American Rebels

by Nina Sankovitch

  She threw the heavy wooden door wide open and stepped through, standing on the brick stoop and facing the crowd. Stunned by her appearance, the crowd stopped its shouting and lowered the missiles intended for the remaining unbroken windows of the house.

  Esther called out that their assault was without merit, that her husband had nothing to do with the seizure of ammunition, and in any event, her husband was not at home and she had children in the house. She told the men that if they left her in peace and her home unharmed, they could help themselves to refreshments from the family wine cellar.

  Casks were hauled out into the yard and broken open. Men and boys of the mob drank their fill and then retreated back down the street, leaving the empty casks in their wake. All of Esther’s strength—inviting the men into her home, leading them down to the cellar, watching resolute and still as they drank from the broken casks—was now gone. She had managed it all on adrenaline alone; with the retreat of the mob, the adrenaline failed and she fell, exhausted and trembling, into a chair. Her son Jonathan lay prostrate in fear on the floor; as a grown man he would never forget the humiliations of that day. He changed the spelling of his last name to the English way—Sewell—and vowed undying hatred for Americans.

  Jonathan Sewall, hearing of the attack on his home, immediately sent for his wife and children. Within days, he had everything of value removed from their home. For now, they would stay in Boston, safe under the watchful eyes of the British troops. Edmund Quincy quailed at having his town become the “City of Refuge” for the Loyalists—and prayed for Parliament to retract its Intolerable Acts and “save Great Britain and the colonies.”3

  Samuel Quincy, still drawing his ample salary as solicitor general for the Crown, welcomed the Sewalls to Boston. But while Jonathan Sewall continued to rail in the press against rebel agitators, Samuel never published a single political essay or went on record for or against the colonial protesters. His wife, Hannah, was beginning to wish that he would stand up for their fellow colonists. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the luxuries of their Boston home, paid for by her husband’s Crown salary, or their social life, enlivened by high-ranking British officers and their fashionable wives. But Hannah had grown increasingly uncomfortable with the punishments levied on the colony by Parliament.

  Samuel was just as concerned as his wife, and in private railed against overreaching and illegal parliamentary measures. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t involve himself in the public fight against England, and he wouldn’t step down from his position in the royal government. What he hoped for most of all—and there were many who joined him in his wish—was a peaceful reconciliation between the colony and the mother country. He doubted there was anything he could do to influence the course of events but wanted to wait and see what the future might bring. As he wrote to his wife later, “I am but a Passenger and must follow the fortunes of the day.”4

  Josiah Sr. held a dinner party in Braintree in mid-September. Samuel stayed away, but his wife, Hannah, attended. She enjoyed herself, not realizing it was a send-off for Josiah Jr.—the secret of his journey would be kept until after he sailed. But politics did come up, and Hannah distanced herself from the balancing act still carried out by her husband. Abigail Adams was there and wrote later to her husband John that there had been “a little clashing of parties you may be sure. Mr. Sam’s Wife said she thought it high time for her Husband to turn about, he had not done half so clever since he left her advice.”5

  * * *

  Throughout the fall of 1774, Governor Gage and his troops continued to tighten their clamp on the colony. Over a dozen more cannon and iron artillery pieces were rolled out to the Boston Neck, and the walls along the town gate were fortified. Gage, having suspended any meetings of the General Court, moved government offices back to Boston from Salem. He renewed Parliament’s prohibitions against town meetings being held there or anywhere else in Massachusetts. Control over the colony was to be absolute, backed up by a dramatic show of weaponry.

  But the colonists in Massachusetts were not intimidated by Gage’s authority, his troops, or his weapons. In September, a countywide meeting was convened, led by Joseph Warren. Technically, Gage had only banned town meetings, not county meetings, and representatives from all over Suffolk County flocked to the village of Milton.

