I had only my own thoughts to fill the pages, but she didn’t seem to mind. She indulged my analysis of Shakespeare and offered some of her own. She shared my disappointment in Othello—he killed Desdemona!—and enjoyed my defense of poor Shylock from The Merchant of Venice, though she did not share my sense of injustice in his case. I had a soft spot when it came to the outcast, even when the outcast was portrayed as the villain. I thought it most likely because I was one as well.
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.