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Henry VIII and I share a wedding anniversary. Of course, everyone could say that. In my case, the date of Henry’s marrage to Catherine Paar coincides with my marriage to Karen.

We should also consider my other remarkable similarities to Mr. Tudor. Both Henry and I are equally plausible as the head of the Church of England. Henry had syphillis; I certainly tried to–but during the Sexual Revolution I must have been classified as 4-F. Henry had a brother-in-law beheaded; that is on my to-do list.

But how can we compare Catherine Paar and Karen Finerman? They are equally entitled to your pity.

Happy Anniversary to my noble martyr and lovely wife.

Like most writers, I am prone to self-adoration and relish my way with words. So, when assigned to write a short article, I find it torture to edit myself. So many quips and bon mots are sacrificed to oblige the editor and space limits. I was particularly infatuated with one anecdote but I could not smuggle it into the final draft. However, lest it be lost to posterity, I wanted to share with you. The topic is the history of refrigerators:

“Until the 17th century no one even knew of the existence of bacteria, let alone its role in food spoilage. Most people simply accepted the preservative effects of cool temperatures without pondering why. But Francis Bacon (1561-1626) undertook the first scientific study of this phenomenon. Packing a chicken carcass with snow, the British scholar hoped to measure the quantity of coldness against the rate of food spoilage. Unfortunately, the old gentleman discovered the correlation between cold, bronchitis and death.”

Static Quo

With the signing of the Treaty of Paris in 1783, America assumed its place in the world as a sovereign state of anarchy. Independence had ensured the 13 erstwhile colonies of their inalienable rights to ignore, compete and feud with each other. Five years of this libertarian chaos sufficed; although the states were too proud to ask Britain to take them back, they became reconciled to being subordinate to a strong central government: precisely, what they fought against in the American Revolution. The one consolation was that President Washington did seem more charismatic than King George, although the same could not be said of John Adams.

In Britain, George III continued to be a conscientious king and a faithful husband; he eventually went insane. The Empire, having lost America and its customary place to dump sociopaths, debtors and petty criminals, began colonizing Australia. Finally, for a British teenager, Arthur Wellesley showed an indiscreet fascination with the English defeat in America. Arthur was particularly impressed with the colonial militia’s practice of shooting accurately and then ducking. He first tried adapting that tactic to the playing fields of Eton and then, some 30 years later, to the playing fields of Waterloo.

France had finally won a war and had nothing but heroes to show for it. The victorious General Rochaumbeau, within a few years, would again demonstrate his skill, charm, and luck by surviving the French version of a revolution. The less victorious but better publicized Marquis de Lafayette resumed his role at the royal court as a resident liberal. He would advise Louis and Marie Antoinette what to do, and they would advise him where to go; ironically, they went there first, the unintended consequence of their support for the American Revolution.

The example of the American Revolution may have inspired the French people, but it was the cost of the war that collapsed the French monarchy. The government actually had been bankrupt for years. France’s antiquated tax system brought in 14th century revenue to try to meet 18th century expenditures. The aristocracy paid no taxes, the peasantry had nothing left to tax, and the medieval tax code did not recognize the existence of the middle class. To cover the inevitable deficits, the government raised loans and then raised more loans to pay off the earlier loans. That was how France had financed a century of lost wars; now, it could not even afford to win one. Yet, in its zeal to get even with England, France had further and irretrievably indebted itself to subsidize the American Revolution. The Americans were not even under obligation to pay back the French: France had been generous to a default.

Of course, when the deluge came, the Americans wanted to take credit for it. Storming the Bastille was the French rendition of the Boston Tea Party, and “La Marseillaise” was just an intelligent version of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” The Americans, however, soon conceded the French originality of the guillotine. France’s Revolution did not seem as good-natured as America’s, where tarring-and-feathering had sufficed. Evidently, the centuries of misrule, corruption, and feudal bondage were more aggravating than a half-penny tax on tea.

