Category:

Massachusetts

William Hill Brown Wrote First American Novel, Which Launched Literary Mystery

William Hill Brown wrote the first American novel, anonymously, in 1789. The reissue of the novel in 1894 spurred a debate over his authorship that scholars have finally settled.

William Hill Brown

William Hill Brown (1765-1793) was born in November 1765 in Boston to Gawen Brown, a notable clockmaker, and his third wife, Elizabeth (Adams). From his school days he had an interest in reading. He enjoyed studying classical, English and American literary works, which influenced his writings of prose and poetry.

Japanned tall clock, dial inscribed ‘Brown Boston’, movement by Gawen Brown, at the Winterthur Museum

In 1789, while only 24 years of age, Brown anonymously wrote “The Power of Sympathy: Or, The Triumph of Nature. Founded in Truth,” considered to be the first American novel. Published by Isaiah Thomas and Company in Boston, the shocking novel appeared in two small volumes. Brown dedicated the novel to the “young ladies of United Columbia” (the United States) in an effort to “expose the fatal consequences of seduction.” As an “epistolary novel,” it contained letters written by the main characters that not only expressed their feelings, but helped advance the storyline.

Power of Sympathy

The plot was allegedly based on a Boston scandal involving Fanny Apthorp and Perez Morton. “The Power of Sympathy” focused on a man who falls in love with a woman against the wishes of his father. Sadly, the couple learns on the eve of their wedding day that they are half-brother and sister because of an illicit affair of his father. Forced to terminate the wedding, the resulting sorrow of the lovers ends with their deaths–hers from tuberculosis (consumption) and his from suicide.

Perez Morton

The sentimental novel–with its elements of tragedy, lust, seduction and incest–remained largely forgotten until 1894. Walter Littlefield, a journalist, then decided to publish the novel with Sarah Morton (wife of Perez Morton ) as the assumed author. Later that same year, Arthur W. Brayley printed installments of the novel in his Bostonian magazine, again with Morton as the author. However, Rebecca (Valentine) Thompson, a niece of Brown, soon convinced Brayley that Brown was the actual writer.

Sarah Apthorp Morton, by Gilbert Stuart

Mystery Solved

She argued that Brown was very familiar with the details of the Apthorp/Morton scandal. His writing style in other works was also similar to that in “The Power of Sympathy.” The credibility of Morton as the author was further undermined by inaccurate statements by her supporters. There was also a lack of any material written by her that would confirm her authorship. Thus, a consensus emerged among scholars by the end of the 19th century that Brown should be recognized as the first American novelist. Moreover, he had been in the U.S. and had remained there.

More from William Hill Brown

Brown also wrote other works of poetry and prose. He apparently began writing in 1787 with poems entitled “Shays to Shattuck” and “Yankee Song” (1788), both in the Massachusetts Centinel. He then turned to a short story in 1789 entitled “Harriot: Or the Domesticated Reconciliation.” It appeared in the first issue of Massachusetts Magazine, also founded by Isaiah Thomas.

Isaiah Thomas

Brown then wrote “The Better Sort: Or The Girl of Spirit, An Operatic, Comical Farce,” again printed by Thomas, in 1789. It contains 16 verses of text by Brown. Finally, in 1789 Brown also began writing serial essays entitled “The Reformer” in the Massachusetts Magazine. Other works, published posthumously, included “West Point Preserved or the Treason of [John] Andre: An Historical Tragedy in Five Acts (1797)” about the British Revolutionary War spy; “Ira and Isabella: or The Natural Children. Founded in Fiction,” his second novel (published in 1807); and “Selected Poems and Verse Fables 1784-1793” (published in 1982).

William Hill Brown died on Sept. 2, 1793, from a fever (possibly malaria), only 27 years old. He had been staying with his sister, Eliza Hinchborne, in Murfreesborough, N.C. There he had decided to study law instead of further pursuing a writing career.

Edward T. Howe, Ph.D., is Professor of Economics, Emeritus, at Siena College near Albany, N.Y.

0 comments 303 views

Massachusetts Bay Militia Regiments, Forerunners of the Army National Guard

On Dec. 13, 1636, the Massachusetts Bay Colony created four militia regiments. This marked the birth of the Army National Guard.

Both Plymouth Colony (1620-1691) and Massachusetts Bay Colony (1628-1691) immediately had small, part-time militia units (train bands) for their defense against indigenous tribes . Both militias relied on the English system, traceable to the Assize of Arms (1181), the Statute of Winchester (1285) and the Instructions for General Musters (1572). Originally, each militia company consisted of all able-bodied men between 16 and 60 years, with some exceptions. Someone with military experience controlled each company. For example, Myles Standish took charge in Plymouth in 1620 and John Endecott in Massachusetts at Salem in 1629.

Henry II issued the Assize of Arms requiring all freemen to bear arms in the service of the king

The First Militia Regiments

The colonies equipped the militias with weaponry that included firearms (fowling pieces, matchlocks and flintlocks), swords, pikes, and small cannon. Upper-body armor (corselets) offered the men some protection in combat. Originally, the Plymouth militia held formal training drills (musters) six times a year. By 1632 the required militias in newly organized towns could determine their own training days and select their officers subject to Plymouth approval.

In 1631 in Massachusetts Bay, the General Court required each town to raise a local militia. By 1634, it required training once a month under appointed officers. These companies comprised anywhere from 65 to 200 men. Sometimes, however, several towns had to contribute for a town to reach the minimum of 65 members. Local militias in both colonies came to rely on property taxes, tariffs, fines, and donations to finance expenses.

First Muster, a National Guard Heritage Painting by Don Troiani

From 1631-36, the number of towns in Massachusetts Bay with their militia companies greatly expanded. Thus, the General Court decided to establish a new regimental structure on Dec. 13, 1636, initially under the overall command of the governor. This legislation created the North, South, and East Regiments. The North Regiment included local militias from Charlestown, Cambridge, Concord, Medford and Watertown; the South Regiment had companies from Boston, Dorchester, Hingham, Roxbury and Weymouth; and the East Regiment comprised militias from Ipswich, Newbury, Saugus and Salem. The first regimental muster occurred in 1637 (April?) in Salem. A colonel and lieutenant colonel commanded each regiment, accompanied by a paid mustermaster. Each regiment and local militia elected its officers. By July 1637 volunteer militiamen from Massachusetts and Connecticut were urgently needed against the Pequot tribe in Connecticut.

Meanwhile, Plymouth Colony did not establish a regiment until 1658 under a civilian Council of War. In 1691 the colonial governments of Massachusetts Bay and Plymouth merged, including their militias.

Militia Regiments Redesignated

The three Massachusetts Bay regiments were redesignated on Sept. 7, 1643, after the General Court had created three counties the previous May. The North became the Middlesex Regiment, the South became the Suffolk Regiment and the East became the Essex Regiment. Members of these military units saw action against the Niantic and Narragansett tribes in 1645. They also fought in King’s Phillip’s War (1675-76), and the French and Indian War (1754-1763).

Engraving depicting colonial militia regiments’ assault on the Narragansetts’ fort in the Great Swamp Massacre during King Philip’s War

From the 17th through the 20th century, the three regiments experienced a succession of expansions, reorganizations and “call-ups” as a part of the U.S. Army. For example, the 2^nd (Upper) Middlesex Regiment (formed in October 1680) fought at Lexington and Concord on April 19, 1775. On Jan. 1, 1776, previously reorganized regiments became redesignated as the 13^th Massachusetts Regiment and the 6^th and 23^rd Continental Regiments. Realizing a need for more resources for national defense, Congress enacted the Militia Act of 1792. It gave the president the right to call up a militia “whenever the United States shall be invaded or be in imminent danger of invasion.”

Reenactors on the march to Lexington to commemorate the shot heard round the world.

The phrase “national guard,” as a synonym for a state militia, appeared in 1824 when the Marquis de Lafayette visited the U.S. By 1878 further recognition came with the creation of the National Guard Association of the United States, a lobbying group. Finally, the National Defense Act of 1916 mandated that state militias be referred to as the “National Guard.” In 1933 an amendment to the National Defense Act stated that the National Guard was a reserve part of the U.S. Army.

