Читать книгу Liberty’s Exiles: The Loss of America and the Remaking of the British Empire. - Maya Jasanoff, Maya Jasanoff - Страница 10

Chapter One

Civil War

THOMAS BROWN would always remember the day the American Revolution changed his life. It was the summer of 1775, the twenty-five-year-old’s first on his own American land. He had arrived in the colonies a year earlier from the blustery English port of Whitby, with seventy-four indentured servants in tow, to start a plantation in the Georgia backcountry, near Augusta. The newcomers must have marveled on reaching this strange, subtropical landscape, where giant black oaks stood like sixty-foot columns holding up the sky.¹ Within nine months, Brown and his laborers had cut much of the forest into farms. He supervised his burgeoning 5,600-acre estate from a fine new great house, his tenants surrounding him in thirty-six farmhouses of their own. Horses filled Brown’s stables; cattle and hogs got fat off his grass and feed. He applied to the governor for more land, sent away to Britain for another shipload of workers, and enjoyed “the pleasing prospect to observe that his affairs in that country were likely to succeed beyond his most sanguine expectations.”² But another force was set to transform Thomas Brown’s new world. He saw it coming one August day in the form of 130 armed men marching straight toward his house.

Brown knew, before coming to America, of the “troubles” that had been tearing up Anglo-American relations for a decade. A series of taxes imposed by Britain had triggered a heated conflict over the limits of parliamentary authority and the rights of colonial British subjects. Brown confidently reckoned that Georgia, a thousand miles away from New England, the center of unrest, had “no connection or concern” in such affairs. Even in 1774, investing his personal fortune and future in the American colonies looked like a good bet. But in April 1775, British and American troops exchanged the first shots of the revolution outside Boston—and no part of the colonies remained unconcerned for long. In Savannah and Charleston, the nearest major cities to Brown’s estate, patriots formed associations to organize support for the rebellion, and approached Brown and his neighbors to join. Did he have anything to gain by doing so? Not really. The fact that he had recently arrived—and in 1775, 10 percent of the colonies’ white population had immigrated within the last fifteen years—mattered less to his calculations than that he intended to spend the rest of his life in the colonies. He owed his land and status to the patronage of the Georgia governor; he also held a position as a local magistrate. Besides, he figured, surely this provincial uprising had little chance of success when met with the full military might of the British Empire. Whatever he may have thought of the principles at stake, self-interest alone pointed out Brown’s choice. He refused patriot overtures, and signed on to a loyalist counterassociation instead. The next thing Brown knew, patriot invitations became demands, delivered by gangs like the one at his door.

Standing on the porch, the sticky heat clinging to him like a second shirt, Brown tried to put the men off calmly. He had no wish to fight his own neighbors, he said, but he “could never enter into an Engagement to take up arms against the Country which gave him being.” The conversation quickly turned to confrontation. Some of the patriots “threatened that unless he would subscribe the association they would drag him by force to Augusta.” Brown backed into the house to seize his weapons, “determined to defend himself as long as he was able against any violence.” “It would be at the peril of that man who should attempt it!” he declared, brandishing his pistols. Six men lunged at him. Blades flashed, a gun fired, a rifle butt swung up over his head—and smashed squarely down onto his skull. Then blackness.³

What came next he would reconstruct later, from flashes of recollection in a semiconscious haze. Shattered head throbbing, body bleeding, he rattles over a track. They reach Augusta. He is tossed to the ground, his arms lashed around the trunk of a tree. He sees his bare legs splayed out in front of him, funny-looking foreign things, and he sees hot brown pitch poured over them, scalding, clinging to his skin. Under his feet the men pile up kindling and set it alight. The flame catches the tar, sears his flesh. His feet are on fire, two of his toes charred into stubs. The attackers seize his broken head by the hair and pull it out in clumps. Knives take care of the rest, cutting off strips of scalp, making the blood run down over his ears, face, and neck. Half scalped, skull fractured, lamed, slashed, and battered, Brown—remarkably—survives. Later, a doctor comes to the place where he is confined and bandages him up, setting his broken bones on course to heal. A sympathetic guard, moved by the spectacle of this badly damaged man, agrees to let Brown get away. He slips out of custody and rides over the border into South Carolina to take shelter with a loyalist friend.⁴

In years to come Brown frequently recalled how the patriots “tortured him in the most inhuman manner.” He did not choose to describe how he was then carted through the streets of Augusta for public mockery—and how he, like many victims of such assaults, ultimately broke down and agreed to sign the association (an action he promptly renounced after his escape).⁵ But the personal humiliation of giving in to his attackers could only have contributed to the passion of Brown’s response. The incident turned him from a noncombatant into a militant enemy of the revolution. Within a matter of weeks, his feet so badly injured he could not walk, his head still wrapped in bandages, Brown rallied hundreds of backcountry residents to form a loyalist militia, the King’s Rangers, and fight back. Physically and mentally brutalized by the patriots, Brown in turn earned notoriety as a particularly ruthless, vindictive loyalist commander.⁶

A rich historical tradition has portrayed the American Revolution first and foremost as a war of ideals—not a war of ordeals.⁷ Yet for Brown and thousands more civilians caught in the conflict, this was what the revolution looked like: mobs on the march, neighbors turned enemies, critical decisions forced under stress. As the revolution gathered momentum across the colonies, one American after another faced a choice. Would they join the rebellion or stay loyal to the king and empire? Their answers had to do with a host of factors, including core values and beliefs, self-interest, local circumstance, and personal relationships. But no matter how contingent, their responses could have unexpectedly far-ranging results.

WHAT WAS a loyalist, and what kind of America and British Empire did loyalists want?⁸ It is important to note at the outset that, as fellow American colonists, loyalists and patriots had more in common with one another than they did with metropolitan Britons. Both loyalists and patriots shared preoccupations with access to land, the maintenance of slavery, and regulation of colonial trade. Nor did their places of origin necessarily serve as a leading indicator of political difference. While Thomas Brown remained loyal, for instance, one of the indentured servants he brought from the Orkney Islands promptly ran off and joined a patriot militia.⁹ Ultimately choices about loyalty depended more on employers, occupations, profits, land, faith, family, and friendships than on any implicit identification as an American or a Briton. At the start of the war, colonists often saw themselves both as American, in the sense that they were colonial residents, and as British, in the sense of being British subjects.

What truly divided colonial Americans into loyalists and patriots was the mounting pressure of revolutionary events: threats, violence, the imposition of oaths, and ultimately war. By 1776, the patriots renounced the king’s authority, and developed fresh political and philosophical justifications for doing so—whereas loyalists wanted to remain British subjects, and wanted the thirteen colonies to remain part of the British Empire. On these fundamental points, loyalists could largely agree. Nevertheless, it would be a mistake to think loyalists were ideologically uniform—or that they simply wanted to preserve the status quo. In fact, many leading loyalists sought to reform the imperial relationship. They resisted the prospect of authoritarian rule, and were quick to defend their rights to representation. Indeed, during the colonial protests of the 1760s and 1770s, future loyalists and patriots alike spoke out in unison against perceived British tyranny. They tended to share provincial perspectives on rights and liberties, and a common language of grievance against the abuse of imperial authority. This would have important repercussions in the postwar years, when loyalist refugees found their expectations as British subjects to be at odds with those of their metropolitan British rulers.

The troubles in the colonies all started, strangely enough, with Britain’s greatest imperial victory. Triumph in the Seven Years’ War in 1763 brought the empire French Canada, Spanish Florida, valuable Caribbean islands, and an important foothold in India. But Britain had also racked up an enormous debt. To offset the costs, Parliament passed a series of measures in the colonies designed to promote imperial security and prosperity. Instead, it unintentionally provoked colonial resistance. Most notoriously, the Stamp Act of 1765, a seemingly innocuous tax on paper products, spectacularly backfired when Americans (and many Britons) denounced it as an abuse of imperial power, imposed by a parliament that did not adequately represent colonists. Many future loyalists were vocal opponents of the Stamp Act, though these protests also saw the first systematic attacks against American “tories,” suspected of wanting to enhance royal and aristocratic power. Street gangs like the self-described Sons of Liberty smashed property and assaulted individuals—most vividly by tarring and feathering, a new hallmark of patriot justice.¹⁰

Violence was a familiar colonial phenomenon by the time a 1773 tax on tea touched off the worst trouble yet. One December night, Boston’s Sons of Liberty, their faces streaked to resemble Indian warriors, stormed onto British tea ships anchored in Boston harbor and tipped the valuable cargo overboard. Parliament responded by passing the so-called Coercive Acts, closing the port of Boston and demanding repayment for the tea. Americans swiftly branded these the “Intolerable Acts.” Delegates from around the thirteen colonies decided to convene a continental congress in Philadelphia and develop a coordinated response.