Even if it deplored the excesses, America could still appreciate the benefits of the French Revolution. While Europe was preoccupied with the Revolution’s ensuing chaos and warfare, America could purchase the Louisiana territory for a pittance, extort Florida from Spain, and make one more attempt to conquer Canada. Furthermore, when comparing the two revolutions, the Americans could feel respectably superior. Their revolution was clearly the more dignified and sensible. Presenting itself as an example to the world, revolutionary America had made the transition from Anglican to Episcopalian with a minimum of upheaval. History’s other revolutions were to be far less fortunate in both their challenges and their choice of purgatives. America’s Revolution, however, was so successful simply because it was unnecessary.

Treason D’Etre

Without D’Estaing, Britain’s best hope of defeating the colonists was through treachery. Since the British pound seemed far more irresistible than the British army, England intended to buy the battles it could not win. For instance, West Point, with its strategic control of the Hudson River, was for sale by its commander, Benedict Arnold. A man of many talents, if few virtues, Arnold felt unappreciated. The Continental Congress had overlooked his victories but not his questionable handling of army funds. The fact that the auditors could never catch him proved how skillful a general he was.

Arnold resented Congress’s inconvenient insistence on honesty, and he found himself looking longingly at the British army, where graft was a time-honored tradition. In 1780, he offered his services – and West Point – to an interested Britain, but Arnold placed a high price on treason. He wanted a suitably aristocratic title, a general’s rank in the British army, and an egotistical amount of money. The British attempted to negotiate a less-exorbitant price. Their envoy, however, failed to even negotiate his way through the American lines; the secret papers, found in his boots, made enlightening reading. The news reached Arnold before the arrest warrant did, and he proved as elusive to capture as to audit. Of course, without the deed to West Point, Arnold was of little value to his British protectors and, for a man who aspired to a title and a fortune, had to settle for a pension.

While relishing a scandal, the French were relieved that the Americans had overcome British treachery; they only hoped to be as fortunate in overcoming American lethargy. France had sent yet another army to America to assist the colonists into battle. The Continental army, however, proved equally adept at evading allies as well as enemies. Thousands of French soldiers landing in Rhode Island should have seemed conspicuous, but two months passed before General Washington acknowledged their presence. Since the French were under Washington’s command, they were obliged to await his orders, and Washington’s order was to wait. The French army was to spend a year contributing to Rhode Island’s tourist trade rather than the war. Washington may have deftly disposed of the French army but not its French general. Count Donatien de Rochaumbeau would not be ignored.

Rochaumbeau was considered a capable soldier although, by the mischance of being French, had never been on a winning side. In dealings with Washington, the Count showed even greater talent for diplomacy: he had subtlety, patience and, of course, the prerequisite charm of an aristocrat. Rochaumbeau needed all that, a year’s time, and even bribery to induce Washington to fight. The allies had a choice of strategies: They could hurl themselves against a larger British army in New York, or attack a British force, one-third their size, in Virginia. The now-animated Washington preferred the more heroic approach; Rochaumbeau preferred to win. With his diplomatic wiles, the Frenchman got the Americans onto the right battlefield.

Lord Charles Cornwallis was the commander of His Majesty’s rather meager army in Virginia. When confronted by an overwhelming allied horde, he did not appreciate it as an opportunity to win a glorious victory and be remembered in iambic pentameter. Cornwallis considered it a good time to rush to the nearest coast, and let the British navy evacuate a very anxious British army. Chesapeake Bay seemed obligingly close; the fleet there, however, was inconveniently French. That was the trap Rochaumbeau had planned. For once, the French fleet had overcome its tendencies to be sunk, lost, or late, and was decisively in the way of the British force at Yorktown. This was to be France’s greatest naval victory, even if it was against an army. Of course, the French navy owed its success to an oversight by the British navy.

Fighting France and John Paul Jones had not been enough of a challenge for the over-achievers of the British navy. With its habit of blowing everyone out of the water, His Majesty’s fleet had managed to get His Majesty into a war with Spain and Holland. Those extra enemies did not bother the royal navy; that just meant more ships to sink, more colonies to sack, and more promotions for its officers. Of course, such appalling arrogance was completely justified. The only failing of the HMS navy was that it could not destroy its enemies quite as quickly as it made them. While the Dutch fleet was mauled off the coast of Holland, and the flotsam of Spain’s navy extended from Gibraltar to Panama, an overlooked French fleet set sail for Chesapeake Bay and Yorktown.

