From “Loyall Nine” to “Sons of Liberty”

We have a reasonably good idea of who eight of Boston’s “Loyall Nine” were:

• John Avery, Jr., distiller and merchant
• Thomas Chase, distiller
• Thomas Crafts, Jr., painter
• John Smith, brazier
• Stephen Cleverly, brazier
• Henry Bass, jeweler
• George Trott, jeweler
• Benjamin Edes, printer

In addition, the ship masters Henry Wells and Joseph Field were also lumped in with this group by different contemporaries.

Within months after they started organizing anti–Stamp Act protests, the group appears to have adopted another name. Back during Parliament’s debate over that law, opponent Isaac Barré called American colonists “Sons of Liberty,” as reported to this side of the Atlantic by Jared Ingersoll. By the fall the “Loyall Nine” started using that phrase.

The handbills that Bass described the group printing in his December 1765 letter said: ”The True-born Sons of Liberty, are desired to meet under LIBERTY-TREE, at XII o’Clock, THIS DAY…” Evidently any man could merit that label by coming out to resist the new tax from London. In early 1766 the phrase also started to appear in newspapers in other ports.

But the group also used that term for themselves. In January 1766 John Adams called them “the Sons of Liberty.” On 15 February, Crafts wrote to Adams that “the Sons of Liberty Desired your Company at Boston Next Wensday.” Those are clearly references to a specific group, not to everyone taking a certain political stand.

It looks like the more general use won out. By August 1769, “An Alphabetical List of the Sons of Liberty who din’d at Liberty Tree [Tavern], Dorchester” included 300 names. Clearly those Sons of Liberty weren’t just the “Loyall Nine”—though all eight men listed above were there.

Nonetheless, because of some unsubstantiated claims and portrayals in popular culture, the belief persists that the Sons of Liberty was an identifiable group of activists, not a mass movement, as I’ve written before. Because of that squishiness, I tend not to use the term. But of course it’s strongly associated with the Revolution.

TOMORROW: Back to the bowl.

Counting the “Loyall Nine”

In a 19 Dec 1765 letter divulging details about Boston’s latest Stamp Act protest, and earlier ones, Henry Bass wrote of the organizers as “the Loyall Nine.” He added:

And upon the Occasion we that Evg. had a very Genteel Supper provided to which we invited your very good friends Mr. S[amuel] A[dams] and E[des] & G[ill] and three or four others and spent the Evening in a very agreable manner Drinkg Healths etc.

On 15 Jan 1766 John Adams wrote in his diary:

Spent the Evening with the Sons of Liberty, at their own Apartment in Hanover Square, near the Tree of Liberty. It is a Compting Room in Chase & Speakmans Distillery. A very small Room it is.

John Avery Distiller or Merchant, of a liberal Education, John Smith the Brazier, Thomas Crafts the Painter, Edes the Printer, Stephen Cleverly the Brazier, [Thomas] Chase the Distiller, Joseph Field Master of a Vessell, Henry Bass, George Trott Jeweller, were present.

I was invited by Crafts and Trott, to go and spend an Evening with them and some others, Avery was mentioned to me as one.

Finally, in 1788 the Rev. William Gordon wrote in his history of the Revolution about the first anti-Stamp protest, back in August 1765:

Messrs. John Avery, jun. Thomas Crafts, John Smith, Henry Welles, Thomas Chace, Stephen Cleverly, Henry Bass, and Benjamin Edes…provide and hang out early in the morning of August the fourteenth, upon the limb of a large old elm, toward the entrance of Boston, over the most public street, two effigies,…

Those sources, which were published in reverse chronological order, all seem to refer to the same group of men. The lists of names overlap—but not exactly.

Bass said there were nine men, and seemed to treat Samuel Adams, Edes, and Gill all as guests. Gordon named eight men, including Edes among them. John Adams also listed Edes in the group, and he treated George Trott, not on Gordon’s list, as in the group.

John Adams didn’t list Henry Wells from Gordon’s list (though Tea Leaves and some subsequent books misquote him as doing so). Instead, Adams named Joseph Field, saying he was a ship captain. According to mentions in the Boston press before he died in 1768, Henry Wells was also a ship captain. Would either of them have been in town long enough to help plan protests? 

It’s therefore difficult to say exactly who the “Loyall Nine” were, but there was definitely a political club supping at the Chase distillery near Liberty Tree and organizing the protests under that tree.

TOMORROW: A change of names?

“The ideals of American life still in force today”

The Museum of Fine Arts just shared an essay by Ethan Lasser, the the John Moors Cabot Chair for the Art of the Americas, about the silver punch bowl made by Paul Revere and engraved with several merchants’ names.

