Dearest Abigail

“Bringing your business to the tavern again, eh?”

John raised his eyes to find the bartender taking a chair at his table. He brought two glasses with him and set one atop the paper upon which John had been writing.

“We do seem to have made your genteel place our camp, haven’t we, Smith? By this day next year, I predict by God Almighty they’ll be bells and bonfires right in this very hall. But no, my friend, not tonight,” John sighed, “what I’m composing is just as important, though.”

The barkeep smiled knowingly, “Very few men have had the fortune to still be in love after so many years ... at least still with the one they’ve married!” He raised his glass, “To the lovely mademoiselle!”

John leaned back in his chair and took a swallow, “and to this fine Madeira you never seem to run short of.”

“Aye!” the bartender grunted and finished the last of his drink. “Well, I’ll not disturb your letter any longer ... you make sure and let me know of any new business so you won’t have to find me eavesdropping or reading over your shoulder!” He spoke from the side of his mouth and put his fingers to his lips, “I can keep it to myself!”

He then rose and moved on as quickly as he had arrived. John laughed as he watched him make his rounds about the rooms of Philadelphia’s City Tavern; he knew he was a Tory but secrets were useless anyway. Tomorrow it would be made public.

It was July 3rd, 1776, and John Adams continued the letter to his wife. He would only be off by a few days:

“...The Second Day of July 1776, will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America ...”

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