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  To assist the tax collectors, the newly appointed chief justice of the Massachusetts Superior Court, Thomas Hutchinson, issued writs of assistance, warrants that allowed the taxmen to enter any premises in the city without cause in order to search for smuggled goods and seize whatever they found. Years later Samuel Adams would write that it was in Hutchinson’s courtroom that “the child independence was then and there born” as the men of Boston were “ready to take up arms against writs of assistance.”

  Behind the power of these laws, English customs agents ransacked homes and businesses searching for smuggled goods. Angry colonists joined together and formed raucous political parties to fight these new laws. They didn’t demand independence from Great Britain; the colonists simply wanted to be treated with respect and have a voice in their own government. As Samuel Adams wrote, “If taxes are laid upon us in any shape without our having a legal representation … are we not reduced … to the miserable state of tributary slaves? … We claim British rights, not by charter only; we are born to them.”

  Several leaders emerged from this turmoil, among them John Adams and John Hancock. John Adams was the wealthy second cousin of Samuel Adams, who had drawn him into the cause. He and his cousin were said to be a curious sight when walking together, the wealthy John Adams turned out as a proper gentleman while his admittedly poorer cousin reflecting the manners of a lesser class. By all accounts John was arrogant and cantankerous; he was also respected for his powerful intellect and was happy to lecture at length about his opinions. A fifth-generation descendant of Puritans who had settled in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1632, he was the first member of his family not to join the militia, instead becoming a lawyer. Under the pseudonym Humphrey Ploughjogger, in 1763 he began publishing essays supporting the legal rights of Americans.

  Stylized portraits like these of John Adams (top) and John Hancock were intended to convey a strong unemotional image.

  This 1774 anti-British engraving of Samuel Adams, which appeared in the short-lived Royal American magazine, showed Parliament trampling on the colonists rights.

  John Hancock was only seven years old when his father died and he was sent to live with his wealthy uncle, the revered shipping tycoon Thomas Hancock. John was raised a child of great privilege, and after graduating from Harvard he traveled to Britain to attend the coronation of twenty-two-year-old King George III. When his uncle died, the then twenty-six-year-old Hancock took control of his import-export empire and became the second-richest man in the colonies. He was known as a generous man who gave easily and often to causes and friends, among them Samuel Adams—and would eventually become one of the primary financiers of the freedom movement. But he also was impossibly vain with the expected arrogance of the very wealthy, and at times his ambition seemed to extend farther than his capabilities. But like the other towering figures who would join with him to found the United States of America, he also had the extraordinary courage to risk his life and his fortune for a cause in which he deeply believed.

  These men were brought into the fight in the early 1760s, when the British Parliament began passing new and more onerous trade laws. The British victory in the Seven Years’ War had been costly; England’s national debt had almost doubled to 145 million pounds, and the government was desperate for increased revenue. In 1764, the Sugar Act modified an existing but rarely enforced law and added new goods—including sugar, certain wines, coffee, and calico—to the growing list of taxable items, as well as limiting exports of lumber and iron. The Currency Act completely banned the New England colonies from issuing their own paper currency. These new restrictions crippled the colonial economies. But it was the widely vilified Stamp Act that finally led to rebellion.

  The Stamp Act imposed a duty on all legal and commercial documents, newspapers, almanacs, liquor licenses, college diplomas, playing cards, and even pairs of dice. Essentially every printed document, except books, was taxed. Harsh penalties were in store for those who defied this act; in addition to large fines, people caught counterfeiting stamps “shall be adjudged a felon, and shall suffer death as in cases of felony without the benefit of clergy.” This was the first attempt by Parliament to impose a direct tax on all of the colonies. And it was not at all prepared for the reaction.

  For the first time, colonists began actively resisting British rule. In Boston the group that eventually became known as the Sons of Liberty was formed. Led by shoemaker Ebenezer McIntosh, it consisted of shopkeepers, workingmen, students, and artisans, including the noted silversmith Paul Revere—every one of them affected by this tax—and eventually numbered as many as two thousand people.

  It was not long before their peaceful protests erupted into violence. Lieutenant Governor Hutchinson had arranged for his brother-in-law, Andrew Oliver, to be appointed to the lucrative post of stamp tax collector. On the morning of August 14, 1765, these Sons of Liberty hung an effigy of Oliver from “the Liberty Tree,” a large elm tree at the corner of Essex and Washington Streets, steps from the Boston Common. Hutchinson ordered the sheriff to cut it down, but a crowd gathered in front of the tree to prevent him from doing so. This was among the very first public acts of defiance against the king. The day grew into a celebration as the colonists felt the first surge of their power. When night fell, the mob cut down the effigy and marched with it to the South End wharves, where they destroyed a brick building that had been built to distribute the stamps. They marched with timbers from that building to Oliver’s grand home. In a bonfire fueled by those timbers they beheaded Oliver’s effigy, then ransacked his home and stable house. The next day Oliver resigned his post.

