In the immediate aftermath of the American Civil War, white planters observed that recently freed men and women had an impulse for mobility, a long cherished expression of American liberalism. Edlie Wong’s study of the pre-war period helps us understand just how precious unimpeded travel could be to peoples of African descent who—regardless of their status—found it especially difficult and even dangerous. The institution and customs of Atlantic slavery cast a very wide net over what Wong refers to as the “legal culture of travel” and particularly over those suing for freedom or navigating laws targeting the movement of free blacks. Though perhaps a challenging read for those accustomed to more linear historical accounts, Neither Fugitive nor Free‘s interdisciplinary and transatlantic approach usefully draws from literary criticism, critical race theory, legal history, and gender studies to provide sophisticated and revealing insights into Anglo-American understandings of and narratives about freedom and slavery.

The book begins by deconstructing an iconic event in British antislavery action, the landmark case Somerset v. Stewart (1772). Historians have long known that Judge Mansfield’s decision in Somerset was purposefully limited and only indirectly challenged slavery by preventing the forcible deportation of slaves. What Wong nicely shows, however, is how abolitionist writers and lawyers successfully seized on this case to create an “invented tradition” that slaves who “breathed English air” became immediately free. This useful fiction positively affected white British liberal consciousness and increased opportunities for black freedom, but subsequent legal cases demonstrated a more restrictive reality. For example, in the 1827 Case of the Slave Grace, which is examined in detail, Lord Stowell of the High Court of Admiralty ruled that Grace Jones, a domestic slave from Antigua who had lived in England for several years, “forfeited” her freedom the moment that she returned, allegedly voluntarily, to Antigua.

Slave status, in short, could be reaffixed based on the assumption that a former slave’s “consent” to travel back home reflected an “implied contract” to re-enter slavery. These decisions created conditions whereby “choice” could become “another means to secure … subjection” (53). Colonial slaveholders exploited that irony, leaving black Britons like Mary Prince and Ashton Warren lamenting the fact that their English rights were not transportable to their native lands. With the verdict of individual freedom suits—and symbolically the British antislavery movement more broadly—resting on questions of consent (rather than inborn natural rights), proslavery and antislavery writers and jurists contested the nature of the slave will, and especially, it seems, those of female slaves. Proponents of slavery, Wong argues, asserted the caricature of the “utterly willful” enslaved woman, while antislavery groups, paradoxically, turned to the idea of a “will-less” and totally “unprotected” woman whose victimhood prevented choice and required humanitarian aid and protection (56).

Such themes anticipated and shaped the developments in the United States where personal freedom suits occurred even more frequently, especially after an 1836 Massachusetts court case, Commonwealth v. Aves,declared that slaves voluntarily brought into that state by their masters automatically gained freedom. On the surface, this case and similar ones, along with the repeal of northern states’ sojourner laws that had long protected slaveowners’ rights while traveling, seemed to preserve the idea that freedom and slavery had clear geopolitical boundaries. Yet Wong, in arguably her best chapter, reveals how kinship ties and social pressures blurred this “territorial logic” and meant that any freedom that slaves found was compromised and insecure at best, and in many instances quite costly. Indeed, for Med, the slave child at the center of the Aves case, freedom had depended on her presumed lack of will and resulted in her being permanently separated from her biological mother and placed in a chronically underfunded Boston Samaritan Asylum owned by the Boston Female Anti-Slavery Society (BFASS) which had instigated the lawsuit on Med’s behalf.

Even as abolitionist groups like the BFASS wrapped themselves in the sentimental ideals of “republican motherhood” and celebrated their victory in the Aves case, they also “found themselves baffled by slave petitioners who stubbornly refused to relinquish kin for the ‘gift’ of northern freedom” (80). Indeed, slaveholders adapted to evolving rules by strategically exploiting kinship connections back home in order to minimize the risk of flight while in the North. In one instance, such kin networks led an adult slave, Catharine Linda, to not only chose to return South with her master, but (likely at her masters’ behest) to use her temporary rights as a free woman of Massachusetts to sue the anti-slave activist who had issued a writ of habeas corpus on her behalf for allegedly kidnapping her (97). Unable to fit such incongruous behavior into what Wong sees as antislavery’s “sentimentalized” paradigms of freedom, they went largely ignored or, in her sometimes semi-Freudian analysis, “repressed” into literary reflections of sexual violence such as E.R. Pickard’s The Kidnapped and the Ransomed (114). Wong’s special attention to the gender dynamics of these female petitioners “challenges the masculine trajectory of fugitive individualism found in the [more widely known fugitive] slave narrative genre and illustrates the complex ways in which enslaved women and children negotiated the unexpected predicaments that the law of freedom created in their lives” (80-81). This discussion alone, along with the book’s analysis of the turn towards the motive of “theft” in antislavery writings, makes this a valuable contribution to our historical understanding of how the forces of slavery and antislavery worked, one that joins other historical scholarship in highlighting the degree to which the interest and needs of abolitionists and those of individual slaves often diverged.

Less clear or convincing, however, is how this gendered analysis should transform our understanding of other legal battles, including the context and meaning of the infamous Dred Scott decision, a subject taken up in chapter 3. Wong suggests that previous cases such as Julia v. McKinney and Rachel v. Walker, wherein enslaved mothers successfully sued for their and (by the doctrine ofpartus sequitur ventrem) their children’s freedom, might have inspired Dred and Harriet Scott’s to do the same. Yet it is not entirely clear that success in these earlier cases had rested on the gender of the plaintiffs. Indeed, if that were the case, why did Scott’s lawyers decide to drop Harriet’s presumably stronger case and proceed forward with Dred’s? Nevertheless, by looking South and West, Wong nicely shows the diverse and often paradoxical ways that the laws of freedom and slavery intersected to provide confined—but sometimes tangible—avenues for black maneuverability within a slave state. For example, the mere existence of slaves filing freedom suits required at least a temporary suspension of that status, a fact which “held up an egalitarian ideal of the law” while also “strengthening the racial ideologies” by temporarily substituting racial terms like “negro” or “mulatto” for status (157).

The final chapter of the book takes up the interesting but understudied Negro Seamen Acts, whereby free black mariners of British and northern birth found themselves subjected to confinement when docked in southern ports. In these situations, southern states and supportive courts and politicians “denationalized” black citizens, proffering racial categorization over any rights and privileges gained by birth or political attachment—concepts Wong elsewhere describes as “modern fictions” (248). Close readings of F. C Adams’s Manuel Pereira—based on a Portuguese born, British sailor jailed under the act—and the story of John Glasgow—a free-born British subject sold into slavery under South Carolina’s law—highlight that the perceived needs and laws of slavery continued to reverberate throughout the broader Atlantic.

Despite Wong’s generally pessimistic story, she suggests that the perniciousness of these acts and the dissemination of information about them contained the seeds for their own destruction by creating the conditions for an “unexpected alliance” between various groups that helped to radicalize the political landscape against South Carolina. A much needed closer look at the history of these laws, however, might problematize the conclusion that these “peripatetic struggles” directly threatened slaveholders’ position. Even by Wong’s own account, British officials in southern ports deemed the issue largely closed on the eve of the Civil War, and despite considerable frustration from black groups, northern merchants and politicians seem largely willing to accommodate slaveholding sensibilities, a point that actually boosts Wong’s larger claim about slavery’s wide-reaching influence. An informative conclusion highlights the U.S. State Department’s move in the late 1840s to stop granting passports to free blacks (though interestingly not for slaves accompanying whites), for fear that doing so would indicate a sign of national citizenship. African-Americans like Frederick Douglass generally found ways around this, but the denial of official documentation “confirmed the statelessness of all free black Americans” (242).