  In long work sessions, they set about writing up a list of resolutions, which came to be known as the Suffolk Resolves. The preamble to the numbered resolutions, eighteen in all, stated that having witnessed “the power but not the justice, the vengeance but not the wisdom of Great Britain,” it was imperative for the colony to govern itself, arm itself, and communicate and organize with other assemblies throughout the continent to oppose unfair British rule.6

  The resolves called for a boycott of all British goods; a courier system to improve communication among the colonies; and a prohibition of all mob actions on the part of colonial rights. The fight for their rights would be orderly, with emphasis on economic pressures on England.

  Once printed up, copies of the resolves were sent throughout the colony, as well as to the Continental Congress in Philadelphia. The congress voted to endorse them in a unanimous show of support for Massachusetts. That day, wrote John Adams in his diary, was “one of the happiest Days of my life.”

  Overwhelmed by the “generous, Noble sentiments, and Manly eloquence” of his fellow delegates, Adams joyfully wrote, “This day convinces me that America will support Massachusetts or perish with her.”7 When Gage heard about the Suffolk Resolves, and read all of its resolutions, he condemned it as an act of treason.

  * * *

  While Joseph Warren organized the county, John Hancock convened all willing legislators of the Massachusetts General Court to meet in what he called “a Provincial Congress.” Two hundred sixty men agreed to attend, representing towns and villages throughout Massachusetts. Governor Gage condemned the congress as another act of treason, but there was little he could do to stop the assembly from taking place.

  Gage didn’t want to start a violent confrontation between his troops and the colonists. In any event, he couldn’t move his troops against the colonists without parliamentary approval, and communication between the colony and England was torturously slow. Gage sent spies to infiltrate meetings of the Provincial Congress, biding his time for now and waiting for instructions from England.

  Hancock was aware of Gage’s watchful eye and his legion of spies. The location of the Provincial Congress’s meetings was changed without warning to keep spies away, moving from Salem to Concord, and then to Cambridge. In Cambridge, they met one day in the small courthouse off the Common and the next day they met across the street, in the First Church of Cambridge.

  From place to place, village to village, Hancock arrived in his fine carriage, his jacket always freshly brushed and the buttons on his breeches rubbed to gleaming, his shoes polished to shining and a sprightly ribbon holding back his hair. He felt it was his duty to appear strong and unfazed by pressure, secure in his place and ready to lead. When he was elected president of the Provincial Congress of Massachusetts, he relished his new title, which he felt was well deserved. And when he was named chairman of the Committee of Safety, charged with raising a militia of twelve thousand and securing arms and supplies for defending the colonists against British aggression, his satisfaction was complete.8

  Hancock committed a huge amount of his own money to pay for supplies for this new army, including firearms, bayonets, knapsacks, cartridges, and balls. But his personal fortune would not be enough, nor would it be appropriate for this new entity, this Provincial Congress of Massachusetts, to be dependent upon the wealth of one man.

  In order to pay for the militia and supplies, a new tax system was put into place. For the first time in the history of the colonies in America, taxes were to be collected and managed by a government independent of the king and Parliament. The first step to independence, a leap into fiscal management and responsibility, had been taken.
r />   * * *

  John Hancock was at the top of Gage’s catalog of political enemies and the focus of the ire of Loyalists and British troops alike. Along with Josiah Quincy Jr., Hancock’s name appeared on a list of men to be apprehended “the instant rebellion happens,” and then to be put “immediately to the sword.” Death would not be enough: the order was to “destroy their houses and plunder their effects; it is just they should be the first victims to the mischiefs they have brought upon us.”9

  Death threats to Hancock arrived as anonymous missives left in the middle of the night at the door of the Beacon Hill mansion or printed up in bills that were then posted throughout Boston. A bounty was placed on his head. Both he and Joseph Warren were threatened with death by assassination, but one British officer claimed that it would be “a pity for them to make their exit that way, as I hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing them do it by the hands of the hangman.”10

  * * *

  Throughout the fall of 1774, John Adams was hard at work on the committee charged with drafting a declaration of rights and grievances, as well as the committee preparing the articles of association. The declaration would set forth the reasons why the colonists were implementing actions against England, and the articles would list the nature of those actions.

