Americanism Redux

March 13, your today, on the journey to the American Founding, 250 years ago, in 1775

(’tis the season)

Imagine this.

You have no clue as to seasons. They’re alien to you. Your only existence and consciousness consist of being plopped in the middle of cold and snow and ice. You know nothing else.

But, even then, a feeling inside you says something is changing.

The people around you seem to be acting differently. They’ll explain why, if only you ask them. Look at the signs, they tell you. See the small green shoot in the dirt? See the fat buds on the tree branches? See the thinning ice along the edge of the water? It’s approaching. The new season. The signs show the way. Soon, stranger, you’ll know it, too.

Imagine that. And you’ll take a step closer to today, 250 years ago.

* * * * * * *

(this scene)

It’s all chaos and confusion. People are terrified, enraged, despondent, vengeful. At the center of disorder is the courthouse. Yes, the place that everyone knew as a place to right wrongs, weigh guilt and innocence, punish according to town standards, that same place of justice was first occupied by the local judge in defiance of a small crowd, then lost to the emotions of a larger crowd, and finally retaken by a sheriff and his posse who slashed into the crowd.

In the final clash of the night on March 13, 250 years ago, the enforcers of law-and-order fire at the protestors.

Five musket balls pierce 21-year old William French. Blood spews and begins soaking his pants and shirt. The fourth bullet is the killer, into his forehead. As the sheriff and his posse drive the screaming crowd out of and away from the courthouse, they drag French’s body inside and toss him among some protestors seized as prisoners. Outside, a loose plan of sorts is unfolding, with crowd members running off in all directions to gather more people and organize a return confrontation. Nathaniel and Elizabeth French will learn of their son William’s fate, while the event spills into the following day.

The scene is Westminster, in lands assumed to be part of the colony of New York (but in the future, Vermont). Tensions had risen the past few months over a declining local economy, shady land deals, and the loss of homes to speculators. All of it quickly entangles with the imperial-colonial crisis that in Westminster, today, 250 years ago, has now erupted in violence and resulted in death.

* * * * * * *

(where Fowler is)

East of Westminster, Jacob Fowler is in Dartmouth, colony of New Hampshire. He’s hovering between uplifted spirits and downcast depression. He’s been trying without success to raise money for a Native American missionary traveling in the woods of the colony of Connecticut, seeking to convert local Natives to Christianity. The coins from donors are few despite his best efforts at “blowing the sheep’s horn” to call for contributions. More happily for Fowler is his recent discovery that sixteen Natives living near Dartmouth have been baptized as Christians.

Maybe the spring thaw will warm people’s hearts or, at least, loosen their purse strings.

* * * * * * *

(he wants to add to the cause)

The Quaker Reverend Samuel Hopkins from the colony of Rhode Island shares Fowler’s mood of part-gloom, part-glory.

Hopkins is a watchful, observant supporter of colonial rights. He’s energized by the push to resist British imperial power, though he advocates peaceful protest and nonviolence. For all his hopefulness for colonial rights, Hopkins is also unhappy over the refusal of most supporters to include anti-slavery policies as part of the colonial cause.

This week, 250 years ago, Hopkins uses the influence of a fellow Quaker to publish an opinion essay in the Pennsylvania Journal newspaper. He calls out the injustice of seeking to preserve freedom and liberty of white people on one hand while both to enslaved black people on the other. Hopkins hopes that his numbered list of reasons why enslavement is wrong will help convince readers to reconsider their views.

Hopkins knows the winding-down period of winter can always bring the jolt of a sudden ice storm. Those early signs of green life are susceptible to a late frozen shock.

* * * * * * *

(Dunmore)

No more Mister Nice-Guy. It’s the conclusion today by Lord Dunmore, imperial governor of the colony of Virginia. He’s gone from the height of local popularity three months ago for his successful seizure of Native lands in the upper Ohio River valley to representing the dark side of British power and punishment of the colonial protest. The resistance to British authority in Virginia has, one, hardened into a provincial protest convention set for next week and, two, produced weekly training of county militias across the colony.

Dunmore picks up a sheet of parchment paper to write a letter to his boss in England, the Secretary of State for the Colonies. Dunmore needs his boss to know of these ominous developments that occurred in the depths of the winter.

* * * * * * *

(trailblazing)

Check your gear one last time. We’re heading out.