Lasser wrote:

What does the year 1949, in the aftermath of World War II, when America was entering a decade of prosperity, have to do with a silver punch bowl from the 18th century? This is the year Revere’s piece entered MFA’s collection. It’s a remarkable story: the bowl descended through the family of William Mackay, one of the Sons of Liberty it celebrates. In 1902 ownership shifted, and the bowl fell into the hands of Marian Lincoln Perry, great-great-granddaughter of John Marston, another one of the Sons of Liberty.

After Mrs. Perry’s death in 1935, the enterprising New York art dealer Israel Sack set out to place the bowl in an institution. He received offers from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but felt strongly that “the bowl should belong to the city that gave it birth” and offered it to the MFA. “It was made in Boston for men of Boston and by a famous silversmith of Boston,” he said. “It belongs in Boston.”

Edwin J. Hipkiss, then the MFA’s curator of Decorative Arts, was quick to act. He realized the bowl spoke of the past—but also of his own time, when the United States had endured a more recent fight for freedom in World War II. In Hipkiss’s words, the piece “expresses the hopes and achievements of dauntless Americans of 180 years ago and commemorates the ideals of American life still in force today.”

Prominent Bostonians rallied to help Hipkiss raise funds to acquire the bowl for the Museum. “Acting independently for the Museum of Fine Arts,” they initiated the Revere Sons of Liberty Bowl Fund. Their rousing, all-caps fundraising letter is still in our curatorial files: “THE BOWL IS A SYMBOL OF OUR FREEDOM because it commemorates the very first unified stand for liberty in the country.” . . .

Leafing through our files, I came upon the Boston Public School Superintendent’s Circular #103, dated November 30, 1948. “To the principals of Schools and districts,” the letter begins:

The School committee invites the school children of Boston to make a voluntary contribution … to keep permanently in our city this priceless relic made in Boston by a famous silversmith of Boston in tribute to sterling patriots of Boston.

When was collection day? December 7, 1948, the seventh anniversary of Pearl Harbor—a day of infamy brightened by this symbol of freedom. Thousands of school children participated in the effort and, a few weeks later, in the opening weeks of 1949, the Sons of Liberty Bowl was acquired and made its debut at the Museum.

It struck me how this telling looks back repeatedly to World War II but doesn’t mention the Cold War with the Soviet Union that the U.S. of A. had just entered. Americans were eager to point to the values of liberty, faith, and the like, in contrast to oppressive, godless Communism. Recruiting schoolchildren to give money for “A SYMBOL OF OUR FREEDOM” and “in tribute to sterling patriots” fits right into that moment.

“Our goal is neither criticism nor celebration; it is to understand”

The American Historical Association has once again responded to a dubious and harmful White House executive order with a statement on behalf of its members and other historical organizations.

The A.H.A. message is:

The Executive Order “Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History,” issued on March 27 by the White House, egregiously misrepresents the work of the Smithsonian Institution. The Smithsonian is among the premier research institutions in the world, widely known for the integrity of its scholarship, which is careful and based on historical and scientific evidence. The Institution ardently pursues the purpose for which it was established more than 175 years ago: “the increase and diffusion of knowledge.” The accusation in the White House fact sheet accompanying the executive order claims that Smithsonian museums are displaying “improper, divisive, or anti-American ideology.” This is simply untrue; it misrepresents the work of those museums and the public’s engagement with their collections and exhibits. It also completely misconstrues the nature of historical work.

Historians explore the past to understand how our nation has evolved. We draw on a wide range of sources, which helps us to understand history from different angles of vision. Our goal is neither criticism nor celebration; it is to understand—to increase our knowledge of—the past in ways that can help Americans to shape the future.

The stories that have shaped our past include not only elements that make us proud but also aspects that make us acutely aware of tragedies in our nation’s history. No person, no nation, is perfect, and we should all—as individuals and as nations—learn from our imperfections.

The Smithsonian’s museums collect and preserve the past of all Americans and encompass the entirety of our nation’s history. Visitors explore exhibitions and collections in which they can find themselves, their families, their communities, and their nation represented. They encounter both our achievements and the painful moments of our rich and complicated past.

Patriotic history celebrates our nation’s many great achievements. It also helps us grapple with the less grand and more painful parts of our history. Both are part of a shared past that is fundamentally American. We learn from the past to inform how we can best shape our future. By providing a history with the integrity necessary to enable all Americans to be all they can possibly be, the Smithsonian is fulfilling its duty to all of us.