Neither Free nor Slave is a highly ambitious book and in places the rapid movement from often narrowly determined legal decisions to broad literary motifs are not always as clear or as historically contextualized as they could be. In addition, one wonders if and how the presumably large, but here largely ignored, number of freedom suits brought by men comported to Wong’s gendered analysis. Still, this is a very impressive work that historians stand to gain a great deal from. It vividly reinforces that “the line between slavery and freedom was far less clearly demarcated,” both geographically and practically, than either nineteenth-century abolitionists or subsequent historians have tended to think (8). It highlights the need to continue to view the complicated struggles between slavery and freedom within a broader national and international lens. Finally, it shows, in compelling ways, how cross-disciplinary approaches can help peel away layers to the complicated and interrelated Anglo-American stories of liberalism and bondage.

For reasons that no one seems completely to understand, the middle third of the nineteenth century, particularly in America, was a hothouse of utopian experiments. Some of these enterprises—the Shakers, for instance—first took root in the eighteenth century and sustained themselves through succeeding generations, long after their charismatic founders had died. Benjamin Franklin’s memoir offers intriguing portraits of the Moravians in mid-eighteenth-century Pennsylvania and of Michael Wohlfahrt (or Welfare) with his fellow Dunkers. Amish and Mennonite communities dating from this period continue to exist in many parts of the Northeast and Midwest, where a sectarian family in its horse and buggy are familiar sights on country roads. Pietist or Socialist communes of various sorts—like the Rappites of New Harmony, Indiana, and their Owenite successors—tried to envision and to enact workable alternatives to the brutal economic realities of industrialization. Nathaniel Hawthorne employs the utopian aspirations that took him, briefly, to Brook Farm in 1841 as the background for his third novel, The Blithedale Romance (1852), though he had the instinctive good sense to replace the “Blithedale” with the “Romance” very quickly indeed as his story unfolded. Utopian idealists (Hawthorne’s narrator concludes) tend to be obsessive bores. Richard Francis struggles with precisely this narrative problem in his discussion of Bronson Alcott, his family, and his idealist colleagues and rivals in the short-lived communal experiment called Fruitlands.

Very early in his introduction, Francis calls Fruitlands “one of history’s most unsuccessful utopias ever—but also one of the most dramatic and significant” (1). Part of this claim is certainly true. Fruitlands was a going concern for roughly six months only, if one counts just the weeks that Alcott and his companions spent at the little farmhouse on Prospect Hill in Harvard, Massachusetts, to which the name applies. The community members (never more than thirteen and most of them Alcotts) moved to the farm in June 1843 and by January 1844 the enterprise collapsed in a morass of disillusionment and ill-feeling largely triggered by personal conflicts between Abigail Alcott (the accidental heroine of this story) and Charles Lane, the English financial backer of the Fruitlands effort. Francis charts the failure in excruciating detail, almost literally day by day, weaving in commentary by outsiders like Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose caustic analysis of Bronson Alcott’s agenda proves to be one of the delights of Francis’s book. But it is never really clear why this utopian failure is exceptional for its drama or its significance. It is certainly not remarkable for its numbers.

The vegan few at Fruitlands are a negligible remnant indeed. By contrast the Shaker settlement in Harvard had nearly two hundred members when the two Fruitlands founders, Lane and Alcott, visited them in 1843 on one of the pedestrian tours that Alcott often took apparently as a means of evading the hard work of farming. Brook Farm—which Alcott and Lane also visited that year—had eighty or ninety resident socialists, enthusiastically raising swine and cattle, manuring their fields, making love, and generally horrifying their abstemious visitors with the comparative fleshly gusto of their existence. “Vegetable diet and sweet repose. Animal food and nightmare,” one Fruitlands aphorism declared. “Pluck your body from the orchard; do not snatch it from the shamble” (126), ran another. These exhortations and others like them appeared on the motivational sealing wafers that the Alcott family and their utopian colleagues used on the letters they wrote to one another and deposited in a household mailbox for internal, domestic delivery—a kind of self-imposed surveillance system that, like Alcott’s celebrated “Conversations,” was ultimately geared to keeping the faithful in line with the hodge-podge of dietary and philosophical doctrines that governed the enterprise.

These doctrines occupy Richard Francis’s attention throughout his study, beginning with his account of the charismatic Englishman, James Pierrepont Greaves, a devotee of vegetarianism, celibacy, and the educational theories of Johann Pestalozzi, who attracted a small circle of followers in the late 1830s drawn to Greaves’s strange dietary metaphysics. Greaves and his circle adopted a regimen aimed at the reformation of mankind quite literally through the reformation of eating, a link that shapes yet another of the Fruitlands motivational wafers that Francis cites: “Without flesh diet there could be no blood-shedding war.” Greaves in turn was attracted to the accounts that he read of Alcott’s short-lived Temple School in Boston and made an overture to this American reformer in a letter that captures the odd spiritual eroticism that Greaves and Alcott shared: “Believing the Spirit has so far established its nature in you, as to make you willing to cooperate with itself in Love-Operations,” Greaves wrote to this complete stranger, “I am induced, without apology, to address you as a friend and companion in the hidden path of Love’s most powerful revelations” (29). Walt Whitman would absorb such language from his contemporaries with unique avidity and convert it into remarkable verse, but his sexualized sensibility was far from unique.

Ultimately the Greavesians (including Charles Lane, a successful London commodities analyst) established their own communal school and living quarters near Richmond, a dwelling that they christened Alcott House. With the help of a gift from Emerson, Alcott was able to visit his English fans in the spring and fall of 1842, and though Greaves himself had just died, Charles Lane and another Greavesian named Henry Gardiner Wright ultimately returned to Massachusetts with Alcott to settle together, first in Concord and later at Fruitlands to build their new sexual and dietary economy, contribute long-winded articles to the Dial or other transcendentalist organs, and form “harmonic” couplings with one another. It didn’t last, and Francis’s book charts its collapse with the zeal for detail characteristic of a reality television show. Overexposure to Alcott’s vapid prose and feckless ways ultimately breeds contempt in Francis himself, who cannot resist the occasional mocking reference to the Fruitlands “business plan” (50), to Alcott’s “loser’s philosophy” (65), or to his invariably grandiose and murky prose. Abigail Alcott is by far the superior writer, Francis concedes, with a flair for “energy and attack”(238) that may have been responsible for the ruthless purging of her letter books later in life in an effort to blunt their keen and vivid criticism. Male egotism is pervasive and absurd in this story; female intelligence and courage partly (but only partly) redeem it.

But aside from the brainy melodrama on display at Fruitlands, why bother to reconstruct its domestic history at such length and in such an insular fashion? One scarcely gets out of the figurative house in Francis’s pages, despite the occasional jaunt some Fruitlander or another will make to Brook Farm, to the Harvard Shaker Community, to New York or to Boston in search of recruits or money or both. Why does this outbreak of utopian fever take place in these years and take these forms? What lies behind the intense sexual issues addressed by the extremes of Shaker celibacy and Fourierist promiscuity in these utopian worlds? Despite the memorable beginning made by Alice Felt Tyler inFreedom’s Ferment (1944) and one or two much more recent successors (Carl Guarneri, Christopher Clark, Sterling Delano), no one has systematically linked nineteenth-century utopian movements as a whole to the world from which they spring. Francis offers an occasional defense of Fruitlands for its premonitions of a modern ecological consciousness, but the case is not very detailed or very persuasive. And in any event, human flesh was the chief segment of the biosphere in which the Fruitlands experimenters took an interest, not the Nashua River wetlands, the urban pollution of nineteenth-century cities or the nineteenth-century diet to which it hoped to offer an alternative. A micro-study such as this one still requires a contextual and intellectual scaffolding that will account for its claim on our attention today. Readers ofFruitlands: The Alcott Family and their Search for Utopia will have to construct that scaffolding on their own.

