Dutch Courage: A History
of Booze in America

By Joan Schonbeck

"John Barleycorn" came to America on the Mayflower. Chances are he'd made earlier crossings in the company of men like "Eric the Red," St. Brendan and Verrazano, but we have no proof. Equally, there's no evidence of Barleycorn's presence at earlier settlements like St. Augustine, Jamestown or Roanoke Island, though I'm strongly inclined to believe that he was there. However, history provides unassailable confirmation of his arrival in America in 1620. Pilgrim chronicler William Bradford included him on the passenger list. John Alden, a cooper by trade and later to be immortalized as demure Priscilla Mullens' bashful suitor, was entrusted with babysitting the kegs of beer and hard liquor that filled the Mayflower's hold.

The large quantity of alcoholic beverages toted across the Atlantic in the small ship is not indicative of excessive drinking among "Ye Saincts of Leyden." With more water sources polluted than not in Europe, the Pilgrims, like most Europeans of their time, simply drank more alcohol than water. Their "hydrophobia" was so deeply ingrained that the discovery of drinkable water on Cape Cod was an event worthy of being recorded for posterity:

"As pleasant unto us as wine and beere had been in foretimes!" exclaims William Bradford ecstatically in his description of the crystal-clear spring they found while exploring the area around Truro.

Despite that discovery, it is patently clear that beer remained "pleasant unto them." It was a deciding factor in their decision to settle at Plymouth. An attack by Cape Cod Indians, an early nor'easter, and nearly drowning in Plymouth Bay hardly fazed them, but when "their victuals were much spente.... especially our beere", they wasted no time in settling upon Plymouth as their new home. Later they would pass stringent laws against providing alcohol to the natives, laws that became prototypes for those enacted across the country. But early on, "Ye Saincts" weren't above giving their Indian neighbors a little "cheer" if it suited their purposes. On Massasoit's first visit to Plymouth in 1621, when the Pilgrims were looking for a non-aggression pact, the Great Sachem was "given a great draught of rum that made him sweate all over...", after which he readily agreed to the pact.

Liquor was not a moral issue to the Pilgrims. They were well used to English churchmen brewing and selling ale outside a church after services, much as we might hold a church bazaar today. It was alcohol abuse, considered idle pleasure and time wasting, which they detested. Tipsy tipplers felt the lash and were locked in stocks. The first liquor license in America was issued in Plymouth, and James Cole ran its first tavern. Tavern owners were responsible for the conduct of their guests (a notion recently rediscovered in America, thanks to lawsuits). Apparently, Cole drank moderately, for no man would be issued liquor license who "drinkes drunke himself".

Why or when early New Englanders began calling alcohol "Dutch Courage" is lost in our misty past. It may simply have grown out of the fact that the Pilgrims, in their earliest explorations of this alien and frightening land, carried Holland Gin with them for fortification. Or perhaps it was a snide dig at their nearest trading rivals, the Dutch of New Amsterdam. From the day in 1626 when Peter Minuit bought Manhattan Island for $24 worth of junk jewelry until the British Navy drove them out in 1650, the Dutch were ever a thorn in the Pilgrims' side. It was they, not the Pilgrims, who garnered the lion's share of the region's lucrative fur trade. Perhaps in jealousy, "Ye Saincts" supposed the Dutch needed courage from a bottle to deal with Long Island Sound's fierce natives. (Or perhaps those Dutchmen they met did indeed get their courage out of a bottle!)

Better known is that the infamous Thomas Morton held the first recorded "orgies" in America. A colorful and unique character, Morton was the Timothy Leary of his time. The brilliant Oxford-educated aristocrat, barrister and con man sailed into Plymouth Harbor one day in 1627, and things were never again quite the same for the dour "Saincts." He developed an immediate fascination with the local Indians, convinced that they were the descendents of the Ancient Trojans. (This seems to have been based upon his notion that a lot of their words sounded like Greek to him.)

Morton spent only a few weeks in Plymouth. He rounded up the few fun-loving kindred souls he could find and headed north. They settled at a place Morton named, prophetically, Merrymount, and "merry" soon proved an understatement of life there. The Pilgrims' "sainctly" ears were shortly burning with stories of debauchery and revelry drifting out of Merrymount. Morton and his followers collected a harem of Indian maidens and set up America's first Maypole for dancing. Thomas Morton even wrote poetry for these bashes! Adding insult to injury, the Merrymounters also had given the local natives guns and taught them how to shoot. But the least-mentioned of all affronts may have been the most important. Morton also cut into the Pilgrims' already desolate fur trade.

The "Battle of Merrymount" should have been a comic opera. Myles Standish, red-haired and with a temper to match, and short even by Pilgrim standards, (they called him "Captaine Shrimpe" behind his back) led a contingent of Plymouth men up to Merrymount to "clean house." There they found Morton and his men holed up in a garrison, armed to the hilt, and with a large reserve of ammo. Unfortunately, the Merrymounters couldn't put this impressive arsenal to use. They were too drunk to shoot straight. Hours of deafening musket salvos produced only scores of shot-off tree limbs. Finally in disgust, Morton and his men charged out to engage their enemies in hand-to-hand combat. But they were also too tipsy to walk. One of Morton's men tripped and fell on his sword, producing the only casualty.

At least that's Myles Standish's version of the fight. Thomas Morton always claimed the Pilgrims snuck up on him, taking him unawares. He further added that the Plymouth Militia were so inebriated after his capture that he easily escaped. Whatever the truth was, Morton did indeed escape. Ultimately, he was recaptured and deported to England. Undaunted, he was soon back causing more headaches for "Ye Saincts." Morton died, as the Pilgrims loved to point out, "old and crazy," in Agamenticus (York), Maine. They never forgave him. Even as he lay dying, Plymouth still rejoiced over reports that Morton "had sunk so low he was content to drink water!"