Army National Guard

After almost four centuries of historical evolution, four components of the Massachusetts Army National Guard can trace their ancestry to the three original Massachusetts Bay militias.

Massachusetts Army National Guard

Both the 181^st and 182^nd Infantry Regiments have descended from the North Regiment; the 181^st Field Artillery Regiment from the South Regiment; and the 101^st Engineer Battalion from the East Regiment.

Edward T. Howe, Ph.D., is Professor of Economics, Emeritus, at Siena College near Albany, N.Y.

* * *

Learn more Revolutionary history in this complete guide to Revolutionary War sites in New England. Brought to you by the New England Historical Society. Click here to order your copy in paperback, here to order an ebook.

Images: First muster and Massachusetts National Guard, courtesy Defense Visual Information Distribution Service. Public Domain Dedication. Public Use Notice of Limitations: https://www.dvidshub.net/about/copyright. Reenactors (featured image) courtesy National Parks Gallery, public domain dedication. Reenactors on march to Lexington By Jrcovert – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19639046.

0 comments 1.4K views

Salem Holds a Funeral for Naval Hero James Lawrence, But Politics Mars the Ceremony

On Aug. 23, 1813, vessels in Salem Harbor flew their colors at half-staff. Thousands of people lined the shore looking toward the brig Henry at anchor as two barges were cast off bearing the black-draped coffins of Capt. James Lawrence and Lt. Augustus Ludlow. The two naval officers were killed several weeks earlier in the epic sea battle between the USS Chesapeake and HMS Shannon, just off the Massachusetts coast.

As the barges made their way to Crowninshield Wharf (also known as India Wharf), cannon from the Henry and the USS Rattlesnake, a 14-gun brig of war, exchanged minute salutes. They fired a cannon every minute in homage to the officers. Sailors in blue jackets and blue trousers rowed to Crowninshield Wharf, their strokes slow and precise. Their caps bore the motto “Free Trade and Sailors’s Rights,” a slogan with glaring political overtones.

Crowninshield (India) Wharf, where the procession began

At the end of the wharf, the two coffins were placed on carriages for a procession through the streets of Salem.

Not everyone in Salem was happy at the heroes’ return, largely depending on their political party.

James Lawrence Killed in Battle

The battle between the frigates Chesapeake and Shannon took place weeks before on June 1, 1813. Lawrence was newly appointed to the Chesapeake as was much of the crew. But he was eager to take the fight to the enemy cruising in Boston Harbor with impunity. Both ships were roughly equal in tonnage and armaments.

Capt. James Lawrence, USN

Eager crowds onshore watched the Chesapeake leave Boston, the ship flying the U.S. colors and a large flag proclaiming the Free Trade slogan. As the battle commenced, the Chesapeake suffered serious damage from the first British broadside, which wounded Captain Lawrence.

USS Chesapeake

When the two ships came together, the British boarded the Chesapeake and in fierce combat overpowered the American crew, now almost leaderless with so many officers dead or wounded. As the mortally wounded Lawrence was being taken below deck, he was purported to give his famous order “Don’t give up the ship!” The whole engagement took no more than 15 minutes.

The Death of James Lawrence

The Chesapeake was claimed as a prize by the British and sailed to Halifax, Nova Scotia. There the crew were imprisoned and Captain Lawence given a burial with full naval honors.

This was the first major naval victory for the British in the War of 1812.

Retrieval of the Heroes’ Remains

The War of 1812 was politically divisive in New England. The Federalists detested “Mr. Madison’s War,” while Democratic-Republicans (Republicans) were generally supportive. Salem was bitterly divided between the two parties.

The idea of returning Lawrence’s body to the United States, and to Salem in particular, was a Republican one. Several weeks after the battle, George Crowninshield, Jr., asked the Madison administration for permission to travel to the enemy port of Halifax to retrieve the body of Lawrence for reburial on American soil. Crowninshield offered the brig Henry under his command and at his own expense for the journey.

Crowninshield’s father founded Crowninshield and Sons, a shipping business of worldwide reach, trading with China, Russia, India, and the East Indies. They were ardent Jeffersonian Republicans and supported President James Madison.

Under a flag of truce, the Henry arrived at Halifax on August 10, 1813. The British were cooperative and polite, but insisted that only Crowninshield be allowed on shore. Three days later, the Henry departed Halifax with the bodies of Lawrence and Ludlow on board.

George Crowninshield, Jr.

The Henry arrived at Salem Harbor just before sundown on August 18, where it remained at anchor just below Crowninshield Wharf. A Committee of Arrangements scheduled the funeral for the following Monday, August 23. Perhaps anticipating the Federalist response, the Committee asked the public, regardless of class or party, to show proper respect for the heroes who gave their lives in defense of the country.

That was a tall order for the Federalists, who feared that honoring Lawrence’s sacrifice could be seen as support for the war.

Where To Hold the Funeral?

The Committee of Arrangements, perhaps naively, petitioned the North Meeting House at the corner of North and Lynde Streets for permission to hold Lawrence’s funeral there. It was the largest church in the town and had a fine organ, but it was a decidedly Federalist congregation. The request was turned down flat. In a letter of refusal, church elders replied that their meeting house was only open for public worship and no other purpose.

This was a blatant lie.

Charles S. Osgood and H. M. Batchelder in their Historical Sketch of Salem 1626-1879, state the North Meeting House was “frequently used for civic celebrations.”

Indeed, the Rev. William Bentley, the minister of the East Church and an outspoken Democratic-Republican, mentioned in his Diary that Samuel Putnam from the Committee of Proprietors of the North Church left town rather than witness the event. The Federalists, according to Bentley, particularly resented the Free Trade and Sailors’ Rights motto on the seamen’s caps. Even the Federalist governor of the commonwealth chose not to attend the ceremony.

The Rev. William Bentley

And typical of the political climate of the time, the Federalist Boston-Gazette wondered why any house of worship would encourage an unlawful and wicked war.

It was then decided to hold the service at the Congregational Branch Church on Branch (today’s Howard) Street.

Also, the Committee selected Associate Supreme Court Justice Joseph Story, a Republican and long-time resident of Salem, to give the eulogy.

A Solemn Procession Through the Streets of Salem

The funeral procession formed at the wharf, led by an escort of six Navy captains, resplendent in their blue coats and gold braids. Commodores Isaac Hull and William Bainbridge walked beside Lawrence’s coffin, now draped in the national colors. Six naval lieutenants accompanied Ludlow’s.

Following were dignitaries, including Vice President Elbridge Gerry, military and naval officers, members of Congress, Justice Story, and representatives of local banks and insurance offices. Among the clergy in the procession was Reverend Bentley.

Some members of the East India Marine Society, the association of Salem sea captains and merchants, marched as well. But over a third of them voted to boycott the proceedings.

Despite the political controversies, citizens lined the streets along the way, and others looked from windows or stood on roof tops.

In the distance, minute guns sounded from Washington Square (Salem Common), while church bells rang out as the procession moved forward. A company of infantry also escorted the procession accompanied by a military band.

A view of Crowninshield (India) Wharf from the land.

The route to the Branch Church on Howard Street was a round-about one, allowing lots of people to see the procession. From Crowninshield Wharf at the foot of English Street, the mourners turned left along Derby Street, a crowded thoroughfare of wooden houses, taverns, and shops that ran parallel to the waterfront. Perhaps in deference to Reverend Bentley, the procession turned right onto narrow Hardy Street, allowing them to pass Bentley’s East Meeting House at the corner of Hardy and Essex Streets.

Church Bells Go Silent

Essex Street took the mourners westward towards the commercial heart of Salem. They went past the Brown Building, still standing, a large three-story, brick structure at the corner of Union Street, housing a bank, apothecary, and retail establishments. They then passed the brick Federal-style mansions of Joseph White, Gideon Tucker and the late Dr. Moses Little, all three still standing. Next came the banks, insurance offices and the customs building.