Some years ago during a hot “dry season” in West Africa, where I was living and conducting research, I received a series of letters from family members asking where they could send black-eyed peas for my New Years meal. I was born in Virginia, and Virginians must eat black-eyed peas on January 1 to have good fortune in the months to come. My family was both surprised and delighted when I wrote back that black-eyed peas were readily available in much of West Africa, the crop having been domesticated there.

That my family knew little about the origins of one of our prized dishes is understandable. Few people know the details of the numerous and important crop transfers from Africa to the Americas. And until Carney and Rosomoff’s delightful and Frederick Douglass Prize-winning book, no one had written a comprehensive overview of the degree to which Africans, as slaves, shaped American diets. Africans in the New World did so by selecting particular seeds and roots from their homelands, planting them, processing what they harvested, and preparing their bounty as food in a manner informed by knowledge handed down from generations past. What is to be gained from Carney and Rosomoff’s book is an appreciation of Africans as more than laborers who shaped our hemisphere’s history. In the stinking hulls of ships and under brutal conditions on plantations, Africans preserved particular sorts of knowledge that they drew on, applied, and bestowed upon their descendants. Americans, white, black, and brown, are heirs to that knowledge. Our culture is informed by Africa, whether we all know it or not.

With evidence drawn from a fabulous array of sources and in readable prose, In the Shadow of Slavery takes readers on tours of African gardens throughout the Atlantic—from Guinea to Angola, and Virginia to Bahia. The book begins with a look at Africa’s food history, follows African plants across the ocean, and then explores the ways that Africans and their descendants fostered them in American settings. It also considers American crops that were introduced to Africa (maize and cassava particularly). Food crops of African origin that made their way to the New World included yams, okra, hibiscus, tamarind, Guinea millet, watermelon, sorghum, and the oil palm. Other plants, like bananas, are of Asian origin but reached the Americas via Africa. In the era of Atlantic slavery, none of these crops was consumed often in Europe. These were not the commodities—sugar, cotton, and tobacco—over which most slaves labored many hours every day. But food crops were crucial to empire, since colonists, slave and free, had to eat.

The authors theorize that African food crops reached the Americas aboard slaving vessels. Ship captains bought a range of foodstuffs to feed their human cargo during long crossings of the Atlantic. What was not consumed often went with slaves, who, Carney and Rosomoff write, then had access to seeds and roots from their homelands that served as planting stock. Craving a taste of home—something to break the monotony of bland diets masters sometimes planned for them—African slaves applied knowledge that they possessed to grow some of their own food. In some cases, they planted crops from their homeland to stave off starvation. In places, African foods became staples of white colonial diets and essential parts of broad, regional cuisines.

Carney and Rosomoff focus primarily on two American settings—maroon (or runaway-slave) communities, and plantations. Drawing on a range of sources, they show how maroons adopted African farming techniques and crops in a great variety of places and integrated African foods into their diets and religious traditions. Cuban maroon communities, for example, presented offerings of black-eyed peas, okra, and jute mallow to deities of African origin. Likewise, rice, grown in parts of West Africa, was used by Surinam’s maroons to honor ancestors.

If maroons maintained African foodways, so too did slaves held in bondage. In the early years of American colonization, Carney and Rosomoff point out, white colonists knew little about tropical agriculture and, therefore, often struggled to feed themselves, ultimately depending on their slaves, who were expert cultivators of tropical lands.

Of course in many places Indians served as the first slaves of whites, and everywhere in the Americas, colonists learned a great deal from Indian neighbors. These are important topics that Carney and Rosomoff largely ignore and their inclusion could have added a great deal to the book. But all historians make choices about how to limit the subject matter, and Carney and Rosomoff (wisely, I think) keep the focus squarely on the actions of Africans and their descendants. Nonetheless, it should be remembered that in the Western Hemisphere, colonial regimes appropriated knowledge from two groups they subjugated—Africans and Indians.

Once plantations were established throughout the Americas, African traditions continued to shape slave diets. It was common in many plantation societies for slaves to receive from their masters a plot of land and a small amount of time on weekends to work it. On these plots, slaves often planted items that were distinctly African. Hence, when a French observer saw Bambara groundnuts, sesame, and guinea squash among other things growing on a slave provision ground in the Caribbean, he called it what it was—”une petite Guinée.” And when it came time for preparing food from the harvest, African slaves created dishes that bore similarities to those from their homelands. Thus, plantains were often picked green and boiled before consumption, and meat and vegetables were often cooked together and served as sauces over rice or another starch. Carney and Rosomoff show that Africa’s botanical legacy in the Americas is manifold and can even be found in the African-derived words used today for a great variety of foods. “Gumbo,” for example, is from a Bantu-language word for okra.

While most of the crops slaves brought with them from Africa never became commodities exported from the Americas, rice did. To long-standing debates about whether or not African knowledge was important for the development of rice production in the Carolina colony, Carney and Rosomoff bring some fascinating new data. They argue that Africans already familiar with rice “were able to adapt its cultivation to the diverse and favorable growing conditions of the Carolina lowcountry” (151). Though I think Carney and Rosomoff are right, here they fail to make one important point. In the period rice was introduced to the lowcountry, most Africans in the region were from non-rice producing parts of their continent. Comparatively few were Upper Guineans, who possessed detailed knowledge of rice agriculture. Most were Angolans, who knew nothing about rice before they stepped foot on Carolina’s shores. Evidence that Upper Guineans were a minority among slaves in Carolina when rice was first cultivated there in the late seventeenth century does not undermine the argument that Upper Guineans first planted the grain. Nor has anyone convincingly refuted the argument that Upper Guineans, who arrived in large numbers after the mid-eighteenth century, applied paddy-rice technologies to plantation agriculture in Carolina.

However, by failing to examine closely the Old World regional origins of Carolina’s slave population—or the Old World origins of slave populations in other parts the Americas—Carney and Rosomoff miss the opportunity to detail how the cultural knowledge of particular African groups became generalized in the New World, ultimately emerging as “African” or “Negro.” Thus, on Carolina plantations, slaves with a wide range of ancestral backgrounds internalized an Upper Guinean view of rice as the food of choice. At the same time, they learned and adapted Upper Guinean rice farming techniques, making them their own. In Carolina, rice knowledge quickly became “Africanized,” as blacks, regardless of their origins, made rice a food that was part of a broadly defined African culture rather than a more narrowly defined Upper Guinean one.

Food is, of course, a “cultural marker.” It serves as an indication of self, a sign of who people think they are. Like dress, language, and many other things, food choices can distinguish one group of people from another. For me, what is fascinating about “African plants,” “African farming practices,” and “African cuisines” is that few plants, farming practices, and cuisines were known by all blacks shipped to the Western Hemisphere. Yet through their daily interactions with one another on plantations, Yoruba, Mandinka, Balanta, Wolof, Igbo, Akan, Kongo and people from many other widely scattered ethnic groups began to see plants, farming practices, and foods that had been known in only a few of their homelands as broadly African or black. When they defined their food as “African,” they were declaring themselves part of one, unified culture rooted across the ocean. Black slaves “invented” this culture when brought together in a vast array of New World settings. And to be sure, it was a culture that was constructed over shared food bowls after long, hard days of labor. When looked at this way, Africa was as much created in the Americas as it was recreated.

