Margaret Gage Pulls the Devil’s Tail

Margaret Gage doesn’t exactly belong in the Edes & Gill print shop, which is precisely why her arrival is so delicious. In this scene from Broadside, the wife of General Thomas Gage steps unexpectedly into Boston’s most ink-stained corner, where Paul Revere and the printers are busy shaping the arguments of a restless city. She’s polished, thoughtful, and dressed with unmistakable taste; he’s practical, outspoken, and covered in the honest grime of the trade. Put them in one room with a printing press between them, and suddenly politics gets very personal.

Margaret Gage visits Edes & Gill

What makes the moment so fun is that Margaret isn’t there to scold, threaten, or spy. She comes with an idea. She wants to know whether words, images, and a well-placed broadside might help calm a city that seems determined to split itself in two. For Margaret, this scene deepens her arc in a meaningful way: she is trying, sincerely, to support her husband’s success in Boston, not through force, but through influence, tact, and persuasion. She still believes there may be a way to shape public feeling before anger hardens into something irreversible.

Margaret Gage makes a proposition

Of course, this is Edes & Gill, so nothing stays polite for long. The press itself becomes part of the flirtation and the fun, especially when Margaret launches into a lively number built around printing language, persuasion, and the famous “Devil’s Tail,” the long bar that brings the press together. It’s witty, rhythmic, and a little dangerous; in other words, exactly the kind of theatrical trouble we like. Margaret tries to sell the power of messaging; Paul, naturally, pushes back with the steady conviction of a man who prints what he believes. Ink flies, sparks fly, and nobody in the shop is looking away.

Margaret Gage pulls the Devil's Tale

And then, just when the tension has tightened to the breaking point, the scene swerves into charm. Paul reaches for a mandolin, Margaret’s carefully ordered composure starts to soften, and what began as a political visit turns into something warmer, stranger, and much harder to define. That’s the pleasure of this sequence: it isn’t just about broadsides, slogans, or sides being chosen. It’s about attraction, ideology, performance, and the thrilling possibility that sometimes the most dangerous thing in a revolution is not a musket or a mob, but a well-timed song in a room full of ink.

Building a Broadside Costume, One Detail at a Time

There are few things I love more than tumbling headfirst into a costume project, and this one started about four months ago when I began working with the wonderful Kathy Page. I had found the pattern on eBay, a Butterick historical costume pattern from their “Making History” line and I was immediately obsessed. It wasn’t just vaguely colonial-ish. It was the full fantasy: coat, vest, shirt, breeches, hat. The kind of pattern that says, with complete confidence, “Yes, we are doing this properly,” which is exactly my kind of drama.

Butterick Pattern 3072

Once Kathy and I got started, the real fun began. She pulled together fabric swatches, and we spent time choosing materials and colors that felt right for the period but also theatrical in the best possible way. That part always feels a bit magical to me, when a flat pattern starts becoming an actual person. We thought about texture, weight, and how the colors would play together, building the look piece by piece until it started to feel less like sewing and more like time travel with opinions.

Fugawee Pewter Buttons

And then came the buttons, which of course deserve their own paragraph because buttons like these are not merely functional, they are a commitment. I ordered them from Fugawee, and they are glorious pewter buttons in multiple sizes, dozens of them, each one with that wonderfully weighty little historical presence. The smooth domed front, the loop shank on the back, the slightly imperfect hand-cast character — honestly, they are tiny metal divas. Once those arrived, the whole project suddenly felt deliciously real. Nothing says “I take costuming far too seriously” quite like gleefully sorting pewter buttons by size.

Colonial American fifer costume reproduction

What I love most about costuming is how it turns research into something tactile and joyful. You’re not just imagining a character or a time period; you’re choosing the fabric, fussing over trims, admiring the buttons, and watching the whole thing come alive detail by detail. Working with Kathy has been such a treat because she understands that the magic lives in those choices. And when it all starts coming together, it doesn’t just look historical, it feels like you’re getting dressed in 1770 in the Colonies, one glorious layer at a time.

Before the Feed, There Was Ink: Why We’re Backing Letterpress Depot

Before there were feeds, there were broadsides. Ink-on-paper “posts” loud enough to spark a revolution. That’s why we’re thrilled to name Letterpress Depot as our designated charity this year. They’re building a living museum of letterpress printing, typography, design, poetry, and book arts, making hands-on access possible for the whole community while preserving and rehabbing the historic Englewood Depot building.

