The Charter Oak

ONCE UPON A time more congenial than our own to the thoughtful contemplation of history and traditions, every Connecticut school child was familiar with Hartford's Charter Oak and the stirring legend which planted the venerable tree firmly at the center of the state's cultural symbolism. Indeed, with the possible exception of the one more lovely than any poem Joyce Kilmer thought he would ever see, the Charter Oak was probably America's best-known, best-loved tree. For this was, after all, no spindly, robin-haired specimen, suited for nothing more memorable than a poet's doting rhymes, but a veritable forest monarch, destined to play a pivotal role in saving a young colony from tyranny and preserving her people's freedom. Undoubtedly it was the tradition of the Charter Oak which the noted historian George Bancroft remembered when he wrote, "There is no state in the union in whose early history, if I were a citizen, I could find more of which to be proud." Thus, while the legend has been repeated countless times before, no collection of Connecticut legendry would be complete without it.
There can be little doubt that the great white oak stood taller than other trees in the forest long before circumstances rooted it deep in the colonial history of Connecticut. Ancient -- perhaps 400 years old -- at the time of Columbus' voyages to America, the tree had been an object of veneration by generations of Indians, who had traditionally held their councils beneath its expansive boughs. In 1614, during the earliest European voyage up the Connecticut River as far as Hartford, Adrian Block and his men were so impressed with the stately oak that the Dutch explorer took special note of it in the log of his journey. Then, when English settlers came to the land of the Indian sachem Sequassen in the 1630's, the old tree became the property of Samuel Wyllys, one of the first landowners in what would come to be the city of Hartford. But according to tradition, as Wyllys was busy clearing away the forest around his home-stead and getting ever closer to the white oak, he was visited by a delegation of Indians fearful that their revered tree had been scheduled for destruction with all the rest. The Indians begged him earnestly to spare the tree, explaining that it had originally been planted as a token of peace by a great sachem who had brought his people from the west to the Connecticut River valley, and that the appearance of its first leaves in spring had been, since time immemorial, a sign from the Great Spirit that the days were propitious for the planting of corn. To the relief of the Indians -- and, as it later turned out, the people of Connecticut -- Wyllys left the ancient tree standing.
Even as legends clung to the early history of the massive oak, so, too, did they mark the original story of the Connecticut Charter. It has been said that back in the reign of King Charles I, the crown had no more faithful supporter in colonial America than John Winthrop, governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. However, John Winthrop's grandson, popularly known as "Winthrop the Younger" to distinguish him from his grandfather of the same name, had early left Massachusetts to cast his lot with the Connecticut Colony. So, after the restoration of the monarchy in 1660, when Connecticut decided to request a charter of liberties such as the other colonies had, Winthrop the Younger was chosen to carry the petition to Charles II, son of Charles I, who had been beheaded by Cromwell. The feeling was that the Second Charles might be especially generous with those who had been loyal to the First, and, thus, because of the family connection, Winthrop might be looked upon with special favor by the new king.
In order to remind Charles II of his father's close ties with the elder Winthrop, Connecticut's Winthrop brought with him as a royal gift a magnificent ring, which Charles I had once bestowed upon the Massachusetts Bay Colony governor as a token of their friendship. But as influential as the ring must have been in currying the King's favor, it was as nothing, according to contemporary court gossip, compared to the good accomplished by Sequassen's deed and the covetous Dutchess of Castlemain. It seems that among the mementos which "Young" Winthrop had brought with him from Connecticut was an exotic-looking parchment covered with queer totems, the document by which Sequassen had signed away his birthright lands to the English settlers at Hartford. They say that when the Dutchess of Castlemain, Charles II's current mistress, caught sight of the "savage" deed, she instantly fell in love with it and vowed to have it for her own.
