USA > Massachusetts > Berkshire County > Pittsfield > The history of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, 1916-1955 > Part 3
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At Pittsfield the Reverend Allen came under sharp attack for his spirited support of the colonists' cause. The local Tories, he remarked, "were the worst in the Province." Colonel William Williams, Major Israel Stoddard, and Woodbridge Little for- mally charged him with "rebellion, treason, and sedition." The town meeting, however, did not agree, finding the charges
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"groundless, false, and scandalous." Allen, it resolved, deserved the thanks of all for his efforts "to defend the rights and priv- ileges of the people of this Province."
His chief accusers, as well as other open and covert Tories, now tacked about and decided to sail a more prudent course, hoping to ride out the storm without loss to themselves, being most anxious not to have their estates confiscated if the colonists should triumph. Some even wormed their way back into the good graces of the town, being again entrusted with responsible offices. But the antagonism engendered at this time cropped up again and again in later years.
Meantime, James Easton-soldier, deacon, tavernkeeper, gen- eral contractor, builder of the first school-had taken command of the Berkshire militia, succeeding Colonel William Williams, who had been displaced for his Tory views. At the same time Captain David Noble recruited a company of minutemen from Pittsfield and Richmond, equipping them at his own expense with arms, buckskin breeches, and "coats of blue, turned up with white," summoning a breeches-maker from Philadelphia to tailor their bright "regimentals." This company almost im- mediately saw action.
On April 21, 1775, two days after Paul Revere's midnight ride and the clash of arms at Lexington and Concord, a horse- man came galloping into Pittsfield to report the news. By sun- rise the next morning, Captain Noble and his blue-coated boys marched away to Cambridge where they joined the thousands of militiamen pouring in from other parts of Massachusetts and all of New England.
The war was on, and Pittsfield contributed its full share in men, in money, and in sacrifice to the long and often agonizing struggle for liberty and independence, an almost incredibly daring and at times seemingly hopeless fight against the mighti- est empire in the world.
As the fighting spread, farmer-soldiers from Pittsfield took part in many campaigns. In larger or smaller numbers, they were at Bunker Hill, at Ticonderoga, Crown Point, Bennington, Saratoga (one of the decisive battles of the world), White
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Plains, Trenton, and Princeton. They fought in other battles down to the day in 1781 when, in far-away Virginia, trapped by Washington's armies and their retreat cut off by the fleet of our French allies, the British forces under Lord Cornwallis had to surrender at Yorktown, the last large action of the war.
When peace was formally restored, in 1783, with the signing of the Treaty of Paris, there was a great celebration in Pitts- field, as joyous as any it ever held. All paraded through the streets singing, cannon boomed, and festivities ended with a happy party in what has since been known as the Peace Party House.
A clapboard structure, three stories high with a gambrel roof, the celebrated house stood in 1955 at the corner of East Street and Wendell Avenue, having been moved there almost a century ago to make room for the County Courthouse which occupies its original site.
Construction of the house began about 1776, under the direc- tion of Colonel James Easton, whose tavern was close by on South Street. Financial difficulties arising from the Revolution forced Easton to sell the house, which came into the hands of John Chandler Williams, a rising young lawyer-distinguished among his colleagues as "the honest lawyer." Distantly related to Colonel William Williams, the formerly powerful local magnate, young Williams had also married a Williams-Lucre- tia, daughter of Colonel Israel Williams, a stubborn Tory who spent some time in the Northampton jail for his outspoken views.
A woman of spirit and strong conviction, Lucretia shared her father's Tory views, even though her husband was an ardent patriot. To the end of her life she declared her loyalty to the British Crown and never referred to the Revolution as anything but the "Rebellion." But at the renowned Peace Party in her house, she seems to have been a friendly and delightful hostess, perhaps feeling that any peace was better than the devastations, hardships, brutalities, and bloodshed of war.
Old and young, men and women-the latter mounted on pillions behind their husbands or sweethearts-came riding on
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horseback from near and far to enjoy the party, which was very gay indeed and long remembered. There were tubs of strong rum punch for the guests. Wine and cider quenched the thirsts of those who preferred something less potent. A half ox had been roasted for the occasion, as well as geese and turkeys.
