King's Survey: Revering Revolution

In which we see opposing sides try to maneuver each other into a tipping point

So it’s not about the money anymore.

—What’s not?

—Duh, Jonah. Where have you been? We’ve been talking about the Revolution.

—Duh, I know, Emily. But what part of it isn’t about the money?

—The whole thing! The laws! The Stamp Act, the whatchamacallit?

—Tea Act.

—Yeah, thanks Yin, the Tea Act. That stuff. The British wanted to pay for the last war. The Americans didn’t want to do it. That’s how we got the Tea Party. The government tried to sell the cheap tea and instead the Americans dumped it in the harbor.

Would you agree, Jonah, that Emily just did a pretty good job of summarizing where we’ve been for the last week or so?

—Yeah, though she doesn’t have to bite my head off about it.

—Em doesn’t bite. She barks.

—Well at least I—

Let’s let Sadie have the last word on that for now. To turn to the topic at hand: as Emily indicated, the Boston Tea Party really changed the equation when it came to the colonies as far as the British government was concerned. After word of it got back to London in early 1774, the British Parliament passed a series of laws they called the Coercive Acts, which the colonists called the Intolerable Acts. One of these laws is the Port Act: the British government ordered the port of Boston closed—the city was effectively shut down and placed under martial law. Another was the Massachusetts Government Act, which effectively placed all government positions under the control of the British. A third was the Administration of Justice Act, under which British officials accused of crimes would be tried in Britain, not the colonies (so much for John Adams and his defense of those soldiers after the Boston Massacre in 1770). A fourth was as stiffening of the Quartering Act, requiring colonials to give soldiers shelter. And then there was the Quebec Act. That was a big deal. It vastly expanded the borders of Canada all the way down to Ohio, and required all the colonials to be more tolerant of French Catholics who were now part of the British Empire. Remember that the Puritans weren’t all that thrilled with the Church of England, which was Protestant. Now they would have to put up with Catholics, too. They were furious.

Here’s what’s important to know. It wasn’t just the people of Boston, or Massachusetts, or New England who were unhappy with the Intolerable Acts. A sense of fear and anger toward Great Britain rippled across the Atlantic seaboard. As we discussed, these people had their own irritations: real estate speculators wanted to move beyond the Appalachian Mountains, and yet were forbidden to do so. Rich Virginia planters hated British banks, and hated selling commodities cheap and buying foreign goods dear. But maybe more than anything, they were appalled and upset by how severely they thought Massachusetts was being treated. Would we be next?

While the other colonies pondered this—and while they began making plans that I’ll be talking about in a moment—Massachusetts was actually getting on with its life. We all know that the Declaration of Independence was written in 1776. In some important respects, though, the colony was already independent by 1774.

—How so? You just said that it was controlled by soldiers. Plus there were all those laws you just reeled off.

That’s a fair question, Adam. It’s a bit of a paradox, I admit. The best way to make sense of it is to remember that from the very start, the New England colonies—to at least some degree, all the colonies—were on their own on the far side of an ocean. Though they all sincerely proclaimed their liberty to Great Britain, and with greater or lesser degrees of enthusiasm professed their loyalty to their governors (some of whom were never even visited the colonies they governed), New England had relatively robust institutions, notably the institution of the town meeting. In terms of customs, churches, and habits that went back 150 years, they were used to making and executing plans. The boycotts were a good example of this. And from there, it was a relatively short step for them to go from organizing a protest to organizing a government. Yes, British soldiers and ships were there (actually, they were kind of bottled up in Boston, which was shaped like a balloon in those days with a thin strip of land connecting it to the rest of Massachusetts), and yes, the imperial government had the courts, the assemblies, all that stuff. But more and more, the colony had its own shadow government, and more and more it was viewed as the real government. This was true from one end of Massachusetts to the to other. And the far side of Massachusetts, the part that bordered Connecticut and New York and Vermont—an ill-defined piece of territory that was being fought over by New York and New Hampshire even as it was beginning to assert its independence from either—were watching what Massachusetts was doing.

Actually, they were doing more than watching. By 1774 there were so-called Committees of Correspondence in all thirteen colonies, which were increasingly taking on governance tasks themselves—and, as their name indicates, were exchanging information about what was going on in the colonies as a whole. These committees would help bring about the First Continental Congress, which met in Philadelphia that fall. (Georgia didn’t send representatives because it was hoping for help from Britain in dealing with Indians.) The First Continental Congress discussed their unhappiness with the Intolerable Acts, and made plans to meet the following year to discuss where they might go from there. It’s important to emphasize that there were plenty of people—Joseph Galloway of Pennsylvania is perhaps the most famous example—who were still hoping to find some way to reconcile with Parliament and the British government as a whole.