Promising to entice all kinds of exceptional charter provisions from her royal boyfriend in exchange for the novel parchment, the Dutchess finally persuaded the Connecticut emissary to give it to her. Actually, Winthrop was well aware that the life of a favorite's fancy was likely to be fleeting; so he could expect soon to have the deed returned to him through the efforts of certain confidential servants. Anyway, whether it was the ring or a mistress' honeyed entreaties which did the trick is hard to say, but Winthrop the Younger did secure from Charles II such concessions to the Connecticut colonists' home rule that the Charter, signed and sealed on April 26, 1662, became the most liberal guarantee of rights enjoyed by any British colony in America, with the exception of Rhode Island. So unusual was it, in fact, that within twenty-five years -- during the reign of Charles II's successor, James II -- the crown decided to scrap it altogether. In that effort, the Connecticut Charter and the majestic white oak at the bottom of Samuel Wyllys' garden were forever joined in legend.
Trouble began brewing for the Connecticut Colony in 1687, when King James II, in contempt of their chartered rights, appointed Sir Edmund Andros, then governor of New York, as governor of all the New England colonies. The monarch was upset by the number and variety of rights granted to the people by their separate charters, and wanted to bring all of the colonies together under a consolidated patent which made it unequivocally clear that the word of the King of England was law. The colonies would be "encouraged" to give up their charters to the crown. They would then be revoked. For this difficult and demanding job, James had chosen the right agent, for Andros was arrogant, aggressive and tough, with just enough meanness thrown in to make him thoroughly unlikable, but very, very difficult to say "no" to.
Andros began putting pressure on Connecticut by sending messengers into the colony, demanding that the precious Charter under which the people had lived more or less happily for a quarter-century be surrendered to the crown. When Governor Treat (in effect) told Sir Edmund's deputies to take a flying leap into the Connecticut River, they returned, after delivering Treat's reply to the New England governor, with a potent threat from Andros: hand over the Charter immediately or else Connecticut would be officially exterminated. All of the colony's lands east of the Connecticut River would be annexed to Massachusetts, while territory west of the river would become part of New York. Although Sir Edmund was beginning to worry them a bit, Connecticut officials again refused to surrender their Charter.
Andros decided that he had had enough. He would have to unleash the ultimate weapon -- himself. He would go to Connecticut and personally demand that the Charter be delivered into his hands. Having warned the colony's officials that he would be in Hartford on October 26, 1687, and that he would address the Assembly on the meaning of treason at Moses Butler's Tavern that evening, he prepared to depart from Boston. They say that never before had the people of Connecticut seen a gaudier show of armed force than Andros' procession across the colony, by way of Norwich, to Hartford. Mounted on a "steel gray horse with tapering ears and crested neck," the New England governor rode at the head of a column of seventy soldiers and two trumpeters, whose scarlet coats and gleaming guns and lances fairly blinded the eyes of the mournful citizens who lined the route. By the time Sir Edmund reached Hartford, according to eyewitnesses, the sullen crowds and long ride had put him in a nasty temper; his always short fuse was burning close to the explosion point.
The showdown at Butler's Tavern made for a striking scene. The falling dusk cast the meeting room in shadows which the flickering candles in two seven-branched candelabra did little to dispel. Governor Treat hunched in his deeply-carved chair at one end of the conference table, while down one side, on backless stools, perched members of the colonial Assembly. Facing them across the board were Andros' minions, their uniforms glowing pink in the candle-light. At the end of the table opposite Treat sat the crown's head man in New England, a cavalier hat with wickedly curling plumes set on his carefully curled locks and a fire that was not reflected candlelight in his beady eyes.
When Andros finally rose to speak, a silence like cold mutton fell upon the assembly. He minced no words. As the duly appointed governor of New England and agent of His Majesty James II, he had come for the Charter. Since James was their king as well as his, Andros said, it would be treason to refuse any longer to surrender the document. He would have them produce it -- and quickly -- or Connecticut would suffer the consequences of deliberately committing a treasonous act. When Andros was through, Governor Treat seemed to recognize the gravity of his words. He signalled Captain Joseph Wadsworth to fetch the precious charter from its hiding place in a blanket chest at the Wyllys home nearby.
