paraphrased, “King George is a rat bastard.”
It was heady stuff, giving the King a well-deserved tongue lashing, and you imagine the delegates fist-bumping each other as each charge against the King was read aloud.
But having slept on it, I wonder if Jefferson and other delegates were beginning to regret the tone, if not the sentiment. As a writer, that happens to me from time-to-time. I’ll let ‘er rip when emotions are high, but by the next morning I realize I should have dialed it back a notch or two.
So here’s Bob. We’ll say he’s from New Jersey, which means he would be arriving home from Philadelphia late that evening on July 5. His wife, Fannie (all colonial wives were named Mary, Martha or Fannie), greets her husband, who is weary from his travel but still animated by the magnitude of what transpired the previous day.
“So how was the convention?” Fannie asks.
“Quite momentous,” Bob says. “We declared independence!”
“You what?”
“We declared that as of the present moment, we are our own nation and no longer under the control of the British crown.”
“No, really, what did you all do? I know the sort of things that happen at these conventions, a bunch of drinking and carrying on until all hours. So tell me the truth.”
“I’m serious.”
Fannie falls silent, searching her husband’s face for some indication that he is pulling her leg. She sees none.
“Are you crazy? You can’t just be your own country. Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“Well, like our declaration said, when in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, the first people have the right to tell the other people to pound sand, or something to that effect.”
“So you wrote a letter to the King asking him for a divorce?
“We didn’t really ask. We informed.”
“Well, for goodness sake I hope you all were polite about it. You know, something along the lines of ‘It’s not you, King George. It’s us,’ or ‘We’ve just grown apart.’”
Bob stares sheepishly at the floor.
“Bob, what did you say about the King?”
“Oh, just a few criticisms. I think one of them might have been along the lines that he has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people. It might have come up that he sicced merciless Indian savages on us.”
“Bob!”
“We got a little carried away.”
“Carried away? I tell you what, mister, tomorrow you are going to “carry away” right back to Philadelphia and tell them you’ve given it some more thought.”
“I cannot. The fellas would never let me hear the end of it!”
“Fine. Suit yourself.”
Fannie turns and strides toward her bed chambers, then pauses at the doorway. She sighs. “OK. It’s bad. No getting around it. It could be worse, though…Uh, Bob?”
“Yes?”
“You had enough sense not to sign anything, right?”
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
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Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 40 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
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