In his new biography of John Adams, the award-winning author and historian credits his subject with being the first of the Founding Fathers to champion a navy. The following is an edited excerpt from the remarks he delivered at the U.S. Naval Institute's 127th Annual Meeting and 11th Annapolis Seminar.
"We live, my dear soul, in an age of trial. What will be the consequence, I know not."—John Adams, 1774. The hardest thing in the world, and maybe the most important thing of all in writing and teaching history, is to convey the fundamental truth that nothing ever had to happen the way it happened. The Founding Fathers did not know what was going to happen next, what the outcome of this very dangerous path they were taking—to stage a revolution against the most powerful nation in the world—was going to mean for the country and themselves.
His marvelous wife Abigail wrote back: "You cannot, I know, nor do I wish to see you an inactive spectator. We have too many high-sounding words and too few actions to correspond with them."
On March 23rd in Philadelphia's Independence Hall, the Congress took a momentous step, to permit the outfitting of privateers, "armed vessels," to prey "on the enemies of the United Colonies" a move roundly supported and led by the delegate from Massachusetts, John Adams.
The previous fall, he'd urged the creation of an American Fleet. To some, like Samuel Chase, alas of Maryland, this had seemed the maddest idea in the world. It was not until October 13th that finally the building of two small swift-sailing ships was voted by Congress. And thus, a new navy was born.
It was John Adams who drafted the first set of rules and regulations for the new Navy—a point of pride for him as long as he lived. Indeed, in the 25 years that John Adams served his country, and especially as President, in his advocacy of a strong Navy he stood second to none.
Imagine if you will a bitter cold morning in Massachusetts during which the snow is blowing, the wind is howling, and two figures are seen coming down a rather bleak and windswept stretch of ocean shore. One is a man, a rather stout, short fellow. The other is a little boy, John Quincy Adams, ten years old. And he and his father are about to sail for France in the midst of the Revolutionary War. It's 1778, and John Adams has been dispatched to France to meet with Benjamin Franklin to help encourage French investment and financing of our battle for freedom and independence.
There is every reason in the world why Adams should not go. Nobody ever went to sea in the North Atlantic in the dead of winter, if it could possibly be avoided. He was also sailing, of course, in the midst of war, with British ships just lying in wait for somebody trying to escape. And even though he'd lived his whole life within a mile of it, he'd never been to sea. He'd never been farther out than Cohasset Rocks, where he went fishing from time to time. But he took this chance because of what he felt in his heart. And he was taking his son because Abigail was sure this was one of the great chances for this young man to have experiences such as nobody of his generation would ever be able to claim. Indeed, John Quincy Adams is going to become President himself, a President who recommends the establishment of a naval academy.
It was a terrible trip. Almost everything that could go wrong on board the Boston went wrong. What is so important about this voyage—which has, to my mind, been sadly neglected by historians and biographers—is that later, Adams told Thomas Jefferson that it was a metaphor for his whole life. He loved action. He loved leadership. And days of good sailing bored him tremendously. He started wishing that they might take captive of a British ship, which might possibly have a London newspaper on board that he could read.
A storm split the mainmast and blew them more than 200 miles off course. In a run-in with the British merchantman Martha, Adams was ordered to go below by Captain [Samuel] Tucker. In the midst of shot flying everywhere—some of it hitting the ship and the mast not far above the heads of everybody—Captain Tucker saw Congressman Adams standing there with a rifle, accoutered, as Tucker later said, "as one of my Marines." He later testified before a Navy board, in no uncertain terms, about the valor and the courage of John Adams.
As important as all the many things John Adams did was persuading the French to commit their navy to the Revolution. In a paper submitted to the French government, Adams wrote: "Nothing would bring the war to a more speedy conclusion more effectively than sending a powerful fleet sufficient to secure naval superiority in American waters. Such a naval force, acting in concert with the armies of the United States, would in all probability take and destroy the whole British power in that part of the world," which is exactly what happened at Yorktown. When Adams kept pressing for still more naval support [Foreign Minister Charles Gravier, Comte de] Vergennes wrote an angry response, saying of Adams: "His pedantry, stubbornness, and self-importance will give rise to a thousand vexations."
