Patriots

by A. J. Langguth

  But then, he added, “Soldiers quartered in a populous town will always occasion two mobs where they prevent one. They are wretched conservators of the peace.”

  Robert Treat Paine, John Adams’ longtime rival at the bar, summed up for the crown. Tired and sick, Paine made an uninspired case, rousing himself only when he turned one of Adams’ arguments back on him by claiming that if one soldier was guilty, all must be found guilty. Paine did not point out that three of the six privates who marched out on the line—Matthew Kilroy, William Warren and John Carroll—had been among the brawlers at the ropeworks.

  —

  The jurors were out for two and a half hours. When they filed back into the courtroom, the clerk asked, “Gentlemen of the jury, are you all agreed in your verdict?”

  “Yes,” the twelve men answered.

  “Who shall speak for you?”

  “Our foreman.” He was Joseph Mayo, a captain in the Roxbury militia.

  The clerk directed the first of the defendants, the group’s corporal, to identify himself. “William Wemms, hold up your hand. Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner,” the clerk said. “How say you, is William Wemms guilty of all or either of the felonies or murders whereof he stands indicted, or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty,” said Mayo.

  The clerk addressed the entire jury. “Harken to your verdict as the court hath recorded it. You upon your oath do say that William Wemms is not guilty.”

  The process was repeated with Privates James Hartigan, William McCauley, Hugh White, William Warren and John Carroll, all not guilty. But the jury had also decided that the soldiers had fired before it was absolutely necessary to their defense. Since Matthew Kilroy and Hugh Montgomery were the two soldiers whom witnesses had seen firing, Mayo’s verdict for them was different: “Not guilty of murder, but guilty of manslaughter.”

  Those two men were held for sentencing, and the others were released. They walked into the streets of the town, and there—the patriots were proud to note—they were undisturbed.

  Nine days later, John Adams was back in court to hear Kilroy and Montgomery sentenced. They were asked whether there was a reason they should be spared the death penalty. Each man pleaded the benefit of clergy, a remnant of medieval law that provided that defendants who could prove they were clergymen might insist on being tried by an ecclesiastical tribunal. Usually, the church’s punishments were far less severe than those of a secular court. Since the law dated from the time when the clergy were the only literate class, a man could establish his status merely by reading Psalm 51, verse 1. It came to be called “the neck verse.” By claiming the benefit, the two soldiers would escape with only branding by fire. Thomas Hutchinson had been asked to spare them even that punishment, but he and Colonel Dalrymple decided that the law should take its course. Still claiming that they were innocent, Kilroy and Montgomery held out their right hands, and Sheriff Greenleaf seared their thumbs.

  Dalrymple shipped the two convicted privates and the acquitted men to join their regiment. In May the Twenty-ninth had been transferred from Castle William to forts in New Jersey, and now the colonel decided to send his men by boat. If he allowed them to march south, he suspected that they would all desert.

  As the soldiers prepared to sail, Hugh Montgomery confessed to one of his lawyers that on the night of March 5, after being knocked down, he had been the one who shouted, “Damn you, fire!”

  —

  The outcome of the trials pained Samuel Adams. Writing as “Vindex” in the Boston Gazette, he launched a series of articles to persuade the town that justice had not been done. Adams’ pseudonym provoked Thomas Hutchinson to make a despairing joke: “As it is the custom now for people to give their children two or three names, I could wish he would add ‘Malignus’ and ‘Invidus’ to make his names a little more significant.” Adams was especially aggrieved by speculation in London newspapers that the Boston mob had planned to murder the sentry that night in order to plunder the king’s coffers, which were kept at the Custom House. The Tories could not have riled Adams more than by accusing the patriots of greed. He also objected to the way Judge Oliver had dwelled on testimony about a man in a red cloak who had been seen haranguing the crowd on the night of the shootings. His wasn’t the only red cloak in Boston, but it was the most notorious.