To their left, set back from the street, stood the enormous mansion of the late Elias Hasket Derby, with its towering cupula, huge Palladian window and extensive gardens. Beyond the Derby House, they passed the three-story First Church near the corner of Washington Street.

The First Church on Essex Street. The funeral passed by the front door.

Then at North Street, the procession turned sharply to the right heading northward. Feelings must have been running high as they approached the corner of North and Lynde Streets, where the North Meeting House stood. In a glaring example of the politics of the day, the church bells were silent – a snub to the passing mourners.

The procession continued eastward on Lynde Street, across Court Street (now Washington Street), then along Church Street towards St. Peter’s Episcopal Church, its tall tower housing Salem’s oldest church bell. Taking a slight jog to the right, the mourners entered Brown Street heading towards the Common, before turning left onto Branch Street and their destination.

An 1820 map showing the route for the funeral of James Lawrence and Augustus Ludlow

The Branch Church no longer stands, but was located on the west side of today’s Howard Street, just before the Howard Street Cemetery.

James Lawrence Funeral Service

At the church, the coffins were taken from the hearses and placed in the middle of the church by seamen from the funeral procession. The interior was draped in black and garlanded with cypress and evergreen. The names “Lawrence” and “Ludlow” were hung in banners of gold letters.

Joseph Story’s eulogy was long and in the overwrought style of the day. He recounted Lawrence’s and Ludlow’s lives and their heroic actions during that final battle.

Peace be to the spirits of the mighty dead – they

fell covered with honorable wounds in the cause of

their country.

After the service, Lawrence was temporarily interred in the Crowninshield family tomb in the Howard Street Cemetery. He was latertransported for burial at Trinity Church Cemetery in Manhattan.

Salem celebrates its 400th anniversary in 2026 and the 250th anniversary of Leslie’s Retreat in February 2025. Click here for more information.

James F. Lee, the author of this story, is a freelance writer and blogger whose work has appeared in The Washington Post, Boston Globe, Philadelphia Inquirer, and AAA Tidewater Traveler Magazine. He can be reached at www.jamesflee.com.

Sources for Funeral for Naval Hero James Lawrence

Salem and the Indies, James Duncan Phillips, 1947. Accessed online through Internet Archive.

An Historical Sketch of Salem 1626-1879, Charles S. Osgood and H.M. Batchelder, Essex Institute, 1879. Accessed online via Salem Historical Society Digital Books, HathiTrust.org.

An Account of the Funeral Honors Bestowed on the Remains of Capt. Lawrence and Lieut. Ludlow with Eulogy. Boston, 1813. Accessed online through Digital Archive, Toronto Public Library.

The Diary of William Bentley, D.D. Pastor of the East Church, Salem, Massachusetts vol. 4. Gloucester, Mass, P. Smith, 1962.

Images

Shannon and Chesapeake, watercolor likely by Robert Dodd, 1813. From the New York Public Library www.digitalcollections.nypl.org. {{PD-US}}.

Wharf, George Ropes, Crowninshield’s Wharf. 1806, oil on canvas, Gift of Nathaniel Silsbee, 1862, M3459, Courtesy of the Peabody Essex Museum.

James Lawrence portrait, oil painting by J. Herring after Gilbert Stuart circa. 1812, Naval History and Heritage Command, U.S. Navy photograph http://www.history.navy.mil/photos/pers-us/uspers-l/j-lawrnc.htm {{PD-US}}.

USS Chesapeake, painting by F. Muller, circa 1900, Naval History and Heritage Command, U.S. Naval Historical Center Photograph http://www.history.navy.mil/photos/sh-usn/usnsh-c/chesapke.htm {{PD-US}}.

Death painting, “Don’t Give up That Ship,” oil painting by Alfred Jacob Miller circa. 1840, source: Walters Art Museum {{PD-US}}.

Crowninshield, portrait, oil on canvas, attributed to Samuel F.B. Morse at Peabody Essex Museum. Author: Daderot, own work CCO1.0 {{PD-US}}.

Wharf from land, “India Wharf, Salem Ma” by Roy Cross, with permission from Marine Arts Gallery, 26795 S. Bay Dr., Unit 166, Bonita Springs, FL, (239)261-0000 Marine Arts Gallery.

First Church, Frank Cousins, Salem, “Washington and Essex Streets, views, town pump, and First Church,” circa. 1865-1914. Frank Cousins, Glass Plate Negative Collection, Photo Vault_Box 30_939, http://ark.digitalcommonwealth.org/ark:/50959/2b88rg90j.

1820 Map, map reproduction courtesy of Norman B. Leventhal Map and Education Center at the Boston Public Library, markings by author.

0 comments 1.2K views

The Blizzard of ’78

This story about the Blizzard of ’78 is an excerpt from the New England Historical Society’s new book, ‘New England Weather.”

Nothing like the Blizzard of ‘78 had ever occurred in New England before or after. It was a perfect storm, with hurricane force winds, a new moon, snow that fell for a day and a half—and mistimed weather forecasts that caused chaos on the roads.

By 1978, televised weather reporting had come a long way from the pretty bubbleheaded weather girls of the 1950s. TV stations were hiring real meteorologists from the National Weather Service, the military and graduate schools. But weather reports still had a way to go.

Meteorologists then didn’t have today’s dense weather monitoring network. Nor did they have sophisticated computer modeling—in fact, they didn’t have computers. They had fax and teletype machines.

So, in the late 1970s, weather forecasts often varied from TV station to TV station. One meteorologist might predict rain, and one might predict snow. Or they both might predict a snowstorm that didn’t materialize.

Forecasting the Blizzard of ’78

In the weeks before the Blizzard of ’78, some weathercasters had incorrectly forecast snowstorms. So, many people wouldn’t believe a storm warning until they saw snow.

On the weekend of Feb. 4-5, 1978, New England weathercasters predicted a storm on Sunday night, they just didn’t know how bad it would be.

Harvey Leonard, a rookie meteorologist with WHDH-TV in Boston, crawled out on a creaking limb and forecast a titanic snowstorm. “We are going to get hit hard,” he said.

The National Weather Service official forecast said there would be 6 inches of snow. A storm would develop on Sunday night and increase in intensity on Monday with a lot of blowing and drifting.

But no one saw snow early on the Monday morning of Feb. 6, 1978. People climbed into cars and buses and started their morning commutes. Tens of thousands of them wouldn’t make it back home for days. Nearly 100 wouldn’t make it at all. Another 4,500 would suffer broken bones, bruises, cuts and frostbite by the time it was all over.

The iconic image of the Blizzard of ’78 is a long string of stalled cars draped in a thick blanket of snow on a highway. The frozen traffic jams went on for miles: in Massachusetts on Route 128, Route 138 and Route 1; in Rhode Island on Interstate 95, Interstate 195, Route 146, the connector road to the airport and central Providence.

Route 128 during the Blizzard of ’78

Massachusetts Gov. Michael Dukakis called the traffic mess on Route 128 “unbelievable.”

“It is as if there has been a massive rush-hour traffic jam and somebody had said, ‘Stop’ and covered the cars with 5 feet of snow,” Dukakis said.

Harvey Leonard was able to see it coming because he identified a low-pressure system traveling up the East Coast over warm Gulf Stream waters. Meanwhile, polar air was diving down from Canada. The two systems would collide off the New Jersey coast and spawn a behemoth nor’easter. To make things worse, a high-pressure system in eastern Canada would block the storm from moving on.

To qualify as a blizzard, snow must be falling or blowing about, visibility must be under a quarter of a mile and winds had to be above 35 mph.

It was a blizzard all right.

33 Hours

Once the snow started falling on Monday morning, it didn’t stop for 33 hours. New England got 2 feet of snow and in some cases 4 feet. Sometimes the snow fell as fast as 4 inches an hour. Parts of Boston’s South Shore and Woonsocket, R.I., got hit with 54 inches.

At 11 a.m. on Monday the National Weather Service put out a revised forecast for severe storms and flooding along the coast. The seas would rise 20 feet at high tide, it said.