In Wadsworth's absence, a heated debate broke out among the representatives of the Connecticut colony. As Governor Andros watched in stony silence, one after another, members of the colonial Assembly rose to argue the merits of giving over the Charter, or holding on to it, while those in disagreement with each speaker's position shouted insults from their seats. However, when Captain Wadsworth shortly returned and handed the Charter case over to Governor Treat, the stage was set for an act so dramatic that it has lived on in legend to this day. But whether the action was the result of careful planning or a lucky accident will never be known.
As the "conspiratorialist" version of the story has it, Governor Treat's opening the box containing the Charter was a prearranged signal for Guilford's Andrew Leete to jump to his feet and launch into a loud tirade against surrendering the Charter. As he waxed more and more eloquent, so this story goes, he was to wave his arms in sweeping gestures and, with a final, convincing swipe, knock over both candelabra on the table and plunge the chamber into darkness. On the other hand, the "accidentalist" rendition of the legend says that Leete was a sick man when he came to Hartford for the meeting with Andros, but, weak as he was, he felt an obligation to attend and to speak his mind, if the occasion presented itself. That opportunity arose, they say, just as Governor Treat received the Charter from Captain Wadsworth. In measured and solemn tones, the ailing Leete delivered a moving speech in opposition to giving up the colony's cherished guarantee of rights. But as he voiced the deathly prophetic warning that "measures obtained by force do not endure," Leete suddenly clutched at his chest and toppled forward, unconscious, upon the table before him, tipping over the candles as he fell.
All versions of the story agree on what happened following the loss of illumination. Taking instant advantage of the darkness and confusion, assemblyman Nathaniel Stanley seized the Charter and passed it through an open window behind him to Captain Wadsworth, who had been observing the scene from outside the tavern when the lights went out. With the priceless scroll under his arm, Wadsworth raced back to the Wyllys house, where the Charter had previously rested, and conferred breathlessly with Ruth Wyllys about where to conceal it anew. They both thought it foolish to hide the document in the house, for Andros' men would surely search the place where they knew the Charter had been kept earlier.
Finally, Mistress Wyllys thought of the huge white oak on the hillside below her house. It was a forest remnant, she told Wadsworth, twisted and distorted by time and wind, with a crevice near its base large enough to accommodate the charter case, with room to spare. Stuff the parchment in the hollow, she urged, and none of the King's men would ever be able to find it. And so, wrapped in Captain Wadsworth's coat, the Connecticut Charter was hidden in the ancient tree, never to be recovered by the tyrant Andros. As it turned out, once he got over his rage at the disappearance of the Charter from the blacked-out room at Butler's Tavern and the fruitless search which followed, Sir Edmund decided to take over the government of the colony, even though he had been unable to lay his hands on the document. And until William of Orange succeeded James II on the throne of England, the people of Connecticut lived daily under the heavy hand of oppression.
Meanwhile, back on Wyllys Hill, the Charter Oak seemed to take a new lease on life, perhaps, some thought, because of the responsibility thrust upon it by the treasure in its bosom. The tree, which in 1687 seemed on the verge of collapse, continued to put out new growth for almost 170 years thereafter, until it was finally destroyed by a great storm on August 21, 1856. Then did the city of Hartford, indeed, all of Connecticut, begin a period of civic mourning. On the day the Charter Oak fell, an honor guard was placed around the remains, Colt's Band of Hartford played a funeral dirge, an American flag was attached to the shattered trunk and, at sunset, all of the bells of Hartford sounded in mourning knell.
From far and near the people of Connecticut came to gather even the smallest fragments of the oak, to hold and to pass along to posterity as precious reminders of their heritage. At least three chairs, including the one used today by the Speaker of the House in the General Assembly, were fashioned from the wood of the Charter Oak, while acorns dropped by the tree were gathered and planted, to produce in time a forest of trees directly descended from the historic oak. In fact, so many relics were said to have come from the fallen tree that Mark Twain insisted they could be lumped together and used as supports for the Connecticut River bridge bearing its name. Given the feelings of affection and respect which have traditionally been accorded the Charter Oak and its dramatic history, the author of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was probably telling the truth - without "stretching" it at all.

from Legendary Connecticut by David E. Philips / ISBN 1-880684-05-5 / $17.95

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