By the time the Second Continental Congress met in 1775, however, events would have overtaken such plans. As the year started, Boston was a sea of intrigue. Secret meetings, secret plans, secret, secret, secret. Not to mention that fact that the colonial American society was a gun culture: lots of people had them, and not just for hunting. Able-bodied males had long been obligated to serve in colonial militias: non-professional military organizations that trained periodically to drill and practice and generally be ready in the event of a war or other emergency. Now these militias were organizing to resist British authority—

—Were these the Minutemen?

Yes, Kylie, they were. Meanwhile our friends John Hancock and Sam Adams are continuing their schemes. There are reports that they’re hanging out in Lexington, a few miles outside Boston, where there are reportedly supplies of gunpowder and other military material.

—Why don’t the British just arrest them?

Not so easy. First, you’ve got to find them. And, for that matter, whatever illegal stuff that’s floating around. Second, you’ve got to worry about how the locals will react if you do. Third, you’ve got to worry about your own position in Boston, where, as I’ve said a couple times now, the British are packed like sardines. The commander of the army there—who is now also the governor of the colony, which is under martial law—is a man named Thomas Gage. Gage is by no means a stupid man. He’s got a tough hand to play. And he’s doing the best he can. When he gets those reports about Hancock and Adams in April of 1775, he decides to act.

The question for Gage is how to get to Lexington to bag his prey. But he’s not the only one who has spies. Before too long the colonists know what he knows. Meanwhile, Gage makes his move.

—One if by land and two if by sea!

Good for you, Ethan. And which is it?

—I dunno.

It’s by sea—the British soldiers cross the Charles River. And who sounds the warning?

—PAUL REVERE!

Nice. It appears a bunch of you have actually done the reading.

—I remember it from fifth grade.

Ah. Well. Whatever. So let’s test that memory, Ethan. How does Revere sound that warning?

—From the Old North Church. We went there on a field trip.

—I remember that trip! It was so much fun.

Good. Ethan: Is Revere actually a member of that church?

—How the hell should I know?

Well, you’ve got 50 percent chance of getting it right.

—Why the hell should I know?

Well, I admit it isn’t that important. But I can’t resist noting that the Old North Church was an Anglican Church—a Church of England church. The Brits were increasingly encroaching on Puritan turf in the years before the Revolution. And they were winning converts, too, especially among the economic elite. One more thing for the Patriots to resent. So what is it, Ethan? Was Revere an Anglican or wasn’t he?

—Jesus, Mr. K. No?

Brilliant.

—If he wasn’t a member of the church, how did he get in there?

Great question, Yin. He had a friend who let him in. Revere had a lot of friends. He was one of those people who knows everybody. It made him a great revolutionary. Anyway, as you know, he makes the ride to Lexington—

—The midnight ride.

Right. But never actually makes there. The British intercept him and interrogate him. But he has a co-conspirator, William Dawes, who does get through. Hancock and Adams flee the tavern where they’re staying. And the Minutemen gather on the green just outside that tavern, ready and waiting for the British regulars when they arrive at about four in the morning on April 18, 1775. It’s a moment of high drama, the two sides facing each other on the eve of dawn.

—Here we go.

There we are. Tomorrow.

Next Shots were fired

King's Survey: Boycott Terrorism

Tarring and Feathering, 1774

In which we see how consumer activism can be pretty brutal

So we were talking about those angry colonists. Mad about their treatment—the disdain, the rules, (especially) the taxes. But what to do about it? How, if you’re a dependent colony that’s part of the most powerful empire on earth, do you get the government to pay attention to your grievances?

—You ask nicely?

—You blow up buildings?

—You write the Declaration of Independence?

—You do an interpretive dance?

Well, at one point or another in the fifteen or so years after 1765, you do any one of those things (with the possible exception of the interpretive dance, which might have been done in secret). But Sam Adams has another idea.

—Right. Sam Adams. The beer guy.

Yes. Like I told you, Adams wasn’t a very good businessman. But he was a truly brilliant social activist. He came up with a very compelling strategy that’s been with activists ever since: the boycott. Tell me: what’s a boycott?

 —That’s when you don’t buy stuff. To protest.

 Right. But how does it work?

 —Well, it’s like we’ll agree: we’re not going to buy this whatever. And no one does. And then the people who make the whatever have to give in or make changes in what they’re doing.

 Can you think of any examples?

—My dad says he used to boycott Nike shoes. To protest the factories. Slave labor. That kind of thing.