People finally woke up to the seriousness of the storm. They left school and work early so they could get home, but the snow fell so fast that staying put was safer. The stupendous snowfall had made every major highway in Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island impassable. The cars and trucks trapped on the interstates along the Boston-Providence corridor would stay entombed for days.

Late in the afternoon, the National Guard opened several armories along Route 128 to use as emergency shelters. By nightfall, hundreds of guardsmen had fought through the storm to the nearest arsenal. Some took snowplows, some snowmobiles, some hiked, while some brought the Guard’s wreckers and four-wheel-drive vehicles. The guardsmen, who didn’t have winter parkas or boots, began to evacuate motorists to the armories, which didn’t have cots.

For the thousands stranded in cars, civil defense officials put the word out over CB radio that they should bunch up four to a car. They could run the engine for 10 minutes an hour to keep warm.

Some didn’t get the message. Fourteen died of carbon monoxide poisoning while running their engines in their snowbound vehicles. The snow piled up and blocked their exhaust pipes. Others died trying to walk to shelter.

Governors in Command

Days after the 1927 Vermont flood, three men from Massachusetts parked behind the Pavilion Hotel in Montpelier. An older man drove up, and they told him they planned to drive to Burlington. He said, “You will not be able to get over the railroad or highway out of the city for two weeks.”

“Do you live here?” one of the men asked.

“I guess I do. I am the governor,” he replied.

The governor, they said, looked very downcast.

In 1978, no elected official would be caught dead driving around looking disconsolate in a disaster. During the wall-to-wall news coverage of the Blizzard of ’78, politicians used the media to show they had command of the crisis response.

***

On Monday night the blizzard got worse, pelting New England relentlessly. Snow blew sideways. Winds roared and whined like sirens from Maine to Massachusetts. Windspeeds reached 79 mph at Logan Airport and 93 mph at Chatham Weather Station on Cape Cod. Unofficial reports said wind gusts exceeded 100 mph.

Meteorologist Bruce Schwoegler admonished WBZ-TV viewers to stay home during that harrowing Monday night. “If you go outside tonight, you gotta be out of your gourd!” he exclaimed. No one else would make it into the television station until the weekend. Schwoegler and the news crew slept at the station and wore the same clothes for five days.

Shelby Scott tried to make a run for it that night. She drove home on the back roads, cars slipping every which way. A half mile from her house she ran into an enormous snowbank. A snowplow came by, and the driver yelled, “Is that you, Shelby?” He got her out.

Tragedy

In Salem Harbor, the Greek tanker Global Hope foundered in 30- and 40-foot waves as the wind shrieked. A 44-foot Coast Guard patrol boat went to help Global Hope, but it lost its radar and power. Hearing on marine radio that the patrol boat was in trouble, the Can Do, a 49-foot pilot boat, plowed through the roiling waters to rescue the Coast Guardsmen. The Coast Guard also sent a 95-foot cutter, but it got lost in the whiteout. The cutter crew prepared to die. However, they made it to shore safely, and so did the patrol boat. Global Hope rode out the storm. But all five hands aboard the Can Do perished. “Mayday! Mayday!” they called before their radio went silent.

High winds drove the tidal surge over seawalls and breakwaters north of Boston in Revere and Winthrop. Roads and homes crumbled under the relentless pounding surf. The water rose fast. People climbed onto their roofs, screaming for help.

Ginny Deveau was sitting in her living room in Revere as the waves and wind rocked her house. “Then, this one wave hit,” she told a Boston Globe reporter. “It roared and whined like a siren. The house groaned and I knew it was time to get out.”

The Blizzard of ’78 Settles In

Dukakis happened to be on a radio call-in show with David Brudnoy on that awful Monday night.

Revere residents called in to the Brudnoy show from the second floor of their flooded houses, begging for help and wondering if they’d survive.

Michael Dukakis

As panic set in, Dukakis began to direct the emergency response on the radio. “I am pleading with Winthrop Shore Drive residents to evacuate their homes!” he said.

In the flooded cities, guardsmen, firefighters and police rushed from house to house, carrying children, women and the elderly through water that sometimes reached their necks. Amphibious vehicles took the victims to safety through flooded streets. Three thousand evacuees went to Revere High School that night as their houses bobbed up and down in the swirling, slushy seawater.

At 10:30 p.m., Dukakis declared a state of emergency. By then, 70,000 people in Greater Boston had lost heat and power. Every civil defense and emergency shelter in Massachusetts was activated and filled with 17,000 frightened people and their pets.

Overnight, the storm made a tight loop along the coast and settled south of Narragansett Bay. Snow and high winds continued to bombard the coast from eastern Maine to Long Island.

Before sunrise on Tuesday, Massachusetts guardsmen waded through waist-deep snow on Route 128, clearing off car windows and peering inside to see if their occupants needed medical attention—or were still alive. They began to help people from their cars into buses, which drove behind snowplows to emergency shelters. Two thousand ultimately went to St. Bartholomew’s Church in Needham, Mass., where they slept in the pews.

Guardsmen took 300 to the Showcase Cinema in Dedham, Mass., just off the highway. There they ate popcorn and watched movies as the blizzard rampaged outside.

First light on Tuesday revealed shocking damage along the North and South Shores of Massachusetts. Northeasterly winds and tremendous tidal surges had smashed through sea walls and swallowed whole neighborhoods in Gloucester, Revere, Lynn, Hull, Scituate and Plymouth. Waves had pounded through dunes and hurled boats hundreds of feet onto shore. They split houses in half, flung cars into the surf and shattered piers and boardwalks.

The stalled storm had blocked the high tide from going out much on Monday evening, and the tide was rising again. Things would only get worse along the coast.

Early on Tuesday morning, Dukakis put on a sweater and took the short ride from his Brookline duplex to the emergency operations center near the Statehouse. Television news crews waited for him. Dukakis went on the air at 8:50 a.m. announcing he was calling up the entire Army National Guard. An hour later he stood in front of the cameras again and banned travel in Massachusetts except for emergencies. He would make many more such television appearances, always in his sweater, over the next six days.

At Dukakis’ side was his public safety secretary, Charles Barry, a former Boston police captain. Barry was obsessed with emergency planning. That was fortunate for Dukakis, a 44-year-old first-term governor with little interest in disaster preparedness. Ten days before the Blizzard of ’78, Barry had insisted on presenting his just-completed, 5-inch-thick emergency response plan. He wanted a half hour to tell the cabinet about it. Dukakis reluctantly gave him 20 minutes.

After the Blizzard of ’78, Dukakis admitted Barry told him exactly what to say during his media appearances.

Inside the command center, phones rang incessantly with calls pleading for trucks, for snowplows, for cots, for blankets, for lifeboats, for help.

Help Arrives

Convoys from Fort Devens fought their way through the snow and the snarled traffic to the flooded coastal cities and towns. Once they arrived, they found that rocks, debris and icy waters made streets impassable, rescue difficult. In some places scuba divers swam through seawater to get to people in flooded buildings and take them to lifeboats.

Then came Tuesday’s high tide—a whopper. The moon wasn’t just new, it was a supermoon—as close to the earth as it gets. Tides rose 16 feet above normal, and the driving snow didn’t let up.

In Scituate, firefighters hauled the Lanzikas family and their neighbor, Edward Hart, into a skiff. A giant wave tore 5-year-old Amy Lanzikas from her mother’s arms. Amy and Edward Hart drowned. His body wasn’t found until April.

At least Cape Cod got a break on Tuesday morning. The raging nor’easter had turned into a hurricane. The eye passed the coast near Nantucket, bringing calm and sunshine to the Cape for a while. And then the furious winds returned.

Looting had started in Boston and elsewhere. Police could do nothing. The heavy snow, still falling, immobilized their cruisers. National Guard military police units came to their aid. Police officers and MPs together took four-wheel-drive vehicles through the snow-clogged streets looking for thieves. By early afternoon on Tuesday, police and guardsmen began arresting looters in Boston.

Around 4 p.m. on Tuesday, President Jimmy Carter declared Massachusetts a disaster area. That allowed federal troops to help with rescue and recovery. Guardsmen went to work clearing a runway at Logan Airport so military transport planes could land.