The beaming company, as spirits rose, sang many rousing songs, drank toast after toast, cheered again and again, and listened as patiently as they could to speech after speech by such as always take advantage of festive occasions. At length, the music struck up and the laughing company ended the evening with dancing. They, like all Americans, had good cause to rejoice.
But peace brought its problems, too. The war had disrupted trade and commerce, bringing on an economic depression that was particularly severe in western Massachusetts. The towns and the state, disregarding the situation, were levying high taxes to reduce the heavy indebtedness incurred during the war -taxes that many simply could not pay without sacrificing almost everything they owned. The distressed began demand- ing the abolition, or at least the reform, of the "aristocratic" State Senate, holding that body largely responsible for their ills, declaring that it was not representative of the common people, which was true enough. As then constituted, the Senate repre- sented the well-to-do, being dominated by wealthy merchants and shipowners along the seaboard.
At the same time, a tangled mass of private debts was caus- ing widespread trouble, generating bitter personal conflicts that filled the courts with complaints and counter-complaints. During the war a moratorium on the payment of private debts had been declared. But interest on such debts went on, steadily compounding. As interest rates were very high, many debts were now twice what they originally had been, and this at a time of falling prices for all produce. Farmers found that it took a great deal of mutton at 2d a pound to meet the claims; of creditors who were sharply demanding payment.
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Debtors, for the most part, were small farmers who, sacri- ficing their personal interests, had marched off as soldiers to risk their lives in the cause of Independence. Creditors were largely those who had stayed at home and profited from the war. Throughout the country, there was no love lost between these two groups.
Returning soldiers and the bereaved families of the fighting men who had perished in the struggle had many just and real grievances. Many a soldier had not yet been paid for his services. Those being paid were not much better off, receiving it in paper money that had sunk rapidly in value until it was practically worthless-"not worth a Continental," in the phrase that has passed into the language.
Creditors refused to accept this paper money at its face value, demanding to be paid in gold or silver, which had long since gone into hiding in the coffers of the more prosperous. A succession of poor crops in the Berkshires made the plight of local farmers that much worse. Many a one heard the sheriff pounding on his door, summoning him to court where, as often as not, his livestock and his farm and even his house with its furnishings were sold at public auction to satisfy his creditors or the tax collector, or both. And there were all sorts of men ready to take advantage of his undeserved plight by bidding in his property at a mere fraction of its worth.
"Here I have made an advantageous purchase, and live in the midst of those who owe," reads a letter from Pittsfield at this time, written by Henry Van Schaack, a wealthy Tory who, driven from New York, found haven in Pittsfield. "I have made some other purchases about me, and I have a number of mort- gages in the neighborhood so that I shall, in all probability, be a considerable landholder in a little time ... If any of your friends wish to migrate, by way of encouragement you may assure them that lands are cheap and good in Berkshire .. . All that I want in my delightful retreat," he told his Tory cor- respondent, "is a few people of your sort about me."
Times might be good for the Van Schaacks and others eager- ly waiting to foreclose on their mortgages. Affairs bore a very
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different aspect, however, to those who were about to lose their lands-in many cases, the very acres that they themselves had cleared and brought into cultivation by tremendous toil.
Those threatened with ruin, through no fault of their own, became increasingly angry and determined to resist what they regarded as rank injustice. They were particularly incensed against the old law, a crusty semi-feudal relic, under which a man unable to satisfy his creditors was unceremoniously thrown into jail, to remain there until he had paid his debts-a cruel and nonsensical procedure, because a man could not begin to pay his debts so long as he was locked up in some filthy prison.
The distressed had wide sympathy and support so long as they confined their agitation to demands for redress and orderly reform. They and their sympathizers were often in control of the Pittsfield town meeting during these years. Sympathy and support among moderate-minded men dropped off when the discontented began taking things into their own hands and resorting to violent measures, feeling themselves being pressed relentlessly to the wall as their complaints went unheeded.
