I do not usually stop what I am doing to listen to Supreme Court oral arguments. That is lawyer country. Necessary work, important work, but not usually where historians spend their time. But this week, something in one of those arguments stopped me cold. Not because of the outcome, which we do not yet know. Not because of the modern policy question involved. But because of how history was used.

Or more precisely, how it was handled.

During arguments over a Hawaii firearms law, attorneys defending the statute reached back into the Reconstruction era and cited the post Civil War Black Codes as historical precedent. Laws written in 1865 and 1866 to control, restrict, and terrorize newly freed Black Americans. Laws so abusive that they triggered the Civil Rights Act of 1866 and the Fourteenth Amendment itself.

Those laws were presented, in the Supreme Court of the United States, as examples of acceptable historical regulation.

If you are not a historian of Reconstruction, that might sound odd. If you are, it should feel deeply unsettling.

This episode is not about whether Hawaii’s law is right or wrong. It is not about modern politics. It is about how history works, what it is for, and what happens when we treat the past as a collection of citations instead of a story with meaning.

Because some laws are precedents.

And some laws are warnings.

Before the first shots were fired, before tea hit the water,the American Revolution was already underway, quietly, methodically, and with paperwork.

This episode begins in places that do not make it ontocommemorative mugs. Courtrooms. Docks. Ledger books. It begins with a simple realization that spread through the colonies like a winter chill. British authority was no longer bound by its own rules. The law, once assumed to be ashield, had started to feel like a weapon.

We tend to remember rebellion when it looks dramatic. Weforget it when it looks procedural. But long before muskets cracked at Lexington, colonists were watching ships seized under cannon, neighbors dragged into courts without juries, and legal rights evaporate behind polite language and official seals. These were not accidents. They were patterns.

Today on Dave Does History on Bill Mick Live, we look at twomaritime flashpoints that forced that truth into the open. The seizure of John Hancock’s ship Liberty. The burning of HMS Gaspee. On the surface, they look like local disputes. They exposed something far more dangerous. A system willing to deny juries, relocate trials, and treat distance itself aspunishment.

These events did not just provoke anger. They taught alesson. When law becomes untethered from consent, resistance stops being radical and starts being rational.

This is the story of how paperwork, procedure, and powerpushed America toward independence.

On January 17, 1955, there was no cheering crowd, no grand speech echoing across the harbor, and no sense that history was demanding attention. There was only a submarine easing away from a pier in Groton, Connecticut, and a short signal sent by flashing light. Underway on nuclear power. Ten words that quietly ended an era that had ruled the seas since coal smoke and canvas.

This is not a story about a miracle machine or a flawless triumph. It is a story about discipline, stubbornness, risk, and a Navy willing to trust mathematics and metal more than tradition. USS Nautilus did not simply go to sea, she changed what going to sea meant. She broke the old bargains that submariners had lived with for decades, the need to surface, the tyranny of fuel, the constant negotiation between endurance and survival.

In this episode, we walk through that moment and everything that made it possible. The engineers in the desert, the admiral who refused shortcuts, the crew who stepped aboard something the world had never seen before. No mythology, no inflated heroics, just the hard truth of how the Nuclear Navy began. Quietly, deliberately, and forever.