On Tuesday night, WBZ-TV reporter Dan Rea stood on the tarmac as flashing lights illuminated the still-falling snow. The U.S. Army was on its way, he reported.

Through the night and the next day, 36 Army aircraft landed, one by one, and delivered soldiers from Fort Bragg and the Army Corps of Engineers. They also brought desperately needed front end loaders, dump trucks, graders and wreckers. Each plane took off quickly so the next one could land.

Late on Tuesday night, the snow finally stopped falling. Blue Hill Observatory outside of Boston recorded the last flake just before midnight.

The Blizzard of ’78 Sets Records

The blizzard set snowfall records in Massachusetts and Rhode Island, while Connecticut fell short of the Great White Hurricane of 1888. As much as 2 feet of snow had also fallen in Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York and the rest of New England.

***

Though the snow had stopped on Wednesday morning, Massachusetts, Rhode Island and Connecticut remained at a standstill. Roadways had disappeared under the snow, and the interstates were frozen parking lots. Many people were still trapped in their workplaces, living off vending machine food.

The military police unit on Cape Cod could only make it into Boston on Wednesday by following National Guard bulldozers and state public works plows.

But now that the sky had cleared, the air filled with helicopters. They crisscrossed eastern Massachusetts from morning to night. The helicopters took patients to hospitals, brought food to emergency shelters, assessed the flood damage and searched for bodies along the coast. Fenway Park was transformed into a heliport.

Dukakis climbed into a helicopter to survey the South Shore and Route 128. He was shocked. “You have to see it to feel it,” Dukakis said. “It was as if some giant had picked up all those little houses along the coastline and just flung them all over the place.”

Damaged houses along the seawall in Scituate

On the Scituate and Hull waterfronts, flooding had pulverized buildings, boats and piers, leaving a deep pile of wet rubble. Homes were ruined down to Long Island.

One flood tide had run into the next. With four successive flood tides, it seemed the tide never went out.

And still another high tide was coming. The Army Corps of Engineers and civilian volunteers filled sandbags in Hull, Quincy, Marshfield, Scituate, Revere and Winthrop. They piled them up to prevent more flooding where seawalls and breakwaters had been smashed to bits.

It was Ash Wednesday. Bishop Bernard J. Flanagan of the Worcester Catholic Diocese granted a dispensation. Catholics could wait until the weekend for fasting, abstinence and ashes.

Northeastern airports were still closed and would be for days. Boston Mayor Kevin White, on vacation in Florida, could only make his way home slowly from Palm Beach. White won little sympathy by complaining Florida was so cold he couldn’t swim in the pool.

The postal service couldn’t deliver mail for the first time since the Great New England Hurricane of 1938. One mail carrier got stranded in a post office, so he slept on sacks there for two nights. He fielded a phone call from a woman complaining she didn’t get her mail.

Soldiers, guardsmen, plow drivers and tow-truck drivers worked all day Wednesday and through the night. They cleared Massachusetts Routes 128, 138 and 1, cutting guardrails to get the abandoned vehicles out of the snowy gridlock. By Thursday morning, they’d freed a thousand stuck cars and trucks. It took a week working around the clock to clear all the roads in Massachusetts. Some plow drivers worked seven days in a row, stopping only to take catnaps. Some guardsmen worked 48 hours straight. Morale was high, though, and it was even higher when they received $100 cash advance payments on Friday.

The Town of Weymouth, Mass., asked private snowplow operators to donate their services. If they didn’t, town officials said, they’d confiscate their plows.

Massachusetts Digs Out

By Wednesday night, 6,000 Massachusetts guardsmen were on active duty. Many had come from homes damaged in the blizzard. Without adequate winter clothing, some suffered frostbite. The commonwealth bought 2,000 pairs of wool socks and lip salve from a Maine supplier and airlifted it all to military police and equipment operators.

Guardsmen enforced the travel ban, which lasted for a week in eastern Massachusetts. The word went out: If you were caught driving, you faced a one-year jail sentence or $500 fine.

A man in Burlington went stir crazy and took a drive down I-93. A guardsman stopped him, forced him out of his car and made him walk five miles home. Before he set out, the guardsman handed him a note to put in his pocket. The note said, “This man is mentally incompetent.”

By Thursday, state officials had a handle on the extent of the destruction. In Massachusetts, 2,000 homes between Marblehead and Plymouth were destroyed or severely damaged and another 10,000 needed repairs. The South Shore and Revere took the hardest hits.

Scituate was such a disaster area the National Guard closed it off to keep out sightseers and looters. The storm surges had dumped sand 6 feet deep on Oceanside Drive. People who went to check on their flood-damaged homes found thieves inside taking televisions and furniture. They were the lucky ones. When Mrs. Joseph Conley returned to her home in Scituate, the storm had demolished everything but the toilet.

In Eastham, the high tide leveled the dunes at Coast Guard Beach, eradicating the bathhouse and the parking lot. Floodwater tore apart beach shacks and buried them in Nauset Marsh. The tides split Monomoy Island in two off Chatham and divided Pamet Road in Truro. Hardly a trace remained of the Outermost House, the cottage where Henri Beston wrote his classic nature book.

The SS Peter Stuyvesant, a refurbished 269-foot Hudson River cruise ship, sank off the South Boston waterfront. Part of Anthony’s Pier 4 restaurant, the vessel’s wine cellar, artwork and mementoes were all a waterlogged ruin.

On Cape Ann, the storm surges had demolished sea walls, eradicated beaches and crushed houses, hotels and cars. Rockport’s famous red fishing shack, known as Motif No. 1, washed into the sea.

On the Monday after the Blizzard of ‘78, Dukakis’ driving ban was still in effect. But people needed to get to work. Four hundred civilians shoveled off Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority tracks for $3 an hour. The MBTA, though wrecked in places, carried 50 percent more riders than it did on an ordinary day. The load strained the equipment so that the transit system had to curtail commuter rail service by 25 percent for two months.

The Blizzard of ’78 Hits Little Rhody

In Rhode Island, the storm hit Newport first but saved its worst for the northern part of the state. Woonsocket got 54 inches of snow, too much for the single-bladed plows of the 1970s to handle. The mayor on Thursday pleaded for payloaders and dump trucks to move snow, and heating oil for Woonsocket’s public housing authority. But trucks couldn’t make it to Woonsocket through the Providence bottleneck. There was no way into, out of or through the city.

Frozen traffic jams surrounded and isolated Providence. People had left work too late. Snow buried thousands of cars and trucks on the interstates and in large sections of the city. Sometimes police officers found a body in a stranded car. They took the corpse back to police headquarters, which also served as an emergency shelter and a makeshift hospital.

At least the phones worked in Rhode Island, and most of the electricity stayed on. People could telephone for help, but ambulances couldn’t get to the dead or the dying. Vehicles couldn’t move until the streets were plowed, and the streets couldn’t be plowed until the vehicles moved. Providence Mayor Buddy Cianci asked for people with snowmobiles to volunteer. A small band of snowmobilers took the sick and injured to hospitals.

Buddy Cianci

Twenty-thousand people were stranded inside Providence. They found shelter in the Providence College dorms, City Hall and Butler Hospital. Cianci ordered all the city restaurants to stay open. He stationed a police officer at one to make sure it did. City workers then bought food for the sick and elderly.

Gov. J. Joseph Garrahy had put on a red plaid flannel shirt on Monday morning and wore it all week. He didn’t leave the Statehouse until Wednesday morning, when the storm finally stopped. The pavement outside was cleared for a helicopter so he could survey the situation from the air.

Providence was busier in the air than on the ground that day, where the only motorized vehicles that moved were snowmobiles. National Guardsmen crisscrossed the sky in helicopters picking up 4,000 sick, injured and stranded people.

One of many homes damaged by the 1978 blizzard.

National Guardsmen and Boston residents during the cleanup after the 1978 blizzard.

Route 128 during the Blizzard of '78

A residential street after the 1978 blizzard in Woonsocket, R.I.