  Despite his attempt to retry the case in the newspaper, there was no question that Samuel Adams’ cause had suffered in the nine months since the shooting. At the height of the drama, Adams had humiliated Thomas Hutchinson. By the end of March, Hutchinson had sent his resignation to Lord Hillsborough in London. The job of governor, Hutchinson wrote, demanded a man of greater powers than his. He asked only to be allowed to resume the post of chief justice. But his letter was late in arriving. In the meantime, Francis Bernard had lobbied to have Hutchinson named as his replacement. When Hutchinson’s resignation finally reached London, Hillsborough wrote to assure him that no one had ever given London more satisfaction than he. If Hutchinson accepted the governorship, he would never regret it. Against his instincts, Hutchinson let himself be persuaded. Two days after the jury returned its verdict on the British soldiers, Lord Hillsborough sent Hutchinson his commission as governor, along with a guarantee of an annual salary of fifteen hundred pounds sterling, paid directly by the crown.

  Hillsborough explained that a governor would no longer be dependent on the spiteful moods of the Massachusetts legislature. From now on, his salary would be absolutely secure. It would come out of taxes raised on the sale of tea.

  Patriots dumping tea into Boston Harbor

  GRANGER COLLECTION

  Tea

  1771–73

  FOR Samuel Adams, the year 1771 opened with Thomas Hutchinson entrenched as never before and with troubling defections from his own ranks. For months he had been unable to confide in James Otis, who, whenever he became overwrought, sought out Hutchinson with tearful apologies: “I meant well but am now convinced that I was mistaken. Cursed be the day I was born.” Sane or raving, Otis professed a reverence for England and a respect for Parliament that embarrassed patriots like Adams and William Molineux. Even before the Massacre trials, Adams had decided that he must strike Otis from the list of Boston candidates for the legislature. Otis had been incensed, and when John Adams agreed to serve in the House for the first time, Otis railed at him about Samuel Adams’ treachery and called John a damned fool. With the passing months, Otis’ behavior became more bizarre. At night he broke windows in Town House. By day he stood at his own window, firing a gun into the air. At last James Otis was bound hand and foot and trundled into a cart. His family drove him to a farm outside Boston, where they hoped his disordered mind would find peace.

  —

  Engineering John Adams’ election to the House may have been Samuel Adams’ proof to his cousin that his reputation among the patriots wouldn’t suffer from defending Preston and the British soldiers. John Adams took no cheer from his election, but saw it instead as one more portent of doom. He had built his practice until he had more clients than any other lawyer in Boston. Being plunged further into the political maelstrom would mean ruin for his family and, given his precarious health, death to him. At home, when he informed his wife of this latest honor, Abigail Adams burst into tears.

  To punish the town of Boston, Thomas Hutchinson had ordered the legislature moved again to Cambridge; John Adams joined in condemning the move. And despite signs of favor from the patriots, Adams was insulted on the street for his role in the recent trial. One February night his nerves broke. “Never in more misery in my whole life,” Adams wrote the next day. “God grant I may never see such another night.” He resolved to leave Boston. At the end of the legislative term two months later, he took his family back to Braintree. He would divide his time between the law and his farm. “Farewell, politics,” he wrote.

  For Samuel Adams, another loss was even more alarming: John Hancock was starting to slip away. Hancock had long been skittish, an
d after the Massacre he was threatening to renounce his House seat because he was dissatisfied with the recent vote. He had received only 511 of the 513 votes cast. Samuel Adams urged him to change his mind, reminding him that one of the two negative votes had been Hancock’s own.

  Adams’ letter was a studied blend of flattery and challenge. “You say you have been spoken ill of. What then?” Would Hancock resign because of one contemptible person, who had perhaps been bribed to vote against him? Adams signed his note “Your affectionate friend and brother.” It had its effect; Hancock stayed in the House.

  But during a brief return to lucidity, James Otis appeared in Boston, arguing that the governor had the right to convene the legislature anyplace he chose. Hancock also took up that position, against the two Adamses. Nothing done by a man as wealthy as Hancock went unscrutinized. Hutchinson wrote to London of a falling out between Hancock and Samuel Adams. “Some of my friends blow the coals,” Hutchinson wrote, “and I hope to see a good effect.” Lord Hillsborough told Hutchinson that, on command from the highest authority, he should promote John Hancock at every occasion.