 Yes, that campaign got a fair amount of attention. As I recall, Nike did change its practices. But the boycotts that Sam Adams led were devastatingly effective. Say, Jonah, are those Adidas shoes you’re wearing?

—Yeah. They’re Stan Smiths. I play tennis.

 Oh you do, do you? Hey Em, didn’t we agree that we were going to boycott Adidas?

—We did?

Sure! You were at the meeting! I saw you! And Adam and Kylie and Brianna and Jonquil. There were dozens of us. We agreed: Adidas is evil. No more Adidas.

—Whatever you say, Mr. K.

 Hey, it’s not a matter of what I say. It’s a matter of what we agreed. Right? Though apparently Jonah thinks otherwise. I guess tennis isn’t a team sport.

—It is, though.

Well not as far as Jonah is concerned. It isn’t a team sport for him. Apparently   the rules don’t apply to Jonah. He’s special. Are you special, Jonah?

—They’re great shoes. My dad used to wear them. I’m not making a political statement or anything.

Hear that, class? Jonah says he’s not making a political statement. Maybe we need to educate Jonah.

 —How we gonna do that?

Well, I think we should pay Jonah a little visit. All of us. At three in the morning. We’ll find him at home then, don’t you think? Then we can make Jonah—and his wife Jill, and his two little boys and that dog of his, Lucky—understand about Adidas. Such a cute dog. Would hate to see anything happen to Lucky.

—Wow.

 I see you understand, Yin. You would never make the mistake of wearing Adidas. None of us will. Right?

Right?

—Right.

 —Was it really like that?

 It was. You ever hear of tarring and feathering?

  —What’s that?

   Tar is a very hot, sticky substance used to patch ships. It’s still used on roads.

  —That black stuff.

Yes, the black stuff. The Jonahs who didn’t get the message would have tar poured over their bodies. Then they’d be rolled in feathers to make them look ridiculous. Then they’d be hoisted on long ship masts and paraded around. You ever hear the expression “ride out of town on a rail?” It comes from tarring and feathering.

—What would happen to you when you got tar on you?

A lot of time you’d die.

—That’s disgusting. I can’t believe people did that.

Well, they did. But it didn’t usually come to that. The Jonahs usually got the message. Right, Jonah?

—Got it, Mr. K.

The boycotts against the Townshend Acts, especially in New England, were effective—amazingly effective, really. And they defied British authority in precisely the way that hurt the British the most. The point of the laws was to raise revenue through taxes. But if you don’t buy anything, you don’t pay any taxes. To make matters worse, the British brought extra troops to Boston—in other words, they spent more money— where the boycotts were threatening public order. The Townshend Acts were a bust, and in 1770, the British repealed them. The British were going to have to try again.

 —Couldn’t they compromise somehow?

Well, it was complicated, Sadie. There were ideas, even principles, at stake. Actually, there were some taxes colonists wanted to pay. They also claimed there were differences between those designed to regulate trade, which they did consider legal, and ones that were about raising revenue in which they had no say in how the money would be spent, which they didn’t.

—So what did they want to pay?

They wanted to tax themselves to pay for local officials, especially officials like their governors. They figured if such people owed their jobs to the colonists, rather than the British government in London, they would get better representation. Representation: that’s what a lot of this was about. The colonists were supposedly British citizens, and citizens were supposed to be represented in Parliament. But the colonists had no representatives in Parliament.

—What about Benjamin Franklin?

No. Franklin wasn’t an elected official. The British government said the colonists had virtual representation: their interests were taken into account. Nonsense, the colonists replied: you can’t tax us if we don’t get a vote. Another Massachusetts rabble-rouser named James Otis came up with a slogan: “No Taxation without Representation” in 1765. The British government argued that there were parts of Great Britain that didn’t have representation, either. Which was true; parliamentary districts in Britain were a mess in those days. There were lots of them known as “rotten boroughs” where a rich or influential person could buy a membership in Parliament. This sense of corruption was something the colonists were very aware of —very aware of, some would say paranoid about—and objected to.

A pervasive atmosphere of distrust was taking root, and the presence of the British army in Boston was increasingly inflammatory. In 1765, the British Parliament passed the Quartering Act. The law required the colonists to provide lodging for soldiers who were stationed there, and if the barracks where they were supposed to stay weren’t sufficient, the colonists had to put up soldiers in places like inns, taverns, barns or other improvised locations.

—That kinda sucks.