In 1784, an angry and determined crowd of eight hundred, many from Pittsfield and neighboring towns, gathered at Great Barrington and "persuaded" the court there to suspend hear- ings so that no more judgments could be handed down against Berkshire debtors. The "silk stockings" in the neighborhood took to their heels, the crowd broke open the jail and released the debtors incarcerated there. A similar incident had occurred at nearby Northampton not long before. Rebellion was also brewing in several eastern counties.
These "mob" actions-"mob" actions had been highly "patriotic" in the Revolution just a few years before-thor- oughly frightened the conservatives who complained that "evil men were endeavoring to subvert the Constitution of the Com- monwealth and poison the minds of the good people of the State." The moderates became alienated, even such staunch friends of the common people as Pittsfield's pastor.
Though sympathetic toward them and their troubles, Allen could not tolerate anything resembling an insurrection against
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the new and hard-won order of things and opposed with all his usual vigor any idea of overturning it by force, arousing many bitter enmities that pursued him to his grave. Tension ran so high in Pittsfield that Allen thought it wise to keep a pistol at his bedside, and walked circumspectly at all times.
But notwithstanding spirited opposition in Pittsfield and other towns, this did not prevent Eli Parsons from leading four hundred Berkshire men to join the forces of the insurgents' commander-in-chief, Captain Daniel Shays, of Pelham, near Amherst. A Revolutionary War veteran with a good record, Shays had fought bravely at Bunker Hill and Saratoga.
Open rebellion broke out late in 1786, just before Christmas, when Shays led a force of a thousand armed men into Spring- field and then to Worcester, forcing the courts in both places to close. He then marched back to Springfield and demanded the surrender of the U. S. Arsenal there, seeking guns to arm his rapidly growing forces.
A large militia force was guarding the Arsenal. When the rebels ignored commands to disperse, the militia fired into their ranks, killing three. The rest fled, pursued by 4,000 militiamen under General Benjamin Lincoln, who soon shattered Shays' forces. General Lincoln had his headquarters in Pittsfield for a time as his men chased scattered rebel bands through the Berk- shire hills. The last battle took place not far to the south, on a back road between Sheffield and South Egremont, where a small rebel force of a hundred men was utterly routed.
Fourteen of Shays' men were sentenced to die on the gallows. Almost half of these-six, to be exact-were from the Berk- shires, including Samuel Rust of Pittsfield, another Revolution- ary War veteran. Many more were jailed or fined. All who had supported the insurrection in any way, even by lip service, were disenfranchised for a time.
The Commonwealth had the good sense not to be vengeful and vindictive, tempering justice with mercy. It was anxious to bury the past and allow old wounds to heal, refraining from any steps that might rekindle the strife that had divided the towns throughout the Commonwealth.
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The disenfranchised had their civil rights restored after they had taken a new oath of allegiance. This oath was required of thirty-one in Pittsfield. None of those condemned to death had to pay the extreme penalty. Of the six Berkshire men sentenced to be hanged, Samuel Rust of Pittsfield and two others were pardoned. One had his sentence commuted to seven years' im- prisonment. Two others escaped.
Even Captain Shays was pardoned after a time. Retiring to Sparta, New York, near Ossining, he died about thirty years later, having fallen into obscurity after shooting across the horizon with a brief flash that might have sparked a general conflagration, for discontent in all the states was near tinder point.
Though still a rather isolated country town, wholly depend- ent upon its farms, Pittsfield was steadily growing. By 1791, its population numbered almost two thousand, a tenfold in- crease since its incorporation thirty years before. It was a "pretty town," so a South Carolina Congressman recorded at this time when he passed through on his way from Hartford to Albany. Coming by way of Westfield and Becket, he had a very hard time getting his carriage over what an earlier traveler had termed the "horrid mountains." The going was all uphill and downhill, and the road was the "most execrable that was ever travelled by a carriage," groaned the Congressman, "a narrow track through the forest, the path full of huge rocks and loose stones"-the usual state of mountain roads at the time. If they were wise, people traveled on horseback.
