How The Charter Was Saved
Not until James II. became king of England was a determined
effort made to take away the liberties of the American
colonies. All New England, up to that time, had been
virtually free, working under charters of very liberal
character, and governing itself in its own way and with its
own elected rulers. Connecticut, with whose history we are
now concerned, received its charter in 1662, from Charles
II., and
ent on happily and prosperously until James
ascended the throne. This bigoted tyrant, who spent his
short reign in seeking to overthrow the liberties of
England, quickly determined that America needed
disciplining, and that these much too independent colonists
ought to be made to feel the dominant authority of the king.
The New England colonies in particular, which claimed
charter rights and disdained royal governors, must be made
to yield their patents and privileges, and submit to the
rule of a governor-general, appointed by the king, with
paramount authority over the colonies.
Sir Edmund Andros, a worthy minion of a tyrant, was chosen
as the first governor-general, and arrived at Boston in
December, 1686, determined to bring these rampant colonists
to a sense of their duty as humble subjects of his royal
master. He quickly began to display autocratic authority,
with an offensiveness of manner that disgusted the citizens
as much as his acts of tyranny annoyed them. The several
colonies were peremptorily ordered to deliver up their
charters. With the response to this command we are not here
concerned, except in the case of Connecticut, which
absolutely refused.
Months passed, during which the royal representative aped
kingly manners and dignity in Boston, and Connecticut went
on undisturbed except by his wordy fulminations. But in
October of the next year he made his appearance at Hartford,
attended by a body-guard of some sixty soldiers and
officers. The Assembly was in session. Sir Edmund marched
with an important air into the chamber, and in a peremptory
tone demanded that the charter should be immediately placed
in his hands.
This demand put the members into an awkward dilemma. The
charter was in Hartford, in a place easy of access; Sir
Edmund was prepared to seize it by force if it were not
quickly surrendered; how to save this precious instrument of
liberty did not at once appear. The members temporized,
received their unwelcome visitor with every show of respect,
and entered upon a long and calm debate, with a wearisome
deliberation which the impatience of the governor-general
could not hasten or cut short.
Governor Treat, the presiding officer of the Assembly,
addressed Sir Edmund in tones of remonstrance and entreaty.
The people of America, he said, had been at the greatest
expense and had suffered the most extreme hardships in
planting the country; they had freely spent their blood and
treasure in defending it against savage natives and foreign
aggressors; and all this had been done for the honor and
glory of the motherland. He himself had endured hardships
and been environed by perils, and it would be like giving up
his life to surrender the patent and privileges so dearly
bought and so long enjoyed.
Argument of this kind was wasted on Sir Edmund. Remonstrance
and appeal were alike in vain. It was the charter he wanted,
not long-winded excuses, and he fumed and fretted while the
slow-talking members wasted the hours in what he looked upon
as useless argument.
Night had been drawing near on his entrance. Darkness
settled upon the Assembly while the debate went on. Lights
were now brought in,--the tallow candles of our colonial
forefathers,--and placed upon the table round which the
members sat. By this time Sir Edmund's impatience at their
procrastination had deepened into anger, and he demanded the
charter in so decided tones that the reluctant governor gave
orders that it should be produced. The box containing it was
brought into the chamber and laid upon the table, the cover
removed, and there before their eyes lay the precious
parchment, the charter of colonial liberty.
Still the members talked and procrastinated. But it is not
easy to restrain the hound when within sight of the game
which it has long pursued. Before the eyes of Sir Edmund lay
that pestiferous paper which had given him such annoyance.
His impatience was no longer to be restrained. In the midst
of the long-drawn-out oratory of the members he rose and
stepped towards the table to seize the object in dispute.
At that critical instant there came an unexpected diversion.
During the debate a number of the more important citizens
had entered the room, and stood near the table round which
the members sat. Suddenly, from the midst of those people, a
long cloak was deftly flung, with such sure aim that it fell
upon the circle of blazing candles, extinguishing them all,
and in a moment throwing the room into total darkness.
Confusion followed. There were quick and excited movements
within the room. Outside, the crowd which had assembled set
up a lusty cheer, and a number of them pushed into the
chamber. The members stirred uneasily in their seats. Sir
Edmund angrily exclaimed,--
"What means this, gentlemen? Is some treachery at work?
Guard the charter! Light those candles instantly!"
The attendants hastened to obey; but haste in procuring
light in those days had a different meaning than now. The
lucifer-match had not yet been dreamed of. The
flint-and-steel was a slow conception. Several minutes
elapsed before the candles again shed their feeble glow
through the room.
With the first gleam of light every eye was fixed upon the
box which had contained the charter. It was empty! The
charter was gone!
Just what Sir Edmund said on this occasion history has not
recorded. Those were days in which the most exalted persons
dealt freely in oaths, and it is to be presumed that the
infuriated governor-general used words that must have sadly
shocked the pious ears of his Puritan auditors.
But the charter had vanished, and could not be sworn back
into the box. Where it had gone probably no one knew;
certainly no one was willing to say. The members looked at
one another in blank astonishment. The lookers-on manifested
as blank an ignorance, though their faces beamed with
delight. It had disappeared as utterly as if it had sunk
into the earth, and the oaths of Sir Edmund and his efforts
to recover it proved alike in vain.
But the mystery of that night after-history has revealed,
and the story can now be told. In truth, some of those
present in the hall knew far more than they cared to tell.
In the darkness a quick-moving person had made a lane
through the throng to a neighboring window whose sash was
thrown up. Out of this he leaped to the ground below. Here
people were thickly gathered.
"Make way," he said (or may have said, for his real words
have not been preserved), "for Connecticut and liberty. I
have the charter."
The cheers redoubled. The crowd separated and let him
through. In a minute he had disappeared in the darkness
beyond.