A few congressmen arrived in Philadelphia in September 1774 already primed for war. They must have cheered enthusiastically at a congressional dinner when the radical pamphleteer Thomas Paine—who had recently arrived from England to throw his support behind the patriot cause—raised a toast, declaring, “May the collision of British Flint and American Steel produce that spark of liberty which shall illumine . . . posterity”! But the majority of delegates would have cheered more comfortably when the company drank to the “Union of Britain and the Colonies on a constitutional foundation.”¹¹ The prospect of war seemed to most congressmen an unnecessary, not to say suicidal, extreme. Far preferable was finding a way to assert colonial rights and liberties while remaining within the imperial fold.

The speaker of the Pennsylvania assembly, Joseph Galloway, offered Congress a compelling plan to achieve this.¹² Galloway agreed with most of his colleagues that the colonies—while they held “in abhorrence the idea of being considered independent”—could not adequately “be represented in the Parliament of Great Britain.” Instead, Galloway suggested that America have a parliament of its own: a “Grand Council,” to be headed by a president general. Made up of representatives from each colony, this American parliament would “hold and exercise all the legislative rights, powers, and authorities” required for running colonial affairs. It would also have the power to veto any legislation bearing on America produced by the British parliament. The colonies would thereby enjoy domestic self-government while retaining the benefits of imperial trade and protection. Such a “Plan of Union,” Galloway argued, was the only way forward if the colonies wanted to stave off “all the horrors of a civil war” and the inevitable “ruin of America.”¹³

Galloway’s plan was the most significant colonial reform project on the eve of the revolution, though it did not come out of a vacuum. Galloway’s mentor Benjamin Franklin had proposed a very similar idea himself twenty years earlier (developed with the governor of Massachusetts Thomas Hutchinson, later reviled as a “tory”), the Albany Plan of Union of 1754.¹⁴ “Join, or Die,” Franklin had inscribed under a memorable political cartoon showing the colonies as segments of a cut-up serpent—indicating the importance of continental union to American prosperity.¹⁵ Galloway sent his own plan of union to Franklin, then living in London, who circulated the scheme among high-ranking British officials; Franklin’s only objection was that it might embroil America in too many British imperial wars. Franklin’s son William, the governor of New Jersey, wholeheartedly endorsed it. After all, it had much to commend it to American sensibilities. By granting the colonies control over virtually everything but the ability to go to war, Galloway’s plan proposed a greater degree of autonomy for the American colonies than any other British domain enjoyed, including Scotland. His proposed American legislature would have fewer constraints than the Irish parliament, too. Most important, Galloway argued, his plan would aid the development of America itself. If the colonies were going to continue to grow and flourish, there had to be some overarching authority binding them together, in the spirit of Franklin’s “Join, or Die”; perhaps, he suggested, an “American constitution.”¹⁶

For one long late-September day in 1774, Congress debated Galloway’s plan of union. The New York delegation was particularly well disposed toward it, with the respected lawyer John Jay speaking out clearly in its favor. It was “almost a perfect plan,” declared an upstanding young South Carolina planter. Galloway congratulated himself that “all the men of property, and many of the ablest speakers, supported the motion.” But not all his colleagues were convinced. “We are not to consent by the representatives of representatives,” insisted Patrick Henry of Virginia.¹⁷ Samuel Adams, the founder of the Sons of Liberty, believed the colonies would do better by withdrawing from the British Empire altogether. When Galloway’s plan came to a vote, five colonies voted in its favor versus six against—and the plan was tabled.¹⁸ Instead of moving toward closer union with Britain, Congress issued a set of resolutions asserting Americans’ entitlement to “all the rights, liberties, and immunities” of British subjects, in terms anticipating those of the Declaration of Independence.¹⁹

The closeness of the vote on Galloway’s plan poses an intriguing “what if ” for historians. What if one vote had gone the other way? What would have happened to the thirteen colonies if Galloway’s scheme had been adopted? Ireland might provide one answer: following a series of reforms in 1782, the Irish parliament received something of the legislative freedom Galloway sought for America. In 1800, Ireland would be united with Great Britain outright and its parliament absorbed by Westminster. But a better answer would take shape in North America itself, in 1867, when the provinces of Canada, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia united to become a federal, self-governing dominion within the British Empire. Canada—as this confederation was called—was the first example of “home rule” (autonomy over domestic policy) in the empire, and provided a template for self-government movements in later-nineteenth-century Ireland and India. In 1774 Philadelphia, Galloway advanced a model of imperial reform that anticipated home rule by generations. It was a prime example of how loyalists possessed dynamic political visions of their own.

Galloway could not have taken much comfort in seeing one part of his prophecy come true. By rejecting his plan—the last concerted American attempt to preserve ties with the British Empire—Congress moved inexorably closer to civil war. With tensions already near breaking point, it was mostly a matter of time before something touched off outright conflict.

The alarm came before dawn on the morning of April 19, 1775, when militia members in Lexington, Massachusetts, were rustled out of bed with news that British soldiers were coming from Boston to seize a patriot weapons store in nearby Concord. The militia mustered on Lexington Green as fast as they could and hastily readied their muskets as seven hundred well-disciplined British regulars marched, wheeled, and advanced toward them. Then a gun went off. Nobody knew who fired the “shot heard ’round the world” (as the poet Ralph Waldo Emerson would famously dub it), British redcoat or American militiaman.²⁰ But that didn’t really matter. For despite their differences in power and purpose, the two groups of men were more alike than any other enemies they had faced. To them and thousands more now engulfed by war, the American Revolution did not look like a world-historical drama about the forging of a new nation. This was a bitter civil war about the division of an old empire. It accelerated a painful process in which British subjects were increasingly divided into opposing camps, as Americans and Britons.²¹ The problem for loyalists was that they had affiliations to both, being at once rooted American colonists and committed British subjects.

FOR THE CONGRESSMEN meeting in Philadelphia, ideas and beliefs were an explicit subject of debate. But for the two and a half million Americans caught up in a civil war, ideas were hardened—if not superseded—by violence. The beginning of conflict was enough to push even some former congressmen to the other side, including prominent New York merchant Isaac Low. Though Low had resisted the abuse of imperial authority since the 1760s, he felt progressively alienated by the steps toward war. When the Second Continental Congress convened in May 1775, Low resigned his seat and stayed home; and when asked to purchase gunpowder for patriot troops a short time later, he withdrew entirely from government and soon lent his support to the British.²² Within weeks of the skirmishes at Lexington and Concord, colonies established committees of safety that administered loyalty oaths to newly formed patriot legislatures. These oaths became a crucial marker of difference between patriots and loyalists. People who refused to swear them could be jailed, punished with property confiscation, or banished outright. Popular justice also followed those who failed to comply. Jacob Bailey, the Pownalborough minister, was comparatively fortunate that only his sheep and cows were attacked. At least two dozen others in 1775 shared the fate of Thomas Brown, by being tortured and publicly humiliated with tarring and feathering.²³

Then there was the spreading violence of the war itself. Revolution reached five-year-old Catherine Skinner one night when soldiers broke into her house, yanked her from her bed, and plunged their bayonets into her mattress to see if her father was hiding underneath. Catherine’s father, Cortlandt Skinner, New Jersey’s last royal attorney general, had rebuffed patriot overtures (like Brown) and escaped to British lines, leaving his family in the New Jersey countryside. Rebel raids trapped the Skinner family as prisoners in their own house; they hid in the cellar from gunshots, famished to the point of pain and tears. At last Catherine’s mother managed to lead her ten youngest children to safety on her eldest daughter’s farm. The days grew sharp and short, winter coming on. Every time they went into the fields they found another outbuilding burned, another of their pigs or cows poisoned by the rebels. The Skinners scraped through the winter of 1776–77 on stores of buckwheat buried beneath the hard-frozen ground. One frigid day the youngest of the family, a smiling boy of fourteen months, died. For days they kept the tiny body inside the house, unable to let him go with no priest to perform a funeral and no church accessible. In the end, Catherine’s eldest siblings “carried the poor little thing out in the night and buried him in the corner of a field.”²⁴ Traumatic scenes like this imprinted Catherine—and probably her younger sister Maria too—powerfully enough for her to recall them vividly more than sixty years later.