Well, yes, Adam; this wasn’t an ideal situation for anybody, and the colonists—heirs to a longstanding British attitude that was partly the result of England’s luxury of relative isolation from European wars—really disliked the idea of standing professional armies in peacetime. One more way they felt like second-class citizens. The situation went on for years, and was particularly tetchy in Boston, where the Townshend Acts had led the British government to beef up security. In March of 1770, there was a notorious incident involving some boys and soldiers. Apparently the boys started out throwing snowballs at the soldiers. Then they put rocks in the snowballs. Then they dispensed with the snowballs altogether. The facts are a bit murky, but the upshot is that the soldiers fired on the crowd and killed three people and wounded eight. One of the victims was an African American sailor named Crispus Attacks; one might say he was the first casualty of the American Revolution.

—What happened to the British soldiers?

They were put on trial for murder. In a political masterstroke, Sam Adams convinced his cousin John to defend them.

—Why did he want that?

Because he wanted to show that the soldiers could get a fair trial in America. And John Adams did a great job: he won an acquittal, arguing that the frightened soldiers were backed into a corner and that what they did was a tragic mistake, not a crime.

—How did the people in Boston react to that?

Well, they called the event “the Boston Massacre,” which was an exaggeration. There was a silversmith in Boston named Paul Revere, who made an illustration of the event that was very dramatic and became quite famous. (We haven’t heard the last of Paul Revere.) But, overall, things cooled down a bit in the early 1770s. They were still tense elsewhere in New England. In June of 1772, colonials attacked a British ship, the Gaspee, which was cracking down on smuggling off the coast of Rhode Island. The incident was important because it showed that the British were having trouble enforcing mercantilist laws, and that the colonists were increasingly aggressive in resisting ones they didn’t like.

—You said this was in 1772?

Yes, Ethan.

—And the Boston Massacre was in 1770?

Yes.

—So what was happening in between?

Well, Beethoven was born. In December of 1770.

—What does that have to do with anything?

Nothing.

—So why are you telling us that?

Well, in part because I don’t know what else to tell you. There were no big incidents in 1771, I can tell you that. As I told you the other day: time was a little slower back then. Weeks and months for information to go back and forth across the ocean and all that. Here’s one thing that was not happening, though: the British government wasn’t making any money off the colonies. And that remained a problem. Fortunately, there was a new prime minister with a brilliant plan. It would make everybody happy.

  —Uh oh.

   Uh oh is right. You’ll see why tomorrow.

Next: Who was right?

King's Survey: Stamps of Disapproval

Stamp Act Protesters

In which we see how a metaphorical credit card bill helped trigger a non-metaphorical war.

So look, kids: we’ve been talking about a general feeling of unease among some people in British North America in the middle of the eighteenth century—a perception that some authorities (like religious ones) weren’t really legitimate and that others (like government ones) were condescending when they weren’t outright dismissive. And, as we know, feelings can be powerful things.

—Does that include feelings of boredom?

Sure, Chris. Boredom is among the most powerful.

—How’s that?

Well, Jonah, you might say boredom is a gateway feeling. It leads to others like restlessness and impulsivity. Or passivity.

—Or napping.

Like I said, passivity. Are you making an observation or an argument, Chris?

—Just an observation. Not that I’m suggesting that you’re in any way boring.

Of course not, Chris. Jonah will wake you up when class is over.

—We have math next. I should probably just let him sleep.

Well, I’ll let you be the judge of that. Anyway, my real point is to say that while perceptions are a very important part of politics, policy can be even more so, if for no other reason that it’s often a source or justification for attitudes. You may remember I mentioned the Molasses Act of 1733 as a law that went largely unenforced and was regarded as irrelevant. But then the French and Indian War came along, with lots of huge bills to pay, and the British started enforcing laws that had been ignored for decades.

The Molasses Act was just one piece, and a relatively minor one, of a larger strategy that included a package of new laws the British Parliament put into place after the war. There were new financial regulations involving the use of currency, for example, which was always painfully scarce in the colonies, making it difficult to pay for things or settle debts. I mentioned that Proclamation about not going west of the Alleghenies, which really annoyed young guys like George Washington, who was in the real estate business and believed the whole point of the French and Indian War was to get their hands on those lands west of the mountains. None of those new regulations were intolerable. But then came a real problem: the Stamp Act.

—That was in the homework.

  Right. What did the Stamp Act say, Jonquil?

—I didn’t really get it. It was a tax you paid on paper?