At the Bulwark, Grand View University history professor Thomas Lecacque also wrote in response:

Trump is mad about the Smithsonian American Art Museum exhibition “The Shape of Power: Stories of Race and American Sculpture” because it “claims that ‘sculpture has been a powerful tool in promoting scientific racism’ and promotes the view that race is not a biological reality but a social construct, stating ‘Race is a human invention.’” This is about as honest as the Trump administration has ever been. “Museums in our Nation’s capital,” the order preaches, “should be places where individuals go to learn—not to be subjected to ideological indoctrination or divisive narratives that distort our shared history.” Apparently, that shared reality is centered on the idea that race is a biological fact. This is not true historically or scientifically or in any other way outside the miserable, backwards swamp logic of white supremacy. . . .

The risk is not that Americans will be misled on particular matters of fact, but that they’ll lose their respect for the idea of the truth—will capitulate to the cynical lies. This, in turn, engenders a cultural atmosphere that is inhospitable to dreams and ideals and hopes. It would be to give up our birthright of earnest optimism and our sense that we can always improve our lot and that of the world.

In the Guardian, Wellesley College professor Kellie Carter Jackson wrote:

Trump’s executive order is not about restoring the truth. Quite the opposite. It creates false narratives and myths that promote the supremacy of whiteness. This executive order has the potential for harm because erasure is violence; it robs the public of the truth. Because there is no way to explain slavery and segregation as not “inherently harmful and oppressive”, Trump would rather not explain it at all. . . .

It was impossible to separate the story of Black military service and valor from racial discrimination and violence. Similarly, one cannot separate out the “good” from the “bad” in creating an honest narrative about the United States. Accordingly, the [National Museum of African American History and Culture] holds a special place in America, one where the complexity of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson are recognized as founding fathers and slaveholders. There is no abolitionist movement without slavery. There is no suffrage movement without women’s denial. There is no civil rights movement without racism and oppression. These are the facts. Museums exist to collect, preserve and exhibit the past as it happened. Archivists and curators care deeply about their mission to be accurate and authentic.

And author David M. Perry in Foreign Policy:

…the United States has already entered a multiyear cycle commemorating the 250th anniversary of the American Revolution, but it’s about to intensify as the calendar turns to April, taking the country from celebrations of Paul Revere’s ride (April 18-19, 1775) to the signing of the Declaration of Independence (July 4, 1776). The executive orders targeting the Smithsonian strongly suggest that the Trump administration will bleach the story of American history in a way that tries to claim legitimacy for our current post-constitutional order.

The ritual anniversary moments intensify national mythmaking, moving the story to the formation of the nation, with the new authoritarians controlling any and all official narratives in ways that emphasize not the rebellion against a British king, but a submission to the new American one. As historical claims go, trying to make Trump into the culmination of the American Revolutionary War is no more intellectually serious than those executive orders, but mythmaking doesn’t have to be true to be effective.

As historians, as Americans, as teachers and students, we’re going to need to engage these false narratives not just with fact-checking, but with better, truer storytelling of our own. And we don’t need to make myths to claim patriotism for our side. Looking clearly at the past—whether recognizing the truth about the local historical concentration camp or the much bigger story about the long struggle to put ideals about multiracial democracy into true practice—is patriotic.

Why Did Gage “order their muzzles to be beat in”?

After I spoke to the Massachusetts Society of the Cincinnati in February, a descendant of artillerist William Burbeck asked me a provocative question about The Road to Concord.

After the Boston militia train’s four brass cannon after they disappeared in September 1774, Gen. Thomas Gage expended a lot of effort on locating them. In February 1775 he may have sent Capt. William Browne and Ens. Henry DeBerniere to Worcester to hunt for them.

Gage definitely sent Lt. Col. Alexander Leslie and his troops to Salem to seize them. He sent Browne and DeBerniere to Concord to confirm they were in that town, and then he organized the fatal expedition on 18–19 April to grab them.

Gage’s final orders for the commander of that April expedition, Lt. Col. Francis Smith, said: “If you meet any Brass Artillery, you will order their muzzles to be beat in so as to render them useless.”

After all that hunting, why didn’t Gage order those guns to be returned to Boston?

Here’s my analysis of the general’s thinking and why he’d have been happy to hear that those four cannon were destroyed. (As it happened, Patriots had already moved them beyond Concord, perhaps to Stow, by the time the redcoats arrived at James Barrett’s farm.)

First of all, those four cannon didn’t pose a big military threat. They were two- and three-pounders, fine for training on but not the biggest force in battle. The Royal Artillery had many more and bigger weapons. Furthermore, intelligence suggested that the Patriots hadn’t succeeded in mounting them well.

Rather, I posit, those field-pieces posed a bigger threat to Gage’s standing with his superiors in London. He had put sentries in front of the armories, patrols on the Boston streets, and guards at the town’s only gate—and yet those four guns had disappeared. Gage had reasons to suspect they had also been slipped past Leslie’s reach in Salem before being moved to Concord. (In fact, they arrived in Concord from Dorchester, but he didn’t know that.) In sum, those four brass cannon made him look utterly incompetent.