With his army caught between Washington’s forces and the French fleet, General Cornwallis’ strategy was to develop a headache and let his adjutant publicly surrender. His Majesty’s Tory government, however, was not so adroit at shifting blame. The new Whig government could sympathize with anyone wanting to be rid of George III, and it had a plan to end the colonial fiasco. There was to be an immediate truce in America, and Britain would formally concede the colonies’ independence as soon as it finished thrashing France, Spain and Holland. This plan was agreeable to the Americans if not their allies, who continued to lose fleets and colonies for almost another two years. After therapeutic victories at Gibraltar, in India and the Caribbean, Britain finally felt it could lose America without losing face.

To be continued…

London society loved John Burgoyne for his looks and wit; America was to love him for losing an entire British army at Saratoga, N.Y. Burgoyne had with him 30 carts of luggage, a wine cellar, someone else’s wife, and what was left of 9,000 men. The general had simply intended to march his army from Canada to Albany, N.Y., but he had chosen an itinerary through forests, swamps and 20,000 American troops. Burgoyne’s surrender was an unprecedented triumph for the revolutionaries; heretofore, they had claimed successful retreats as victories.

To the British government, Saratoga was a painful revelation: The Americans were actually trying to win. Confronted by an unpleasantly surprised Parliament, the Crown was in a dilemma: Either it had to admit how terrible the British army was, or it had to lie how good the Americans were. Considering that the army’s honor and the Tories’ majority were at stake, the British government preferred the more tactful choice. The colonists were conveniently portrayed as a nation of buckskinned killers, each and every one a marksman who, taking aim from behind a tree in Connecticut, could shoot Samuel Johnson off London Bridge. Of course, in order to sustain the story of American prowess, the British government had to end the war before the Americans could lose it.

With an urgent magnanimity, Britain offered the colonies home rule, representation in Parliament, and unconditional pardons for everyone. The Americans, however, were wary about winning. Any reconciliation with Britain was unacceptable to some colonists; militants preferred war to victory, while idealists thought they were fighting a revolution rather than a rebellion. A more pragmatic reluctance prevailed among the members of the Continental Congress. The British concessions were embarrassingly generous, but autonomy was not quite the same as independence. For instance, as a British dominion, America would not have the right to attack Canada if the urge occurred. Nevertheless, the Continental Congress was tempted to accept Britain’s terms; it just waited to see if France would make a better offer.

By no coincidence, carte blanche is a French term. Being unaccustomed to winning wars, the French hated to see the American Revolution end so soon. France was willing to offer the colonists any encouragement, moral and financial, to keep the Americans fighting and the British losing. The Americans’ idea of encouragement, however, was diplomatic recognition, a military alliance, unlimited and unconditional subsidies, and France’s declaration of war against Britain. America’s Ambassador in Paris had to entice a reluctant France into a treaty, but Benjamin Franklin was no amateur at seductions. He simply applied the same techniques to diplomacy.

To overcome France’s doubts about a treaty, Franklin pretended to be even more reluctant; it was a strategy of shameless evasion and manipulation known as “playing hard to get.” The ambassador seemed to show far more interest in decolletages than in whatever the French government had to offer. America’s reconciliation with Britain was inevitable, Franklin repeatedly told the French, and there was nothing France could do to stop it. Of course, the French felt compelled to try.

Money and supplies were offered on the most charitable terms, but Franklin remained diplomatically chaste. The American rebuff was almost an insult; it made the French doubt their charm. Their further propositions met with rejections. Frustration made France increasingly generous and undignified; a world power ended up begging a slapdash confederation of colonies for an alliance. By 1778, the French had offered all that Franklin could have hoped, so he coyly consented to a treaty. France granted diplomatic recognition to whatever the colonies wanted to call themselves. Furthermore, the French agreed to finance and fight for American independence; in return, the Americans would let them. America’s Revolution was now France’s war.