Loyalists closely monitored the progress of the war, sometimes hiding out to avoid confrontations, sometimes moving to seek shelter within British lines. Of course, at the outset it was reasonable to think that Britain would win the conflict handily. But a worrying indication to the contrary came when the British decided to evacuate Boston in March 1776 in the face of a patriot attack. In the orders to abandon the city, British general William Howe offered free passage to any loyalist civilians who wished to follow—unwittingly setting a precedent for many more evacuations to come. At least eleven hundred loyalists sailed with the departing troops for Halifax in Nova Scotia.²⁵ “By all accounts, there never existed a more miserable set of beings, than these wretched creatures now are,” said George Washington, the commander in chief of the Continental Army. “Conscious of their black ingratitude, they chose to commit themselves . . . to the mercy of the waves in a tempestuous season, rather than meet their offended countrymen.”²⁶ Washington’s contempt aside, the refugees would have agreed with his portrayal of their woeful condition. Leaving behind almost all their property and personal connections, the Boston refugees were the first loyalists to experience mass evacuation—and the first group to discover the hardships of imperial exile.

In New York City, where British military efforts now concentrated, the assistant rector of Trinity Church, Charles Inglis, anxiously watched the situation deteriorate around him. As an ordained priest in the Church of England, Inglis (like Jacob Bailey) could not brook the prospect of forswearing his allegiance to the king who stood at the head of his church. But he felt sick at the sight of his country at war. In January 1776, Thomas Paine published the pamphlet Common Sense, a strident and hugely compelling argument in favor of American independence and republicanism. Inglis quickly scribbled out a deeply felt, intellectually grounded rebuttal called The True Interest of America, Impartially Stated. “I find no Common Sense in this pamphlet but much uncommon phrenzy,” Inglis wrote. “Even Hobbes would blush to own its author for a disciple.” Inglis vividly described the devastating consequences that he thought Paine’s vision would have for America: “Ruthless war... will ravage our once happy land....Torrents of blood will be spilt, and thousands reduced to beggary and wretchedness.” What America needed instead, Inglis argued, was a reformed imperial relationship to secure American “Liberties, Property, and Trade.” “No person breathing has a deeper sense of the present distresses of America, than I,” he insisted, “or would rejoice more to see these removed, and our liberties settled on a permanent, constitutional foundation.” But republicanism truly did seem to him a formula for anarchy, and independence a recipe for decline. He owed it “to God, to my King and Country” to resist. Where Paine had presented his text as the anonymous work of “an Englishman,” Inglis—who was born in Ireland—published his pamphlet under the proud label of “an American.”²⁷

Inglis hoped that Paine’s pamphlet, “like others, will sink in oblivion.”²⁸ Instead it was a runaway sensation. Said to have sold half a million copies in 1776 alone—enough for one in every five Americans to own one—the pamphlet helped convert Americans en masse to the idea of independence.²⁹ Copies of Inglis’s pamphlet, by contrast, were seized from the printer and burned in what Inglis condemned as “a violent attack on the Liberty of the Press.” More outrages followed. The New York committee of safety ordered the loyalist-leaning governors of King’s College—today’s Columbia University—to empty out the college library so the facility could be turned into a barracks for Continental Army troops. In May 1776, suspected New York loyalists were rounded up and forced to hand over any weapons in their possession; the next month, more were seized by a mob, “rode on Rails, their Cloth’s torn off, & much beaten & abused. Many were obliged to fly out of the City, & durst not return.” By summer, Inglis and his friends were living in “the utmost Consternation and Terror” in the wake of a rumored plot to assassinate George Washington.³⁰

And then, on July 4, 1776, Congress voted to adopt the Declaration of Independence. All patriot talk of union, reform, and British liberties was swept away, replaced by Thomas Jefferson’s crystalline presentation of universal, “self-evident,” and “unalienable rights.” On paper, the declaration transformed thirteen British colonies into independent and “united States of America.” It would take a lot more to make the United States real in practice, but the declaration had a critical effect on consolidating patriot and loyalist positions. From now on, independence was the dividing line: either you were for it or you were against it. Independence made anybody who aided or abetted the British into a traitor against the United States. It also came with a symbol attached. The language of the declaration turned King George III into the embodiment of everything patriots hated about British rule. For loyalists, by contrast, the king provided a focal point of unity; supporting him was the one thing they all believed in.

No more king, no more Parliament, no more British Empire: as news of the declaration whipped across America, people instantly understood its significance. Emblems of the king’s authority came crashing down in an iconoclastic frenzy. Patriots marched through the streets of Boston tearing down inn signs, placards, and anything else bearing royal insignia. In Baltimore, they wheeled a statue of the king through the streets like a condemned man headed for execution and set it ablaze before a crowd of thousands. On Bowling Green in New York City, a crowd of soldiers and eager civilians looped ropes around a monumental equestrian statue of King George III, toppled it from its marble pedestal, chopped off the statue’s head, and planted it on a spike of iron fence. Inglis recorded how the decapitated remains were paraded through the city to the Continental Army camp, where “the Declaration of Independency was read at the Head of several Regiments.” Its valuable lead would be melted down into more than forty thousand bullets.³¹

Inglis remained frightened by “the critical situation of affairs” and “the most violent threats flung out against any who would presume to pray for the King.” Fortunately for him, a deliverance of sorts was at hand. Preparing for an invasion of New York City, Royal Navy ships crowded into the harbor “as thick as trees in a forest.”³² In the last week of August 1776, thirty thousand British troops landed in Brooklyn in great red waves. They routed Washington’s Continental Army on Brooklyn Heights and crossed the East River to seize Manhattan. Britain’s comprehensive victory in New York almost ended the war on the spot—though through bad British decisions and good American luck, Washington escaped to fight another day. Instead, New York City became the central British base of operations for the rest of the war. It also became the largest loyalist stronghold in the colonies. Loyalists surged into this safe haven from surrounding war-torn areas.³³ In September 1776, when the British occupation began, the city contained a mere five thousand residents, many patriots having fled in the face of the British advance. Less than six months later, loyalist refugees had doubled the population, and soon New York played home to twenty-five to thirty thousand loyalists, making it the second largest city in the colonies.³⁴

Refugees came to New York City in search of protection and stability, but these, they found, had a price. A few nights after the British arrival, a fire broke out on one of the slips at Manhattan’s southeastern tip. Sheets of flame blazed up Broadway, consuming as many as a quarter of the city’s buildings in its wake. British commanders concluded that the fire had been started by patriot arsonists, and promptly placed New York City under martial law; it remained under military rule until the end of the war.³⁵ Loyalists deeply resented living under military occupation, subordinated to the whims of raucous British troops.³⁶ (Not for nothing had the quartering of British soldiers in American homes been a long-standing colonial grievance.) In the fall of 1776, the disgruntled New York refugees presented a petition to the British commanders in chief complaining about martial law. “Notwithstanding the tumult of the times, and the extreme difficulties and losses to which many of us have been exposed, we have always expressed, and do now give this Testimony of our Zeal to preserve and support the constitutional supremacy of Great Britain over the Colonies,” the petitioners stressed. “[S]o far from having given the least countenance of encouragement, to the most unnatural, unprovoked Rebellion, that ever disgraced the annals of Time; we have on the contrary, steadily and uniformly opposed it, in every stage of its rise and progress, at the risque of our Lives and Fortunes.” In return for their loyalty, they argued, they deserved to be treated with “some line of distinction”—not the imperial iron fist that clenched them more tightly than ever.³⁷

A frank declaration of dependence, this document conspicuously lacks the rhetorical grace and inspiration of the Declaration of Independence. But it gives clear insight into what a large cross section of American loyalists wanted from the British Empire. They had no wish to “dissolve the political bands” with Britain, as the Declaration of Independence had proclaimed. On the contrary, they sought “a speedy restoration of that union” between Britain and the colonies that had produced so much “mutual happiness and prosperity.” At the same time, these New Yorkers were not backward-looking reactionaries. Their quest for a civil reunion with Britain would have inclined them toward plans like Joseph Galloway’s, in which the colonies would gain greater autonomy. Nor were they unthinkingly “loyal” to what was effectively an army of occupation.