The general never reported the disappearance of those guns to Lord Dartmouth, Secretary of State, or Lord Barrington, Secretary of War. In fact, in describing the Salem mission, he suggested that he had intelligence about cannon being smuggled in from Dutch territory; there’s no such report in his file. As each month ticked by, Gage may have felt more pressure to resolve this problem before his bosses learned about it.

Thus, Gen. Gage’s top goal for the Concord expedition wasn’t to recover those guns—it was to make their potential to embarrass him go away. Turning the four cannon into useless hunks of bronze out in the countryside looked like the most efficient way to do that. Then he could report to London that his men had succeeded in destroying all the artillery they found without raising many questions.

In contrast, carting those field-pieces back to Boston would have prompted questions about where they had come from. Country folk would have seen them, as would the soldiers themselves. Boston militia leaders might have demanded them back (playing dumb about who stole them). The ministers in London may have become curious. All that would have made it harder to keep the embarrassing story of the cannon thefts quiet.

Gage was also concerned for his soldiers. Hauling several hundred pounds of metal along the road to Boston would have required a wagon and horses, plus men guarding that transport, all moving more slowly than soldiers on the march. The general didn’t send Lt. Col. Smith out with wagons because he wanted the troops to move fast—expeditiously, in fact. Even if they had confiscated a wagon and draft horses in Concord, their return trip would be slower if they brought the cannon along.

Gage actually gave orders for the regulars not to weigh themselves down too much:

You will order a Trunion to be knocked off each Gun, but if its found impracticable on any, they must be spiked, and the Carriages destroyed. The Powder and flower must be shook out of the Barrels into the River, the Tents burnt, Pork or Beef destroyed in the best way you can devise. And the Men may put Balls of lead in their pockets, throwing them by degrees into Ponds, Ditches &c., but no Quantity together, so that they may be recovered afterwards.

The goal was to destroy the provincials’ military supplies as quickly as possible and then get back to safety. He hoped Smith’s men would be able to meet up with Col. Earl Percy’s relief column before the rebels organized a military response. That didn’t happen. But the situation would probably have been even worse if the troops were withdrawing from Concord at wagon speed.

“Merely a private individual traveling for curiosity”

As recounted yesterday, over champagne Julien-Alexandre Achard de Bonvouloir divulged to a British secret agent that he’d been meeting with the French ambassador to Britain, the Comte de Guines.

The young Frenchman had just come from Massachusetts, where war had broken out months before. He offered to be a liaison between the French government and the American rebels.

De Guines consulted by letter with the Foreign Minister of France, the Comte de Vergennes (shown here—that letter is reproduced and translated in B. F. Stevens's Facsimiles of Manuscripts in European Archives Relating to America, 1773-1783). The two officials agreed to send Bonvouloir back to North America as their own secret agent.

The terms were:

• De Guines and Bonvouloir agreed the young man would present himself as “a merchant of Antwerp,” then part of the Austrian Netherlands.
• The French government would pay Bonvouloir a “salary of two hundred louis.”
• Bonvouloir couldn’t tell his family what he was up to, not even “His brother, an officer in the Lyons regiment, [who] was in London at the time.”

The mission was just as restricted. Bonvouloir was to meet with delegates to the Continental Congress in Philadelphia, but he couldn’t confirm that he was an emissary of the French government and he couldn’t make any promises of aid. According to the historian Edwin Erle Sparks, he could “assure the American leaders that France had no intention on Canada”—though of course a promise from “merely a private individual traveling for curiosity” carried no weight.

The whole episode reads very much like a modern spy novel—not an Ian Fleming type but the more cynical sort like John Le Carré’s The Looking-Glass War. Bonvouloir was hungry to make his mark, to rise above his status as a younger, disabled son sent off to the colonies, to do something for his country. His government took advantage of that eagerness.

Almost a year later, on 16 June 1776, De Guines wrote another letter to Vergennes about Bonvouloir. By this time the British royal authorities in America were hunting for him. His French government contacts weren’t sure how to get him off the continent, or whether it would be worth it. De Guines had to prod Vergennes into authorizing the payment of another year of salary as promised. The ambassador planned to ask Bonvouloir’s brother to write to him via Québec, but he assured the minister “he and his brother are always liable to be disavowed if any inconvenience should result from their action.”

Not aware of that future, in October 1775 Bonvouloir sailed for Philadelphia “in the ‘Charming Betsy,’ Captain John Farmer.” That information comes from another document in the Earl of Dartmouth’s papers—evidence that the British government was already tracking this operation.

I plan to return to Bonvouloir later in the year, around the 250th anniversary of his meetings in Philadelphia.