From the French perspective, the Americans’ most urgent need was a sense of fashion. The French thought that an attractive uniform did wonders for the soldier’s morale. (The British thought flogging did the same.) Unfortunately, given the Continental army’s preoccupation with starving, no provision had been made for tailoring. The Congress, in an attempt at color-coordination, urged soldiers to wear something brown; but a government that depended upon its troops’ charity was in no position to enforce a dress code. The French, however, took war and clothing too seriously to let the Americans dress themselves. France furnished the Continental army with dark blue ensembles; the uniforms were not as fetching as the French army’s powder blue and white wardrobe, but at least the French would not be embarrassed to be seen on the same battlefield as their allies. The problem was getting the two allies on the same battlefield.

France’s idea of fighting for American independence was to attack British colonies in the Caribbean, besiege Gibraltar, and stimulate uprisings in India. If the French had no plans to fight in America, neither did the Americans. The Continental army intended to avoid losing the war until the French won it. This was a prudent strategy since the Americans were better at retreating than the British were at attacking. The British, however, had no intention of attacking. With the West Indies and the real Indies at stake, Britain’s resources had to be diverted to defending more profitable colonies than America. Thousands of His Majesty’s troops were transferred to the Caribbean; Pennsylvania was abandoned in order to garrison St. Kitts. The English strategy, as usual, was to sink French fleets and seize French colonies; the British army had to avoid losing the war until the British navy won it. Both the Continental army and His Majesty’s army were now on the defensive. In America, it was a very platonic war. From 1778 to 1781, most of the fighting was between local militias, with the Tories and the Revolutionaries taking turns scalping each other.

If Britain was content to leave the Continental army in peace, France was not. The embattled French expected their American allies to take a less restful approach to the war. France even felt obliged to send troops to America, if only to prod the colonists into battle. To accomplish this, however, the French army first had to overcome the French navy: Specifically, an admiral who was unfamiliar with water. Count Charles D’Estaing was, in fact, an army officer, although the outstanding feature of his military career was the number of times he had been captured by the British. Nevertheless, a man of his aristocratic lineage had to be given a command and, at least, in the French navy he would be under no obligation to win.

In 1778, D’Estaing’s fleet set sail for Rhode Island and went to the West Indies. The following year, he landed a French army in Georgia. Taking command of the troops, D’Estaing distinguished himself at the battle of Savannah by doing everything necessary for the British to win. This time, however, he was careful not to be captured. Hearing a rumor that the British were sending reinforcements, D’Estaing and his force re-embarked for the Caribbean. Thus ended France’s first attempt to inspire the Americans to arms. For his role in losing Georgia to the British, D’Estaing was discreetly reassigned as naval attache to Spain, where, presumably, incompetence went unnoticed. (In 1793, D’Estaing was to culminate his career by appearing as a defense witness in the trial of Marie Antoinette; he managed to get himself guillotined, too.)

To be continued…

Britannia Rues the Seeds

What America presumed was its Declaration of Independence, Britain saw as a handwritten note saying that she was the worst mother country in the world and that her colonies were running away from home. Judging from that letter and an armed rebellion, the Americans obviously wanted attention; the question was what kind they deserved. In Parliament, the Whigs showed a gleeful sympathy to anyone who embarrassed a Tory government. Embracing the Americans as aggrieved British subjects and prospective Whig voters, the liberals favored giving the colonies whatever they wanted.

The King and the Tories had a less generous reaction to treason, but they were not sure how to punish it. Mass executions and wholesale slaughter, while permissible and frequently enjoyable where other British subjects were concerned, was not what English Protestants did to each other. There was no point in exiling the rebels to some corner of the earth; they were already in America. For lack of more vindictive pleasures, Britain had to be resigned simply to defeating the colonists.

Of course, defeating the colonials was not expected to require military ability; otherwise the Crown would have used the royal navy rather than the army. With its habit of attacking the far larger fleets of Spain and France, the British navy required officers whose talent and heroism matched their arrogance. The British army, however, spared by the Channel from any greater threat than the Scots and Welsh, could afford to delegate the talent and heroism to the sergeants; its officers simply had to look good in uniform and pay obligatory bribes for their commissions.

Gentlemen, who might have paid considerable amounts for the patriotic privilege to loot Hindu temples or ravish French women, unfortunately did not find similar incentives for fighting in America. Those officers willing to serve were more dismal than usual.