  Twelve days later a group of emboldened colonists attacked Hutchinson’s home, venting years of frustration at being casually dismissed by the wealthy classes as “rabble,” and within hours they had reduced the mansion to rubble. Hutchinson offered a $300 reward, several years’ income for many of these people, to anyone providing information that would help convict the leaders of the attack. Although their identities were well known, no one stepped forward to claim that reward. McIntosh and several other rioters were indicted and jailed, but they were quickly released when angry crowds gathered in front of the jail.

  The spirit of protest spread rapidly to the other colonies, from Newport, Rhode Island, to “Charlestown,” South Carolina (as it was then spelled). A rudimentary communications network developed, creating new, stronger links among the colonies. Crowds marched through cities along the Eastern Seaboard shouting, “Liberty and no stamps!” In Virginia’s House of Burgesses Patrick Henry introduced seven resolutions demanding repeal of the Stamp Act. Sons of Liberty groups were formed; the specter of what happened in Boston caused stamp agents to resign, convinced local tradesmen to ignore the Stamp Act, and led to an effective boycott of British goods. Four days after Hutchinson’s house was destroyed, New York City’s stamp distributor, merchant James McEvers, also resigned, fearing his “house would have been pillaged, my person abused and His Majesty’s revenue impaired.”

  Smugglers flourished throughout the colonies; among those men accused of that crime was the New Haven merchant Benedict Arnold, who was accused by a hired deckhand of failing to pay duty on goods brought in from the West Indies. There was little sympathy for informers. Arnold responded by organizing a mob that tied his accuser to a whipping post and gave him forty lashes. After being fined 40 shillings for disturbing the peace, Arnold hanged the judge in effigy! Parliament, caught off guard, did not know how to respond. But something had to be done—the colonial boycott of imported English goods had rippled through the British economy, causing considerable unemployment and unrest. British citizens were demanding an end to this disruption. Benjamin Franklin of Pennsylvania sailed to London and warned the House of Commons that any attempt to use troops to enforce the Stamp Act would lead to a violent rebellion. England saw no sense in sending troops across the Atlantic, as the act had been passed to pay for the troops already there. Repealing the act seemingly would reward the protesters and encourage increased defiance in the future. But there was little alternative. In March 1766 Parliament repealed the Stamp Act.

  An unintended movement had been born from the protests. “The people have become more attentive to their liberties,” wrote John Adams in his diary, “… and more determined to defend them. Our presses have groaned, our pulpits have thundered, our legislatures have resolved, our towns have voted; the crown officers have everywhere trembled.”

  Speaking to Parliament in 1767, the statesman and philosopher Edmund Burke acknowledged that a movement had been started and no one might predict the eventual outcome, saying ruefully, “The Americans have made a discovery that we mean to oppress them; we have made a discovery that they intend to raise a rebellion against us. We know not how to advance; they know not how to retreat.”

  The repeal of the Stamp Act in 1766 marked a significant colonial victory and, as the Boston Gazette (bottom) announced, was celebrated with “public rejoicing.” It also was celebrated with the publication of The Repeal or the Funeral of Miss Americ-Stamp, which was widely reprinted and became one of the best-known satirical cartoons of the entire period.

  Parliament failed to pay heed to Burke’s warnings, instead passing new duties on glass, lead, paints, paper, and tea. They believed that these Townshend Acts—as they were known because they were proposed by the chancellor of the exchequer, Charles Townshend—would be acceptable because they were indirect taxes. This time they were not going to allow mob actions to force their hand; instead British commander in chief Lieutenant General Thomas Gage ordered many of the soldiers who had been fighting the French in rural outposts to the coastal cities, and with additional troops now sent from England, eventually two regiments of redcoats were posted in Boston to maintain order.

  Townshend was wrong. The colonists were fighting not only against the cost of these new laws but even more so against the principle that the government in England had the right to levy taxes on them without their consent. Boston, the main port of entry for British goods, remained the center of this growing resistance to British rule. Samuel Adams, now forty-six years old and clerk of the Massachusetts House, emerged as the leader of the opposition. It was becoming increasingly obvious to him that the colonists, if they didn’t want to be treated as second-class British citizens, would eventually have to strike out on the incredibly risky and seemingly impossible path to independence.

  The taxes devastated the local economy. Silversmith Paul Revere, for example, turned to performing dental work to make up for some of the losses he had suffered. Among his patients was the highly respected and debonair physician Joseph Warren, who had become well known in the city for bravely opening an inoculation hospital during the smallpox epidemic of 1763. Both men had joined the Sons of Liberty, and their relationship would prove to be vital in the ensuing years. Among Revere’s accomplishments was the creation of a younger generation of patriots called the Liberty Boys, several of whom conveniently served as apprentices in his shop.

  As the situation deteriorated, the colonies looked at the bonds that had tied them to “Mother England” for so long and now only saw chains. In the early spring of 1768 Lord Hillsborough, the brusque cabinet officer responsible for the colonies, ordered the colonial assemblies to be dissolved. Once again the American people took to the streets, attacking customs agents. Parliament responded by ordering additional troops to Boston. Even more ominous, their officers were granted permission to take whatever actions deemed necessary.