Boston City Hall

cars stranded on Rte. 128

A few hours into the storm, Garrahy had realized the state wouldn’t recover by itself. He called the White House on Monday asking for federal help and then spent Tuesday trying to get it. Finally, late Wednesday morning, Army transport planes began to land on a cleared strip of runway at T. F. Green Airport. They carried heavy snow fighting equipment as well as ambulances.

Two thousand vehicles had to be cleared off the interstates alone. Garrahy had a list of priority roads for the arriving Army: Interstates 95 and 195 north to Pawtucket, East Providence through the Washington Bridge and Route 146 into Woonsocket. The connector road to the airport needed clearing and so did the center of Providence where I-95 comes through.

Joseph Garrahy

Though the equipment arrived on Wednesday, the soldiers didn’t start landing until Thursday. Not until Friday did all 500 sets of boots hit the ground in Rhode Island.

On Thursday, a northbound lane of I-95 was cleared, and a few cars moved by afternoon. Looters had gotten to the cars, targeting CB radios. Some people tried to drive around Providence, hindering cleanup. Mayor Cianci then restricted most of the city to business owners and essential workers. Police threatened to confiscate cars if their drivers didn’t have a good reason to be on the road.

Many truck drivers stranded on the interstate lived in their cabs for five days. Two-hundred fifty tractor-trailers sat at the Connecticut border waiting to make delivery to Providence. Food ran short in the city, especially milk, eggs and bread.

Some store owners charged extortionate prices. Garrahy, in his plaid shirt, went on the emergency broadcast system and told people to ask for a signed receipt if they were overcharged. His comments were interpreted in Portuguese and in sign language.

By Friday, I-195 had opened. Some tractor-trailers hitched chains to stalled cars and moved them out of the way so they could get through. Soldiers helped people start cars that weren’t towed. One vehicle caught fire under the Washington Bridge and a payloader put it out by smothering it with snow.

By Saturday, half the major highways in Rhode Island were still closed. Fuel trucks still couldn’t deliver to Providence and many homes ran low on heating oil. But a federal disaster team had set up in Providence City Hall, and heavy equipment was arriving. The team arranged to have convoys of fuel trucks drive behind heavy equipment to make deliveries.

Military reservists went to work in Providence over the weekend, sometimes for 72 hours straight. They finally cleared the roads. Railroad tracks were shoveled as well, and trains started running.

By 11:30 a.m. on Monday, Providence opened to the public for the first time in a week.

During his many media appearances, Joe Garrahy appeared pleasant and unruffled. His performance helped earn him re-election in 1981.

Years later, he donated his red flannel shirt to the Rhode Island Historical Society. It was displayed with a stick of deodorant and a packet of saltines in the breast pocket, just as it had been during the Blizzard of ‘78.

Storm Larry?

In Connecticut, they called it Storm Larry. It left 2 feet of snow on the ground, and winds reached 86 mph. Hartford got 17 inches in two days—a lot, but one-third of Woonsocket’s unofficial total.

On Monday, Connecticut Gov. Ella Grasso had been riding around in a state police car making public appearances. As the storm worsened, she headed back to Hartford to direct emergency operations from the Armory. The car got stuck in the deep snow on Farmington Avenue, a mile from the Armory. Grasso’s driver, Trooper Bill Taylor, said, “That’s it.”

Ella Grasso

“That’s not it,” Grasso said. The 60-year-old governor then got out of the car and walked alone through the blizzard to the Armory, the emergency operations command center. She arrived covered in snow. There she took charge. She called up 100 National Guardsmen to help with the plowing and asked President Carter to declare Connecticut a disaster area. She drove a plow.

At 9:45 p.m. on Monday, Grasso requested volunteers over NOAA Weather Radio: “Governor Grasso has requested owners of four-wheel drive vehicles to contact their local civil defense office or their nearest state police troop in this weather emergency situation,” the message said.

It was the first time anyone had used NOAA Weather Radio for that purpose.

Grasso sent a second message a half-hour later, declaring a civil preparedness emergency and asking schools and businesses to close.

‘Ella, Help’

The next morning, she sent a third message over NOAA Weather Radio, asking for people with four-wheel drive vehicles filled with gasoline to call their local hospitals and nursing homes. They were needed to drive nurses and doctors.

Grasso spent three days at the Armory, catching a few hours of sleep one night on the sofa. After the storm had cleared on Wednesday, she took a helicopter to survey the damage in eastern Connecticut.

In Montville, two young men on skis wrote a message in the snow. It spelled out, “ELLA HELP.” Grasso saw it from the helicopter. Afterward, she sent a note to the young men, saying she hoped they’d “retain an interest in matters of public concern throughout your lives.”

Meanwhile, at Bradley Airport, 547 soldiers from Ft. Hood in Texas were arriving with snowfighting equipment. Connecticut was soon in motion again.

Grasso appeared on television and radio nearly every hour during the emergency, showing how much she cared about Connecticut citizens. Voters responded to her “Mother Ella” image and gave her a resounding re-election victory in November. But her detractors may have also had it right with their “Ella the Fella” nickname. Grasso’s lieutenant governor, Robert Killian, posed a political threat to her. She made sure he didn’t have anything important to do during the blizzard.

For Dukakis, the outcome was different. He lost his bid for re-election in the Democratic primary. Dukakis later joked that his loss was punishment for the travel ban that kept husbands and wives together for seven days. He may have been right. Though people born nine months after the Blizzard of ’78 wear the “blizzard baby” badge with pride, there were actually fewer than average babies born in November 1978.

Shelter From the Storm

Many remember the storm fondly because it inspired neighborly kindness. People with cross-country skis, sleds and snowmobiles went shopping for their neighbors. They took people stranded in cars to emergency shelters and the sick and injured to hospitals.

In Hull, Mass., Lillian Willis and Joanne Fallon prepared meals in a local middle school for 1,400 people. They took 36-hour shifts over 10 days. On the fourth day, Willis’ shoes fell apart.

Scituate emergency shelters stayed active for weeks for the families left homeless by the storm. Few had fresh clothing. Harvard’s equipment manager sent a tractor-trailer full of Harvard gear to the town. For the rest of the year, it seemed half of Scituate wore crimson.

School wouldn’t open until the middle of the month, so kids played in the snow. UConn students made Star Wars sculptures. Harvard students drank beer in the streets. Brown students made an 8-foot-high snowman.

Brown students also did what many young people did during that blizzard. They jumped out of second- and third-story windows into the deep snow. According to one report, 4 percent of Brown students and employees needed medical attention during the week of the blizzard. In Uxbridge, Mass., Peter Gosselin, 10, jumped off his porch roof into the deep snow. He hit his head and died in a snowbank. He wasn’t found until three weeks later, when a mail carrier saw his mitten sticking out of the snow.

Garden Party

Many had a blast at Boston Garden, the biggest, baddest, most fun emergency shelter of them all. The Garden in February hosts the Beanpot, a Boston college ice hockey tournament. On February 6, 11,666 fans decided to brave the storm and watch the games. During the first contest, Harvard beat Northeastern as word spread that it was getting nasty outside. Some left, but many stayed to watch Boston University play Boston College. An announcement then came over the loudspeaker that the storm was getting worse. Many fans still stayed to watch the game.

Then came a third announcement: Everyone should stay put, because they’d never get home. Hundreds of fans, Boston Garden employees and sports reporters–nearly all men–slept in skyboxes and locker rooms for the next several days.

Rich Fahey, a concession worker, later described the temptation to stay. “There was free coffee, leftover hot dogs and popcorn. We knew where there was beer to be had. Card games had broken out all around the club. Really, what else does a man need?”

As Boston Globe writer Dan Shaughnessy pointed out, they used “combs and deodorant left behind by Terry O’Reilly and Wayne Cashman.”

By the time the Beanpot refugees left three days later, Fahey noted they were “pretty ripe.”

‘I Survived the Blizzard of ’78’

After the Blizzard of ‘78 ended, entrepreneurs quickly capitalized on it. One company made a board game called the Great Blizzard Travel Game, which at one point you could buy for $59 on eBay. Others made T-shirts that said, “I Survived the Blizzard of 1978.” Bumper stickers that said “We Survived the Blizzard of ‘78” were as ubiquitous as Michael Dukakis’ sweater.