  At first John found the work energizing and inspiring, the debates most “ingenious and entertaining.”11 But as the days passed, and September turned to October, impasses over minor details and major points multiplied; it seemed as if the members of the committee could not agree on anything, not only about the grievances themselves but also about what actions to take against British oppression, including a boycott, training local militia, and raising funds to pay for it all.

  John grew discouraged by “the nibbling and squibbling” of the delegates and the deliberations that “spun out to an immeasurable Length.”12 He complained of having to submit to the “Mortification [of having] to sit with half a dozen Witts” who considered themselves “refined Genius’s.”13 He knew that many of the other delegates feared that the Massachusetts contingent were radicals, fanatics for independence who were set on a course that would lead to war. But Adams did not want war, nor was he advocating independence—not yet.

  What John Adams wanted was resolution, and he wanted it now. Too much time had been wasted; too many weeks had passed since he’d left Abigail and the children. He had recently received a letter from his son, John Quincy: “I hope I grow a better Boy and that you will have no occasion to be ashamed of me when you return.”14 John longed to return, to be home with his family on his farm in Braintree.

  Finally, on October 14, 1774, the full Continental Congress approved the committee’s Declaration of Grievances. The declaration excoriated the Intolerable Acts, which were deemed “impolitic, unjust, and cruel, as well as unconstitutional, and most dangerous and destructive of American rights.”15 The declaration then defined what these “American rights” were. Numbering ten in all, the defined bill of rights included the right to peaceably assemble; the right to government by their own representatives (no taxation without representation); and the right to life, liberty, and property.

  With the declaration approved, work returned to finalizing the Articles of Association, a list of actions to be undertaken by the colonists to secure their rights. On October 20, the articles were approved by the full congress. The articles provided the framework for implementing and enforcing what Josiah Quincy had been advocating since the spring: an economic boycott of Great Britain. Tea was banned immediately, and all other goods from Britain were subject to boycott as of December.

  The Continental Congress passed other measures that were designed to help colonists survive the boycott—measures that promoted thrift and austerity, along with local manufacturing. Shop owners were prohibited from raising prices for limited goods; sheep were to be protected, in order to ensure that enough wool was available to meet colonists’ needs now that British wool was no longer available; expensive or wasteful entertainments, such as horse racing, cockfighting, and plays, were to be suspended; and extravagant funerals were forbidden.

  One significant provision of the Articles of Association was the ban on the slave trade: as of December, the importation and purchase of slaves would be prohibited. This measure may have been enacted because of threats by both free and enslaved blacks that they would join whichever side promised freedom, whether it be the British or the Americans.

  Abigail was heartened by the news of the ban when she read it. “I wish most sincerely there was not a Slave in the province,” she wrote to John. “It always appeared a most iniquitious Scheme to me—fight ourselves for what we are daily robbing and plundering from those who have as good a right to freedom as we have.” She added in her note to John, “You know my mind upon this Subject.”16

  And well he did. John agreed with her, and neither he nor his father had ever owned slaves. While Abigail’s father owned slaves, as did other members of the older Quincy generations, she and her cousins, along with John Hancock (who freed his uncle’s slaves upon Thomas’s death) were all in agreement about the evils of slavery.

  In celebration of having approved the Articles of Association, the Continental Congress adjourned for the night to “the City Tavern … a most elegant Entertainment.”17 Judging by his satisfaction in such a grand meal, John Adams saw no irony in participating in a sumptuous celebration at night while voting for frugality and temperance during the day. Perhaps John was celebrating the fact that he could soon leave Philadelphia and get home to Abigail.