Historic Englewood Depot on Track to Become Letterpress Museum

And here’s the part that makes our history nerd hearts sing: they’re printing our posters as actual broadsides, the same tactile, time-travel magic that carried arguments, satire, news, and courage through the 1700s. (If you’ve ever heard us talk about “Broadsides as the original social media”… this is that.)

Tom Parson of Letterpress Depot with a Broadside of Broadside

If you want to help keep the presses rolling:

• Donate to support construction and opening their doors to the community (they’re fundraising toward a build-out goal and taking gifts online + by mail).
• Become a member (discounts on workshops + helps keep community programming free/open). 
• Volunteer: they’re a volunteer-run organization and welcome help on everything from construction to press projects.

Ink is messy. Type is heavy. And the impact is real. All aboard. 🚉

https://www.letterpressdepot.org/

NO TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION: Governor Hutchinson in the Streets

In our Broadside the Musical we have a scene where Boston doesn’t feel like a town anymore, it feels like a checkpoint. Governor Thomas Hutchinson moves through the winter streets with two soldiers at his shoulder, not to do the searching himself, but to be seen while it’s done. The message is simple: the Crown is watching, the Crown is present, and compliance is no longer a handshake between neighbors, it’s an inspection. That atmosphere is historically grounded in the late Townshend era, when Parliament’s import duties on tea and tighter enforcement turned everyday trade into a flashpoint.

Governor Hutchinson looking for smuggled tea near customs office

The searches themselves belong to the machinery of customs: searchers, writs, paperwork, forced “assistance.” Long before a musket ever fires, the violence is administrative; doors opened, chests unlatched, baskets upended, the public humiliation of being treated like a suspect in your own city. Writs of assistance functioned as broad search authority for customs enforcement, empowering officials to enter houses and shops in daytime and compel help, exactly the kind of legal blunt instrument that can make a street go quiet with rage.

Governor Hutchinson holds a tea bin with improper tariff papers

And then there are the soldiers. Boston’s tension didn’t come out of nowhere; troops had been landing and quartering in the town since 1768, in the wake of escalating disputes over customs enforcement and imperial authority. Our scene borrows that real pressure: uniforms at corners, drums in the distance, a crowd that learns to speak in half-sentences because someone is always close enough to overhear.

Colonist fight back against illegal search and seizure

So Hutchinson’s walk becomes theatrical without needing to be literal: he is the face of lawful power in a place that no longer trusts law. He doesn’t have to shout. He only has to pass by while other men search, and the city supplies the rest; stares, mutters, pamphlets posted fresh on walls, the sense that Boston is one spark away from becoming a story nobody can control.

Before the Bayonets, There Were Ballrooms: Margaret Gage Before the Intolerables

In the mid 1760s, the Gages weren’t “Boston people” yet, they were New York people. After Thomas Gage’s promotion, he and Margaret Kemble Gage set up house on Broad Street in New York City, where Margaret moved like a polished Loyalist hostess and their home became a hub of imperial society. New York was the command center: dinners, alliances, manners, an empire that still believed it could be charming.

The Gage's home in New York became a hub of imperial society.

But Boston kept dragging the story north. In 1768, Gage backed the decision to occupy Boston with regular troops, a show of force that only sharpened the city’s fury and by 1770 the pressure cooker blows with the Boston Massacre. Even when he’s physically based in New York, he’s managing Boston’s crisis, insisting the “unhappy affair” be handled with full documentation and control, because he knows the street isn’t just angry; it’s watching.

The Gage family visits the family estate in Sussex

In June 1773, the family finally sails for England, less a triumphant homecoming than a strategic exhale. Sussex is the old-rooted world: the Gage family’s seat and countryside stability, the place where “home” is supposed to mean walls that don’t argue back. And yet the Atlantic won’t stay quiet, news arrives that Massachusetts is inflamed again, now with politics turning personal.