Dukakis in reality had four or five sweaters. After the Blizzard of ‘78, people gave him a sweater whenever he appeared at a speaking event. He eventually gave 40 sweaters to Goodwill.

The storm’s effects “are burned into long memories and likely will remain for many years to come,” wrote Eric Fisher, chief meteorologist for Boston’s WBZ-TV news, in his 2021 book, “Mighty Storms of New England.” The Blizzard of ‘78 is the reason snowplows go on alert before a nor’easter hits, he wrote. It’s also the reason any mention of the word “snow” sends New Englanders rushing to the store for bread, milk and eggs.

***

The Blizzard of ’78 wasn’t the only monster storm to hit New England. Read about them in “New England Weather” from the New England Historical Society. Click here to order your copy today!

Images: Boston City Hall By City of Boston Archives from West Roxbury, United States – Snow near City Hall, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=65429193; Boston during cleanup By City of Boston Archives from West Roxbury, United States – Workers and residents during blizzard cleanup, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=65420068. Women on top of snowbank, By City of Boston Archives from West Roxbury, United States – Women on top of snow drift near City Hall, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=65420027

0 comments 1.2K views

Leslie’s Retreat, Salem’s Dress Rehearsal for the Shot Heard ‘Round the World

On a frigid Sunday afternoon in 1775, the townspeople of Salem in the Province of Massachusetts Bay sat huddled in their pews trying to stay warm. The Rev. Thomas Barnard was delivering his sermon when Col. David Mason burst into the church. “The regulars are coming and are now near Malloon’s Mills!” he cried. The congregation bolted toward the doors, headed for a confrontation known forever after as Leslie’s Retreat.

Prelude to Leslie’s Retreat

Salem, then a town of about 5,000, had reached a fever pitch of anxiety by Feb. 26, 1775.

The town had suffered more than most from the harsh dictates of Parliament—the heavy taxes, the closing of the Port of Boston, the restrictions on the market for codfish. The latter banned the lucrative trade with the French, a setback for the vessels that crowded Salem Harbor. Salem schooners fished for cod off the banks of Newfoundland and merchant vessels traded with Spain, Portugal and the West Indies. The French Sugar Islands, now off limits, were the best Caribbean market for dried cod.

jonathan carnes corners the pepper market

Salem during the American Revolution, as imagined by engraver Balthazar Frederic Leizelt; produced for the European market.

Ever since Parliament imposed the Stamp Act in 1767, most of the colonies resisted in some way. In 1772, Rhode Island’s Sons of Liberty captured the crew of a British customs schooner, HMS Gaspee, and burned the vessel to the waterline. In 1774, colonists from York, Maine, to Charleston, S.C., showed their displeasure with the Tea Act. They boycotted it, burned it, confiscated it or threw it into the water.

By late 1774, the colonies had already formed a loose-knit shadow government and begun to build up stores of gunpowder, artillery and arms. The British sought to keep military supplies under their own control. In the fall of 1774, Massachusetts Gov. Thomas Gage had ordered British regulars to confiscate gunpowder from the powder house in Somerville, Mass. On rumors that the redcoats had shed patriot blood, thousands of militia men assembled across the country. Then in December, the word that Gage was sending more troops to Portsmouth, N.H., inspired several hundred patriots to seize Fort William and Mary and confiscate the powder.

The shot heard ‘round the world could have happened at Leslie’s Retreat. But it served as a dress rehearsal for the Battles of Concord and Lexington.

Hide Those Cannons

The Massachusetts Committee of Safety had instructed Col. David Mason of Salem to gather military supplies for the coming war. Mason bought 17 12-pound cannon, captured from the French during the French and Indian War. He then hired Capt. Robert Foster, a blacksmith, to attach the guns to wooden carriages. Mason’s wife and daughters, meanwhile, made 5,000 cartridges for the cannon.

Foster happened to have his workshop on the north side of a drawbridge, the North Bridge. As he worked, he hid the cannon as well as he could on his premises.

Gen. Thomas Gage

A loyalist who worked for Mason somehow communicated the information about Salem’s cannon to Gage. Gage then ordered Lt. Col. Alexander Leslie to march 250 or so men in the 64^th Regiment of the Line to Salem and seize the guns.

On Saturday night, February 25, Leslie and the troops left in transport ships from Castle William in Boston. They sailed north to Marblehead, but not until Sunday afternoon did they land in a quiet cove on Marblehead Neck. Leslie hoped to march through Marblehead and take Salem by surprise. He clearly didn’t know Marblehead very well.

Not Much of a Surprise

The soldiers were below decks when the citizens of Marblehead left for afternoon Sunday meeting. Then when the coast was clear, the soldiers swarmed onto the decks, loaded their muskets and fixed their bayonets. They quickly disembarked and marched in double-quick time toward Salem, the regimental band playing “Yankee Doodle.”

Several Marblehead patriots guessed where they were going and sent messengers to warn Salem.

Mason, who lived by the North Bridge, was one of the first people told about the British. As soon as he heard, he rushed into the North Church and shouted the alarm. The service broke up. Bells pealed, drummers beat their drums and shouts rang through the street: “The foe! They come! They come!” Mason mounted his horse and rode to Foster’s workshop to remove the guns.

Soon anyone with a team of horses was on the scene hauling away cannons. They hid some in a wood under piles of dry leaves and buried some in a gravel pit in Danvers.

The Redcoats Arrive

The regiment’s vanguard arrived at the bridge and saw that some of the planking had been removed. They quickly repaired it and marched to Long Wharf. The main body of the regiment arrived shortly afterward, colors flying, drums beating and bayonets glistening. They stopped at the courthouse, where Leslie held a conversation with a young loyalist lawyer Mason knew. Mason figured he told Leslie the cannons’ location. Mason then rode to the bridge even as the regiment marched in formation toward it.

Alexander Leslie

But Leslie didn’t notice the drawbridge was raised until he was almost upon it. Leslie marched with determination toward the bridge, and not until he was 15 yards away did he realize the bridge was raised. On the other side stood a crowd of Salem patriots, unarmed except for someone who had pistols hidden under his cloak. People climbed to the upraised leaf of the bridge and sat there like hens at roost.

Leslie demanded the bridge be lowered immediately. He stamped his feet, swore and again ordered the bridge lowered.

“Why?” came voices from the crowd.

“I have orders to cross the bridge, and I will do it if it cost my life and my men’s lives,” said Leslie.

Leslie then went over to an officer and said, “You must face about this division and fire upon those people.”

Capt. John Felt

Capt. John Felt, a square, stout workingman who at 50 was still not someone to mess with, had dogged Leslie from the courthouse.

Felt cried out, “Fire! You had better be damned than fire! You have no right to fire without further orders. If you do fire you will all be dead men!”

A Quaker, William Northey, stood nearby. He tried to calm Captain Felt. “Do you know the danger you are in, surrounded by armed troops, and an officer with a drawn sword in his hand?” Northey said.

But Felt had a point. Express riders had rushed out to all parts of the county to rouse the people to arms.

Men as far as 40 miles away heard the alarm, mustered and raced to the scene. Had the soldiers fired, thousands would have come to the bridge. And in Marblehead, nearly the entire male population of the town — a thousand men and boys — had assembled under Col. Azor Orne. Orne ordered them to station themselves behind houses and fences along the road. If the British shot anyone in Salem, they were to fall on them. If not, they were not to show themselves.

Blood Drawn

Leslie did not give the order, the company did not face the crowd and no one fired.

The crowd, though, did not stop jeering at the soldiers, who were shivering in the cold.

Felt then noticed three flatboats on the river and suggested they be scuttled. Men went to work putting holes in the boats with axes.

Leslie realized his only chance of getting across the river was in the boats. He ordered his soldiers into the flatboats, but the men kept striking them with their axes. A scuffle ensued and two men opened their shirtfronts to the regulars and dared them to use their bayonets. One did, pricking Joseph Whicher, the foreman in a local distillery. Whicher exhibited the wound for the rest of his life.

