'DEPRIVED OF THEIR LIBERTY': ENEMY PRISONERS AND THE CULTURE OF WAR IN REVOLUTIONARY AMERICA, 1775-1783 by Trenton Cole Jones A dissertation submitted to Johns Hopkins University in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Baltimore, Maryland June, 2014 © 2014 Trenton Cole Jones All Rights Reserved Abstract Deprived of Their Liberty explores Americans' changing conceptions of legitimate wartime violence by analyzing how the revolutionaries treated their captured enemies, and by asking what their treatment can tell us about the American Revolution more broadly. I suggest that at the commencement of conflict, the revolutionary leadership sought to contain the violence of war according to the prevailing customs of warfare in Europe. These rules of war—or to phrase it differently, the cultural norms of war— emphasized restricting the violence of war to the battlefield and treating enemy prisoners humanely. Only six years later, however, captured British soldiers and seamen, as well as civilian loyalists, languished on board noisome prison ships in Massachusetts and New York, in the lead mines of Connecticut, the jails of Pennsylvania, and the camps of Virginia and Maryland, where they were deprived of their liberty and often their lives by the very government purporting to defend those inalienable rights. My dissertation explores this curious, and heretofore largely unrecognized, transformation in the revolutionaries' conduct of war by looking at the experience of captivity in American hands. Throughout the dissertation, I suggest three principal factors to account for the escalation of violence during the war. From the onset of hostilities, the revolutionaries encountered an obstinate enemy that denied them the status of legitimate combatants, labeling them as rebels and traitors. They faced the divided loyalties of their own population, which threatened civil war. And they were ideologically constrained from forming a centralized government capable of effectively limiting the war's violence. ii These factors shaped the very nature of the war they fought and forced the revolutionary leadership to reconsider their basic assumptions about warfare. In doing so, revolutionary leaders unwittingly radicalized the struggle, transforming a war for colonial self- determination into a truly revolutionary conflict. Advisor: Philip D. Morgan Readers: Michael P. Johnson, Angus Burgin, Alex Roland, and Randall Packard iii TO MY LOVING PARENTS, RANDY AND CONNIE JONES iv Acknowledgements I always read the acknowledgements. They are an unrivalled window onto the scholarly process. By giving thanks, an author explicitly diagrams the intellectual network and support-system that shaped the forthcoming pages. Much can be gleaned from a close reading of this seemingly perfunctory piece of prose. Perhaps more importantly, they are very often a delight to read. With the trials of writing in the past, an author's acknowledgements abound with joy and gratitude. It is my hope that my words of appreciation not only inform the reader of how this project came to be, but also convey in some small measure the pleasure and honor it has been to call the following individuals and institutions my friends, collaborators, and supporters. Words cannot repay debts, but I have crafted these in the wish that they could. From the moment I met Philip D. Morgan, as a quivering prospective graduate student over seven years ago, I knew that I had come to the right place. In that brief meeting, Phil—as I would later hesitantly come to call him—casually demonstrated his encyclopedic knowledge of the historiography of the American Revolutionary period and his enthusiastic support of my intellectual interests. I was in awe, and I still am. Phil is an unattainable model of scholar, teacher, and friend. Indefatigable and meticulous in his scholarship, Phil inspires me to be a better historian, intellectual, and citizen of the scholarly community. As an advisor, he was always there when I needed him, but equally important, he gave me the freedom to research and to write for long stretches of time unhindered by meddlesome inquiries. A consummate empiricist, Phil never shied away from demanding copious evidence to support my claims, but he has always allowed v me to be the historian I aspire to be. If I have at times sacrificed brevity in the interest of telling a good story, no blame can be laid at his door. He has endured chapter after chapter with a knowing grin that each could have been much longer. Though Phil indulged my preference for narrative history, he never ceased to demand rigorous analysis and persuasive argument. The dissertation that follows is much improved because I heeded his advice, though not nearly enough for his taste I am sure. When Phil Morgan accepted me as his student, I heard often from friends and teachers that I was extremely fortunate to work with such a luminary. They hoped that some of his scholarly fame might rub off on me. In seeing him only as a renowned academic, they did him a disservice. In Phil, the scholar, educator, and mentor are seamlessly blended. His dedication to his students, passion for teaching, and generosity of spirit know no bounds. I will never be able to thank him enough. Before coming to Johns Hopkins, I made one of the best decisions of my life when I knocked on Alex Roland's door at Duke University. Upon hearing a beckoning "come in," I meandered through a labyrinth of bookcases into what I would later come to know as "Fortress Roland." Tucked away in the back was a man who would go on to play an enormous role in my professional and personal development. On that warm August day in Durham twelve years ago, Alex agreed to shepherd me through the undergraduate degree at Duke in the hopes that I might go on to study history professionally. Little did he know what a drain on his time and resources I would become. For the next four years, I pestered him with requests to read my overly florid prose, to write letters of recommendation, and to tell me what I needed to do in order to have his job one day. He never complained. Rather than scoff at my passion for the past vi or dismiss it as boyish enthusiasm, he accepted me for whom I was, while impressing on me the need to develop a critical eye and to question the accepted narrative. He introduced me to the world of historiography, the dynamics of change over time, the importance of contingency, and the perils of hagiography. Alex treated my senior honors thesis as if it were a doctoral dissertation. An uncompromising editor with an unsurpassed appreciation for the complexities of the English language, he diligently pored over every sentence, always urging me to be more succinct. Alex taught me that history was an art before it was a science and that style matters. His belief that jargon is a poor substitute for clarity became the foundation of my approach to historical writing. Given the immense role he played in my undergraduate education, it may surprise readers to learn that his greatest influence on my life came when I was a graduate student. Not only did he read and comment on each draft of my dissertation, as well as agree to serve on my committee, he also introduced to me to the love of my life, Kathryn Maxson. As we were both his former students and both hopelessly caught up in esoteric pursuits, Alex thought we would be perfect for one another. He could not have been more prophetic. For this and everything else he has done for me, I am eternally grateful. During my second year of graduate school as I prepared for my comprehensive examinations, I had the privilege and pleasure of working with two extraordinary historians: Michael Johnson and David Bell. In his seminar on the nineteenth-century American south, Mike encouraged me to look beyond a book's flaws to see its virtues. In seminar, Mike's questions strike the perfect balance between trenchant critique and enthusiastic support. His is a model I have long aspired to emulate. As I progressed through the program, Mike not only read my entire dissertation, but also generously vii shared drafts of his own work pertaining to the Continental navy and the siege of Charleston. His ideas helped shape my thinking on those subjects. When I decided to come to Johns Hopkins, I was thrilled by the possibility of studying with David Bell. His interest in the culture of war in eighteenth-century Europe overlapped significantly with my own. I had long known of his reputation as an elegant writer, and I soon learned he is an equally gifted pedagogue. David showed me how the ideas of Michel Foucault, Clifford Geertz, and Norbert Elias, among others, could be applied to the study of war. Taking his advice to heart, I set out to study the culture of war in Revolutionary America and have never looked back. Although I was initially saddened to hear of his departure for Princeton, the move soon proved fortuitous for me. When I informed him that I would be moving to Princeton to accompany Kathryn as she began her graduate work in history, David was delighted. Soon after our arrival, he thoroughly read my work and treated me to a series of delicious lunches during which we discussed my project's broader implications. Many of the finer points of my arguments developed from those conversations. I trust he will be pleased to see the imprint of his influence throughout the dissertation. The cornerstone of graduate education in early American history at Johns Hopkins is the Early American Seminar (sometimes known as the Atlantic Seminar).