  Hutchinson’s own career had been built on patronage, and he hoped to win Hancock over with similar honors. First he named him colonel of the cadets, although that appointment was scarcely a bribe. Hancock certainly loved the finery of the uniforms, but it was his dedication to the cadets over the past six years that had led them to elect him unanimously as their colonel. Hutchinson was simply ratifying a popular choice. But if Hancock also wanted to be promoted from the House to the Council, this might be the time.

  Samuel Adams watched those overtures carefully, even though much of what was separating him from Hancock was beyond his control. His wealthy friend was ailing, tired, ready to compromise, and for Samuel Adams compromise meant surrender. The wrangle over the location of the legislature went on for months, with Adams making it one more test of the limits of royal authority. Hancock and the House speaker, Thomas Cushing, were prepared to be more flexible, and they suggested that the House ask Hutchinson to move the legislature back to Boston only because of the inconvenience in traveling to Cambridge. Samuel Adams had the votes to defeat that face-saving motion.

  Before the next session, Hancock and Cushing called on Hutchinson to ask what his terms were for returning the House to Boston. Hutchinson said he could not agree to any undercutting of the king’s authority. His visitors explained that they would accept his condition but that Samuel Adams would oppose them. Hutchinson took heart from this proof of a rift among the patriots and warned them against Adams’ cunning.

  Late in May 1772, Hancock was able to persuade the House to make a moderate request for the return to Boston. The governor replied with equal moderation, and the move was made. During that same session, the House elected Hancock to the Council. In the new spirit of unity, Hutchinson said he would approve him. Here was John Hancock’s reward. For more than a year he had demonstrated his independence, scored a victory over Samuel Adams and warned Adams not to take him for granted. Now that he had proved his point, he refused Hutchinson’s bribe and declined a seat on the Council.

  Samuel Adams had learned his lesson. He reached out his hand and Hancock accepted it, commissioning John Singleton Copley to paint two portraits, one of himself, one of Adams. When Hancock hung the pictures in his parlor, the Tories recognized that New England’s greatest fortune was pledged again to their defeat.

  —

  At about noon on a June day in 1772, Captain Benjamin Lindsey sailed his sloop out of the harbor at Newport, Rhode Island, with another ship chasing him. It was the Gaspee, which had been sent to Narragansett Bay that spring to cut down on smuggling. From the time the Gaspee arrived, its commander, Lieutenant William Dudingston, had been battling Newport’s captains and crews. The local merchants complained that Dudingston was stopping every kind of vessel, even small boats heading to market. Whenever Dudingston was challenged, he refused to show his authorization papers, and when he uncovered smuggled goods he ordered them shipped to Boston, even though the law required that the shipowner be tried in the colony where his goods were confiscated.

  Protests had become so loud that Rhode Island’s governor sent his sheriff to summon Dudingston and demand to see his authorization. Dudingston was as obstinate on land as he had been aboard the Gaspee, and his commander, Rear Admiral Montagu, upheld his bad manners. From Boston, Montagu wrote to the governor, calling his challenge to Dudingston insolent and warning him never to send his sheriff aboard a king’s ship on such a ridiculous errand. Admiral Montagu added that he had heard rumors that the people of Newport were talking about fitting out an armed vessel and using it to rescue any ship the Gaspee detained. Let them try it, Montagu warned, and they would be hanged as pirates.

  On this day, Lieutenant Dudingston was trying to maneuver the Gaspee so that he could board Captain Lindsey’s sloop. But, some seven miles below Providence, Lindsey hove about at the end of Namquit Point, and Dudingston ran the Gaspee aground as he tried to change course. Captain Lindsey continued up the river, arriving about sunset at Providence, where he spread the happy news of the Gaspee’s distress. The seamen knew that it would be well after midnight before the tides could lift Dudingston’s schooner free.

  John Brown, a respected Providence merchant, decided that this was the town’s chance to be rid of Dudingston’s harassment. He sent one of his shipmasters to collect eight of the largest longboats in the harbor, each with five sets of oars. The boats were taken out to Fenner’s Wharf with their oars and rowlocks well muffled.