  Under the protection of these soldiers, previously cowed customs agents began strictly enforcing the Townshend laws. In June, John Hancock’s small sloop, the Liberty, arrived in port carrying a cargo of Madeira wine. Traditionally, shipowners and customs agents negotiated an accommodation, resulting in only part of a cargo being declared and taxed. It was mutually beneficial: the owner profited from the untaxed portion and the agent received some remuneration for his goodwill. But this time, the customs agent insisted that duty be paid on every bottle aboard the Liberty. The sloop’s captain responded by locking the customs agent Samuel Adams in the brig while the entire cargo was unloaded. The next day the British navy seized the ship. As it was being towed out of Boston Harbor by the fifty-gun warship HMS Romney, a mob gathered on the dock; colonists beat two customs agents badly and vandalized their homes. When John Hancock was accused of smuggling, he hired lawyer John Adams to defend him; the charges were dropped but Hancock was not able to recover his sloop.

  While Adams had attempted to raise a force to meet the arriving redcoats, there was still no appetite for direct, organized conflict. The reasons were not just sentimental—few colonists were foolish enough to believe that an untrained and poorly armed militia could resist the powerful British army.

  Independent groups known as the Sons of Liberty fomented revolution in colonial cities using any possible means: demonstrations, petitions, speeches, handbills, and, when necessary, violence. In this popular engraving, John Lamb is stirring up more than two thousand New York Sons of Liberty in December 1773 to prevent two shiploads of tea from landing.

  The 1765 Quartering Act forced colonists to shelter British troops in both public buildings and unoccupied houses and barns—but not private homes, although the Colonial government was required to pay for all food and drink. The British army was no longer in America to protect the colonists; it had become an occupying force. Eventually it proved impossible to find appropriate housing for all of the troops that been marched into the city, and tents were set up in the very heart of the city, on the Boston Common.

  The presence of a thousand redcoats in the city made an impression. In 1768, alarmed Boston merchants voted to boycott British goods. To their surprise, other colonies did not immediately join them. Only after Boston merchants voted to suspend trading with colonies that refused to participate did New York, Philadelphia, and others reluctantly join the boycott. A popular ditty titled “The Mother Country. A Song,” which is often attributed to Ben Franklin and was written at some point during this period, explained the colonists’ stance:

  We have an old Mother that peevish is grown,

  She snubs us like Children that scarce walk alone;

  She forgets we’re grown up and have sense of our own;

  Which nobody can deny deny; Which nobody can deny.

  If we don’t obey orders, whatever the case;

  She frowns, and she chides, and she loses all patience,

  and sometimes she hits us a slap in the face,

  Which nobody can deny deny; Which nobody can deny.

  Her orders so odd are, we often suspect

  That age has impaired her sound intellect:

  But still an old Mother should have due respect,

  Which nobody can deny deny; Which nobody can deny.

  But should any nation question the colonists’ loyalty to the Crown, Franklin concluded:

  Know too, ye bad neighbours, who aim to divide

  The sons from the Mother, that still she’s our Pride;

  And if ye attack her we’re all of her side,

  Which nobody can deny deny; Which nobody can deny.

  The boycott was sustained with some difficulty for almost two years; while patriots were expected to avoid British-made goods, merchants needed the trade in British products to survive. But those merchants—men like Theophilus Lillie, who refused to honor the boycott—were publicly ridiculed and, in a few cases, physically attacked. Meanwhile, the women of the city organized into a group called the Daughters of Liberty. To reduce the demand for British textiles, they threw spinning and weaving parties and wore homespun clothing as a symbol of their devotion to the growing protest movement.

  Members of Parliament were divided on how to handle this dissent among the colonists. Some demanded harsh penalties for Americans who defied the legal authority of the Crown and wanted to bring their leaders to England for trial, while others pushed to reestablish the traditional relationship that had long benefited both sides. “There is the most urgent reason to do what is right, and immediately,” wrote Secretary of War Lord Barrington in 1767, “but what is right and who is to do it?”

  The uneasy peace, enforced by the redcoats when necessary, lasted until 1770. The boycott agreement among the colonies was set to expire that January. Many merchants, whose storehouses were overstocked with British-made goods, were pleased to see it end. But when they finally offered those goods for sale, many colonists organized protests and began threatening them.

  Those protests turned deadly on the twenty-second of February when Ebenezer Richardson shot eleven-year-old Christopher Seider. The boy’s funeral became a great political event in which leaders of the Sons of Liberty attempted to rally the people of Boston to their cause. The coffin was inscribed with phrases in Latin: “The serpent is lurking in the grass” and “innocence itself is nowhere safe.” As the increasingly bitter lieutenant governor wrote, “If it had been in their power to have brought him to life again, [they] would not have done it but would have chosen the grand funeral, which brought many thousands together, and the solemn procession from Liberty Tree.”