The “declaration of dependence” also nicely illustrates who these loyalists actually were. For three days in late November 1776, the petition sat on a table at Scott’s Tavern in Wall Street, to be signed by anybody who wished. In all, more than seven hundred people came to put their names to the parchment—twelve times the number who signed the Declaration of Independence. The list of signatories ranged from grandees fat with land and capital to small-time local farmers and artisans. The very first signer, Hugh Wallace, counted among the wealthiest traders in the city; he and his brother Alexander, émigrés from Ireland, had cemented their self-made success by marrying two sisters of Isaac Low, the former congressman. Charles Inglis and New York’s other principal clergymen followed immediately below. Representatives of New York’s great landed families, the DeLanceys, the Livingstons, and the Philipses, also inscribed their names to the petition. The majority of signatures, though, belonged to the ordinary people who made New York run: tavern-keepers and carpenters, farmers from the Hudson Valley and New Jersey, Germans, Dutch, Scots, and Welsh. Here was the baker Joseph Orchard, who supplied the British army with bread, and the hairdresser and perfumer James Deas. Many signatories later joined up to fight: men like Amos Lucas, who left his farm on Long Island to join a loyalist regiment, and the Greenwich blacksmith James Stewart, a veteran of the Seven Years’ War, who enlisted in the British army in 1777. While the petition recorded the social hierarchy of the times—with “leading citizens” at the top and their clients and subordinates below—it also demonstrated the social diversity of loyalism.³⁸

As patriots united around the idea of an independent nation, loyalty to the king helped a parallel America coalesce around an ideal of enduring empire. Yet these New York loyalists confronted an ominous portent of what would become a recurring loyalist predicament. They found a place of safety, yes, but it was not necessarily a comfortable one. What they wanted from Britain was not always what British authorities would give them. And though they were not prepared to abandon the imperial connection altogether, they had no desire to be treated as supplicant minions either. It was one thing to experience such treatment in a time of war. But many would find, to their chagrin, that such disjunctures between loyalist expectation and British practice stretched on well into the peace.

It was no wonder, then, that colonists inclined toward the king could feel pressed between a rock and a hard place, reluctant to commit themselves openly to a loyalist cause that might bring nothing but punishment, property confiscation, dislocation, and discomfort in its wake. This was the dilemma that New York landowner Beverley Robinson wrestled with in the winter of 1777. The war had been going on for nearly two years, yet Robinson still could not figure out what to do. Born in Virginia, Robinson had come to New York in the 1740s as an officer in a colonial regiment—along with his childhood friend and brother officer, George Washington. There he met and married a member of one of New York’s great landed families, Susanna Philipse. (Washington unsuccessfully courted Susanna’s sister, who passed him over for a future loyalist.) The marriage made Robinson one of the largest landed magnates in the region. The Robinsons lived in style in the Hudson Highlands, sixty miles north of New York City. Collecting ample rents from contented tenants, surrounded by good friends and neighbors, and raising a spirited brood of two daughters and five sons, Beverley Robinson had every reason to believe that the 1770s would be some of the best years of his life. “Since the time of the golden age there never was more perfect domestic happiness and rural life than that which he and his family enjoyed,” Robinson’s fourth son, Frederick Philipse “Phil” Robinson, glowingly recalled.³⁹ Instead, Beverley Robinson found himself confronting the biggest decision he would ever have to make.

Would he openly declare his loyalty to the king, to whom he had sworn repeated oaths of allegiance as a militia officer and county judge? Could he continue to stay quiet? Or would he join many of his acquaintances in rejecting an imperial relationship gone sour? The stakes of his choice could not have been higher. In his heart of hearts, Robinson did not want his world to change—and why should he? As a patrician landowner he enjoyed a life as close to that of an English aristocrat as America could offer. Yet coming out as a loyalist would carry substantial risks for himself, his family, and his property. Besides, he cared deeply for his country and its future. If the colonies won the war and the United States became independent, he was not necessarily prepared to abandon New York in consequence.

Robinson was lucky that the rebels did not show up on his doorstep, as they had at Thomas Brown’s. But in February 1777, matters came to a head when Robinson was summoned before a “Committee to Detect Conspiracies” and interrogated about his neutrality. One of the examiners was Robinson’s old friend John Jay, the New York lawyer and congressman. “Sir,” Jay told him soberly, “we have crossed the Rubicon and it is now necessary for every man [to] Take his part, Cast off all allegiance to the King of Great Britain and take an oath of allegiance to the States of America or go over to the Enemy for we have Declared our Selves Independent.”⁴⁰ The dilemma cut Robinson to the core. “I cannot yet think of forfeiting my allegiance to the King,” he wrote to Jay in distress after their meeting, and yet “I am as unwilling to remove myself or family from this place.” He would take counsel one last time with his friends, he said, “on the unhappy & distracted state of my poor Bleeding Country.” “If I am convinced that a Reconciliation cannot be had upon just & reasonable terms,” Robinson concluded, “I will . . . content myself to share the same state as my Country. Nothing shall ever tempt or force me to do any thing, that I think . . . will be prejudicial to my Country.”⁴¹

Robinson’s struggle was agonizing for Jay too. Jay had long hoped for peaceful reconciliation with Britain himself—hence his support of Galloway’s plan of union. Facing the Rubicon of independence, he crossed; but several close friends stayed back.⁴² Hoping to prevent another ruptured friendship, Jay addressed a heartfelt appeal to Susanna Robinson, entreating her to persuade her husband to back down from declaring his loyalism. “Mr. Robinson has put his own & the Happiness of his Family & Posterity at Hazard—and for what? For the Sake of a fanciful Regard to an Ideal Obligation to a Prince . . . who with his Parliament . . . claim a Right to bind you & your Children in all Cases whatsoever.” He invited her to consider what would become of the Robinsons if they remained loyal. “Remember that should you carry your numerous Family to New York Famine may meet you & incessant anxiety banish your Peace,” he warned:

Picture to your Imagination a City besieged, yourself & Children mixt with contending Armies—Should it be evacuated, where, with whom & in what Manner are you next to fly? Can you think of living under the restless wings of an Army? Should Heaven determine that America shall be free, In what Country are you prepared to spend the Remainder of your Days & how provide for your Children? These Things it is true may not happen, but dont forget that they may.⁴³

Jay’s warnings proved astonishingly prescient. But such visions could not change his friends’ ultimate refusal, even in the face of civil war, to renounce the king. In March 1777, Beverley Robinson took his stand and joined the British outright. Though the Robinsons had long sat on the sidelines of the conflict, the family now threw themselves into war. Robinson raised a new provincial regiment (one of the brigades of loyalist soldiers attached to the British army), called the Loyal American Regiment, and served as its colonel. His eldest son, Beverley Robinson Jr., acted as the regiment’s lieutenant colonel, and his second son as a captain.⁴⁴ When his fourth son Phil Robinson reached fighting age—thirteen—the youth took up a commission in a British infantry unit. Susanna Robinson and the other children retreated into occupied New York City for safety. There, at a small ceremony performed by Charles Inglis, the younger Beverley married Anna Barclay, the sister of another Loyal American officer. While the Robinson family fought to preserve their vision of imperial America, the state of New York confiscated Robinson’s estates in the name of independence. In later years, Washington and his officers used the Robinson house as a headquarters, directing offensives against the British from the very same rooms in which he had dined and drunk as his loyal friend’s guest.⁴⁵

AS BEVERLEY ROBINSON wavered over whether to take a stand in the war, a neighboring population of New Yorkers was already actively engaged in the British cause. They were Mohawk Indians, one of the many indigenous nations drawn into the American Revolution. For all that their experiences manifestly differed from those of colonists and slaves, they belong in the same frame as white and black loyalists for several reasons. Not least, Indian participation in the war loomed large in colonists’ perceptions, and had some influence on their own choice of sides.⁴⁶ But this was not just a civil war among whites. It aligned and divided North America’s native peoples too. For the Mohawks among others, fighting with the British led to outcomes that resembled and intersected with those of white and black loyalists—and ultimately pulled them, too, into the ranks of loyalist refugees.

On the frontiers of white settlement, the American Revolution did not look like a war about taxation and representation. This was a war about access to land, and it was triggered less by revenue-raising measures such as the Stamp Act than by the Proclamation of 1763, by which Britain banned colonial settlement west of the Appalachians.⁴⁷ British officials passed the measure in part to stave off the inevitable violence between whites and Indians that accompanied expansion. To land-hungry settlers nothing could be more noxious. Decades of warfare between colonists and Indian “savages” had produced excruciatingly savage forms of warfare in turn—epitomized, for whites, by the practice of scalping.⁴⁸ (When Thomas Brown described “my head scalped in 3 or 4 places” on that August day in 1775, he deployed the worst slur available to colonial Americans: he likened his attackers to Indians.)⁴⁹ The violent history of Indian-white relations had important repercussions for frontier colonists’ decisions about loyalty. One of the reasons Brown and his neighbors stayed loyal was because they counted on the British government to protect them from Indians. Yet one of the grounds patriots cited for rebellion was that the British had failed to protect them.

