Unrest has been gathering. From my governor’s desk, I looked out as the sun set over Boston harbor. Life had been simple for me, laid out by my father. He sent me to learn about commerce and government from the best college in the colonies: Harvard.
All I set out to do, I achieved. As a Speaker representing Massachusetts just twenty years ago, I obtained gold from Mother Britain to reimburse our colony after our victory against the French and the Indians.
Despite the opposition from John Adams, I persuaded our legislature to exchange our paper money when it became obsolete. Out of my drawer I took a letter I received from Adams in which he said I “understood the subject of coin and commerce better than any man I ever knew in this country”. From such a notable figure, it was an honor to receive such praise.
Now as a judge and governor I was able to do even more good for this great colony of America. For England’s honor and God’s glory.
But the colonists didn’t see this.
On top of my desk was the Stamp Act of 1765, sent from England. What was the English government thinking? These were ridiculous taxes to expect from the colonies. We had prospered, yes, but our prosperity could increase if we were allowed to invest in ourselves instead of sending our money back to the Motherland’s coffers.
But my opposition had been ignored and the Stamp Act was in effect. I sighed, and put the documents back in their places. Time to go home. Smiling to myself, I imagined the scene I would find. Lydia, the maid opening the door, soft candles lighting the way to the dining room where the cook would be laying out supper for myself and my five remaining children. I would smile at the seat where my wife used to sit. My thoughts became wistful. Losing my Margaret and our last child still hurt, even after eleven years.
Supper was underway when a loud banging came from the door. Lydia screamed and I ran to the front window. A large mob had gathered and was blockading the door.
“Everyone, out!” I yelled. The rest of the household came out of the kitchen, but when they heard the yelling, hurriedly returned and left out the back, taking my children with them.
“Governor Hutchinson!” a figure holding a torch yelled from the front of the mob. The angry shouts mellowed to muttering as the man took charge. “We won’t pay your Stamp Tax. It’s an abomination to our rights.”
The crowd screamed out their assent.
“We want you to write to England, send out an official correspondence and let them know we won’t be paying it.”
My blood boiled. I didn’t like this tax any more than the rest of them, but anarchy was not going to rule this colony. I refused.
The mob entered, and I fled. When we returned, my house had been gutted. The bowl from my mother and the vase from my wedding were in shards on the street.
Fifteen years later, my children are divided. Some remained in America, while others followed me to England. After what has become known as the “Boston Tea Party,” I had suggested a change in the manner of government to my superiors in England. Somehow, the colonists got copies of my letters and accused me of fighting against their life and liberties. The threats became too much for me to stay.
Now I fear there isn’t much time left for me. My great-grandmother had been driven from England--her homeland-- because of her Puritan beliefs. Now I suffered the same fate for my political beliefs--driven from my homeland to die on foreign soil.
Looking up at my daughter, the only one who had stayed with me, I told her:
“I would rather have died in a cottage of America, than the grandest house of Britain.”