Sir Edmund meanwhile was storming like a fury in the hall;
threatening the colony with the anger of the king;
declaring that every man in the chamber should be searched;
fairly raving in his disappointment. Outside, the bold
fugitive sped swiftly along the dark and quiet streets,
ending his course at length in front of a noble and imposing
oak-tree, which stood before the house of the Honorable
Samuel Wyllys, one of the colonial magistrates.
This tree was hollow; the opening slender without, large
within. Deeply into this cavity the fugitive thrust his arm,
pushing the precious packet as far as it would go, and
covering it thickly with fine d['e]bris at the bottom of the
trunk.
"So much for Sir Edmund," he said. "Let him now rob
Connecticut of the charter of its liberties, if he can."
Tradition--for it must be acknowledged that this story is
traditional, though probably true in its main
elements--tells us that this daring individual was Captain
Joseph Wadsworth, a bold and energetic militia-leader who
was yet to play another prominent part in the drama of
colonial life.
As for the Charter Oak, it long remained Hartford's most
venerated historical monument. It became in time a huge
tree, twenty-five feet in circumference near the roots. The
cavity in which the charter was hidden grew larger year by
year, until it was wide enough within to contain a child,
though the orifice leading to it gradually closed until it
was hardly large enough to admit a hand. This grand monument
to liberty survived until 1856, when tempest in its boughs
and decay in its trunk brought it in ruin to the earth.
What followed may be briefly told. The charter lost, Sir
Edmund Andros assumed control, declared the privileges
granted by it to be annulled, and issued a proclamation in
which the liberties of the colonies were replaced by the
tyranny of autocratic rule. The colonists were forced to
submit, but their submission was one of discontent and
barely-concealed revolt. Fortunately the tyranny of Sir
Edmund lasted not long. The next year the royal tyrant of
England was driven from his throne, and the chain which he
had laid upon the neck of Britannia and her colonies was
suddenly removed.
The exultation in America knew no bounds. Andros was seized
and thrown into prison in Boston, to preserve him from a
ruder fate from the mob. Early in the next year he was
shipped to England. Captain Wadsworth withdrew the charter
from the hiding-place which had safely kept its secret until
that hour, and placed it in the hands of the delighted
governor. Jurists in England had declared that it was still
in force, and the former government was at once resumed,
amid the most earnest manifestations of joy by the populace.
Yet the liberties of Connecticut were soon again to be
imperilled, and were to be save once more by the intrepid
daring of Captain Wadsworth.
It was now the year 1693. William of Orange had been for
some years on the English throne. While far more liberal
than his predecessor, his acts had somewhat limited the
former freedom of the New England colonies. He did not
attempt to appoint royal governors over these truculent
people, but on Governor Fletcher, of New York, were
conferred privileges which went far to set aside the charter
rights of the neighboring colony.
In brief, this royal governor was given full power of
command over the militia of Connecticut, an act in direct
contravention of the charter, which placed the military
control in the hands of the colonial authorities. Fletcher
pressed his claim. The governor indignantly refused to yield
his rights. The people ardently supported him.
Filled with blustering indignation, Governor Fletcher left
New York and came to Hartford, determined that his authority
should be acknowledged. He reached there on October 26,
1693.
He called upon the governor and other authorities, armed
with the royal commission, and sternly demanded that the
command of the militia should be handed over to him.
"You have played with me in this matter," he asserted. "Now
I demand an answer, immediate, and in two words, Yes or No.
And I require that the militia of Hartford shall be
instantly ordered under arms."
"As for the latter, it shall be as you wish," answered the
governor "As for the former, we deny your authority. Nor
will I, as you suggest, consent to hold command as your
representative."
The train-bands were ordered out. The demand had been
expected, and no long time elapsed before these
citizen-soldiers were assembled on the drill-ground of
Hartford,--an awkward squad, probably, if we may judge from
the train-bands of later days, but doubtless containing much
good soldierly material.
At their head stood their senior officer, Captain Wadsworth,
the same bold patriot who had so signally defeated a royal
governor six years before. He was now to add to his fame by
as signally defeating another royal governor.
When the New York potentate, accompanied by the governor and
a number of the assemblymen, and by the members of his
staff, reached the place, they found the valiant captain
walking up and down before his men, busily engaged in
putting them through their exercises.
Governor Fletcher stepped forward importantly, produced his
commission and instructions, and ordered them to be read to
the assembled troops. The person to whom he handed them
unfolded the commission, advanced to the front of the line,
and prepared to read. He did not know with whom he had to
deal.
"Beat the drums!" cried Captain Wadsworth, in a stentorian
voice.
Instantly there broke out a roar that utterly drowned the
voice of the reader.
"Silence!" exclaimed Fletcher, angrily advancing.
The drums ceased their rattling uproar. Silence once more
prevailed. The reader began again.
"Drum! drum, I say!" thundered Wadsworth.
Again such an uproar filled the air as only drum-heads
beaten by vigorous arms can make.
"Silence! silence!" cried Fletcher, furiously. The drums
ceased.
"Drum! drum, I say!" roared Wadsworth. Then, turning to the
governor, and handling his sword significantly, he
continued, in resolute tones, "If I am interrupted again I
will make the sun shine through you in a minute."
This fierce threat ended the business. Governor Fletcher had
no fancy for being riddled by this truculent captain of
militia. King William's commission doubtless had its weight,
but the king was three thousand miles away across the seas,
and Captain Wadsworth and his trainbands were unpleasantly
near. Governor Fletcher deemed it unwise to try too strongly
the fiery temper of the Hartford militiaman; he and his
suite returned hastily to New York, and that was the last
that was heard of a royal commander for the militia of
Connecticut.