The coming of revolution presented Indians, too, with a choice. European powers had long relied on Indians to fight alongside them in colonial wars, and this was no exception. Both British and patriot agents worked to recruit Indians into their service, leaving Indians to weigh up their own questions of belief, conscience, and collective interest. Which side would enable them to protect their autonomy best? For no native population would such calculations be better documented, and perhaps more shrewdly measured, than the Mohawks. Because Indian nations in this period remained autonomous powers, historians have often resisted labeling those who fought for the British as “loyalists” instead of “allies.” But the Mohawks’ connection with Britain ran especially long and deep. In their own telling and that of their white peers, they could be considered loyalists too.

Part of a confederacy of Iroquois nations known as the Six Nations, the Mohawks had an alliance with Britain dating back to well before the revolution. The “Covenant Chain,” as the Anglo-Iroquois alliance was called, was anchored both in treaties and in transformative personal relationships. For nearly twenty years it had been nurtured by Sir William Johnson, the enormously influential superintendent of Indian affairs for the northern department. The archetype of a successful Irish immigrant, Johnson had arrived in New York in 1738 with little more than a good connection (his uncle was a prominent admiral) and a dozen families he had recruited to settle on his uncle’s lands. He ended up building a sprawling personal empire of 400,000 acres stretching across the Mohawk Valley. At his manor house, Johnson Hall, Sir William lived in neo-feudal splendor surrounded by hundreds of tenant farmers. At the same time, in partnership with his third wife, Mary “Molly” Brant, a prominent Mohawk, he presided over a multicultural domain. The couple raised their eight half-white, half-Mohawk children in a house built in the best Georgian style, where they were served by black slaves and surrounded by white and Indian visitors. At regular Indian councils the Johnsons hosted sumptuous feasts for hundreds, to negotiate and seal deals around the council fire. Johnson’s commanding influence among colonists and Indians alike allowed him to broker the Treaty of Fort Stanwix in 1768, which established a firm boundary between British and Indian lands in New York and Pennsylvania.

Johnson died in 1774, on the eve of his world’s disintegration. But “Johnson” remained a name to conjure with in upstate New York. The office of superintendent would be assumed by his son-in-law Guy Johnson and his son Sir John Johnson in turn; another son-in-law acted as deputy superintendent. And while the Johnsons privileged the Mohawks in British policy, the Mohawks privileged the British in turn. When war erupted just months after Sir William’s death, Molly Brant, the powerful doyenne of Johnson Hall, actively worked to rally the Iroquois to the British cause. Loyalism, to her, was the obvious stance: personal connections and anti-settler animosity, as well as considered self-interest, all pointed toward the British. The other Six Nations members followed the Mohawks’ choice—with one notable exception. Acting on a calculation that the patriots might win the war, the Oneida Indians opted to join the other side. The American Revolution thus divided the Iroquois confederacy against itself, breaking the Six Nations into five versus one; it also split nations from within, with some villages remaining neutral while others went to war.⁵⁰

Molly Brant’s actions convinced the British that “one word from her is more taken Notice of by the five Nations than a thousand from any white Man without exception.”⁵¹ As such, the British repeatedly offered her special favors, such as houses and allowances to the tune of three to four thousand pounds per year.⁵² New York patriots, meanwhile, provided different testament to Brant’s influence. “Mary Brant (alias Johnson)” was one of only five women recorded on a list of loyalists formally stripped of their property under the New York State confiscation act. (The other four women were all Johnsons.)⁵³ However she may have characterized her own position, these British and American actions clearly portrayed Molly Brant as a loyalist.

But the relationship between the British and the Mohawks would be embodied most visibly in Molly’s forty-year-old brother Thayendanegea—or as his non-Indian friends preferred to call him, Joseph Brant.⁵⁴ In Mohawk Thayendanegea means “two sticks,” or “he who places two bets,” and it was an apt name for a man who had come of age between cultures, welcomed into the mixed community of Johnson Hall by his sister Molly and treated almost as an adoptive son by Sir William. At the age of eighteen, Joseph, already a decorated veteran of the Seven Years’ War, set out under Johnson’s patronage for the well-known “Indian school” in Connecticut run by missionary Eleazer Wheelock. He later self-deprecatingly described his command of English, which he perfected at the school, as “half English half Indian,” but there was some truth to the label, for Wheelock’s school also helped Brant cement a double status.⁵⁵ Thanks to his ancestry and marriages, Brant enjoyed a high position in Mohawk society and politics, and lived in comfort on his parents’ farm in the Mohawk Valley. At the same time, he associated easily with whites, became a devout Christian, and acted as interpreter to the Anglican missionary to the Mohawks, John Stuart.⁵⁶

The revolution set Brant’s cross-cultural role on an international stage. Soon he became chief sachem of the Mohawks, as Thayendanegea, and held a military commission as Captain Joseph Brant, the highest-ranking Indian in British service. He also learned to play the part of Anglo-Mohawk to dazzling perfection. In late 1775, Brant accompanied the superintendent of Indian affairs, Guy Johnson, to London, hoping to earn support for Mohawk land claims through a direct appeal to the king. “When he wore the ordinary European habit,” a contemporary newspaper noted, “there did not seem to be anything about him that marked preeminence.” But he knew how to make himself stand out. He sat for the popular society portraitist George Romney, crowned with a plume of scarlet feathers, cloak balanced over his left hand and tomahawk in his right, crucifix and gorget glinting around his neck. He charmed James Boswell, was presented at court, and was inducted into a celebrated Masonic lodge. As for his own impressions of London, it was the ladies that impressed him most, he said—and the sleek, swift horses.⁵⁷

Spearheaded by the Brants, and building on the Johnson legacy, Mohawk participation in the Revolutionary War represented a genuine merging of multinational interests under the banner of the British Empire. As loyalists, the Mohawks would be able to call on a larger degree of support and patronage from the British than any other Indian nation. The British in turn relied on them to help secure the Canadian borderlands, the longest Anglo-American frontier. But loyalism did not ultimately shield the Mohawks when the war started to go against them.

The summer of 1777 was a savage one in the Mohawk Valley, as ferocious battles ripped the Iroquois confederacy apart. Patriot and Oneida forces sacked Molly Brant’s home village of Canajoharie and looted her house; one officer made repeated visits to haul off wagonloads of her silk gowns and gold and silver ornaments. Patriots moved into the Mohawks’ handsome houses and feasted on their stores of corn, cabbage, and potatoes.⁵⁸ But that year would be remembered more for another British offensive in New York. This campaign, led by General John Burgoyne, was designed to divide the colonies and win the war for Britain. In the event, things turned out quite differently. An unfortunate incident during the course of the British advance portended worse to come, when a young American woman was killed and scalped by British Indian allies. The episode fueled patriot hysteria against the British, linking the redcoats ever more closely with the red-skinned “savages” they deployed.⁵⁹ Volunteers massed to the patriots, while Burgoyne’s position steadily deterioriated. By October, the British army had dwindled from about eight thousand men to five thousand, and was confronted by an American force twice the size. Chased and bothered by American attacks, they reached the New York village of Saratoga, near Albany, so exhausted that they dropped to the sodden ground and slept through a heavy rain. On October 17, 1777, completely surrounded and under constant fire, General Burgoyne surrendered his army to the patriots.⁶⁰

The British surrender at Saratoga was a turning point in the American Revolution. The top British commanders resigned in humiliation; the British government in Westminster became irreversibly divided. Most significantly, Saratoga brought America a crucial European ally, when France entered the war on America’s side. Spain followed suit a year later. Suddenly, Britain was no longer simply fighting the patriots in North America. It was fighting its two biggest imperial rivals in a war around the world. The entry of foreign powers also had critical effects in deepening the sense of division between patriots and loyalists, Americans and Britons. It was no coincidence that persecution of loyalists measurably increased after Saratoga, manifested in a series of anti-loyalist laws. Within six months of the battle, six states had stiffened and expanded their test laws, enforcing loyalty oaths. In 1778 New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New York, and South Carolina all passed punitive laws allowing loyalists to be arrested or banished. Pennsylvania passed an act of attainder against “divers traitors.” New Jersey established a committee of safety. Delaware prohibited trade with the enemy. Georgia implemented a vague but sinister law against “the dangerous consequences that may arise from the practices of disaffected...persons within this state.”⁶¹ And when the British strategically abandoned Philadelphia in June 1778, just nine months after they had captured it, thousands more loyalists became refugees—including Joseph Galloway and his daughter Betsy, bound for Britain.

