As Mike notes, we haven’t talked about the Royal Governor of New Jersey, William Franklin, in quite some time. But matters were quickly coming to a head, and it was decided that he needed to be imprisoned. The biggest reason for this is that he not only remained loyal to the Crown, he actively reported to the British anything he heard about American movements and plans.
William Franklin was finally placed under house arrest in January for these shenanigans, but as things heated up and New Jersey replaced its provincial government, it was determined that he still posed a threat to operational security, and he was sent to Connecticut for imprisonment. And, as Mike also tells you, even prison in Connecticut wasn’t quite getting the job done.
I guess we have to admire his ability to commit to the bit.
That Admiral Richard Howe maintained some sympathies for the Colonists in the earlier years of his career might be overselling it a little bit.
Howe did have some sympathies, but when he and his brother, General William Howe, met with the Committee of Safety headed by Benjamin Franklin, the idea was to quash the idea of revolution and effect a return to status quo. When that failed, Admiral Howe was the first to hoist the Jolly Roger.
Okay, he didn’t do that exactly, but he was fully prepared to do whatever he needed to do to end the situation. And that’s probably why he moved up in the ranks so quickly between 1770 and 1776. He’d already shown his competence in the Seven Years’ War, and now he was proving himself again.
Howe’s plan to blockade ships entering major harbors might have worked in the long run, but those plans were interrupted when John Burgoyne’s troops were captured, forcing Richard Howe to winter in Rhode Island.
In recent years there have been suggestions that Howe’s blockades were less successful in the northern colonies because he was allowing ships to get through, accidentally on purpose as they say. Is it possible that he was letting those sympathies get the better of him? It’s actually tough to say for sure.
How the Jersey Five got its name isn’t especially mysterious, but what’s interesting is that one of the Five, Abraham Clark (pictured in the cover art), was not a new delegate to the Continental Congress. In fact, he was the only one retained because he was also the only delegate who was in favor of Independence.
So when the new Provincial Congress took over in New Jersey, they retained Clark and appointed new delegates around him. And thus was the Jersey Five born.
Clark is the namesake of the New Jersey township just south and west of Newark, and that’s pretty cool. But Richard Stockton has a rest area on the New Jersey Turnpike named after him, so there’s that. For what it’s worth, Francis Hopkinson left New Jersey shortly after signing the Declaration, so he doesn’t have a lot of legacy there. John Hart has several streets bearing his name, and John Witherspoon has memorials all over the state, so I guess he wins this contest I just now invented.
We’ve spent a bunch of episodes describing a day in the life of the Second Continental Congress, and many of them were almost exclusively dealing with military matters.
In January 1776 George Washington recommended that the Congress designate a specific office for these dealings, and Edward Rutledge picked up the idea and suggested it to the Congress. It took a little time, but the Congress ultimately agreed and set up a Board of War and Ordnance, which began operating on this day in 1776.
The original Board of War and Ordnance was five delegates to the Congress, plus a secretary who wasn’t a delegate. After only a few months they recognized that they couldn’t do their jobs as delegates and keep up with the War workload, so they had themselves replaced with a permanent Board.
The Board operated until the war ended, after which it was dissolved, but the logo (see cover art) persisted in the War Department until 1880. Incidentally, note the Phrygian Cap in the artwork. We haven’t talked about that in a while, but in those days the Cap was a universally-recognized symbol of freedom dating back to ancient Rome, when it was given to former slaves. In the Revolutionary Era, it specifically symbolized freedom from British tyranny.
Please forgive Mike’s pronunciation of “Natick”; he’s a Left Coast guy. And, he took his wife to Hawai’i this week. I never did that for my wife, though I did buy her a beach condo, so I guess we’re even. Plus, if I’m butchering any West Coast pronunciations, he’s keeping quiet about it. For the most part we’ve both got the language so baked into our heads that it never occurs to us that the other one might not know how to say things.
And let’s face it, a lot of place names don’t always make sense when it comes to pronunciation.
At any rate, while we focus on Natick here, it should be noted that towns all over Massachusetts, and in fact other places, were beginning to do this on their own. But they didn’t have Thomas Jefferson putting their documents through multiple drafts. We’ll need to talk about some of that later on as we get closer to the big day.
Let’s start with the truth: Francis Johnson was not in office when the building in today’s cover art opened. This is the Old State Capitol in Frankfort, Kentucky, which opened in 1827, just after he left the US Congress.