You’re on the right track. It might be more useful to think of it as a tax on documents: contracts, wills, that kind of thing. Also newspapers, which were not really documents in the same way, but a source of information that was largely read by the wealthy. This was key: the British were looking to raise revenue, and they were making a real effort to focus on the people who really could afford to pay, like people who hired lawyers or tracked the shipment of goods in newspapers. The idea was that when you bought such material, you’d pay a tax and get a receipt in the form of a stamp that would go on the document and prove you got it legitimately. The law was structured in such a way that it would pay for itself: the people issued the stamps would keep a portion of what they collected as a salary.

For the British, the Stamp Act seemed both fair and efficient. To make sure, government officials approached Benjamin Franklin, who was sort of a super-lobbyist extraordinaire, and asked him what he thought of the idea. Franklin basically said, yeah, if you’re gonna raise taxes, this isn’t a bad way to do it. (In fact, Franklin pulled some strings to get a stamp commissioner’s job for a buddy back in Pennsylvania.)

—What do you mean that Franklin was a super-lobbyist? He seems to keep coming up.

Indeed he does, Yin. Franklin is a truly amazing character, and I’d love to give a course just on him. In short: Franklin was born in Boston, which he found stifling. He ran away to Philadelphia, which was an up-and-coming-city, when he was your age. Then we went to London briefly, and came back to Philly. He made a fortune as a printer, franchised his operation out to other guys around the colonies, and retired from the business. He then explored his interest in science. He also continued to be involved in civic affairs. In the 1750s, the colonial government of Pennsylvania sent him to London to represent the colony’s interests to the imperial government. Soon other colonies, like Massachusetts and South Carolina, also hired him. So he was like the unofficial American representative in England. He was there for about 15 years. He was the coolest of the Founding Fathers. Incredibly intelligent, and that included his social skills. Impossible not to like the guy. (And about as impossible to really get to know him.)

Anyway, the British put the Stamp Act into effect in 1765. And it proved to be an utter disaster. The colonists hated it.

—Why?

Well, some of it is obvious: who likes taxes? I also suspect that the very thing that made it fair made it a problem: rich people are in a much better position to complain than poor people, not in terms of having a more legitimate grievance, mind you, but in knowing how to get heard—and getting around rules they don’t like. But rich people weren’t the only unhappy ones. One of the more remarkable things about the Stamp Act is the way it unleashed simmering anger that now burst to surface. That anger included angry mobs. One mob raided the house of the lieutenant governor of Massachusetts, Thomas Hutchinson, and reduced it to a stack of toothpicks. That buddy of Franklin? He wrote back to him and said: thanks for nothing. I can’t go out and stamp documents—people will kill me. The outrage was so great that there was a meeting, known as the Stamp Act Congress, with representatives from a number of colonies. Back at the start of the French and Indian War, Franklin had suggested that the colonies cooperate, and no one was interested. Now, suddenly, it seemed that for the first time they were serious about coming together. In protest. The Stamp Act Congress sent a petition to London saying the law was illegal.

By the end of 1765, it was clear to the British government that the Stamp Act had backfired. All the noise aside, it was failing its actual purpose: to raise money. The colonists were refusing to play by the rules. So the government had to go back to the drawing board and try again. But how? The answer was in two steps. First, the Stamp Act was repealed. Then, the same day, the British Parliament passed the Declaratory Act, which essentially said the colonists were obligated to obey the laws of the British government. Which is a little like saying to a child who refuses to go to bed: all right, stay up then. But from now on you’re sticking to your bedtime, fella!

—Cute.

Well, I was hoping for something more like a shock of recognition: more like “Oh.”

—It’s not that good, Mr. K.

Oh. Well, then. I’ll keep going. Sort of like the British government: that didn’t work, so we’ll try something else. Here’s the something else: the Townshend Acts. These were a series of new taxes on lead, glass, paper and tea. Again: luxury items.

—But if people were mad last time, why would this time be any different?

Excellent question, Sadie. Actually, this time was different, but not in the way the British wanted. And the reason for that is a fellow named Sam Adams.

—As in the beer?

Yes, Ethan: Sam Adams was a brewer. Not a very good one, though. At least not as a businessman.

—Was he related to John Adams?

Yup. They were cousins.

—Were they close?

Pretty close. Though Sam was a little more exciting than John, who was kind of a dweeb.

—That doesn’t sound very respectful, Mr. K.

Hey, I like John Adams. I’m a dweeb. We dweebs need to stick together.

—So I guess Adams didn’t hang out much with Benjamin Franklin, then.

Well, not much. They did sleep together once.

—Really?

Yes. Pretty good story.

—Benjamin Franklin was gay?

Did I say that?

—Well, you said they slept together.

I’ll tell you about it after class one day.

—Why not now?

Because it’s time for Chris to sleep through math.

Next: Boycott terrorism