Coming out at length on a high point, the Congressman was delighted, having a "most enchanting view of the prodigious extent of the country, cultivated throughout and intermixed with woods. At a great distance below us, Pittsfield appeared beautiful in this plain, and the whole afforded a rich scene, strangely contrasted with the gloomy forest and uncomfortable rocks we had left behind."
The growth of the town necessitated the building of a new and larger meetinghouse. Plans for it were drawn by a re- nowned Boston architect, Charles Bulfinch. He had designed
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scores of simple, beautiful churches in New England, but is perhaps best remembered today as the architect of the Capitol in Washington, and of City Hall, Faneuil Hall, and the State House in Boston.
To make room for Pittsfield's new church, which was to be fifty-five feet wide and ninety feet long, it was decided to chop down the towering elm that had shaded the first meetinghouse. When axemen arrived to start work, Lucretia Williams came running across the road from the Peace Party House and begged them to spare the tree. When her pleadings proved of no avail, she threw herself between the axemen and the tree, and refused to budge.
As she could not stand there forever guarding the tree, her indulgent husband John Chandler came to the rescue and made a proposition. If the meetinghouse were built well back from the elm, which meant moving the site northward, he would give to the town an equal measure of ground south of the tree. His offer was accepted. Not only was the grand Old Elm saved, but the town acquired the common, or green, or park, that has ever since been the heart of Pittsfield.
To finance construction of the meetinghouse, which cost almost £2,200, the town levied an assessment on all taxpayers. This aroused determined protests by the local Baptists, Shakers, Methodists, and Episcopalians who, perhaps two hundred in all, did not worship in the Congregational meetinghouse. This caused sharp disputes, but there was no escape for these dis- senters from the "standing order."
The Baptists had formed a congregation in the West Part as early as 1772, organized by a zealous clothier, Elder Valen- tine Rathbun, who had been very active in the Revolutionary cause, often being called upon to represent the town.
In southwest Pittsfield there was a Shaker community, in- spired by the teachings of Mother Ann Lee, who expounded the doctrine of life-long celibacy. There were to be no children born in the bosom of her church-rather self-defeating, it would seem, for if the whole world accepted her doctrine, as she hoped and prayed, there would be after a generation nobody
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except a few "sinners" to inherit the earth and the fullness thereof.
The Methodists began meeting in both the East and the West Part in 1788, holding their "classes" wherever they could-in private homes, in schoolhouses, in barns, in open fields or the woods.
The Episcopalians, few in number and all Tory in back- ground, met more or less regularly for lay services, usually at the house of Henry Van Schaack, who in 1781 built for him- self south of the town a handsome mansion known as Broad- hall. Dutch Colonial in style, the mansion still stands, now oc- cupied by the Pittsfield Country Club.
All of these congregations lay under the disabilities of an old law, a relic of early Puritan days, which made every town government officially responsible for the establishment and maintenance of public worship. It imposed a general tax for this purpose.
Theoretically, each town could decide by majority vote what form of worship it wished to support. But practically, inasmuch as the early Puritans and their descendants always constituted a huge majority in the towns, it meant that the Congregational meetinghouse was the established church in every community. All religious taxes and assessments went to its support. Any objections to this in the early days had been ruthlessly crushed; "heretics" were driven out, or hanged, as many Quakers were in Boston.
The law had become less severe and now carried this proviso. If a tax-paying dissenter, say a Baptist, could prove that he reg- ularly attended a Baptist church, and if the authorities accepted that church as bona fide, and if the church were incorporated by law-which many dissenting churches were not-then the dissenter might ask to have his religious tax payments trans- ferred to the congregation to which he belonged.
It was an unfair arrangement, subject to many abuses. But it prevailed down to 1834 when Massachusetts at length sep- arated Church and State, placing all denominations upon an equal basis. Religious freedom in Massachusetts was not estab-
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lished by either the Pilgrims or the Puritans. It was won by the Quakers, Baptists, Episcopalians, Methodists, and others willing to battle for their rights. And it was a long, hard, bitter fight.
