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.



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