In 1753, Boston decided to build a large house to teach impoverished young women and girls spinning, so that they could support themselves. Termed the Manufactory House, this never quite lived up to its promise, and by 1768, the house was a shelter for poor families in Boston.
The problems arose in autumn 1768, when two regiments of troops were posted to Boston in the aftermath of the town’s sometimes-violent protests against the Townshend Acts. Needless to say, the presence of soldiers was vexing to the Bostonians, and from the start they resisted as much as they could. Namely, housing for the soldiers… or the lack thereof.
Although the soldiers entered the town beginning on October 1, they did not have permanent barracks. Some slept in public houses, tents on Boston Common, and others on the floor of Faneuil Hall. The situation escalated until October 15, when General Thomas Gage visited Boston. In the aftermath, Royal Governor Francis Bernard convinced the provincial council to give the Manufactory House to the soldiers.
Bernard made it clear that he did not believe the people currently living in the house were really tenants; in a letter, he claims they’d been released from the workhouses to live there specifically to stop the troops from having a place to sleep. He also writes that Sons of Liberty had not only promised support to the tenants, but warned them that “if they quit the House, they must quit the Town, for they would be killed if they staid in it.” Whether you believe him or not is up to you.
Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf then visited the home to evict these stubborn tenants. They refused to leave, insisting that unnamed lawyers (the “best in the province,” I wonder who) had advised them against it. The Chief Justice also visited and ordered them to disperse, to no avail.
Greenleaf left. For the moment.
On October 20, the sixty-four-year-old sheriff entered the house again through an open cellar window. Not a great plan when there’s one of you and dozens of tenants very determined to keep their home.
The tenants recognized Greenleaf and captured him. At some point, Greenleaf was able to signal to an officer outside (though Bernard doesn’t specify how). A party of soldiers promptly surrounded the yard, and a party of angry Bostonians promptly surrounded them. Bernard describes the townspeople as “very abusive” but doing no real “mischief,” which I interpret as curses and threats thrown but no physical violence.
Fortunately for Greenleaf, the soldiers managed to get him released. Fortunately for the tenants, they hadn’t lost their home.
That being said, soldiers kept the house blockaded that day “to terrify or starve the inhabitants out of their house,” to quote the New York Gazette. As you may imagine, this did not sit well with more Bostonians.
On the second day, hungry children were reportedly seen at the house windows, crying for bread. When a baker tried to approach, he was prevented. The Gazette reports that provisions were thrown into the house “with the loss of blood, but no lives.” No specifics on what this entailed are provided.
By the time the third day arrived, however, Greenleaf gave up and permitted the soldiers to end the siege. Bernard concludes his version of events by expressing frustrations that sound distressingly similar to something a politician or rich landlord would say nowadays:
this Building belonging to the Government and assigned by the Governor and Council for his Majesty’s Use, is kept filled with the Outcast of the Workhouse, and the Scum of the Town to prevent it’s being used for the accommodations of the King’s Troops.
The soldiers did find housing eventually. Just not at the expense of other people’s housing (because, gee, housing for everyone seems like it should be the goal of a government to me, but what do I know).
Next week, we’ll discuss what may have happened to one of the Massacre defendants post-army.
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