Still, if the British army had the handicap of British officers, so did the American army. George Washington, retired colonel of His Majesty’s Virginia militia, would repeatedly show an eagerness to lose that was matched only by a British inability to win. Furthermore, the rebels had an embarrassing inferiority in training, weaponry and tailoring. A British force of fewer than 40,000 men was considered sufficient to coax the loyalty of two million Americans.

Of course, England was not without allies. A number of Indian tribes were enticed by thoughts of Georgian wigwams, Chippendale tomahawks, and having their war paint done by Gainsborough. More importantly, many colonists did not support the rebellion. A conservative one-third still adhered faithfully to the Crown; either they did not believe Britain was a tyranny or they hoped that it was. Even among the revolution’s admirers, support tended to be theoretical and little else; they did not want to temper independence with inconvenience. A stinted rebellion against a powerful and popular government, the American Revolution should have been an obscure footnote in the history of the United Provinces of America.

What determined America’s independence was its dependence on France. Americans, who 20 years earlier had begged England for protection from the French, now begged France for protection from England. The colonists were fickle, but the French were too infatuated to care. With an enthusiasm untainted by knowledge, the French had long idolized the Americans as noble savages of the new world. The colonists were envisioned as the children of nature, rustic sages who spouted eternal truths while riding their buffaloes in the forests of Philadelphia. Popular French novels were even obliged to have presumably American settings; in Manon Lescaut, the heroine manages to die in the deserts of Louisiana.

The French showed the same fervor in their political sympathies as in their romantic fantasies. At the Sorbonne, and in the fashionable salons of Paris, the French espoused the Americans’ National Liberation Front. Even at Versailles, the American Revolution had its admirers; nobles felt that there might be more to life than the minuet and venereal disease. Some of these young courtiers could not confine their idealism to the safety of the salon; they wanted to go to America and fight for liberty. These heroic sentiments were even tolerated by Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette; the fewer liberals at Versailles the better, and the Queen especially loathed that loudmouth Lafayette.

While the Americans were grateful for volunteers, especially rich ones, they needed more from France than sympathy and dilettantes. The colonists wanted weapons, supplies, ships, and money; they had belatedly discovered that one should not war against Britain armed only with Thomas Paine’s pamphlets. Furthermore, the Americans wanted diplomatic recognition. Their demands were exorbitant, and the only collateral they could offer was the prospect of dead Englishmen. Of course, in France, that was irresistible.

France seemed to have a habit of losing wars with Britain. Her fleets were sunk and her colonies conquered with humiliating regularity. The Seven Years War, in particular, had been a world atlas of French defeats: Canada, India, the Caribbean, and the Northwest Territory (which still bears such Gallic names as l’Illinois and Ouisconsin). That war ended in 1763; in 1776, it was time for a rematch. Each lost war was the incentive to start the next one. Now, America was providing France with an opportunity for revenge against England. With a masterly display of cynicism, the French monarchy decided to assist American republicanism. The Americans’ aims were irrelevant, just so long as they were aimed at the British.

France expected to lose this war, too, but hoped to do so discreetly. Covert aid, channeled through ostensibly neutral banks and trading firms, was to prop up the Americans while sparing France embarrassment and casualties. This craven but generous policy quickly had an impact upon the battlefields of New York and New Jersey; without the French aid, the Continental army would have had nothing to abandon while fleeing the British. Fortunately, wasting money was the raison d’etre of the French monarchy; as long as America was willing to fight, France was willing to pay. There was, however, a metaphysical limit to French assistance; it did not include miracles. An American victory required nothing less, but the memory of the Salem witchcraft trials discouraged prospective Joans of Arc. Still, any hopeless cause is entitled to a guardian angel, and, in 1777, the Americans found an unintentional savior in a British general: “Gentleman Johnny” Burgoyne.

To be continued…

George III spoke English and was faithful to his wife: that drove America to revolution. The American colonists had been spoiled by the first two Georges. They were a father and son team of German princelings, who had inherited the throne of England after Queen Anne drank herself to death. Those two Georges were content to babble in German, occupy themselves with remarkably ugly mistresses, and let the empire alone. Unfortunately, even in the dimmest of royal families, after 46 years of ruling a country, someone was bound to learn the native language.