It was not only whites who took flight. Saratoga very nearly sounded the death knell for Iroquois support of the British. “Upon the News of General Burgoynes Disaster,” Molly Brant “found the five Nations very wavering & unstable.” Still, she rallied her allies, reminding a Seneca chief “of the former great Friendship & Attachment which subsisted between him and the late Sr Wm Johnson, whose Memory she never mentions but with Tears in her Eyes” and of his promise “to live and die a firm Friend & Ally to the King of England and his Friends.” So persuasive were her arguments on the chief “and the rest of the 5 Nations present, that they promised her faithfully to stick up strictly to the Engagements to her late worthy Friend, and for his & her sake espouse the Kings Cause vigorously and steadily avenge her wrongs & Injuries.”⁶² Mohawk loyalism prevailed. But Molly Brant and most of the Mohawks had by now become refugees themselves by fleeing west to the Canadian frontier for safety, sharing in a common loyalist fate.

EVER SINCE 1775, British officials had hoped for—if not expected and counted on—a large popular turnout among loyalists to bring the war swiftly to an end. About nineteen thousand loyalists joined provincial regiments, which compared reasonably well with the Continental Army’s maximum force of twenty-five thousand, but fell considerably short of the combined American strength including patriot militias, to say nothing of the hordes of men required by the consistently troop-starved British.⁶³ After Saratoga, mustering loyalist manpower became more urgent than ever. Joseph Galloway and other prominent refugees in England persuaded British ministers, notably the colonial secretary Lord George Germain, that loyalists would still flock to the British flag if given the right support. The best prospects for this lay in the southern colonies of South Carolina and Georgia. Demographically, economically, and culturally, these colonies resembled the neighboring colonies of East and West Florida and the British West Indies—all of which remained loyal—about as much as they did those of New England, the hotbed of revolution. They had the highest ratio of slaves to whites in the colonies (hovering at about one to one), which tended to encourage a commitment to social stability among whites fearful of slave uprisings. Georgia, in particular, established in 1733, had a white population of only about thirty-five thousand, many of whom had close ties to Britain and the British Caribbean.⁶⁴ So it made good sense for Britain to turn its strategic attention south after the disaster of Saratoga.

John Lichtenstein (or Lightenstone, as he often Anglicized it) was exactly the kind of southern loyalist the British hoped would help. In 1762 Lichtenstein had immigrated to Georgia from the eastern fringe of Europe: he had been born in St. Petersburg, Russia, to a German Protestant minister. In Georgia he married Catherine Delegal, the daughter of one of the colony’s first settlers, a Huguenot. Lichtenstein acquired a modest indigo plantation on Skidaway Island, south of Savannah, and a dozen slaves; he also earned a commission as captain of a government scout boat, patrolling coastal waterways. The Lichtensteins’ only child, Elizabeth, born in 1764, remembered her Skid-away home as a veritable eden of “figs, peaches, pomegranates, quinces, plums, mulberries, nectarines, and oranges.” But the idyll did not last. When Elizabeth was ten her mother died; and two years later, the outbreak of war upset her world again. Lichtenstein continued to command the scout boat until patriots demanded that he turn it over to them. He refused, staying loyal to the government to which he owed his livelihood. But the patriots confiscated the boat anyway, and Lichtenstein retreated to Skidaway.⁶⁵

One morning in 1776, while he was shaving, Lichtenstein looked out the window to see a group of armed men approaching. Fortunately for him, one of his slaves valiantly distracted the party, giving him time to dress hurriedly and slip away in a small boat along with three slaves. The fugitives made their way to a British man-of-war anchored off Savannah. Lichtenstein sailed with the ship (which was also carrying Georgia’s now deposed colonial governor, Sir James Wright) to the safe haven of Halifax, Nova Scotia. From Halifax, he joined the 1776 expedition against New York City, and there was formally commissioned in the quartermaster’s office of the British army.

It was in this capacity that Lichtenstein became one of three thousand British and loyalist soldiers who, in the last days of 1778, landed in the swamps outside Savannah to commence Britain’s southern offensive. For him and many of the men squelching through the rice fields, this was a homecoming. Lichtenstein knew the area so well that he helped the commanding officer, Highlander colonel Archibald Campbell, choose the spot to disembark. The British swiftly captured Savannah and established it as a bridgehead for further operations. Campbell marched toward Augusta to secure the backcountry, with the help of Thomas Brown’s Rangers and other loyalist reinforcements. Sir James Wright returned to his post as governor, making Georgia the only revolting colony formally restored to crown control.

Through all this time, Elizabeth Lichtenstein had been tucked away from conflict on an aunt’s plantation in the country. Now back in Savannah, Lichtenstein immediately sent a passport for his long-lost daughter to join him. She entered a city still marked by battle: the streets were strewn with papers torn from books and ledgers; feathers ripped from bedding skimmed across the dirt. So much seemed new to her—her father, for a start, whom she had not seen in three years, and whom she regarded with reverence and awe. City life, too, presented unfamiliar scenes to an “unsophisticated girl, quite new to the world, its customs and usages,” who had spent the last few years effectively in hiding. Still, Elizabeth was no longer a child of twelve. At fifteen, she mixed with her father’s new loyalist friends as a young adult. Indeed, much to her father’s alarm, she promptly fell in love.⁶⁶

Elizabeth stayed in Savannah with the family of Dr. Lewis Johnston, a Scot who had immigrated to Georgia in the early 1750s via a short sojourn on St. Kitts, where he had married the niece of a planter. Johnston managed an impressively varied career as a medical doctor, a wealthy planter, and a public servant, as a member of the governor’s council and speaker of the assembly. When war broke out, the doctor and his family refused to break their allegiance and emerged among Savannah’s most prominent loyalists. One of Johnston’s younger brothers was Savannah’s leading printer and refused to print patriot declarations in his newspaper. To protect himself and his precious typefaces, he shut down the press and took his materials into the back-country for safety.⁶⁷ Dr. Johnston’s sons carried the family politics onto the battlefield. One son, Andrew, joined Brown’s Rangers and saw tough service on the Florida frontier. Another son, William Martin Johnston, escaped from Savannah on the same ship as John Lichtenstein—with whom he became good friends—and joined a loyalist regiment in New York. Before the war, “Billy” had been a popular if feckless medical student (studying under Philadelphia’s celebrated doctor and patriot Benjamin Rush), more given to gaming than books. Stationed in occupied New York, the captain quickly became one of the city’s “dashing fashionables,” a charmer, flirt, and gambler. So it was no wonder that when Lichtenstein’s twenty-five-year-old friend began paying court to young Elizabeth, ten years his junior—and when Elizabeth appeared responsive—the protective father promptly packed her back off to her aunt’s secluded estate. William Johnston left Savannah on a military expedition into South Carolina; Elizabeth pined for him in silence.⁶⁸

But a war that had divided so many others brought this couple together again. In early September 1779, a French fleet appeared off Savannah, and a Franco-American force laid siege to the city, outnumbering the defenders by five to one. William’s regiment rushed to Savannah’s defense. Elizabeth by then had returned to the city and was again staying with Dr. Johnston’s family. When the shelling began, she and the elder Johnstons retreated to an island just offshore and huddled in a barn with fifty-eight women and children “who had each one or more near relatives in the lines.” Fortunately for the besieged civilians, the bombs sailed straight over the defenders’ heads and fizzled out in Savannah’s sandy unpaved streets. After six days of bombardment, the French and Americans tried to take the city by storm, but were resoundingly repulsed. Loyalist civilians returned after the battle to find the roads “cut into deep holes by the shells,” and their houses “riddled with the rain of cannonballs.” But the Lichtensteins and Johnstons had made it through the ordeal untouched. Perhaps having survived the siege encouraged John Lichtenstein to relax his concerns about his daughter’s personal future. The next month, Elizabeth Lichtenstein and William Johnston got married.⁶⁹ The union marked an enormous step up socially for the new Mrs. Johnston, from the middling plantocracy into a highly educated, politically influential, and well-off segment of the Georgia loyalist elite. In the years ahead William’s family connections determined the course of the couple’s life in significant ways.