Adams wrote in reply: "Thanks to God, that he gave me stubbornness when I know I am right."
Shift forward to 1798, a different time, a different prospect for America. Ask most Americans, "Did the United States, at any period since the French and Indian War, ever go to battle with France?" and they will say no. But, of course, we fought a very real but undeclared war with France, at sea, during John Adams's administration. To be sure, there were many in America who wanted it to become a larger war. It was politically expedient for those in the Federalist Party, particularly, if there were such a war. The opposition, the Republicans, led by James Madison and Jefferson, were altogether against any war with France.
Adams had a novel idea. "We will make peace with all our might, and we will build up the military." By "the military," he meant the Navy. But members of the opposition—Jefferson in particular—were unable, unwilling, and in some ways incapable of understanding how this could possibly work. Nonetheless, in May 1798, Congress passed a bill empowering U.S. warships to begin to capture any French privateer or cruiser found in American waters. This was the rebirth of the Navy; "the wooden walls of America," as Adams called it; and the first new Department of the Navy, separate from the War Department, was the President's pride and joy. Little that he achieved as President would give him greater satisfaction.
Advance again to December of that year. The streets of Philadelphia are snowbound after a heavy storm, and sleigh bells are ringing. The President, his Cabinet, and his Secretary of the Navy, Benjamin Stoddert, gather around large maps in the President's house, because four squadrons, 21 ships in total, virtually the whole American naval force, are now assigned to the Caribbean. The largest squadron, which included the heavy frigates United States and Constitution, was under Commander John Barry, who was admonished in his orders that "a spirit of enterprise and adventure cannot be too much encouraged in the officers under your command. We have nothing to dread but inactivity."
By the second week of March, as Adams was preparing to go home to Quincy, word reached Philadelphia that the frigate Constellation, under Captain Thomas Truxtun, had captured the French frigate Insurgente, the first and perhaps the most important engagement of the undeclared war at sea.
In Philadelphia, people were either cheering or they were absolutely distraught that this madman who was President was leading the country into a mistaken, terrible war with France. Where would it all end, people were asking. But Adams was anything but alarmed or displeased. Of Captain Truxtun he wrote, "I wish all other officers had as much zeal."
In less than two years, the U.S. Navy under John Adams grew from almost nothing to 50 ships and more than 5,000 officers and seamen. And this bore heavily on the outcome of the negotiations with France. Indeed, Adams's insistence on naval strength proved decisive, achieving peace with France in 1800. A war would have been a colossal mistake. Remember, this is the time of Napoleon. But the crisis passed, and it had a lot to do with the United States Navy.
Jefferson and Adams had become enemies politically, but when the Navy was performing with spectacular success in the War of 1812, Jefferson resumed correspondence: "I sincerely congratulate you on the success of our little navy, which must be more gratifying to you than to most men, as having been the early and constant advocate of wooden walls."
John Adams was our first ambassador to the Court of Saint James's. It is John Adams, a farmer's son from Massachusetts, who stands before King George III, for the first time, to declare that he is there to represent the new, independent United States of America—one of the great scenes in history.
He was then the first Vice President, second President, and the first President to occupy the White House.
He was also—and I think this is very important, as an illustration of his hidebound convictions—the only one of the Founding Fathers who never owned a slave, as a matter of principle.
He lived longer than any President in our history and died on the same day as Jefferson, who was more than eight years younger. And he died, not just on any day, but the day, their day—July 4th, 1826, the 50th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence; which, to many Americans and to his son, seemed the clearest evidence yet that the hand of God was involved with the destiny of our country.
Was he a great man? Absolutely. Was he a good President? Certainly. Was he a brave President? Absolutely. Was he honest? Almost to a fault. And I believe that his part in the creation of the Navy, his belief in the idea of the Navy as a form of balance in the order of things in the world, is paramount.
As a very young man, he began writing. One of the most moving passages, in all that he wrote, was written when he was 30 years old—in 1765, ten years before Concord and Lexington—in something called A Dissertation on the Cannon and the Feudal Law. The last sentence of it is the chosen motto of the Naval Institute. He wrote: "The true source of our suffering has been our timidity. We have been afraid to think." And here is the sentence, which I dedicate to all of you: "Let us dare to read, think, speak, and write."