A Girl Called Samson (8)

The following May, news of the Boston Port Bill reached American shores. Parliament had proclaimed all ports in New England closed. Nothing in and nothing out. Deacon Thomas said the British meant to kill the resistance, to force everyone out and punish the merchants for skirting their regulations.

The king revoked the Massachusetts Bay Charter, which was essentially the colony’s license to operate independently from the Crown in any manner. All the governing officials in the colony were paid and appointed by the British. No trials would take place in Massachusetts, and no meeting, assembly, or speech would be allowed without permission from the Crown’s governor.

They’d also demanded the people quarter the British troops in their homes, and that alarmed Mrs. Thomas most of all. She was certain a regiment would march into Middleborough any day and seize the house and farm.

The “Intolerable Acts” was what people were calling them, but such things had been happening as long as I could remember, and the people had tolerated them. I didn’t know a time when people didn’t complain about the Crown. No taxation without representation was something people loved to say, and the previous December, a group of rebels that called themselves the Sons of Liberty had climbed aboard three ships in Boston Harbor, ships owned by the British East India Company, and dumped all the tea into the water to protest King George’s ban on tea imports from anywhere but England.

It was all very exciting.

I sent a letter to Elizabeth asking her the definition of “habeas corpus” and the dozens of other terms repeatedly used by those who considered themselves authorities on the subject. Her husband, John, replied very kindly with an answer to each of my questions. Elizabeth had mentioned that he studied the law at Yale and even taught school for a time, and I could hardly keep my eyes on the words, so greedy was I for the content. He did not converse with me like a child, but wrote in language clear and concise, as if he’d taken the time to think each point through. He was a very fine teacher, and I found my understanding much improved. I read the letter so many times, I was able to recite his explanations by heart.

In Massachusetts, the counties held congresses to consider the alarming state of public affairs and to establish their own governance, separate from the “agents of the Crown.” John Paterson was elected as a delegate from Lenox, though he and Elizabeth had been residents for less than a year, but he seemed disenchanted with the assemblies.

He closed one letter with, “Every man in attendance insists on blathering on, impressing no one but himself, and we leave these congresses with nothing of real substance. The Crown needs to see a unified force. We will save lives—mainly our own—if we can be clear in our demands and collective in our approach, but men are torn by the allegiance we all feel to Britain, and I don’t think anyone believes we could defeat them in an actual war. Britain is a nation that excels in such conflicts, an empire that has dominated for centuries. It is David and Goliath, but then I remind myself who won that contest, and I am not so fearful. If God wants an independent America, He will make it so.”

It was all anyone talked about. Every conversation, every visit, every passing word was about the brewing conflict with England. Everyone had an opinion, though most repeated the same points over and over, as if they’d seen them printed in a pamphlet or heard them spoken by someone more learned than they. Even Reverend Conant preached about tyranny and liberty in his sermons, but he was careful not to call the congregation to revolution. Still, no one questioned where he stood.

“Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land,” he would begin, and the congregation would sit up, knowing what was coming. “But how long will we remain children in the eyes of King George? How long will they claim that lofty position? England is not our home. It has not been for a very long time.”

There were many folks who prattled on about loyalty to the “mother country.” It always put my teeth on edge. Mother country. I hated that name, but I guessed others might have different reactions. I felt very little allegiance to my own mother and even less to the country that ran my ancestors out onto the sea because they would not conform.

Reverend Conant said we might have been the freest people in all the world, yet the colonies were viewed the way kings and nobles have always viewed the common man. Not as people, but as profit.

“It is time we put an end to the idea that people are made for their rulers,” he told Deacon Thomas one evening at dinner, and we all nodded, every head bobbing like we understood the historical significance of such a statement.

“If we do not exist for the king, what do we exist for?” I asked. I was not sitting. I was serving, carving the meat from the roast that I’d turned on a spit all day. I thought I’d done a fair job of it, but the family was seated and hungry, and I was not confident my efforts would be well received. The cat swiped a piece and scampered away before I could grab it back. She ate it, licking her lips, and I shrugged, putting the platter on the table and taking a bevy of orders—a cup of milk, another bowl of butter, a knife to cut the bread.

“The governors are appointed by the Crown, and their loyalty is to the Crown, not to the people they have authority over,” Deacon Thomas said, ignoring my question. “We see these things as simple rights, but the governors claim they are concessions to be revoked at whim.”

“The Lords of Trade have become threatened by the liberty that fills our lungs,” Reverend Conant said, and I resisted the urge to interject again. John Paterson had told me all about the Lords of Trade. They looked on the colonies as landed estates and the colonists as laborers working those estates. I imagined them in black robes and white wigs, doling out freedom or favor, collecting their gold, with no knowledge of the people whose lives they affected.