Leslie withdrew and summoned his officers. The crowd got bolder every minute, the troops more exasperated. Leslie announced he would cross the bridge before he returned if he stayed until autumn. Then he declared he’d make barracks for his troops at the stores on the wharf.

“Nobody would care for that,” said Felt.

“By god I will not be defeated,” exclaimed Leslie.

“You must acknowledge that you have been already baffled,” said Felt.

Time to Talk

The Rev. Thomas Barnard stepped in and tried to calm things down. He asked Leslie not to fire on those innocent people.

“Who are you, sir?” said Leslie.

The Rev. Thomas Barnard

“I am Thomas Barnard, a minister of the Gospel and my mission is peace,” he said. Leslie told Barnard his soldiers were much insulted and he was determined to cross the bridge. It was on the King’s Highway, he said, and he would not be prevented. The citizens objected that it wasn’t the King’s highway because it had been built by the owners of the lots on either side of the bridge.

An argument then broke out over the ownership of the bridge.

By then the sun was going down, and Leslie decided he should figure out a compromise. He talked to Felt, Barnard, Mason and Timothy Pickering, who would become President George Washington’s secretary of state. Mason negotiated from a ladder at the top of the raised leaf. He knew Leslie, and he trusted him.

Timothy PIckering

Leslie’s Retreat

Negotiations finally ended with Leslie pledging his word of honor: If the inhabitants would lower the bridge, he would march not 275 yards (50 rods) beyond the bridge and then return without touching any person or property. His orders were to pass the bridge, and he could not disobey them.

The crowd wouldn’t lower the bridge until Felt said they could. Felt agreed to the deal. The drawbridge was lowered. The regulars quietly passed over it, marched 50 rods beyond it, wheeled around and quickly marched back to their ship. The regimental band played a tune, “The World’s Turned Upside Down.” The Marblehead militia stayed hidden.

Felt later explained why he stuck so close to Leslie from the courthouse. If any regulars had fired, Felt said, he would grab Leslie and jump into the river with him for a fight to the death.

Across the Atlantic, the British statesman Edmund Burke commented on Leslie’s Retreat.

Thus ended their first expedition, without effect, and happily without mischief. Enough appeared to show on what a slender thread the peace of the Empire hung, and that the least exertion of the military power would certainly bring things to extremities.

Leslie’s Retreat: Celebrating the Sesquicentennial

Salem will commemorate the 250^th anniversary of Leslie’s Retreat over two weekends of celebration that coincide with the city’s 400^th anniversary. (Click here, here and here to learn more.)

The events are only the beginning of commemorations planned for the sesquicentennial. Find out more at the New England Historical Society’s events calendar. Or you can read about events planned throughout the year as well as every Revolutionary landmark in New England in the New England Historical Society’s book, “Revolutionary War Sites in New England.”

Updated for 2025, the sesquicentennial of the American Revolution. Click here to order your copy today!

Images: Old North Bridge postcard and Leslie’s Retreat Nelson Dionne Salem History Collection, Salem State University Archives and Special Collections, Salem, Massachusetts, CC By 2.0. Salem Courthouse courtesy John Carter Brown Library, CC BY-SA 4.0. With thanks to ENDICOTT, Charles M.. Account of Leslie’s Retreat at the North Bridge in Salem, on Sunday, Feby 26, 1775. United States, n.p, 1856.

0 comments 1.5K views

The January Thaw: Something To Look Forward To, Sort Of

This story about the January thaw is an excerpt from the New England Historical Society’s recent book, “New England Weather.”

Meteorologists will tell you the coldest cold in New England happens when high pressure in Canada pushes air from the North Pole into the region—the “Siberian Express.” It can drop temperatures well below zero for several nights and keep them below zero during the daytime.

But unlike other parts of the country, New England has intense cold snaps that don’t last long—usually a day or two. Another consolation during the bitter weeks of winter is the January thaw. It’s a climatic singularity—a climate event that occurs every year at about the same time. The January thaw happens nearly every January, usually between the 21st and the 25th. Temperatures will rise then throughout the region.

What Causes the January Thaw?

Many meteorologists believe a change in the pattern of winds in the upper atmosphere causes the January thaw. The high-pressure system over Bermuda strengthens, raising temperatures in New England. Then the polar high intensifies, bringing back winter.

The record for the coldest temperature ever recorded in New England was set in a place that creates its own nasty weather—the White Mountains. Their highest peak, Mount Washington, recorded a temperature of minus 50 on Jan. 22, 1885.

Mount Washington

The mountain, known as “home of the world’s worst weather,” has recorded temperatures as low as 8 degrees–in June. Its mean annual temperature is near 26 degrees. Mount Washington also averages 254 inches of snow every year.

For a while, Mount Washington owned the record for the highest wind speed in the world. On April 12, 1934, observers recorded a gust of 231 mph—and lived to tell about it.

No January Thaw Here

Northern Vermont is no slouch when it comes to cold weather, either. The tiny town of Bloomfield tied Mount Washington’s minus 50 record on Dec. 30, 1933.

Prohibition had ended that month, which may have stopped the smuggling of booze across the line from Canada, a little over 20 miles away. So, on that cold December day, Bloomfield residents could warm themselves with a shot of brandy—legally.

Winter in Vermont

Vermont can also claim a distinction for variability. The Lake Champlain region in northwestern Vermont has the greatest daily variation in temperature in the country.

Meanwhile, the town of Norfolk, Conn., has been called the “Icebox of Connecticut.” It recorded the coldest official temperature in the state on Feb. 16, 1943, at minus 37 degrees.

“A chilly spot,” is how a New York Times reporter characterized the town in a Feb. 14, 1988, story. “It is the place where the snow is said to be deeper, the temperatures lower and the winters longer than elsewhere in Connecticut.” Norfolk also gets the most snow in the state during an average year—107 inches.

Subzero temperatures happen rarely in Rhode Island—typically, one day a year or not at all along the coast. Most of the interior gets maybe five days a year of below-zero temperatures. But in cold winters, the southwest part of the state can get as many as eight below-zero days. In fact, the coldest temperature ever recorded in Little Rhody was minus 28 on Jan. 17, 1942, in Richmond, a few miles inland in southwest Rhode Island.

Brrrrr

As you might guess, a town in northern Maine matched Mount Washington and Bloomfield, Vt., for the coldest temperature ever recorded in New England.

The thermometer read minus 50 degrees on Jan. 16, 2009, in Clayton Lake, an unincorporated village in Aroostook County, Maine. That was two degrees colder than the coldest temperature ever recorded in the state. So cold, in fact, that it triggered two meetings of the state’s Records Verification Committee.

The committee brought together people from an alphabet soup of government agencies. They included the National Weather Service (NWS) in Caribou, the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS) in Augusta, the Maine state climatologist, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), Northeast Regional Climate Center (NRCC) in Ithaca, N.Y., and the National Climatic Data Center in Asheville, N.C.

A New England backyard in winter

An instrument at Maine’s Big Black River station for the USGS had recorded the record low arctic temperature. The climatologists then challenged the reading and had several instruments tested. In the end, the Records Verification Committee unanimously voted to accept the minus-50-degree verdict.

That’s Variability

Chester, Mass., can arguably claim to have the most variable seasonal weather in New England. The small town on the eastern edge of the Berkshires spent an unusually cold Sunday watching the Los Angeles Raiders trounce the Washington Redskins in the 1984 Super Bowl. Los Angeles scored 38 points, Washington scored 9 and Chester scored a record minus 40 degrees.

Chester is also one of only three U.S. municipalities that recorded the hottest and coldest temperature in its state. On Aug. 2, 1975, known as New England’s Hot Saturday, the mercury rose to 107 degrees. That’s higher than the highest recorded temperatures in the Florida cities of Miami, Orlando and Tampa. Mount Washington also set its own record for high temperatures that day—70 degrees.

***

Click here to order your copy today.

Images: Vermont in winter: By Vermont – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=79902314. Backyard winter scene, By EgorovaSvetlana – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=143483562.

0 comments 1.3K views

Newer Posts

Older Posts