by Nathan Allen
On September 11, a large town meeting was held with Jemmy as moderator and the Court Party in abeyance. The crowd demanded “a head,” a massacre, and to “take all the power into their own hands.” The argument was made that liberty was life, and one may defend one’s life by taking another. Bernard feared the worst. In a September 16 letter to Hillsborough, Bernard reported that a plot was “reported & believed” to have been developed by the radicals to seize Castle William by force on September 18. It is highly unlikely that such a plot was seriously considered at that time, but the letter illustrates the fear that had gripped Bernard and the oligarchy. Eventually, Jemmy soothed the crowd with a plan to form a delegation that would demand information from Bernard. Bernard informed the committee that he had no official information regarding troops, and the town sensed an outright lie. The next day, another town meeting was held, and as the crowd swelled to 3,000 – nearly all the able-bodied adult males of Boston – it was reconvened to Old South Church. Bernard could not fathom that the overwhelming support of the Popular Party was genuine and reported to Hillsborough that “a Set of Speeches by the Chiefs of the Faction and no one else, which followed one another in such an order & method, that it appeared as if they were acting a Play … everything … seeming to have been pre-concerted before hand.” According to the official meeting minutes, Jemmy was again chosen as moderator and proposed the two-fold course of action. First, the town would submit a “proper application” of their grievances to the authorities. However, if the authorities failed to adequately address the problems, there would be “nothing more to do, but gird the Sword to the Thigh and Shoulder the Musquet.” And so the town called for a convention that would operate outside of the purview of the General Court and for the citizens to arm themselves. While Jemmy’s efforts to convene an extra-legal assembly failed the previous year, now the call for a similar assembly received unanimous approval from the town. A convention of the towns of Massachusetts met on September 22, with most towns sending their House representatives as delegates. It was a representative assembly wholly outside of Britain’s control, and as such, Bernard demanded that it disband immediately. The Convention asked Bernard to explain the laws under which the assembly was illegal, and Bernard refused to even receive the request. The Convention produced several letters and petitions that declared its intention to resolve the problems amicably and yet demanded solutions. While Bernard was surprised by the Convention’s moderation, he was nevertheless convinced that the rebels aimed to “Seize the Governor & Lieut Govr, and take Possession of the Treasury and then set up their Standard.” He suggested that the leaders, primarily Otis, Cushing and Adams, be forbidden from holding any government office. Both Houses of Parliament passed resolves condemning the town meeting that approved the convention, declaring it illegal and “Calculated to excite sedition and insurrections.” Augustus FitzRoy, the 33-year-old new Prime Minister, requested King George’s permission to employ a Henry VIII statute that enabled the ministry to arrest and transport suspected traitors to London for trial. The king brushed aside the request and questions raged in Parliament and throughout the colonies whether Otis, Cushing and Adams were guardians of liberty or guilty of treason.
Many were not convinced that the Convention solved anything, and debate erupted in myriad skirmishes across the province. The second floor of the British Coffee House in which Otis and the merchants held meetings years before was occupied by John Mein, a Scottish immigrant who operated a circulating library out of his King Street office and published the Chronicle out of a print shop on Newbury Street. Mein was a fierce loyalist and hardened antagonist; he openly ignored non-importation schemes and published the names of merchants suspected of importing banned goods, thus exposing alleged hypocrisy. Mein’s exposés were dubious as he conveniently neglected to distinguish between imports that had merely arrived on a ship and those that had actually been signed and delivered, between permitted and banned imports, and between imports signed by Boston merchants and those signed by merchants from outside of Boston who merely used the harbor as a point of entry. In January 1768, “Americus” published an article in the Gazette criticizing Mein. Furious, Mein stormed over to the Gazette offices on Court Street and demanded to know the identity of “Americus.” Gazette owners Ben Edes and John Gill refused to provide that information; Mein returned the next day and again demanded the identity of “Americus” to be met again with the same response. Mein then demanded a fight in the street; Edes and Gill again refused, at which point Mein declared he’d beat the Gazette owner he next saw in the streets.
Ben Edes was the large brash agitator whereas his partner John Gill was a slight, quiet man who worked hard at printing Boston’s most prominent newspaper. So as luck would have it, shortly thereafter Mein met the slight John Gill in the street and hit him with his cane, assaulting both Gill’s person and his status, as a blow from a gentleman’s cane is a demand for deference. John Gill then hired the mysterious “Americus” to sue Mein, and, of course, Mein appeared in court to hear James Otis argue that this was an assault, not an act of self-defense. Otis’s primary evidence was that Mein was a huge man while Gill was quite the opposite. Otis won the case; Mein was fined 40 shilling for criminal assault and ordered to pay Gill damages of £75 plus costs. Perhaps predictably, the loss inspired Mein to take the Chronicle to new heights of aggression. Mein continued to rail against the rebels, the embargo and the supposed hypocrites who used the embargo to increase prices.