Southern loyalists saw the reconquest of Georgia as a happy omen of wider victory to come. Indeed, for a time it seemed as if the setbacks of the previous years had been put into reverse. In 1780, the British captured Charleston, South Carolina, turning that city, too, into a safe haven for loyalists.⁷⁰ Where patriots had attainted prominent South Carolina loyalists, forcing them into exile as enemies of the state, some now returned to retrieve their confiscated property.⁷¹ Where patriots had imposed oaths of allegiance to the new state legislature, the British now made sure that hundreds of Charleston residents (including much of the city’s Jewish community) signed certificates pledging to be “true and faithful Subject[s] to His Majesty, the King of Great Britain.”⁷² Where the patriots had earlier confiscated loyalist property, now patriot plantations and slaves were “sequestered,” or requisitioned, for British use. A North Carolina merchant called John Cruden was appointed commissioner of these sequestered estates, and energetically set about managing them for maximum economic benefit to the British.⁷³

The newly wed Johnstons especially enjoyed a period of upturn. William had been suffering from a “nervous complaint” triggered by a dangerous ride to Augusta to deliver military intelligence. He traveled to New York, in hopes that a more temperate climate would help him recover, and in a fit of “romantic folly” he insisted on bringing his bride across the war-torn country with him. The couple spent the summer of 1780 relaxing in the calm, British-held countryside of Long Island.⁷⁴

But as the Johnstons’ belated honeymoon reached its end, so did Britain’s relative good fortune in the south. The strategy had called for the capture of Charleston in part to secure Savannah. Now, to maintain control over South Carolina, the general commanding the southern army, Charles, Lord Cornwallis, felt he had to conquer North Carolina, and to do that, Cornwallis believed he had to move north again into Virginia. Behind him, the Georgia and Carolina backcountry broke down into bitter conflict between patriot and loyalist militias. Thomas Brown felt the brunt of it. He had made Augusta into a loyalist base and cultivated Creek and Cherokee support in a new office as superintendent of Indian affairs for the south. In the autumn of 1780, patriots attacked Augusta, besieging Brown’s forces in horrid conditions. By the time reinforcements came to the rescue, Brown had been lamed again by a bullet through both thighs, while Andrew Johnston, one of his most trusted lieutenants, lay among the dead. Patriots responded to the loyalists’ pyrrhic victory by accusing Brown and his men of scalping the sick and wounded, summarily hanging prisoners of war, and kicking the decapitated corpses of their victims through the streets.⁷⁵

Such appalling reports contributed to an increase in patriot insurgency across the interior of Georgia and the Carolinas and left the British struggling to contain what amounted to a guerrilla war. A few weeks after Augusta, a partisan battle at King’s Mountain in North Carolina left the British hopelessly weakened in the rear. Meanwhile, Cornwallis’s army staggered onward, low on supplies, manpower dwindling, harassed by patriot attacks.⁷⁶ And Virginia still lay ahead.

THE OLDEST and by far the largest of the thirteen colonies, in both area and population, Virginia sat at the geographic center of revolutionary America. Together with Massachusetts, Virginia formed one of the revolution’s two ideological poles. It was the home of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, among other founding fathers, and the heartland of America’s slaveowning plantocracy. Just a day after the first shots of the war were fired in Massachusetts, conflict erupted independently in Virginia’s capital, Williamsburg. Yet despite Virginia’s prominence, few military actions took place there until Cornwallis invaded in 1781. Rather, the colony stood out as the epicenter of another revolution, whose shock waves were felt hundreds of miles away. David George was one of that revolution’s twenty thousand black participants.⁷⁷

Born a slave on a plantation in the Tidewater region of eastern Virginia around 1740, David went into the fields almost as early as he could remember, carrying water, carding cotton, picking tobacco with his callused fingers. His was a brutal boyhood: he watched his sister flogged until her bare back looked “as though it would rot.” He saw his runaway brother hunted down with dogs, hung by the hands from a cherry tree, and whipped so violently that he might not have felt the stinging salt water poured into the open wounds. He heard his own mother struck by the lash, “begging for mercy.” In his twentieth year, David decided to get away from all this. He walked through the night and all the next day and just kept on going, out of Essex County, out of Virginia, over the Roanoke River, over the Pee Dee, and on toward the Georgia border. There he worked peacefully for two years, until his master tracked him down again and David fled once more, as far as Augusta. Even there, five hundred miles away from his Virginia owner, David was not safe. After six months his master’s son turned up to seize him, and David ran yet again. This time, he landed in the custody of a powerful Indian trader called George Galphin, at Silver Bluff, on the opposite bank of the Savannah River from Augusta.

The Irish-born Galphin, with his Creek Indian wife and mixed-race children, stood out as a sort of southern counterpart to Sir William Johnson. Silver Bluff was a veritable multiethnic kingdom in the backcountry, where the runaway David joined a diverse community with more than a hundred slaves who mixed relatively freely with both whites and Indians. He worked comfortably for a master who “was very kind to me,” and met and married a part-black, part-Creek woman named Phillis. But David’s years at Silver Bluff imprinted him most forcefully for another reason. In the early 1770s, a black preacher arrived in the woods to spread Baptist teachings to the slaves. David found himself alternately captivated and disturbed by the preacher’s message. “I saw myself a mass of sin,” he confessed, and realized that he “must be saved by prayer.” After an exuberant meeting in a mill on Galphin’s plantation, David and Phillis were baptized together in the millstream. David could hardly contain his ecstatic faith. Listening to another charismatic black Baptist, George Liele, preach in a cornfield, David felt an overwhelming urge to lead prayers himself. Liele encouraged the new convert to follow his passion. With Galphin’s permission (notable in an era when many planters were wary of their slaves being exposed to Christian teachings), David began to preach to the slaves at Silver Bluff—adopting his mentor Liele’s first name George as his own surname. Soon he presided there over America’s first black Baptist congregation.⁷⁸

By the time war broke out in 1775, Virginia seemed comfortably distant to David George. But the repercussions of conflict disrupted his enclave in time, for reasons originating in the very place from which he had fled. British military fortunes did not get off to a good start in Virginia. The governor, John Murray, fourth Earl of Dunmore, bore part of the blame. Despite being born into considerable privilege as a member of the Scottish aristocracy, Lord Dunmore came of age acutely aware of the precariousness of fortune. In 1745, his father had supported the bid of Charles Edward Stuart (“Bonnie Prince Charlie”), the Jacobite pretender, to reclaim the British throne from the Hanoverian king George II. The choice to stay loyal to the Stuarts cost many prominent Jacobites their titles and more. Though Dunmore’s family managed to avoid serious sanctions, the near miss must have informed his subsequent hard-nosed pursuit of power and personal gain. Appointed governor of New York in 1770 and governor of Virginia a year later, he was perhaps best known for his aggressive approach to land acquisition—achieved through war against the Indians—and he quickly acquired a reputation for autocracy, arrogance, and self-interest. These qualities were displayed the day after Lexington and Concord, when Dunmore ordered his men to remove the gunpowder from the Williamsburg magazine, to protect it from possible rebels. His unilateral move alienated moderates and patriots alike.⁷⁹ Armed volunteers demanded the return of the gunpowder; Dunmore responded by booby-trapping the magazine with a spring-loaded gun, wounding three men who tried to break in. The Virginia capital bayed for the governor’s blood. Under cover of night, Dunmore and his family fled to the safety of a British frigate in the James River.

Dunmore did not mean this as an admission of defeat. He promptly turned HMS Fowey into the headquarters of an extraordinary government in exile, using the fleet to launch operations against patriots in Hampton, Norfolk, and other coastal towns. Hundreds of loyalists rowed out to join this waterborne outpost of British Virginia—as did runaway slaves, who were also given sanctuary. Soon Dunmore governed a “floating town” inhabited by three thousand people on board nearly two hundred ships.⁸⁰ Patriots denounced Dunmore for “throwing the affairs of this colony in extreme confusion, by withdrawing himself unnecessarily from the administration of government.” But that was not the worst of it. For Dunmore also appeared to be “exciting an insurrection of our slaves” by putting guns in the runaways’ hands.⁸¹

If the prospect of Indian attacks struck terror into frontier colonists, slave rebellions formed the stuff of nightmares for whites in every British colonial slave society. Since 1774 anxious patriots had rumored that the British might arm the slaves, inciting revolt from within the very bosom of American homes.⁸² Now Dunmore did just that. On November 7, 1775, he issued a proclamation that declared “all indented Servants, Negroes, or Others (appertaining to Rebels) free, that are able and willing to bear Arms, they joining His Majesty’s Troops, as soon as may be.”⁸³ Within two weeks of the proclamation, Dunmore reported that two to three hundred slaves had joined him on his ships. He formed the runaways “into a Corps as fast as they come.” Called the “Ethiopian Regiment,” these black soldiers went into battle wearing uniform badges that boasted “Liberty to Slaves,” a slogan chilling to the white patriot champions of liberty.