Though I have criticisms of In the Shadow of Slavery, they are small indeed. This is a wonderful book, one I will recommend to colleagues, friends, and family alike. To be sure, when I sit down to enjoy okra, which I bought at the farmers’ market, I will, thanks to Carney and Rosomoff, entertain my children with the story of how Africans domesticated the crop in their continent’s forest-savanna ecotone and later as slaves in the Americas selected it for provision grounds. I will explain the derivation of the word and will make sure they know that the choices Africans made hundreds of years ago about what constitutes good food have shaped our meals in the present. Maybe next time I’m in Africa, they’ll rest easy knowing that I’m able to eat foods that are in many ways quite familiar here at home.

This article originally appeared in issue 11.3 (April, 2011).

Statement of Poetic Research

Bronwen Tate

These poems and images are the result of a sort of excavation of my paternal grandmother’s well-worn Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book (copyright 1950, and how!). I grew up in Oregon while most of my father’s family still lives much closer to Oklahoma, where he was raised. Because of the distance, I only saw my grandmother on occasional visits, and when she died unexpectedly several years ago, I found myself with her diamond ring—which I reset to make my wedding ring—and this cookbook, because I like to cook.

Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book is a fascinating portrait of a 1950s imagining of an American past, from the photos of the “Early American Dining Room,” where visitors to the Betty Crocker test kitchens could sit and enjoy a meal, to the cheerful boast that “our delicious American hot breads are the lineal descendants of the crude hearth cakes of primitive people.” The origin stories we tell during the shared activity of preparing food take on mythic status in a nation or in a family. In the cook book, we find a cherry pie with decorative pastry hatchets for Presidents’ Day and the declaration: “If I were to design a coat of arms for our country, a pie would be the main symbol.” In my own family, I’ve learned to bake cornbread with bacon crisped into the top while listening to my dad or my aunts repeat the story of how my grandmother tricked her nieces into eating okra by frying it in cornmeal and calling it “green popcorn.” And I can’t make nutmeg-scented currant cakes of my mother’s Welsh family without remembering the story of how an elderly aunt once got rid of a hungry and unwelcome visitor by telling him that making Welsh cakes was the only sure way to get her hands truly clean after gardening.

Writing these poems gave me a way to explore these stories and why they stay with us. The poems are also a record of looking for my grandmother and puzzling over the traces she left behind in her cook book: a toothpick slipping out of the binding in the cakes section or a few attempts to puzzle out the spelling of Albuquerque back in the index. Finally, the poems became an encounter between the fifties’ ideas of womanhood and American identity that the book so constantly advocates (and that my grandmother surely felt the pressure of) and my own struggles to be a woman with both aspirations outside the home and a great love of cooking and nourishing and taking care of people.

A cook book can be a source of text and thoughts and provocations, but it is also a source of deliciousness, so I decided to accompany my poems with a Butterscotch Pie.

My husband Caleb still gets a bit nervous whenever I make pie because of a Thanksgiving six years ago when he saw pie crust transform me from a rational being into a sort of fiend. The pie crust kept crumbling and cracking and refused to go nicely into the pie plate. And I got very intense and scary. For years after, when I’d ask him how he thought we could improve our relationship, he’d just bring up pie crust. But I’ve made many successful (and even some beautiful) pie crusts since then. And we both love pie of all kinds, so he doesn’t get nervous enough to try to prevent my attempts.

I don’t always sift my flour, but I was determined to follow this recipe to the letter, so I went ahead and sifted.

I used only vegetable shortening (no trans-fats though) for the same reason.

But wait, for the kind of pie I was making (a kind for which “filling is piled into the baked shell”), there was a fancy extra step that involved dotting the crust with butter and then folding it into a little package. I am a sucker for process or fancy extra steps of all kinds, so of course I went for it.

I even got Caleb to take impressive step-by-step photos of the folding process.

And you can see my wedding ring with Grandma’s diamond in this one.

The resulting pie crust was honestly not one of my more handsome attempts, but it showed signs of being deliciously flaky, which is ultimately more important.

I selected this recipe (apart from the fact that it sounded tasty) because it had been written over, which seemed to me like a clear sign that my grandmother had definitely made it, probably more than once. The residue-covered page was another encouraging sign. I called my dad and asked him about it a few days later, and he said that he could remember the taste of slightly weepy meringue mixed with butterscotch.

But there was also a bit of ambiguity to the writing on the recipe. Was the original recipe just rewritten in pen because the page had gotten stuck to another and torn? Or was there an actual modification? The 2 outside the brackets made no sense, so I ignored it. The quantity of flour seemed unchanged. Of more interest was the salt. The recipe for an 8″ pie clearly read “1/3 tsp. salt,” but the writing for a 9″ pie seemed to say “1 ¼ tsp. salt.” Clearly not a proportionate increase. I chose to see this as a sign of affinity between Grandma and me, since I reliably add extra salt to my sweets (especially chocolate chip cookies and anything involving caramel), and I added the full 1 ¼ teaspoons of salt.

I used a cast iron skillet to melt the butter.

I let it get nice and brown and nutty smelling before adding the brown sugar.

Things started boiling and got a bit crazy, but I still boldly paused in my stirring long enough to get a picture.

But then I fell down on the job, because it looks like I just poured butter and brown sugar into a saucepan, but actually there’s milk and egg yolks made into a custard in here as well. Promise.

See, there’s further evidence in the empty egg shells here. And in the fact that the pie had a pudding-type texture even though it was still steaming and needed to cool thoroughly.

I ended up sending the pie with Caleb to his dorky game night after extracting a promise that he would bring a piece home for me. I like to feed people, and the thought of the two of us finishing the pie between ourselves, while totally conceivable, was not inspiring.

I ate my slice the next day when there was decent light to photograph it. I piled it high with unsweetened whipped cream to offset the sweetness of the butterscotch. And while I ate it, I answered interview questions from my friend Kate about my writing process and my love of making objects (like pie and hats) as well as poems, which seemed rather appropriate.

When early Americans reached for a drink, it was usually alcoholic. Faced with an often chancy water supply and an English tradition of making and consuming ale, cider, whiskey, wine, brandy and beer, they drank for nourishment, for health, to socialize, to ease the pain of childbirth and to lubricate the chain of command. One militia officer promised the men who had just elected him that “what I lack in brains I will try and make up in rum” (16-17).

Sarah Hand Meacham explores the development of alcohol making and drinking in the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Chesapeake in Every Home a Distillery. Ubiquitous in early Americans’ lives, alcohol provides Meacham the opportunity to comment widely on culture, business, and gender.

Recent studies of consumption and goods have framed colonial lives in an Atlantic World context, with alcohol central to an expansive story of culture and commerce. General merchants in the Virginia backcountry, for example, enticed customers with imported rum as well as fabric and teapots. Imported wines, blended to the tastes of drinkers around the Atlantic rim, connected elites to a global network of suppliers, agents, and connoisseurs. Philadelphia taverns served up “rum punch and revolution” to drinkers both lowly and lofty who debated politics and forged public opinion.