Jemmy reported in a letter to a London client on November 26, 1768 that Boston was quiet save for the constant “military musters, and reviews and other parading of the red coats.” Gage had given stern orders that the troops in Boston be well behaved, and so when one marine accosted Jemmy in late November, he was confined to his quarters as punishment. It seemed that every incident in 1768 and 1769 was mined for a possible violation of the colonists’ rights; as Otis had earlier proclaimed, “they now knew what their rights were, then they did not.” And now the people were alert to discovering and demanding their rights. Shortly after the 1768 Mein assault, Michael Corbet, a Marblehead sailor, shot and killed Lieutenant Henry Panton of the H.M.S. Rose. Panton had boarded Corbet’s ship, asked about smuggled contraband, then attempted to impress some of Corbet’s crew. Panton was clearly a royal officer, from a royal ship, engaging in official business. But Panton was aggressive, Corbet was frustrated, and shots were fired. John Adams and Jemmy Otis formed Corbet’s defense team. First, Otis argued for a jury trial instead of a juryless admiralty trial knowing that a jury would never convict a patriot like Corbet. Chief Justice Hutchinson denied the request for both legal and practical reasons; with a jury of his peers inside the courthouse and undoubtedly a mob outside, Corbet would be sainted before being convicted. Now faced with convincing a judge with the evidence in admiralty court, the defense team of Adams and Otis proved that Lt. Panton had neither a customs warrant nor an impressment warrant, so his presence on Corbet’s ship constituted an act of trespass. And due to the aggressive nature of the trespasser, lethal force was justified. The defense was brilliant; the prosecutor could not then prove that Panton had any legal reason to be on Corbet’s ship. The trial did not help the Court Party in the 1769 elections, as the Court Party had been shackled to the ministry and the customs establishment. Lieutenant Panton fit neatly into the narrative of Court Party attempts to infringe and usurp rights.
The 1769 elections proved to Bernard that “the times were altered” and could not be reversed. Of the Glorious 92 House members who refused to rescind Otis’s seditious Circular Letter, 81 were re-elected. The Popular Party firmly controlled the House, and the Council was persona non grata. Almost immediately, the House appointed Otis to chair a committee to demand that Bernard remove military forces from Boston, arguing that “military guard with canon pointed at the very door of the state house” constituted an affront to the people. Bernard replied that he had no such authority. Finally, on June 1, 1769, Bernard conceded
the obvious, writing to Pownall that “Otis, Adams, etc, are now in full possession of the government.” That summer, rumors spread throughout the province that Whitehall was planning to repeal the Revenue Act. And exactly two months after Bernard conceded the government to Jemmy Otis and Sam Adams, Governor Francis Bernard sailed back to England, never again to see Boston. Bernard asked the House to pay his salary prior to leaving, and in a parting shot, Otis chaired the committee that replied to the request, stating that the House was “bound in duty at all times; and we do, more especially at this time, cheerfully acquiesce in the lawful command of our Sovereign.” Otis was certain King George would not want Bernard to be paid, so the request was denied. But Boston did finally get Bernard’s long wished for puppet government, as none other than Thomas Hutchinson assumed the governorship.
Just prior to Hutchinson’s ascension to the governorship, Lord Hillsborough dispatch a circular letter to the colonies assuring them that all Townshend duties would soon be repealed – except for the one on tea. The extra-legal town meetings continued, as merchants and other town members debated the news and its affect on non-importation agreements. By early August, the meetings concluded not only to continue the embargo on British manufactures but also to strengthen them. The town members agreed that Britain only agreed to drop taxes on goods that the colonies had begun to manufacture domestically, and the colonists wished to promote local manufacturers. Finally, the town members agreed to publish a list of merchants who defied the boycott and branded them “Enemies.” Predictably, John Mein’s name was prominent on the “Enemies” list. In a letter to the recently departed Bernard on August 8, Hutchinson reported that Jemmy was “smiling at his success.”
At least one person in the province refused to believe that the times were altered. Ruth Otis’s loyalty to the royal government was tartly steadfast; she seemed to delight in antagonizing her husband and his associates. Hannah Winthrop, a good friend of Jemmy and his sister Mercy, wrote a letter to Mercy in 1769:
I went to see Mrs. Otis the other day. She seems not to be in a good state of health. I received a Visit lately from Master Jemmy [Jemmy and Ruth’s 10-year-old son]. I will give you an anecdote of him. A gentleman telling him what a Fine lady his mama is & he hoped he would be a good Boy & behave exceedingly well to her, my young Master gave this spirited answer, I know my Mama is a fine Lady, but she would be much finer if she was a Daughter of Liberty.
We can only surmise that life in the Otis home was exceedingly difficult, though the Colonel made an attempt to temper the turmoil. By 1768, Jemmy’s political career consumed his days, and his law practice had suffered. He had begun writing to his London clients to inform them that he would be no longer accepting cases “in order as soon as possible to retire from business.” In a November 26, 1768 letter informing London merchant Arthur Jones of his impending retirement from business, Jemmy added, “Our Fathers were a good people and have been a free people, and if you will not let us remain so any longer, we shall be a free people.” While Ruth brought a substantial inheritance to the marriage, it is doubtful that it could have funded the family for so long. The obvious question about the source of Jemmy’s financial resources is revealed in a discreet transaction conducted in early 1768. The Colonel purchased Jemmy and Ruth’s first house on School Street; they had left the house after a few years and had been renting since. Samuel Allyne wrote to his brother Joseph on February 8, 1768 that while the Colonel did not divulge his reasons for purchasing the house, it was most likely intended to be a gift for Jemmy. And so it seems the Colonel agreed that the “Fathers were a good people and have been a free people,” and he wished the same for his children.