Thomas Gage replaces Governor Hutchinson and enforces the Intolerables Act

Then comes the pivot: the Hutchinson letters hit Boston in mid-1773 and explode into outrage, and the crisis accelerates into Parliament’s punitive response after the Tea Party. In spring 1774 Hutchinson is out, and Gage is sent in, a soldier and administrator deemed steady enough to enforce the new order. He arrives in Boston 13 May 1774 and starts implementing the Coercive (“Intolerable”) Acts: not persuasion now, but policy backed by bayonets. New York society and Sussex calm are gone; Boston is the assignment that becomes a siege.

A Made-for-TMZ Moment: Hutchinson’s Letters

As the harmony in Broadside thickens, Governor Hutchinson storms into General Gage’s office with a damp issue of the Boston Gazette in his hand. He doesn’t bother with greetings. “They printed my letters.” Gage barely looks up. “I’ve seen it.” He’s already clocked the damage and he’s already thinking beyond Boston, because the scandal has been messy on both sides of the Atlantic.

Governor Hutchinson showing displeasure on his published personal letters

In London, the blame and gossip even produced a clumsy sword duel between gentlemen arguing over who was responsible, the kind of spectacle that would be funny if it weren’t tied to real power. Hutchinson calls it private correspondence turned into public punishment, his words “set in type like a public hanging.” Gage agrees it’s theft, but he keeps his response controlled. The letters weren’t pulled from a Boston drawer; they were obtained in London, and forwarded to Massachusetts. Now Boston has done what Boston does best: printed them and dared everyone to react.

London's famous duel when the bark was bigger than bite

Hutchinson wants force. “Then we crush the press. Edes and Gill, tonight.” Gage stops him with a simple consequence: soldiers at a print shop becomes the next headline. Hutchinson doesn’t care. He wants the source. He wants a name he can drag into daylight and blame for the whole thing. And when he says it's tied to “Revere” you can feel the scene tighten. Revere is visible. Revere has friends. Revere makes noise. Hutchinson wants to treat that as proof.

General Gage consoles Governor Hutchinson on his personal letters

Gage won’t give him a public show. He grants permission to question Paul Revere, but only with conditions: no public arrest, no roughing him up, questions only. Hutchinson agrees because he wants action more than he wants restraint. Gage ends the exchange with the line that explains the whole strategy: they’re after information, not a martyr. In Boston, the wrong kind of crackdown doesn’t end a scandal, it gives it a face.

Mercy Otis Warren: The Revolution’s Playwright

Mercy Otis Warren didn’t march in the street with a musket, she hosted the room where the marching orders got talked into existence. In Plymouth, she and her husband James Warren welcomed key Patriot leaders to their home, turning a fireside parlor into a kind of soft-lit headquarters: tea on the table, politics in the air, and the future being argued sentence by sentence.

Mercy Otis Warren and her husband hosting the Sons of Liberty

Mercy wrote the Revolution as theatre. She published biting political satires, The Adulateur (1772), The Defeat (1773), The Group (1775), using characters and scenes to make power look ridiculous and resistance look inevitable. And this wasn’t private journaling; The Defeat ran in installments in the Boston Gazette in 1773, meaning her “plays” could travel the city like gossip with ink on it.

Mercy Otis Warren encouraging a Saturday afternoon spinning bee

At the same time, women organized their own visible front of the boycott, what we often call the Daughters of Liberty. When British cloth became politically charged, they answered with homespun: spinning, weaving, and wearing American-made fabric as a public statement. “Spinning bees” weren’t quaint craft circles; they were demonstrations with fiber, groups gathering to spin together, producing thread and cloth while proving (in front of neighbors and newspapers) that the boycott had muscle.

Mercy Otis Warren watches a performance of one of her plays backstage

That’s the Mercy in Broadside: a woman who understands that politics is persuasion, and persuasion is performance. Historically, she used the tools she had; hosting, writing, publishing, to push the Patriot argument into the public bloodstream. At the Green Dragon she turns that truth into stage action: the same playwright’s instincts that could skewer governors on paper become the quick, comic “Three Drunken Maidens” distraction that gets the Needle Guard out of trouble, proof that sometimes the fastest way past a guard isn’t a sword… it’s a scene.

Dr. Joseph Warren: The Brain of the Operation

We first meet Dr. Joseph Warren in Broadside out in the open, running the opening town hall, speaking about rights the way a doctor names symptoms: plainly, urgently, so the room can’t pretend it’s fine. When he starts “The Liberty Song,” it isn’t nostalgia. It’s a public vow to turn a crowd into a chorus, and a chorus into a cause.