Dunmore’s proclamation may have stemmed more from pragmatism than principle. The offer of freedom, limited as it was to patriot-owned slaves, brought valuable recruits into British service and dealt a huge blow to rebel morale, without openly undercutting the support of loyalist slaveowners. Motives aside, however, the proclamation’s social impact is hard to underestimate. From one mouth to the next, talk of freedom spread across the plantations of the south—and the slaves began to run. Single mothers led their children to the British; old and young traveled side by side; entire communities sometimes ran away together, dozens of slaves escaping from single plantations. Dunmore’s Ethiopian Regiment quickly numbered more than eight hundred men, and might have attained twice that strength were it not for a smallpox epidemic that killed hundreds on board Dunmore’s fleet. In pointed irony, some of the most prominent patriots lost their own slaves to the British. Several of George Washington’s slaves ran from Mount Vernon to the floating town. So did several belonging to Virginia burgess Patrick Henry—known for his patriotic rallying cry “Give me liberty, or give me death!”—who cited Dunmore’s proclamation as a reason that Americans should declare independence.⁸⁴

By July 4, 1776, though, Dunmore’s floating town was decimated by disease, and there was no improvement in sight. Dunmore was forced to retreat to New York with his Ethiopians. Despite the governor’s die-hard instincts, his effort to preserve royal authority in Virginia had become a farce, another lost cause for the onetime Jacobite. But Dunmore’s proclamation took on a life of its own. By inviting African Americans to join, it dramatically changed the character—and the material strength—of loyalist support for the British. British military commanders promptly repeated the promise of freedom to slaves who would fight. When the British bombarded Wilmington, North Carolina, in the spring of 1776, so many slaves ran to join them that General Sir Henry Clinton formed them into another black regiment, the Black Pioneers. (One of those Wilmington runaways, Thomas Peters, would later emerge as a significant leader of black loyalists in exile.) All told, approximately twenty thousand black slaves joined the British during the revolution—roughly the same number as the whites who joined loyalist regiments. Though hopes of a great white loyalist surge would prove elusive to British commanders, Dunmore and others harbored enduring fantasies of blacks helping to save the colonies for Britain.

News of black liberation wound into the southern backcountry, as far as Silver Bluff and the ears of David George and his friends. George’s master Galphin had come out as a patriot—or in George’s more muted phrase, an “antiloyalist.” Galphin was appointed Indian commissioner by the patriots, a position in which he vied with his loyalist counterpart Thomas Brown for Creek support. Because of Galphin’s efforts, Creek backing for the British remained uncertain as the redcoats advanced into the backcountry. But when the British army encamped opposite Silver Bluff, the choice for Galphin’s black slaves was clear. On January 30, 1779, David George and his family—among ninety of Galphin’s slaves—crossed the Savannah River to the British camp, to earn their freedom as black loyalists.⁸⁵ The Georges made their way to British-occupied Savannah, where David found work as a provisioner and butcher and Phillis did laundry for the British soldiers. Better yet, from George’s point of view, he was reunited in Savannah with his spiritual mentor George Liele. Together they continued to preach, knitting together a community of faith among other runaway blacks. Such ties among black loyalists, as among white loyalists, would provide an important sense of togetherness in years to come and destinations unknown.⁸⁶

By 1781, with northern offensives abandoned and the southern advance under General Cornwallis running into trouble, the British army’s mass liberation of slaves had come, in some minds, to look more strategically necessary than ever. In August 1781, a sergeant in the Black Pioneers named Murphy Stiele had a brush with the supernatural. He was sitting in the regimental barracks on Water Street in New York City when he heard a piercing yet disembodied voice. It instructed Stiele to tell General Clinton (now commander in chief ) to “send word to Genl. Washington That he must Surrender himself and his Troops to the King’s Army, and that if he did not the wrath of God would fall upon them.” If Washington refused, Clinton “was then to tell him, that he would raise all the Blacks in America to fight against him.”⁸⁷ For two weeks the voice pestered Stiele, until he relayed his message to the commander in chief. Stiele’s vision of blacks thronging to the British standard—a very particular version of those recurring hopes of loyalist support—must have given Clinton pause, since he had always promoted British recruitment of slaves. Such an influx might be just the thing to rescue Cornwallis’s campaign.

During Cornwallis’s march, black slaves had continued to join the British—including almost two dozen belonging to the author of the Declaration of Independence himself, Thomas Jefferson. Yet despite these arrivals, Cornwallis did not have enough manpower to bring the “wrath of God” down on anyone. He commanded about six thousand soldiers, and his resources were fast running out. Cornwallis decided to set up camp on an exposed peninsula near Williamsburg and wait for reinforcements.⁸⁸ The men labored through the heat to dig fortifications around the new post, called Yorktown. Smallpox and typhus ravaged the camps, afflicting the blacks—most of whom had not been inoculated for smallpox—in especially large numbers. Provisions were so short that almost everyone, including hundreds of loyalist civilians in the British lines, suffered from anemia.⁸⁹ By late summer, little more than half Cornwallis’s men were fit for duty. Then, on the last day of August 1781, scouts caught sight of a fleet approaching—only to discover that it was not the hoped-for British reinforcements, but the French. The enemy navy closed in on the British by sea. Meanwhile, Washington was racing overland from Pennsylvania to pin the British in by land. Two weeks later, a combined force of sixteen thousand French and American soldiers camped outside Yorktown. The outnumbered British army, and the loyalists in their care, were trapped. “This Place is in no state of defence,” reported a desperate Cornwallis to General Clinton. “If you cannot relieve me very soon you must be prepared to hear the worst.”⁹⁰

Plan of York Town and Gloucester in Virginia, Showing the Works Constructed . . . by the Rt. Honble: Lieut. General Earl Cornwallis, with the Attacks of the Combined Army of French and Rebels, 1781.

The bombing started in the night of October 9, blowing up the carefully constructed earthworks in cascades of dirt, as the French and Americans advanced methodically toward the British positions. Inside the lines, Yorktown became a lurid scene of fire and blood. Deserters straggled out from the besieged camp reporting that the soldiers within were worn out “with excessive hard duty & that they are very sickly.” Loyalists, black and white, suffered through an ordeal of hunger and sickness as the dead and wounded mounted around them. To spare resources, Cornwallis ordered the slaughter of the horses, expelled smallpox patients from the hospital, and drove away many of the blacks who had run to the British.⁹¹ But the food was gone. The ammunition was gone. The reinforcements had not come. It was time to seek terms. On the anniversary of Saratoga—a coincidence not lost on the Continental Army—Cornwallis sent a messenger with a flag of truce to negotiate his surrender.⁹²

At two o’clock in the afternoon on October 19, 1781, Cornwallis and his army marched out of Yorktown to surrender to George Washington and his French allies. They emerged from their blasted hell in neat ranks, with “arms shouldered, colors cased and drums beating a British or German march.”⁹³ Legend holds that the band played a tune called “The World Turned Upside Down.” In retrospect, it seems almost too good to be true, since from some perspectives, the world order really had been inverted. The underdog had triumphed, the mighty empire had faltered. The song would have held special resonance for contemporaries. The ballad had originally appeared in the English Civil War, more than a century earlier, when conflict had divided Britons on the question of royal and parliamentary power.⁹⁴ The tune could have reminded its listeners of what so many of those who lived through the American Revolution had already experienced. Civil wars often overturn their participants’ worlds—and sometimes those can never be uprighted again.

Despite the brutality that had unfolded at Yorktown, Cornwallis and Washington agreed quickly on mutually acceptable terms for the surrender and the fate of British prisoners of war—often a sticking point in such negotiations. But one group of Yorktown survivors found themselves entirely unprotected. In the draft terms of capitulation he sent to Washington, Cornwallis specified that “Natives or inhabitants of different parts of this country, at present at York[town] and Gloucester, are not to be punished on account of having joined the British army.” In his view, the surviving loyalists who stumbled out of the ravaged encampment had already been punished enough. But Washington bluntly replied that “this article cannot be assented to.”⁹⁵ It was the only one of Cornwallis’s requests that he rejected outright. Loyalists had chosen the British. Now they would have to cope with the consequences of their choice.

William Faden, A Map of South Carolina and a Part of Georgia, 1780.