That’s the order given a few days ago by Daniel Boone and Michael Stoner. 250 years ago this week they’re leading a group of 35 axmen on an expedition to begin marking—blazing—a trail west from Fort Chiswell in the colony of Virginia to land holdings claimed by the Transylvania Company in Kain-tuck-ee.

Hunters like Boone and Stone will choose the sturdiest and healthiest trees to absorb the strikes and blows of the swinging axes and hatchets. Along the trail, large chunks of bark and sliced wood lay on the thawing ground.

Brightly tan with faint lines of green, the fresh gouges on the tree trunks will lead you west as the winter recedes.

* * * * * * *

(Swift grave)

Samuel Swift in the colony of Massachusetts is ready to rush from his house to celebrate winter’s end and Zion’s sprouting.

Swift is ecstatic over John Adams’s series of “Novanglus” essays in the local newspaper. Novanglus is the name that Adams gives himself in writing essays that explain the position and cause of colonial rights.

“As Moses Guided under God the Israelites of old, so let Novanglus guide, direct, and Steer this our New English Israel”, writes Swift.

New life, new way, the tender green shoots come up through the melting New England snow.

* * * * * * *

(Mr. Sam)

Another Samuel displays a similar joy. Samuel Adams, cousin of John the Novanglus, leans back in his chair with a smile on his face. The news is excellent from a friend and fellow colonial-rights leader in South Carolina: there is much support for the pro-colonial cause in the southern colonies.

There was no law, no guarantee, that it would prove true. This is wonderful news to Samuel Adams, who picks up a quill pen to write a thrilling response.

“Next to the gracious Interposition of Heaven we acknowledge the unexampled Liberality of our Sister Colonies. If I am called an Enthusiast for it, I cannot help thinking that this Union among the Colonies and Warmth of Affection, can be Attributed to Nothing less than the Agency of the Supreme Being.”

It’s the union of north-middle-south that has Adams so happily optimistic. These different regions, cultures, and folkways have never before collaborated on this scale.

Despite the harsh laws enacted by Parliament as punishment for the tea protest-party, Adams feels Boston’s miserable winter of the shuttered port and shattered colony coming to an end.

Look quick during these end-of-winter days—the ground and the growth appear.

* * * * * * *

(cherry grafts)

Agri-businessman and agri-entrepreneur George Washington is elbow-deep in fruit trees. He’s inspecting peach and pecan trees in his extensive orchards. He’s assessing grafts for cherry trees sent by a neighbor.

An unexpected dip in temperatures or snow storm can be ruinous to the prospects of Washington’s fruit crop in these delicate days. He’ll instruct both his enslaved and free workers to maintain these trees, buds, and flowers with the utmost care and to keep him informed of latest developments.

Washington won’t relax until he sees the thick coats of his cattle and horses begin to thin in the declining winter.

* * * * * * *

Just imagine what is coming—the change toward a new season when dead turns living, heavy turns light, and beat down turns rising up.

Also

(at the Surat treaty table)

They each are back at their places to sort out the effects of what they’ve done.

The ink is now dry on the Treaty of Surat.

On one side, British Governor-General Warren Hastings of the British East India Company in Bombay has agreed to provide military support and military assistance.

On the other side, Peshwa Raghunathrao of the Maratha Empire is relinquishing control of Salsette and Bassein territories and revenue from Bharuch and Surat.

A busy day’s work for the same tea conglomerate that had urged Parliament’s Tea Act in the thirteen Atlantic Coast colonies two years ago.

Half a planet away, the winter here is slowly disappearing.

For You Now

There’s a feeling in the air at this time of year.

Instinctively you feel the passing away of the freezing and the coming of the warmer. Internally you’re looking ahead with your mind’s eye. Intuitively you know what will stop and what will start.

Taken as a whole, the entire thing is about expectations forged over the eons, borne out by sun and earth, the positions of both and the movement of one.

A spring in your step.

You sense the hopefulness of spring in some of today’s stories. At the same time, you see clouds and strong winds that either bring an old storm or new warmth.

Boil it down to two places—the few square feet inside the Westminster courthouse where the body of young William French is laying, and the orchards where George Washington walks among the fruit trees, checking the buds and the branch tips.

From both something new grows and waits.

Suggestion

Take a moment to consider: does the end of this winter point you toward a new season?

(Your River in March)