Dr. Joseph Warren leading the colonists in a chorus of the Liberty Song

But Warren knows a revolution can’t live on speeches alone. So the story slips with him into the quieter machinery: the lodge network. In our telling, it’s not a spooky secret society, it’s a real web of trust that crosses jobs, neighborhoods, even divided loyalties. Warren uses that existing structure of meetings, relationships, coded habits to move people and information without ringing the King’s alarm bell.

Dr. Joseph Warren leading a lodge meeting

From there, his leadership sharpens into its most dangerous form: the spy network, run with the Needle Guard. While official power watches uniforms and muskets, Warren invests in what power overlooks... women who can pass through rooms, letters, taverns, and “harmless” entertainment with soldiers looking on. The Needle Guard isn’t decoration or backup; they believe the end justifies the means.

Dr. Joseph Warren instructing the needle guard

And then the pivot: the message that sends Revere riding. In Broadside, the ride doesn’t come out of nowhere, it’s the last link in a chain Warren built on purpose. He sees the “maybe” turning into “now,” makes the call, and gets the warning into Revere’s hands. That handoff is Warren’s thesis: words become networks, networks become action, and action becomes history.

Governor Hutchinson: The Proclamation Boston Wouldn’t Let Stand

Governor Thomas Hutchinson enters Broadside as a Massachusetts-born Loyalist who genuinely believes he’s preventing catastrophe. He’s not chasing cruelty, he’s chasing containment: keep Boston from tipping from argument into riot, from satire into blood. He thinks of himself as the adult in the room, the one responsible for consequences nobody else wants to name.

Edes & Gill refuse to publish Governor Hutchinson's broadside

His primary instrument isn’t a sword; it’s official paper. A proclamation broadside, read aloud and posted publicly, is how he tries to make reality hold still: disperse, obey, return to order. Play him as someone who treats the document with ceremony, measured voice and controlled posture because he believes law is the only thing separating “society” from “mob.”

The Governor finds a printer and admires his proclamation broadside

Then the city answers back. His proclamations get mocked, sung over, and turned into fuel for the Patriot print machine; counter-broadsides, tavern choruses, laughter where he expects obedience. That’s where “us and them” is born for him: not as an idea, but as a feeling he looks up and realizes the crowd no longer sees a governor; they see an enemy.

The Three Drunken Maidens vandalize the Governor's broadside after their performance.

His arc tightens from calm authority to brittle enforcement. The tragedy is that his fear of chaos makes him reach for harsher control, which only proves the Patriots’ point and deepens the split. For an audition: play the public face as composed, even polite, then let one private crack show the man underneath: wounded, cornered, and terrified of what happens if his words stop working.

A Resignation? YES. How one small broadside turned Boston’s outrage into public proof.

Before push notifications, Boston had broadsides, single sheets that could turn rumor into rendezvous and outrage into action. If the Sons of Liberty wanted the truth to travel, they didn’t whisper it. They printed it.

A hand-printed call to meet under the Liberty Tree at noon

This broadside, dated Tuesday morning, December 17, 1765, summons the “True-born Sons of Liberty” to gather under LIBERTY-TREE at XII o’Clock to hear, under oath, whether Andrew Oliver had truly resigned as stamp distributor. Not a private promise. A public statement, staged in daylight, with witnesses.

Behind it is the organizing instinct of the Loyal Nine, an early core that helped shape what became the Sons of Liberty. They understood something timeless: movements run on coordination and credibility. If Oliver resigned, Boston needed more than “someone said.” It needed proof the whole town could share.

One of the best details is the headline’s rhythmic snarl: “St—p! … No:” and then the verdict at the bottom: “A Resignation? YES.” It reads like a chant and a receipt. The broadside isn’t just information; it’s confirmation.

 Under the Liberty Tree: reading, signing, treating a printed sheet as evidence.

At the bottom sits a quiet credit: Edes & Gill, because printers weren’t background characters. They were infrastructure. They made ideas portable, repeatable, and hard to erase. This is the Revolution before muskets: paper, witnesses, and a town insisting on reality together.