Meacham’s reading of court records, planter journals, wills, and travel literature presents alcohol consumption as more isolating than expansive. Taking all kinds of intoxicating drinks as her subject, she argues that they provided Chesapeake colonists with comfort and sustenance in ways that reinforced their rural existence and dependence on local grandees. Most alcoholic beverages were produced within households or traded between neighbors. What is more, when an average free family had drunk the last of the summer’s pear cider, it was forced to seek credit at the home of a local large planter who had the money, equipment, and storage cellars to provide drink throughout the year. Taverns, too, in Meacham’s telling, were provincial, unsophisticated places run by families who had secured the backing of local elites—monuments to the status quo rather than freewheeling institutions of political commentary and revolutionary rabble-rousing.

Women’s hands directed the local world of alcohol. Meacham highlights the work that women did to mash, strain, and press peaches and persimmons into the ciders that typified Chesapeake drink. She cracks open the cookbooks that gave seventeenth- and eighteenth-century free women dozens of recipes for molasses beer and fruit cider. (She even transcribes several recipes for readers with a yen for gooseberry wine.) She stresses the fact that alcoholic beverages for most people were food, prepared in the same kitchens by the same people who cooked the spoon bread, stirred the porridge, and roasted the meat. She counters our images of Madeira-sipping gentlemen with English woodcuts of prosaic housewives baking cakes and distilling brandy. She reminds us that women, in the form of middling wives and prominent widows, dominated the tavern trade, even if men’s names were inscribed on the legal papers. This book does a real service in putting free women’s work (enslaved women receive far briefer attention) at the center of colonial experience.

A pair of important turning points—one economic, one technological—changed the local, female cast of alcohol culture in the second half of the eighteenth century. First, Scottish factors and regular markets began to appear in the Chesapeake countryside. Given options and improved access to currency in the form of tobacco notes (widespread after the 1730 Tobacco Inspection Act), ordinary free farmers abandoned older patronage networks for new commercial ones. These new networks supplied alcohol without the added charge of deference, and connected rural people ever more intimately to a wider Atlantic economy that had always directed their lives as tobacco growers. The second key development was refinement of the alembic still, making it small and inexpensive enough for many men to make their own whiskey and brandy. Both developments changed the tone of alcohol production by involving more free male farmers and replacing fruit cider with rum as drink of choice. By the time of the Revolutionary War, even the Continental Army was in on the trend, sanctioning rum rations and signing contracts with male providers.

No sooner had middling and poor people gained greater access to hard liquor than their social betters began praising the superiority of tea and coffee. By the 1760s, getting drunk on rum (or even good old molasses beer) seemed, to the literate gentry, to be a willful decision rather than an inevitable commonplace. In another challenge to current scholarship, Meacham argues that tea and coffee, instead of uniting revolution-era Americans, created rank-based divisions among them, because the new stimulants were more expensive than the old intoxicants. The timing of this transition and the scope of social separation are at times unclear in the text, but Meacham’s discussion provides a fresh look at the meaning of “choice” in the age of the so-called Consumer Revolution. We often think of consumer choice as emancipatory and encouraging self-expression. Meacham shows how widespread belief in the power of choice opened up the poor to accusations that their problems with alcohol were their own fault. When everyone had to drink beer, intoxicated neighbors were a fact of life; when coffee was available, those same neighbors could be condemned—or celebrated, as wealthy bon vivants increasingly boasted about their exploits with the bottle. The book’s suggestive final chapter on the morality of drunkenness ranges widely in terms of evidence and chronology, from seventeenth-century court records to twentieth-century interviews with former slaves, mirroring the complexity of the issue and providing a starting point for future examinations of drinking culture in slave societies.

With its focus on the methods and organization of alcohol production, Every Home a Distillery will appeal to anyone interested in early business history. The book also contains an interesting, often implicit, discussion of the ideological meanings of work and goods in terms of gender. Even as free women pounded out peach cider in the seventeenth century, the precise grafting of trees to produce superior fruit had elements of “science” that men were quick to claim as their own. Cookbooks and husbandry manuals scuffled over the question of whether alcohol was a foodstuff (and therefore a woman’s domain) or a science project (properly belonging to men)—cookery or chemistry. Given the variety of types and uses of alcoholic drinks, the matter was not settled at any particular point in the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries. Indeed, alcohol emerges as a very flexible product and cultural signifier.

Using English brewing traditions as her context, Meacham asserts that Anglo-American production of this multivalent commodity was masculinized in the late eighteenth century. Given the complexities of her evidence, this assessment of the shifting categories of ‘male’ and ‘female’ work seems imprecise. As historians of early America have shown, the flexibility of free women’s work and the common practice of what we now call multitasking made a wide range of activities ideologically acceptable for them to do. It does not necessarily follow, though, that women did any particular job—whether brewing beer or serving rum in a tavern—because it was “convenient” for them to do so, as Meacham suggests. Custom, family strategy, the ability to command others’ labor, personal preference, and price structures all influenced women’s work in historically specific ways. How women of any race and rank valued their own labor is likewise a complicated question that receives brief attention here. Nonetheless, her interesting, detailed study should inspire more questions in readers who want to engage these important historical issues. As Meacham justly points out, the scarcity of women’s voices (free or enslaved) in early sources means that we will always struggle to know what work meant to them. By placing free women’s lives squarely at the heart of its business narrative, Every Home a Distillery shows us the struggle is worthwhile.

In Revolutions in the Atlantic World, historian Wim Klooster finds common ground among four political upheavals of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries and sets each into an Atlantic context. In a brief introductory chapter, the author lays out his objectives: “to present the most significant revolutions of this era on their own terms” (2) and explore threads connecting them. All of these revolutions, Klooster argues, followed a similar trajectory. Financial and political strains undermined the stability of the state, exposing the government’s inability to negotiate with colonial and metropolitan elites. This in turn led to the emergence of strident and impatient voices demanding action and drawing support from the middle ranks of society. As monarchs and those close to them obstructed negotiation, challenges to authority turned violent. Revolutionary leaders recruited their followers from the lower orders of society where lingering resentments over the abuse of privilege had long smoldered. The American, French, Haitian, and Spanish Revolutions, Klooster argues, all followed this path.

In an age of powerful states with extensive colonial systems, the American Revolution demonstrated that it was possible to overthrow an unpopular political structure and replace it with a sovereign nation based on broad republican principles. By 1763, the exorbitant cost of mid-eighteenth-century warfare had left Great Britain burdened with debt, and policy-makers in London saw no reason why the king’s colonial subjects should not shoulder part of the burden. After all, the most recent conflict—the Seven Years’ War—had been fought largely on their behalf. Americans did not see it that way and organized an effective resistance to taxes imposed by the British Parliament. In 1775, American resolve and the failure of the ministry in London to negotiate effectively with colonial elites led to bloodshed and a hardening of positions on both sides. The break with Great Britain (formalized by a declaration of independence in July 1776) precipitated a bloody conflict with atrocities on both sides and the features of civil war. But the scale of violence was modest compared to later revolutions in Europe, the Caribbean, and Spanish America. In Klooster’s book, the great significance of the American Revolution is that it set off a chain of events that led to revolution in France, Saint-Domingue, and Spanish America and the creation of wholly new sovereign states.

Like the American Revolution, the political shakeup in France was rooted in excessive wartime debt (much of it due to French support for the new United States of America in its struggle against Great Britain). In August 1788, with France veering toward bankruptcy, Louis XVI called for a meeting of the Estates General in an effort to stave off financial collapse. The king’s summons provided members of the Third Estate the opportunity to articulate grievances and call for fundamental reforms. Delegates seized the moment and established a national assembly that sharply curtailed the power of the monarchy. Pent-up resentments in the broader population transformed the assembly’s political agenda into a sweeping mass movement against entrenched privilege. The revolution turned sharply violent and demanded the wholesale destruction of the existing social order and the extermination of the enemies of the revolution. Terror at home—seared into popular memory by images of the guillotine at work—and warfare abroad created a nightmarish revolutionary landscape. Revolution became France’s leading export in the 1790s.

