should work, about how the empire should be constituted. These rifts combined self-interest and ideology, with religion lying just below the surface. People like Cranfield believed that the king had wide latitude to decide how he ruled his foreign plantations, and that subjects had the responsibility to obey him—a duty they cast in religious terms. Colonial subjects, on the other hand, had become used to some degree of autonomy. Some of them, especially Reformed Protestants like Wadsworth, believed that people had no duty to obey an ungodly or tyrannical ruler. The general disobedience of Americans led many imperial administrators to believe that only a show of brute force could make the empire work.2
Figure 1. The British Atlantic world in the late seventeenth century.
Figure 2. The West Indies in the late seventeenth century.
After 1689, however, a new political culture developed in the American plantations. While they never lost their rebellious streak, colonial Americans came together, in the words of one New Yorker, as “true protestants subjects” of the English monarch. The reconstituted empire combined the centralization favored by royal agents like Cranfield with the militant Protestantism espoused by Wadsworth. This new kind of politics worked because ordinary people believed in it, and they did so, overwhelmingly, out of fear. From the 1670s through the beginning of the eighteenth century, colonial Americans lived in almost constant anxiety: of attacks by French and Indian enemies; of tyrannical exactions from their rulers; of subversion from within by dissident religious groups or by African slaves. In many cases, colonists described these threats using the language of conspiracies common in early modern Europe, especially the Protestant rhetoric of Catholic plots. Indeed, the language of antipopery provided a constant backdrop for political intrigue around the colonies. This fear had the potential to tear the empire apart, to cause rebellions against authority and subvert royal government. In some circumstances, however, fear could bring the empire together, as long as royal officials learned how to harness it. This book tells the story of how that happened, of how popular fear allowed the English, and after the Act of Union of 1707 the British, to build an empire.3
The story of the making of empire must necessarily be both intensely local and transatlantic in scope. Imperial leaders had to deal with dozens of local contexts: colonial societies that had developed, in some cases over decades, in relative isolation both from each other and from the metropole. What worked politically in a Puritan outpost like New Hampshire necessarily failed in a plantation society like Barbados. At the same time, colonial subjects of the crown, no matter where they lived, shared certain assumptions about politics. They can be boiled down into four basic rules. First, Anglo-Americans believed in the sovereignty of the king, that he enjoyed theoretical power in the plantations. Second, and somewhat contradictorily, they believed that local people, and the institutions of local governance, should have broad latitude in actually running things. Third, the vast majority felt that governments at whatever level should be Protestant, and defend subjects’ “Protestant liberties.” Finally, rulers had the obligation to keep people safe, to defeat whatever enemies threatened from within or without. These four rules, needless to say, contradicted each other in numerous respects. What was the line, for instance, between royal sovereignty and local autonomy? And what to do if a king, like the Catholic James II, seemed likely to subvert Protestantism? Finally, how much should people sacrifice the first three principles in the name of the fourth, a desire for security? English people struggled for most of the seventeenth century to answer these questions, and colonial subjects had their own answers.
The crisis that eventually produced this imperial consensus emerged from a particular moment in English and British politics. Inhabitants of the colonies, in many cases, came from England or Europe themselves; their political understanding depended on both the peculiar heritage of England and Britain, and a constant communication of ideas from one side of the Atlantic to the other. Of course, colonial subjects lived hundreds of miles from the center, and they never simply replicated English political culture. Nonetheless, the imperial transformation emerged from the complicated political and religious divisions of Restoration England and its British and European neighbors. During the late 1600s, England experienced a “crisis of popery and arbitrary government,” an upsurge in fear that divided the nation into two rival parties, created new religious animosities, and eventually pushed England toward a new role in European power politics. Only by beginning in England can we understand how and why the empire changed.4
• • •
In 1678 rumors of a terrible plot surfaced in the city of London. According to a former Jesuit novice named Titus Oates, foreign and domestic papists were on the verge of carrying out a grand design to reduce the kingdom to “popery and tyranny.” The undertaking would begin with the murder of King Charles II, which would pave the way for the burning of the city and the forcible conversion of the nation’s Protestants, aided if necessary by French and Irish armies. The plot turned out to be a fiction, but it struck a nerve with English Protestants nervous that global Catholicism, led by the French king Louis XIV, was newly resurgent. The result was a political crisis that paralyzed the government, leading to a series of show trials and the hanging of nineteen Roman Catholics for alleged complicity in the plot. But even after the immediate crisis ended, the ramifications of the popish plot lived on. Not only in London but all around Protestant Europe, people remained fearful that Catholic enemies threatened them at every turn.5
Fear of Catholicism, of course, was not a new phenomenon in late seventeenth-century England. To one degree or another, every Protestant defined his or her faith against the Roman Catholic Church, and England had a particularly dramatic history of confrontation between Catholics and Protestants, from “Bloody” Mary’s persecutions of Protestants during the 1550s through Elizabeth I’s feuds with Spain during the late 1500s and the infamous “gunpowder plot” of 1605 in which Catholic radicals attempted to blow up Parliament and assassinate England’s political elite. But if antipopery was ubiquitous among early modern Protestants, it was historically contingent, dictated by local conditions and a changing global context. In addition, antipopery rarely functioned as a rallying cry for English Protestants, bringing them together against a common popish enemy. On the contrary, it often was a language of division: a rhetoric some Protestants used against others within the fold whom they viewed as insufficiently godly. The best example of this came during the 1630s and 1640s, when Puritans directed anti-Catholic rhetoric against King Charles I, claiming that his attempts to reintroduce ceremonies into the Church of England marked him as a closet papist. After parliamentarians executed Charles I in 1649, moreover, the king’s defenders turned this anti-Catholicism right back at the Puritans, claiming that by killing a rightful Protestant monarch the Puritans imitated the “king-killing doctrine” of the Jesuits. Thus English anti-Catholicism was not a coherent ideology, but a rhetoric that could be applied to any number of political situations.6
Despite its diversity, though, English antipopery usually rested on a number of beliefs. It began with a view of history as a constant struggle between good, exemplified in the true church of Christ, and evil, represented by the church’s enemies. These enemies, the forces of Antichrist, designed to replace Christ at the head of the church and thus monopolize wealth and power in their own hands. From the mid-1500s onward, most Protestant theologians confidently identified the pope as Antichrist, and they found plenty of evidence in scripture, from the Old Testament prophecies to the Revelation of St. John, that seemed to foreshadow the struggles between good and evil that were playing out in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In these ministers’ minds, “popery” was not a religion at all; it was an anti-religion, and in the typical words of one Cambridge theologian, papists were “Pseudochristians, or rather the Synagogue of Antichrist, who under pretence of professing Christ do most wickedly oppose him, by nulling his Laws, and barbarously murthering his true and faithfull Subjects.” As a result, Protestants could identify the characteristics of true religion by examining popery—its binary opposition—and doing the exact opposite. Thus the impulse to view the difference between popery and Protestantism in terms of oppositions: light and darkness, liberty and slavery, reason and