Worse still, the third George’s marital fidelity left him extra time to run the kingdom. He was the type of man who confused conscientiousness with actual ability. A more assertive Parliament might have diverted George’s energies to opening exhibits on the Industrial Revolution. The Whigs regarded the monarchy as a nuisance and, when in power, limited the king’s responsibilities to being a Protestant. At the time of George’s succession, however, the Tories dominated the House of Commons. These country squires liked the idea of a domineering, swaggering monarch because they could identify with it.

Assured of a servile Parliament, the king turned his attention to the empire to see what he could improve, and he discovered America. Of course, it was a pleasure having those colonies if only to spite France and Spain, but America simply was costing Britain too much money. The British government did not want to get rich off America — it had India for that — but the Crown believed the colonists should pay more taxes. Americans suddenly were confronted with new taxes, more officials to collect the taxes, and more British soldiers to protect the officials, which in turn required more taxes to pay for the soldiers.

Confusing bureaucracy with tyranny, the Americans protested against the usurpation of their rights as Englishmen. The king, however, did not consider a tax-free status one of those rights. Nor, in the Crown’s view, was the right to dress up like Indians and dump tea in a harbor specifically guaranteed by the Magna Carta. The tarring-and-feathering of tax collectors was another uniquely American argument for home rule and full representation in Parliament. Given these provocations, the royal response was remarkably tolerant. Boston, for its antics, endured a naval blockade and martial law; Dublin would have been leveled. America’s lenient treatment reflected the king’s and his ministers’ views on child rearing.

Britain took the role of mother country quite literally, and the colonies were going to be brought up in the best traditions of the Tory nursery. While conception and birth required the presence of at least one parent, a proper British child tried not to be a further inconvenience. The good little Tory would keep a respectful distance and follow either his parents’ example or their advice, whichever was the more reputable. The bad little Tory, however, was not punished; the parents never bothered, and the servants never dared. Any physical or psychological abuse could wait until the daughters married or the sons went to Eton. If this was the proper way to raise a family, it also seemed a proper way to run an empire. The mother country had no compunction about beating the servants (Scotland and Ireland), but those precocious colonies simply needed the guiding hand of more British and Hessian nannies.

A policy of brutal repression might have been more tactful. British condescension spared lives but not egos, and wounded egos were dangerous — especially in Boston. The slight was more than Sam Adams , John Hancock and John Adams could endure: No one patronized a Harvard man! This was war, a revolution to free America from the rule of Oxford and Cambridge graduates. It is unlikely that the farmers of Lexington and Concord preferred Harvard’s imperialism to Britain’s, but Massachusetts felt obliged to support the local team, the other colonies felt obliged to support Massachusetts, and the Continental Congress felt obliged to rationalize the whole thing.

The colonial leaders hoped to justify an armed rebellion before world opinion, history and, in all probability, a British court martial. At the risk of treason and semantics, they asserted their rights as Englishmen to revolt against England. Citing British law and the autopsy report on Charles I, the Americans pointed out that Parliament guaranteed their right to resist tyranny. The one flaw in that argument was that Parliament did not guarantee the right to resist Parliament. Fortunately, Thomas Jefferson came up with a plausible enough reason for American independence: The French said so.

Jefferson had read the works of Voltaire, Rousseau and the rest of 18th century France’s avant garde. The French, themselves, had absolutely no freedom whatsoever, but that never stopped them from being the foremost theoreticians on the subject. Out of envy as well as conviction, the philosophers contended freedom was not an English idiosyncrasy but the natural right of all mankind. To Jefferson, this meant that the Americans did not need an excuse for rebellion: They were free to be free. The Declaration of Independence was to take the liberty of plagiarizing French philosophy. Jefferson even expropriated Rousseau’s quote that “governments derive their consent from the governed.” Man’s inalienable rights apparently did not include copyrights.

On this day in 1863, Robert E. Lee thought of a great finale for the Battle of Gettysburg. The South has been talking about Pickett’s Charge ever since. (And the Supreme Court may yet declare it a Southern victory. You can imagine Clarence Thomas writing the decision.)