The third revolution, an event closely tied to the political crisis in France, places the narrative squarely in an Atlantic World context. The bloody upheaval in the French sugar colony of Saint-Domingue grew out of the contentious relationship between white elites and free people of color, economic reforms following the Seven Years’ War, and the lofty rhetoric of the French Revolution. In 1789, news of revolution in France was welcomed by both whites and free-coloreds on Saint-Domingue, both of which groups chafed under remote and arbitrary French control. But revolutionary rhetoric, with its emphasis on violent action to achieve the “rights of man,” sent a very different signal to the colony’s roughly half million enslaved blacks, who rose against their masters in August 1791 in the Caribbean’s most successful slave rebellion. In the chaos that followed—protracted over a long and bloody decade—Saint-Domingue was scarred by the carnage of civil war (with dizzying shifts in alliances), ill-conceived French attempts to restore order, opportunistic British and Spanish occupations, and all-out race war. Out of this tangle emerged the nation of Haiti, a state that has yet to shake off the legacy of its catastrophic birth.

Wim Klooster’s account of revolution in early nineteenth-century Spanish America connects the collapse of Spanish authority on the American mainland to the Napoleonic Wars. He makes specific reference to the far-reaching consequences of the French occupation of Spain and the temporary removal of King Ferdinand VII from the European political stage. War in Europe set the stage for political crisis, revolution, civil war, and the fragmentation of Spanish America, but “the timing of independence depended as much on developments in the colonies themselves as on those in the mother country” (156). Civil unrest in Spain’s American viceroyalties had deep roots.

Following the Seven Years’ War, there was widespread resistance to reforms initiated by the Madrid government that were meant to tighten links between Spain and its colonies. These tensions pointed to a breakdown in the imperial relationship brought to the surface when Spain was cut off from its New World colonies in the early years of the nineteenth century. Rather than a series of military showdowns with Spain (and, as elsewhere, efforts to reconstruct society to conform to high-minded ideals), the Spanish-America revolutions depicted in Klooster’s book were basically civil wars fought by local plebeians over wealth and power accessible only by a privileged few.

The comparative structure of Revolutions in the Atlantic World encourages readers to look for commonalities and differences on the revolutionary landscapes of British North America, France, Saint-Domingue, and Spanish America. Klooster emphasizes that the revolutions examined here “cannot be understood outside the realm of international politics” and “inter-imperial warfare,” and that events on a large—often Atlantic—stage exposed “enduring social, political, and ethnic inequalities” that had severe unintended consequences (2). Even so, all of these revolutions could have been avoided, and none was guaranteed success. Their precarious nature was exacerbated by divided loyalties, infighting among revolutionary elites, and powerful counter-revolutionary forces. None of the revolutions aimed at creating a democratic society: the main objective was sovereignty, and the character of post-revolutionary rule was typically authoritarian. Klooster points out that the American Revolution is an exception, perhaps because colonial society in British North America had been democratized before the revolution began. However, all of the revolutions examined here bore a common theme of hostility to privilege (at least in their dramatic early stages) and employed an angry rhetoric resentful of tyranny and oppression.

There were, of course, winners and losers. Obvious among the winners were those who survived the bloodletting and went on to secure privilege, wealth, and power in the reconstructed post-revolutionary world. More interesting to Klooster are the losers. Especially striking is the large number of men and women who sacrificed everything for the revolution yet failed to reap the rewards. It is likewise striking how little attention the indigenous peoples of British North America, the French West Indies, and Spanish America received in revolutionary movements that were awash in rhetoric enshrining human dignity and the rights of man. Only in Saint-Domingue was the destruction of slavery high on the agenda of revolutionary leaders, nearly all of whom had been slaves themselves. In post-revolutionary Haiti, however, revolution brought few advantages to the former sugar colony’s black population. And throughout the Atlantic World, the status of women—in spite of the conspicuous role they played in both the American and French revolutions—barely changed.

This book will appeal to students and scholars interested in the Atlantic World as a spawning ground for revolution. Although the author has limited his discussion to revolutions associated with the formation of nation states, he is tempting us to consider failed revolutions as well. One example is the Patriot Revolution in the Dutch Republic (1786-1787). Its mobilization of citizen committees, effective exploitation of the popular press, and emphasis on democratically elected representation are legacies of the American Revolution. In Ireland’s bloody Rising of 1798—an event rooted in both the American and French revolutions—the inner circle of revolutionaries succeeded in gaining French military support in their abortive attempt to overthrow the English and establish an Irish republic. The strength of Klooster’s work lies in its potential to trigger such connections and intersections and thereby broaden our understanding of early-modern revolutionary history.

Wim Klooster’s Revolutions in the Atlantic World: A Comparative History is bold in its implications yet restrained in its assertions. Klooster is careful not to succumb to the temptation of portraying the revolutions in British North America, France, Saint-Domingue, and Spanish America as parallel events. Yet they are intimately connected, and Klooster does not shy away from exploring their commonalities in a broad Atlantic context. This is a balanced, well conceived, and accessible book. Wim Klooster has done a masterful job sorting out the chaotic and kaleidoscopic tumble of events that identify the half-century ending in the mid-1820s as the “Age of Revolution.”

This article originally appeared in issue 11.2 (January, 2011).

Thomas M. Truxes is a clinical assistant professor of Irish Studies and history at New York University. His most recent book, Defying Empire: Trading with the Enemy in Colonial New York, was a finalist for the 2009 Francis Parkman Prize sponsored by the Society of American Historians.

To captivate, kill, or destroy. These were the watchwords of the Massachusetts Council’s orders to their army in the summer of 1779. For the first time since March 1776 when the British had evacuated Boston, redcoats were again on Massachusetts soil, establishing a garrison to command Penobscot Bay. The British also hoped to rally loyalists and the disaffected to this stronghold. The revolutionary government of Massachusetts chose to expel these invaders from their eastern territory as a matter of policy and pride.

In July 1779, 900 men and over forty ships sail from Boston for Majabigwaduce, a peninsula and river on the Maine coast. The expedition results in confrontation between two weak forces—neither able to dislodge the other. On paper, the Massachusetts force looks like it should make short work of the British, and had the Americans attacked immediately, they might have carried the day. Instead, their leaders’ hesitation and lack of tactical vision gives the British precious time to strengthen their position. The story ends with the Massachusetts’s ships burning along the riverside, its naval force completely destroyed. By some accounts it is the worst naval defeat in the history of the United States before Pearl Harbor.

Bernard Cornwell’sThe Fortrecreates the tragic tale with a narrative marked by vivid characters, dramatic tension, political pathos, and subtle questions about the war at the heart of the American Revolution. Cornwell’s characters drive the story and provide the historical moral and argument. He weaves together the British and Massachusetts strands of the tale, achieving an admirable narrative balance between the combatants. His chosen protagonists embody the conflicting interests at the heart of the Revolutionary War. Brigadier-General Francis McLean is an old soldier commanding a force of 750 green Scottish recruits and three small ships. In Cornwell’s telling, McLean is a man who knows his craft and his duty. He is assisted by Dr. John Calef, a loyalist refugee seething with rage against the rebels who forced him from his Boston home. Cornwell offers Brigadier-General Peleg Wadsworth, the Harvard-educated schoolmaster turned soldier, as the counterpart to both McLean and Calef. A veteran of the Continental army and George Washington’s staff, Wadsworth now serves in an army raised by his home state. Leaving his young family, the patriotic and professional Wadsworth serves under Solomon Lovell, an aging politician perhaps better suited to serving as a church deacon than general of an expeditionary force. Lovell’s command is complicated by the naval contribution of Captain Dudley Saltonstall, the commodore of a fleet of privateers, ships from the Massachusetts navy, and the Continental frigate Warren. The scion of an old Massachusetts family, Saltonstall is ill-tempered, aloof, and draws his commission and authority from the Continental Congress.