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assassination
John Robinson was a powerful man. He was the king’s customs officer sent by Lord Grenville to patrol the high-traffic and high-crime waters off New England, a position with incredible authority and immense opportunity for profit. This thought must have crossed Robinson’s mind as a jeering mob paraded him on April 12, 1765, six miles from Dighton, on Narragansett Bay, to the Taunton, Massachusetts jail. The sheriff led him, and the mob danced around him, swords drawn. His Majesty’s customs officer was getting a treatment usually reserved for only the most dangerous and despised criminals.
The February 27, 1764 Commissioners of Customs’s announcement forbidding customs “arrangements” took the merchants by surprise and dismayed many customs officers. They’d had an easy income through their “understandings” or by essentially leasing out their posts. Newport, Rhode Island was a major port under the control of Thomas Clift, but Clift had never visited the colonies and had no intention of doing so. Instead, he leased the post and collected regular payments. By early 1764, it was clear to Clift that he’d need to bestow the post to someone willing to actually sail to the colonies and engage in strict enforcement in person. John Robinson was that man.
So why was Robinson being paraded and jeered on a dirt road to Taunton? Foolishly, Robinson attempted to enforce the law in, of all places, Rhode Island. When Robinson arrived to claim his commission, the Assembly forbade the governor from administering an oath of office; the people of Rhode Island would take no part in establishing law enforcement. So John Temple, Surveyor General, had to travel from Boston to administer the oath personally. While Temple was in Providence and amidst the confab of customs officers, a ship arrived from Surinam. Cargo was unloaded. No customs were paid. A Rhode Island superior court judge owned the ship. There were reasons why Rhode Island was oft times referred to as “Rogue’s Island.” And when a ship was confiscated, the court would often call the case for immediate hearing in Providence while the customs officer was busy in Newport – not by accident. Or the province prosecutor would fail to show, and the case would be dismissed for lack of evidence. Or the smuggler would be convicted, and his ship confiscated and auctioned by the court for a minimal fee, often sold right back to the smuggler. Usually, the worst case scenario was comparable to a modern-day parking ticket. And if customs officers boarded a ship at sea, the crew often interpreted this action as the Royal Navy’s invitation to fight, not a cargo inspection. Corbet’s case was not unusual. Customs officers often boarded ships to search for smuggled cargo, and failing to find any, to impress young men into the Royal Navy. Swords and guns were common responses to a customs officer’s questions.
John Robinson’s determination to reform Rhode Island was put to the test when the sloop Polly sailed into Newport on April 2, 1765 with cargo from Surinam. Her captain reported 63 casks of molasses, the ship’s owner paid the tax, and the Polly sailed out of Newport for Dighton. But John Robinson resented being taken for a fool, and on April 4 decided that a large sloop like the Polly would certainly carry far more than 63 casks. So Robinson sailed up to Dighton, personally inspected the Polly on April 6, and discovered that her cargo was double what was reported. He seized the ship and the undeclared cargo in the name of the king. Robinson would then have had the Polly sail to Newport to be condemned by the court and auctioned if only he could find a few Dighton sailors to take the sloop to Newport. No one would, so Robinson left the Polly in Dighton under the watch of a servant and a customs assistant. The next day, Sunday April 7, the servant and the assistant rowed ashore to get a drink from a seaside tavern, and as night fell, a few dozen locals disguised in old clothes and blackened faces rowed out to the Polly, unloaded her cargo and everything else that could be removed. The servant and the assistant witnessed all of this from shore, but a few men from the tavern let them know that responding wouldn’t be healthy. The two hapless men asked the justice of the peace to make an arrest and were told that an angry mob had been looking for them; the servant and assistant then decided it was time to leave Dighton.
Upon hearing what happened, Robinson returned to Dighton with 70 soldiers and sailors to find the Polly, her cargo, rigging, and everything else gone, and her hull drilled with holes. Robinson’s prize was nearly worthless. Certain that the cargo and rigging w
ould be found in the ship owner’s home, Robinson was ready to find the owner’s house and reclaim the cargo but was instead served with a warrant and arrested. The ship’s owner claimed that he was prepared to defend himself in court and retake possession of his ship and cargo, which was in the custody of Robinson. But while in Robinson’s custody, the ship was nearly destroy and the cargo and rigging was stolen; Robinson was responsible and the owner wanted him held liable. The audacity of the owner – to steal his own cargo and rigging and scuttle his own ship, and then to have Robinson arrested for it – may have shocked the customs officer, but there was nothing he could do. So he was arrested and marched six miles to the Taunton jail.