  As the shops were closing, a man marched down the main street of Providence, beating a drum. He directed anyone who wanted to help destroy the troublesome ship to a house on the wharf. Ephraim Bowen, nineteen years old, heard the call. At 9 P.M., with his father’s gun and his own powder horn and bullets, he went to the meeting spot. The room was already filled. Some men were going to the kitchen next door to cast their bullets. At ten o’clock the group crossed the wharf and boarded the longboats. Each boat had a sea captain to guide it.

  Silently, the protesters rowed the boats into a line and moved toward the Gaspee. They got within sixty yards of their target before a sentinel called, “Who goes there?” They gave no answer. A minute later, Lieutenant Dudingston, in shirtsleeves but with a pistol in his hand, mounted the starboard gunwale and called, “Who comes there?”

  The second time, Captain Abraham Whipple shouted back, “I am the sheriff of the county of Kent, God damn you! I have got a warrant to apprehend you, God damn you! So, surrender, God damn you!”

  A man standing in the boat with Ephraim Bowen said, “Eph, reach me your gun and I can kill that fellow.” Bowen handed him the gun, and before Captain Whipple had finished his cursing the man fired through the darkness at Lieutenant Dudingston and exclaimed, “I have killed the rascal!”

  In less than a minute after the challenge, the boats were alongside the Gaspee and the colonists were boarding without a fight. At the sight of their wounded commander, the crew on deck melted away.

  A medical student in the raiding party, John Mawney, grasped a rope from the Gaspee’s bow and tried to swing himself on deck. The rope slipped and he fell to his waist in water. When he recovered and boarded the schooner, Mawney found his friends tying the hands of the crew with tar-coated string. John Brown saw him and beckoned him to the deck. Brown told him not to mention any names but to go immediately into the cabin. There was a man bleeding to death inside.

  Mawney entered the cabin. Lieutenant Dudingston was sitting huddled under a thin white blanket with blood pouring from his wound. Mawney saw that a musket ball had ripped open the lieutenant’s groin, five inches below his navel. He feared that the femoral artery had been severed, and he undid his waistcoat, took his shirt by the collar and began tearing it for bandages.

  Dudingston stopped him. “Pray, sir, don’t tear your clothes. There is linen in that trunk.”

  Mawney called on one of the raiding party t
o break open the trunk and start to tear linen and to scrape lint. The other man tried, but the linen was too new and stiff to raise lint from it. Mawney had pressed the heel of his left hand against Dudingston’s wound, and he directed his helper to slip his hand underneath Mawney’s own and press hard to keep the blood stanched. With that, Mawney tore the linen into compresses, stacked them six deep and told the other man to raise his hand. Mawney slapped the compresses into the gaping wound, wrapped another strip firmly around Dudingston’s thigh and pulled it tight.

  As Mawney worked, other voices were calling to him. Finally the cabin door was forced open, and men from the raiding party rushed in to destroy Dudingston’s liquor supply. Mawney broke each bottle under the heels of his boots while others in the party carried Lieutenant Dudingston out of the cabin to one of the longboats. The rebel leaders told the Gaspee’s crew to collect their clothes and other belongings, put them onto the boats and set out for shore. One of the raiding boats stayed behind to set the Gaspee on fire. From a distance, the Rhode Islanders watched it burn down to the water line. Dudingston was put ashore at Pawtuxet, along with five men and a blanket for carrying him.

  Almost everyone understood that since a king’s officer had been badly wounded and a king’s ship destroyed, secrecy was essential. Yet the next morning one young raider, Justin Jacobs, was found standing on the Great Bridge in Providence, wearing Lieutenant Dudingston’s gold-laced beaver hat and telling everyone about the exploit. Other men from the expedition told him to take off the hat and shut up.

  Rhode Island’s deputy governor, Darius Sessions, called on Lieutenant Dudingston that same day to make amends on behalf of the colony. He offered anything—money, surgeons, transfer to another place. The lieutenant asked that his men be collected and sent to Newport or Boston. But he refused to tell Sessions what had happened. Dudingston had let his ship be taken away from him, and if he lived he faced a court-martial. But if he died, Dudingston wanted the night’s humiliation to die with him.