The Massachusetts expeditionary forces revel in their home field advantage, exuding the fervor and confidence that their patriot ideology and particular religious worldview instill. But military inexperience and division over tactics doom their efforts. For the British, luck and stalwart professionalism save the day. Cornwell emphasizes the vices and virtues of the respective causes in a counterpoint between patriot Paul Revere and the young British Lieutenant John Moore. Revere, the middle-aged and inexperienced lieutenant-colonel of the Massachusetts Artillery, exudes the zeal of a radical and the confidence of a military autodidact. Moore, a well-connected gentleman of only eighteen years, presents the foolhardy bravery of youth and its maturation into professional military skill. Revere’s brief military career spectacularly collapses in the Penobscot Expedition, while this minor engagement on the Maine coast marks the beginning of Moore’s rise as a transformative and heroic officer in the British army. Poetry immortalizes them both—Revere for his midnight ride and Moore for his tragically heroic death in the Napoleonic Wars as a lieutenant-general at Corunna in 1809.

Cornwell’s narrative moves briskly and he has an attentive eye for detail. No ship’s spar or canvas shroud goes unnamed. He captures the feel of fog settling over the rocky coast on a chill summer morning. His imagination recreates the sound of young kilted Scots fixing bayonets to their heavy Brown Bess muskets. In a prefatory note and bibliographic afterword, Cornwell makes clear what he has drawn from the historical record and what he has invented or altered for the sake of story. I was particularly impressed by his simple trick of announcing that most of his characters actually existed. The only fictional characters are British enlisted soldiers (save one, William Lawrence, a real diarist and artillery sergeant) and any character with a surname starting with F. The resulting forest of Frobishers, Fiskes, Filmers, Fennels, Fletchers, and Freers made the real historical actors stand out. The sound of extant muster rolls and orderly books and army reports echo behind his descriptions of camp life and movement.

Most strikingly, Cornwell captures the multivalent nature of the Revolutionary War. The hatred sown between patriots and loyalists unfolds with his narrative. Wrangling among his characters reveals the competing interests between militia, state troops, and Continental officers. He shows how allegiance to a faction in the war depended on a mix of family, location, ideology, or a sense of home. He suggests the profound disruption the war inflicted and shows how the heavy hand of war wrung allegiance from folk who would rather have been left alone to their fields and fishing.

The Fort is a good, page-turning read, but its deeper value lies with its message about the American Revolution. Even in the compact narrative of the Penobscot Expedition, which presents a definitive beginning, middle, and end, Cornwell suggests the length and uncertainty of the Revolutionary War. The War for Independence as a whole just doesn’t fit a proper and satisfying dramatic structure. By focusing on only a section of the war, Cornwell the storyteller finds himself in good company. Consider David McCullough’s 1776 or David Hackett Fischer’s Washington’s Crossing, both of which focus on the satisfying arc of the beginning of the war. The events of the spring of 1775 open the historical opera with a bang: Paul Revere’s midnight ride, farmers standing at Lexington and Concord, Washington’s heroic acceptance of command. Early 1776 gives the rising action. The seat of war shifts to New York. Washington prepares for the full hammer-blow of British military power. Congress debates and declares independence. But the 1776 campaign around New York City and the near-collapse of the Continental army and patriot resistance in the flight across New Jersey sing the notes of catastrophe, building dramatic tension. The resolving climax comes with Washington’s daring and miraculous Christmas victory at Trenton and then at Princeton in the first weeks of 1777. With the cause renewed, the narrative winds up, concluding with Congress recruiting a proper, professional Continental army with soldiers enlisted for three years or the duration of the war. It’s an arc both historically compact and aesthetically satisfying—McCullough and Fischer end their narratives and analysis there. Though they eschew invention, their factual accounts answer the same demands as Cornwell’s fiction.

Such narrative choices are understandable, since the story of the Revolutionary War splinters in 1777—American defeat at Philadelphia offsets a Continental victory at Saratoga. The war moves south and grows messier politically. The Continental Congress flirts with failure and bankruptcy. Yorktown offers a conclusion in 1781, but not finality. Both historical participants and present readers have to wait until 1783 for a proper end to hostilities. It’s fair that writers have to choose their starts and stops—it’s the luxury of history to reify the narrative outline imposed by events, by participants’ memories, or the demands of art. But in the messiness of the moment, it is never so clear.

For this I commend Cornwell. Though he focuses on a single, compact event in the Revolutionary War, he hints at its nature as a military struggle and the foundations of revolutionary movement. Because he is focused on a military campaign, however, he inevitably privileges war-fighting, and the professional, effective British regulars stand as heroes for their diligence and attention to duty. Cornwell allows his Americans to claim the laurels of military honor in the character of Wadsworth—the veteran Continental officer—who combines the qualities of military skill and political virtue. Cornwell shows how fickle the gods of battle can be, but also suggests the real power and persistence of the Revolution.

The Revolution, to mix John Adams and Chairman Mao, was in the minds and hearts of the people, but it also grew from the barrel of a gun. But those guns were not always aimed at British regulars. The War for Independence continued because of the resilience of patriots’ political institutions and the cooperation they could extract or the coercion they could project. The committees and legislatures of the Revolution drafted and mustered the young, marginal, and poor for long terms of military service their betters disdained. They collected taxes and supplies to keep armies in the field. As John Shy insists, their militias, though inconsistent on the battlefield, were excellent gunmen for harrying loyalists and maintaining the authority of revolutionary governments. The Glorious Cause could suffer catastrophic defeats in battle and the occupation of seaport cities, but so long as its political apparatus survived and maintained the people’s grudging support, the war for independence could continue.

Cornwell weaves this understanding through The Fort, showing that any one event could entirely consume its participants, present a decisive military outcome, and yet have remarkably little effect on the course of the revolutionary struggle.

To captivate, kill, or destroy was not—is not—enough.

Alison LaCroix has written a well crafted, deeply textured work that argues for the necessity of placing the idea of federalism in a larger historical context. Rather than treat federalism as a transcendent ideal made manifest in Constitutional Convention debates, LaCroix illustrates the evolution of the idea from colonial dissent over British tax policy to the repeal of the Judiciary Act of 1801 when a messy, multi-layered British imperial structure evolved into a unique constitutional and political institution.Ideological Origins identifies three critical transformative moments that explain how American federalism emerged and how it came to shape the courts and judicial review: the legitimation of divided sovereignty, the Convention’s rejection of a provision allowing Congress to veto state legislation, and the drafting of Article III and the assignment of courts the power to decide the allocation of jurisdiction between state and central governments. Until the end of the Seven Years War, the colonial legislatures and Parliament had an ambiguous understanding of their lines of authority. As a practical matter, the regulation of local affairs was left to colonial assemblies while Parliament presumed to govern the empire. Not addressed explicitly in the day-to-day operations of North America was the locus of sovereignty, of where dominion ultimately lay. Parliament never questioned its own ultimate supremacy, and in the course of its policies of benign neglect, the assemblies had been largely left to their own devices. However, as the colonists faced the burden of new taxation, they found in the work of continental legal theorists like Puffendorf and Scottish and Irish writers the basis for legitimating their dissent in their descriptions of confederations, unions of political equals charged with the pursuit of more general interests. Providing a new reading of the distinction between internal and external taxes, LaCroix points out how critical this concept was to the resistance to Parliamentary taxation because it sanctioned colonists’ view that authority over certain subjects could be divided among different layers of legislative bodies. When Franklin and Dickinson questioned internal taxes for revenue, they challenged Parliament’s view of a unitary sovereign imperial structure. Arguing in 1773 to the Massachusetts General Court that sovereignty was indivisible and that Parliament, as the supreme legislative body for the Empire, had plenary powers, Thomas Hutchinson impelled the resistance to expand its arguments to encompass the more abstract idea that the assemblies retained substantive powers outside of its reach.

