The History Room
Years ago, I came across this book on the American Revolution, which was written about a century ago. It's been out of print for a long time, but it gives an interesting perspective on the details that you don't find in school history books. I liked that it portrayed the people involved as real human beings, warts and all, but gave a realistic feel to the history of the time. I was surprised to find just how common it was for colonists to smuggle goods to avoid paying British customs fees and that it was even seen as patriotic. I knew that free trade was an issue, but I didn't realize how much Britain cracking down on smuggling contributed to existing tensions at the time.
As I've been re-reading it, I've been entering it into digital form and thought some might enjoy the opening, which portrays how the riot that caused Britain to send occupying troops into Boston got started.
Note: Apparently the filter doesn't care for the name "Han$#@!", but yes, it's the guy with the fancy signature.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Revolution 1776 by John Hyde Preston
Chapter 1
A Prelude—for Guns
The morning of June 9, 1768, was quiet in the town of Boston. The sunlight was thick and bright against the red-brick houses, and all window shutters to the east were closed to keep the heavy draperies from fading. From kitchen chimneys drab wood smoke curled indolently to heaven. Pigs snooted in the gutters. Down in the harbor the water was clear blue under an easy sky, and the tall sails of vessels were white against the blue above and about, under the pleasant sun.
Not far out on the waters of the harbor, rolling sleepily in the tide, His Majesty’s warship Romney, fifty guns, lay at anchor. Above her furled sails the red and blue emblem of the British Empire flapped against the mast. Sailors in bright uniforms moved about on deck and polished bits of brass. Other men, in brighter uniforms, with finely powdered hair, sat on hatchways or straddled the long guns, lit pipes, and joked among themselves. All was laziness; all was peace. There was nothing to do, nothing to think about, a roving colonial commission was a bore. Their only job was to keep the Romney anchored there, a solitary sentinel at the gates of the sea, a guardian of the laws and order of His Imperial and Most Divine Majesty, George III of Great Britain.
Ships passed, vigorously and sprightly in the fresh breeze, hailing the Romney with cheerful salutes, and continuing on to the broad sea. About noon the sails of a tall sloop loomed in sight on the horizon, headed toward the port of Boston and cutting through the water at a swift clip.
An officer on the Romney came out with a spyglass. He focused the glass on the horizon and stood squinting through it for a long time. Then he ordered a boat lowered. He and four or five other officers clambered into the boat and pulled for Boston. They seemed secretly pleased with some idea or other, but nobody on board knew what it was.
In Boston nobody knew either; but in Boston nobody cared. Along the water front merchants strolled about talking with one another, laughing, shaking hands—busy, keen looking men with sunburned, smiling faces. On the sidewalks women in long, flouncy skirts were buying strawberries and onions and cabbages from men with carts. Dapper horses thudded along the cobblestone streets, their riders greeting one another with gay salutes. A man came tipsily down the steps of a tavern. He gaped at the officers of the Romney in blinking surprise. Then he loitered unsteadily after them, thumbing his nose and grinning inanely. People stood watching him and laughing. The pompous, sparkling officers of the king paid him no attention. They kept to themselves. Occasionally a stray group of idlers hooted at them---and then there was more laughter.
But it was all good-natured bantering---just slightly contemptuous, but not vicious at all.
II
By evening the scene had changed. The bantering and the laughter were gone. There was a feeling of menace in the air. The people were excited, chasing hither and yon, whispering volubly with sidelong glances. Something was going to happen. Nobody knew exactly what it would be, but the atmosphere was heavy with foreboding.
The sloop that had been sighted on the horizon had docked. It was the Liberty, with a cargo of wine from Madeira. The sloop and the cargo belonged to a young merchant of Boston who had wealth, social position, a passion for fine clothes, and a flair for illicit commerce. He was an alert, big-eyed, vain young man from one of the Very Best Families. His name was John Han$#@!.
Han$#@! landed his wine on the wharf before the boatload from the Romney got their noses into the business. But they soon came down with the customs officials, looked over the cargo, and growled threateningly. They told Han$#@! that he had violated the trade laws and that he would have to forfeit his ship. No use arguing, they were enforcing the Kings orders. Han$#@! was smuggling, and that was the beginning and the end of it. Certainly it was the end. If the people of Boston wanted Madeira wine they could have it brought over on British ships---at a British profit. But Mr. Han$#@! could not bring it over without paying for it. There was too damned much smuggling going on in America. Every second man was smuggling. There had to be a halt to it---and here was that halt.
At this point trouble started. Han$#@! Reddened with fury and ordered the customs officers to leave his sloop. They refused. They even laughed at him. They said It was his turn to get off.
He did get off. His rage---combined with his fear---made his fine lace shirt-front tremble like Ivy in the wind. He went up into the town, gathered excited groups of men together here and there, and with a kind of Mystic passion addressed them on the inalienable rights of Boston merchants to do is they pleased.
The night passed. For most of the influential citizens of Boston it passed in a tavern.
III
THEN morning came. Young John Han$#@! returned to his sloop, but this time he was not alone. Behind this stylish civil general surged a mob of frowning, hard-eyed men with torn shirts and clubs. A wave of excited talk swept through them, growing louder as they approached the Liberty. Han$#@! went aboard and demanded what he had demanded before—that the British officers leave his sloop. Some of the mob had followed him. They stood behind his back, muttering. The rest stayed on the wharf, awaiting developments.
Again Han$#@! was ordered to leave his own ship. He was warned that if he refused, he would be carried off bodily. He threw back his shoulders, rose to the fullness of his chubby height, and glared at the customs officers. Try it and see what would happen! For a moment, nothing. Han$#@! stood his ground. There were words back and forth.
Then somebody threw a bottle. It hit one of the customs men and knocked him down. That was the sign to begin. The mob surged aboard and pitched into the glistening officers of His Majesty’s Navy, throwing bricks and swinging clubs. The customs men and the officers tried to resist, but when about twelve of their number were laid out on the deck in cold oblivion, the rest decided it was time to quit.
The customs men fled from the sloop and took refuge in their own houses. The officers of His Majesty’s Navy went to a tavern, to drink the episode out of mind. But the mob was far from through. Their fighting blood was up and before they slept that night they were going to drive every customs official out of town.
Off they started, yelling, cursing, and gathering more men to their ranks. They laid siege to the houses of the officers. They threw paving stones until the glass in all the windows had tinkled into the street. They smashed the front doors and demanded that the occupants come out and show themselves. But in most cases the occupants had fled by this time—out the back way and down to the harbor, where they rowed out to the Romney, to the protecting shelter of her guns.
At one house the son of a customs officer did come out and try to drive off the mob. They grabbed him, kicked him in the face, took gleeful turns spitting in his eyes, and then proceeded to drag him down the street by the hair. A well dressed, stately old gentleman—a well-known Tory—tried to interfere with this new brutality. They seized him too, stuffed his mouth full of mud, and left him in the gutter. He was just a damn loyalist.
By nightfall, every living customs officer had been driven out of the town of Boston. They cringed in terror on the decks of His Majesty’s Romney.
Han$#@!’s mob caught its breath at last, viewed the destruction, and joked nervously about what might come of it. It was rather appalling. But Liberty was Liberty. The King didn’t like Liberty. He treated the American Colonists like so many slaves. When evening came the rioters gathered together at a town tavern, and Han$#@! stood for drinks until they felt like anything but slaves.
Reply With Quote
Originally Posted by Peter1469