  But there was still one more task to be accomplished, and it was not one that the Massachusetts delegates supported. John Dickinson wrote a petition to King George, formulating it as a plea for understanding, patience, and support: “We ask but for peace, liberty, and safety … [and] beseech your majesty that your royal authority and influence may … procure us relief.” In closing, the petition from the Continental Congress offered the hope that “your majesty may enjoy a long and prosperous reign, and that your descendants may govern your dominions with honour to themselves, and happiness to their subjects.”18 Grudgingly, the Massachusetts delegates, along with the rest of the congress, agreed to the petition being sent.

  Now John Adams could finally return to Braintree.

  When the Massachusetts delegates arrived back in Boston on November 9, 1774, church bells were set pealing in greeting. Where the journey had begun, it now ended, and the travelers were invited into John Hancock’s mansion for a celebratory meal.

  John Adams was not with them, however; he had left the entourage at Cambridge and traveled to Braintree on a hired horse. He had had his fill of meals, wine, toasts, and talk. His eyes hurt, turned swollen and red in the dust brought up by the horses; his head ached from the rolling of the carriage; his arms longed for his wife and children. Traveling alone by the Plymouth Road, he arrived at nightfall to his farmhouse by the sea.

  There would be no rest for him there. A constant stream of friends and family—his brothers, his mother, his in-laws—came by the house to see John, to hear stories of the Continental Congress, to pull hope from his words and thereby sustain themselves through what was sure to be a long, cold winter. Within days of his return, a call came for him to attend the Provincial Congress, now meeting at the First Parish Church in Watertown (still evading Gage’s spies as best they could). John agreed to come, and binding up his aching eyes in lavender-soaked bandages, he hired a man to take him by wagon to Watertown.

  The sight that greeted him, of 260 men from all across the colony, made him stop at the door and draw breath. Men of every trade and station, from John Hancock, the wealthiest man in the colony, resplendent as always in a jacket of deep maroon, to men dressed in muslin and patched wool: John Adams came forward to meet them all.

  He learned that they were blacksmiths and bakers, fishermen and farmers, tradesmen and tailors, shopkeepers and men who had lost their shops—and yet still they came, confident and d
etermined, ready to build together a legitimate government in the void created now that the royal government was an entity to be disdained and ignored.

  What a piece of work is man, Josiah Quincy Jr. would have whispered in his ear, if only he had been there at Watertown with John. John missed his friend and colleague, a man so wise in law, justice, and Shakespeare. He wished that Josiah could see for himself the resolution of his fellow New Englanders, hard at work creating a new government in this old meeting house in Watertown.

  Abigail Adams, just miles away, knew John would soon return to her. Abigail Quincy, staying with her father in Boston, wondered if her husband, Josiah, ever would. She had yet to hear from him, and she didn’t know if he was in England or at the bottom of the sea or lying ill somewhere in between.

  24

  On This Island, This England

  It is yourselves, it is yourselves must save you;

  and you are equal to the task.

  —JOSIAH QUINCY JR.

  John Hancock presented the annual Thanksgiving Day proclamation for Massachusetts, taking over the role always assumed in the past by the governor. The Provincial Congress had just voted to send Hancock to the Second Continental Congress, to be held in Philadelphia in May 1775. His army of “minutemen” was swelling with volunteers, and training of the men had started. And now, he would give thanks for all the colony, serving as the representative of their gratitude as well as of their dreams. Hancock gloried in the role.

  For the first time in the history of the colony, the name of the king was not mentioned in the Thanksgiving Proclamation. No sovereign existed but the will of the people, united against oppression: “a Union which so remarkably prevails not only in this Province, but throughout the Continent.”1

  With December came snow, every day more snow. December 25 was not a holiday celebrated by the colonists of Massachusetts, but a day for work like any other unless it happened to fall on the Sabbath, and this year, it did. There was meetinghouse in the morning, a long lunch, and then back to meetinghouse in the afternoon. The Third Parish Church in Braintree was full that day. Anthony Wibird was in the pulpit; he continued his ministry of the church and was as well loved as ever by his congregation, although his sermons were less than compelling (Abigail Adams described him as “our inanimate old bachelor”).2