While the subsequent adoption of the Articles of Confederation affirmed the principle that sovereignty could be divided, the specific allocation of powers between the layered legislative structures of states and Congress remained ambiguous. The Constitutional Convention, LaCroix says, is the moment when ideas born in dissent became the basis of a new structure for deciding the division and allocation of sovereignty. The Convention’s debates were a second order of decision-making that determined where and how the processes for resolving ambiguities and conflicts would take place. Madison’s recommendation that Congress have the power to veto state legislation smelled too much of the restoration of a unitary sovereignty like the Privy Council’s ability to invalidate colonial legislation repugnant to English law and prompted immediate opposition. Although not at the Convention, Thomas Jefferson had written to Madison to consider instead the use of judicial review in matters “where the act of Confederation controlled the question” (to Madison, June 20, 1787 q.v. 159). Jefferson’s idea had widespread currency among the delegates and, in particular, among the supporters of the New Jersey Plan. With the inclusion of the Supremacy Clause, Article III furnished the constitutional justification for an explicit division of sovereign powers and entrusted judges and courts to mediate among the different authorities. Article III and the Supremacy Clause also provided a significant intellectual transformation in the idea of federalism from issues of sovereignty to matters of process and jurisdiction, and two key pieces of legislation, the Judiciary Acts of 1789 and 1801 helped define the scope of judicial power. While most scholars dismiss the significance of the Act of 1801, which created federal court districts irrespective of state boundaries, LaCroix establishes it as part of the evolution of ideas that came to affirm the courts’ significant role in defining the relationship of state and federal jurisdictions. In the necessity to expand the national judiciary, constitutional discourse shifted from legislative sovereignty to judicial process. After the Judiciary Act of 1789, courts came to wrestle with the need to mediate between state and federal judiciaries as they operated within a single overarching polity. In LaCroix’s reading, 1801 marked a terminus, a repudiation of Federalist attempts to impose a broader, more aggressive, potentially expansive intrusion of national authority through a realignment of the federal judiciary. Following Jefferson’s election, he and the Republicans dismantled the 1801 courts, essentially repealing the Act, pulled Americans back from intimations of the restoration of the imperial paradigm and located subsequent discourse in the “Supreme Court where claims for federal jurisdiction accompanied the expansion of federal judicial power” (212).

The Ideological Origins of American Federalism is an important work that points out the necessity of seeing Revolutionary developments in a larger context. In so doing it also makes three important specific contributions. It demonstrates how the arguments supporting opposition to British tax policies evolved into ideological and constitutional innovation. Second, in assessing the ideological legacies of the American Revolution, it compels us to reconsider Federalist history—our tendency to assume that the Constitution was simply the repudiation of a set of failed structures and intellectual paradigms and was the starting point for subsequent constitutional analysis. And third, like Jack Rakove’s Original Meanings, it should give most serious pause to those who assume that the original intentions of the founders are easily discerned.

“One need not delve far into the literature of the Revolution,” Peter Dorsey aptly observes, “to find that of all words, the one that most persistently, most contentiously, and most flexibly drove the era’s rhetorical engine was slavery” (xi). While this has long made the rhetoric of slavery a staple in a wide variety of historians’ analyses of the American Revolution, this is the first book-length treatment of the metaphorical usages of slavery and their impact on the Revolutionary era and beyond. “In the revolutionary era,” Dorsey contends, “language and the discursive process was itself an ‘actor’ in shaping and driving the conflict and fostering the emergence of antislavery thought” (xii). But the language of slavery cut many ways, he illustrates, so its impact was not simply antislavery; some of the ways in which Revolutionaries and their opponents employed the slavery metaphor actually supported rather than undercut the continuance of African-American bondage.

In largely chronological fashion and drawing on a wide array of primary sources, Dorsey walks the reader through the multifarious uses of the slavery metaphor across the broad sweep of the Revolutionary era, from patriot struggles in the 1760s through the drafting and ratification of the federal Constitution. Along the way, thematic chapters attend to the gendered implications of the slave metaphor; the Loyalists’ pointed responses to the Patriots’ introduction of the loaded metaphor to their already vicious ideological contest; the practical, mostly antislavery, impact of the Patriots’ need for ideological consistency once they decided to stubbornly persist in broadcasting the metaphor despite how easy it was for Loyalists to highlight their hypocrisy; and the complicating impact of anxieties about slave insurrection on both sides of the whites’ conflict. Dorsey, a literary critic, ventures occasional excursions into literary theory—such as a chapter centering on various “leading theories of metaphor” (19). But gratefully, he does not allow the narrative to bog down in theory, making it eminently readable.

There is very little with which to disagree in Dorsey’s analysis of the impact of slavery rhetoric. He is, to be sure, too apt to talk in overly sweeping terms: there is in this book not so much North and South but a nationwide, unitary “slave-holding culture” (xviii) that intensely localist contemporaries would not have recognized. But his overall points concerning the pervasiveness and complexity of that impact are well-taken. That complexity arose, as he demonstrates well, not only from the various ways in which debaters employed the metaphor, but also from the fact that revolutionaries’ commitment to universal liberty collided with their equally passionate commitment to property rights.

The problem with the book, in fact, is the exact opposite of a dubious or controversial thesis. It is that, disappointingly enough, this sustained attention to the rhetorical employment and practical influence of the slavery metaphor has almost nothing new to say. Granted, there are occasional glimpses of insight that may strike some scholars as interesting, including the notion that the slavery metaphor may have functioned as something of a shibboleth early on for the Patriot movement (4); or the point that “a central horror” in Patriot imaginations “was the idea that the bondage that threatened white Americans, like chattel slavery itself, was hereditary” (27). But for the most part, the glimmers of insight begin with promise but their punch lines end up being delivered by Dorsey drawing on another scholar (see e.g. 49-50). Chapters that seem promising proceed with a whimper rather than a bang. At the end of chapter 2, for instance, it seems that the theories of metaphor with which he engages add nothing to our understanding of the complicated effects of the slavery metaphor. And as this reader eagerly pursued chapter 3 and its analysis of gender and the slavery metaphor, the chapter induced a shrug rather than adding to existing knowledge. Even on the macro level, the book’s point about how the slavery metaphor cut in both antislavery and proslavery directions constitutes an extension of rather than even the slightest revision of a key 2003 article by Francois Furstenberg in the Journal of American History.

General readers unacquainted with the intersections of slavery and the American Revolution may well learn quite a bit from this book, then, but scholars of the era or of questions related to slavery and abolition will not. That seems an odd choice for a university press to publish.