But while this is the Old State Capitol, there are two buildings even older which were used; unfortunately both of them burned down, hence this stone edifice, one presumes.
You kind of have to feel badly in the long run when stuff like this happens. It feels a little bit like the universe is trying its best to wipe this guy from history. Even his specific birthplace is unknown, and the graveyard where he was interred is a public playground. (I’m going to presume it’s been paved over, yes?) But the fact is, once we’re gone we begin to accumulate anonymity unless something extraordinary happens to you or by you.
Not meaning to be a downer; it’s just what they call a shower thought.
P.S. if your download is wonky or if you’re having trouble with the website this week, please get in touch with me at claudecall@gmail.com; I’d be most appreciative. I had a bit of a time getting this post to play nice.
As Mike notes, marking today as the day that the first draft of the Declaration of Independence was presented to Congress is largely a matter of interpoloation on the part of historians working from incomplete information. But who are we to argue?
The writing you see in today’s cover art is, in fact, Thomas Jefferson’s, mostly. Some of it is corrections made by Benjamin Franklin. It’s also worth noting that this image came from Wikimedia Commons and is color-adjusted. The original image has the paper looking much whiter, but the parchment coloring makes for a little bit better contrast against the ink.
Incidentally, some documents from this era do look very good still while others are quite faded. The original Declaration of Independence, for example, is rather faded. This is because over time, the ink oxidized from black to a brownish color. In addition, it was displayed under relatively bright light for many years, and the ultraviolet radiation from those lights further faded the ink. The specific paper can also have an effect; some documents are written on a kind of cotton rag, which allows the ink to “bleed” over time and start to look rather smeared, whereas other documents written on vellum (which was basically calfskin) hold their shape better. In both cases the color holds better unless UV gets to it.
Oddly enough, paper from the 19th through mid-20th centuries made use of wood pulp, which turns color and becomes more brittle over time, and is more acidic, which will damage the ink as well. So it’s possible that there could be a “hole” in our historical records unless steps are taken to preserve, or at least digitize, some of them.
Joseph Joachin Moraga along with a party of colonists and soldiers first set forth from Monterey to the future site of San Francisco, along with supplies for beginning a new community.
He supervised the selection of a location for the presidio (fortress), then managed its construction and provided leadership. He also ensured that a ramada—a roof ssupported by poles—was built, which eventually became Mission Dolores.
For all his work, Joseph Joachin Moraga is considered the founder of San Francisco. But he wasn’t done there; the following year he founded a second mission in Santa Clara, and a third one in 1778 that became San Jose. Bottom line: if this guy isn’t prominent in local history classes, then something is seriously wrong.
Moraga’s youth and education are rather hazy, but he kept extensive journals so he could read and write; in fact some of the research for today’s episode came from his written account of the trip, which can be found here. Given that he wrote it nearly two years later, there’s a remarkable level of detail here.
Loyalty oaths are a peculiar thing. They ask a person to commit in writing a thing they may–or may not–have done already.
Look, if you’re an undercover spy staring at children from across the street, you’re already raising more questions than answers. But if—IF—you’re an undercover spy and you want to lay low, for goodness’ sake, find a plausible lie and stick to it. You don’t go off sacrificing yourself to the Greater Cause.
Separation Day is a genuine holiday in Delaware, during which the day is marked with parades and historical reenactments, though of course they (like the rest of the world) took a couple of years off because we had that little global pandemic thing.
And like most good niche holidays, there’s a small faction of people who call themselves “Unificationists,” most of whom can trace their roots back to the Finns, Swedes and Quakers who settled in the region before 1776. Their message is that Delaware, as a whole, oversells the Separation Day thing. They also like to hold demonstrations advocating for a “Reunification Day”, which would mark a re-joining with Pennsylvania. Those folks are acting facetiously.
Mostly.
What do Pennsylvanians think about Separation Day? Most of them don’t care, since most of Pennsylvania didn’t exist until later on. Also, most of them had no idea that Delaware was once part of Pennsylvania. And the ones who do care, usually cite family or cultural connections that cross the border. (It just occurred to me that this also puts a little more credence into former President Biden’s claim of a kind of dual citizenship.)
At any rate, it’s more of an observance day than anything else. Nobody’s getting a paid day off for it. I’m not even sure whether the local Hallmark store offers “Happy Separation Day” cards to send to friends and family. (Or is it “Merry Separation Day”? I can never keep it straight.)