The issue was first joined in Pittsfield in 1790, with the building of the second meetinghouse. The Baptists led by Elder Valentine Rathbun and the Episcopalians under Henry Van Schaack combined in a formal protest against any town action "to assess or burthen one religious sect of Christians for build- ing places of religious worship for another." Nor should "any part of the town property {some school lands had been sold to raise money for the meetinghouse} be applied for purposes but what are actually for town uses."
Contrary doctrines, they declared, "tend to subordinate one sect or denomination of Christians to another in direct viola- tion of the Constitution of the Commonwealth, and contrary to the practice of Christians in general in the United States of America."
The town evaded the direct issues, keeping a discreet silence on the sale of school lands for religious purposes, which was plainly illegal. Offering a compromise on the other matter, it decreed that dissenters had to pay the assessment for building the meetinghouse. But if they so desired and made proper ap- plication, the moneys received from them would be paid to their respective churches. Nobody was happy about this, but the issue was soon overshadowed by a clash that shook the meetinghouse and the town to their foundations.
Current politics occasioned the clash, but the cause went deeper, back to the Revolution. Parson Allen, always an ardent democrat of the Jeffersonian school, passionately believed in rule by the people. The doctrine was now under heavy attack by the Federalist Party which controlled both Massachusetts and the national government. The Federalists were quite openly and aggressively anti-democratic. They believed in strong govern- ment by the well-born, by the wealthy, by the "aristocratic." Some even flirted with monarchical ideas. The common people, in the Federalist view, constituted a "hydra-headed monster"
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that had to be curbed at all times and beaten to the ground if necessary.
Apart from domestic issues, the public mind was inflamed and deeply divided by happenings abroad-in particular, by the great French Revolution of 1789 and the events that fol- lowed: the triumph of the sans-culottes, the overthrow of the feudal aristocracy, the declaration of the Rights of Man, the proclamation of the French Republic, the dethroning and ex- ecution of the King, the Reign of Terror under the Jacobins and Robespierre, the rise of Napoleon and his all-conquering armies.
The Federalists saw the French Revolution merely as blood- shed and atrocities, a wild and dangerous anarchy, a brutal orgy by the mob. While the Democrats did not condone the blood- shed and atrocities, they saw the Revolution for what it funda- mentally was, as time proved-the painful birth of a new order, an earth-shaking triumph of the common man, a final breaking of the feudal bonds that had held Europe in chains for cen- turies, the harbinger of greater freedom for the individual, no matter what his station in life.
American opinion became even more sharply and acrimoni- ously divided when Britain declared war on the French Repub- lic. The Federalists, many of whom had been Tories, were loudly pro-British. The Democrats were just as loudly pro- French. The division poisoned social and business relations, driving a wedge between old friends, even splitting families.
Rancor reached white heat with the approach of the 1800 national election. To their opponents, the Federalists were "blood-suckers ... stock-jobbers ... heartless enemies of the people." To the Federalists, the Democrats were "firebrands . . . anarchists ... criminal slanderers ... traitors ... and of all villains," thundered President Timothy Dwight of Yale, "the most infamous and detestable." Their leader, Thomas Jefferson, was a disgusting "atheist" and incendiary "Jacobin" - which sounds very much like political debate as carried on today.
When the voting was over and the news came that Jefferson was the next president, the Federalists felt, quite literally, that
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the world had come to an end. It had, as a matter of fact, for them. They never again regained power in Washington. But they fought on elsewhere with even grimmer determination and more arrogant pretensions, hoping for the day when they would be returned to power "to save the country"-an occupational obsession with all parties.
The temper of the Federalists can be judged by the extreme views of the able, cultivated, and otherwise moderate Theodore Sedgwick of Stockbridge. Sedgwick, wrote his distinguished daughter Catherine, was the kindest of men, scrupulous in all his dealings with high and low.
But, she said, he "habitually spoke of the people as 'Jacobins, sans-culottes, and miscreants.' He-and in this, I speak of him as the type of the Federal Party-dreaded every upward step they made, regarding their elevation as a depression." The com- mon people could not be expected to feel the "moralities" of government, or understand its abstractions. There could be no good government "without a strong aristocratic element." As for Jefferson, he was "false, the type of evil."
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