Billy ‘Bert Faulkner described the Charge’s indelible significance to the Southerner. The quote ain’t much on punctuation but it still reads real purty….

Quote:

Should Lewis Libby change his nickname from Scooter to Scot-Free? Of course, he still is burdened with a fine of $250,000. Do you realize how hard he would have to work to earn that kind of money?

He would have to serve on at least three corporate boards for a year.

He might have to rob 20 liquor stores. Fortunately, the President could commute any of those sentences, too.

Working as a bartender, he would have to make 2,500 jello shooters for Jenna Bush. And she doesn’t tip.

I have no idea how much cocaine he would have to sell. But perhaps the President still remembers the market rates.

History is supposed to be true even at the risk of being boring. Of course, no one expects Hollywood to abide by that constraint. (Mel Gibson’s Martin Luther would have a spectacular sword fight with Pope Leo X.) As the Fourth of July approaches, Talk Radio will be taking similar liberties with the American Revolution.

The firecracking patriots of the airwaves will extol the heroic deaths and noble sacrifices of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. According to the script, “Nine fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War….Five signers were captured by the British as traitors, and tortured before they died….Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned.” This recitation is dramatic and poignant, as well it should be. After all, who wants to hear banal lies and boring exaggerations?

This radio rhetoric is based upon an anonymous essay circulating on the internet. It is a remarkable effort at distortion and fabrication. For example, nine of the signers did die during the Revolutionary War. However, none died in battle. Seven died of natural causes; the 18th century physician was far more dangerous than the British soldier. As for the two deaths by unnatural cause, Button Gwinnett lost a duel to an American officer, while Thomas Lynch drowned in a shipwreck.

The script also fabricates the torture and death of imprisoned signers. Yes, five were captured and all have since died; however, only Richard Stockton suffered any mistreatment. In November 1776, he was captured by American Loyalists, alias the Tories. Stockton was fortunate that he lived to be imprisoned. (Both the Tory and the Continental militias were known to scalp captives.) The Continental Congress negotiated with the British to secure Stockton’s release after a few months of imprisonment, but the squalid conditions of his confinement ruined his health. He died four years later.

The other captives merely suffered embarrassment. George Walton surrendered with the hapless garrison of Savannah. Edward Ruttledge, Thomas Heyward and Arthur Middleton were captured when Charleston fell. Rather than torture and death, they enjoyed the benefits of British snobbery. They were esteemed as officers and gentlemen, men of stature and breeding. (Middleton was a graduate of the real Cambridge, not the pretentious upstart in Massachusetts.) While the enlisted men were herded into the holds of prison ships, the celebrity captives were kept in modest comfort waiting to be exchanged for captured British officers.

As the essay asserts, a dozen signers saw their homes ransacked or burned. However, the culprits were not always British. In several cases, the attacks were by the signers’ Tory neighbors. The Conservatives of the time vehemently opposed the Revolution. Here is another awkward fact ignored by the essay. The home of James Wilson was pillaged but by the Revolutionaries, who suspected the Pennsylvanian of being a turncoat.

The script goes on with its litany of distortions and evasions. It claims that Carter Braxton and Robert Morris sacrificed their fortunes for the Revolution “and died in rags”; in fact, they went bankrupt decades later in land speculation. The essay reports that Lyman Hall, Arthur Middleton, Thomas Heyward and George Wythe suffered the “vandalism and looting” of their plantations. Yes, the British also freed the slaves, an inconvenient fact overlooked in this paean to liberty.

What is the purpose of this travesty of history? Can we justify the American Revolution only by lying about it? There is no need for melodrama or special effects. It does not matter that George Ross died of gout in 1779 rather than British bayonets. The truth itself is fascinating and important. The signers of the Declaration of Independence were audacious visionaries.

They hoped to justify armed rebellion against the world’s greatest power and most liberal government. As British subjects, they enjoyed a degree of freedom unknown to any other people at the time. Indeed, when confronted with an unresponsive myopic bureaucracy, these Revolutionaries invoked the English right to resist injustice. The Declaration of Independence takes that principle and boldly expands upon it. Freedom was not just an English idiosyncrasy but the natural right of all mankind. That idea was the American Revolution.