The Tea Chest

by Heidi Chiavaroli

When he did, I fell into his arms, not missing the musket at his side.

  He turned. “’Tis Emma!”

  Within moments I was being pulled into the house, Sarah’s arms around me, her warm hands covering my own chilled ones, her gaze raking over me and my full pillow slip. “Emma, what in tarnation . . . ?”

  “I—I . . .”

  What if they turned me away? Sarah had said she would help me in any way, that I was like a daughter to her, but now that the time to prove the words presented itself, would she live up to them? Was I asking too much? I hadn’t spoken with her in days. And only now did I realize the peril I posed to her and John . . . the children. My father was many things, but a man of reason was not one of them. Surely he wouldn’t harm the Fultons or attempt to persecute them. And yet I couldn’t quite convince myself of that fact, which weighed heavy on my conscience.

  Father’s words to Noah about the governor compensating him for the corpse of a Son echoed in my mind.

  The backs of my eyelids burned. I shook my head, spoke against a quivering bottom lip. “I was frightened. I thought I was being brave, but mayhap I am only foolish.”

  Sarah led me to the keeping room table, where I put my things down, turned, sat, and jumped at the sight of Noah in a corner chair, shadows from the dancing hearth playing across his face.

  I put a hand to my chest.

  “Forgive me, Emma. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I shook my head. “’Twouldn’t take much to startle me as of now.” We shared a smile, and I suddenly felt much less lonely than I had for the last fortnight.

  Sarah brought a cup of chocolate and placed it before me. I drank it, the hot liquid warming my insides, serving to calm.

  “Now tell us what happened, dear.”

  Sarah sat beside John, the three pairs of eyes trained on me. “I—I wish to be part of your cause.”

  Silence.

  John and Sarah exchanged uneasy glances before Sarah took my hand in both her own.

  “While I can’t say I’m not thrilled to hear this, you must realize, with your father being who he is—there is no turning back when it comes to this matter.” She released my hand. “And while I applaud your decision to break away from an undesired future . . . I do not wish for your politics to be the excuse you use.”

  I felt my face flaming, doubted my motives all over again. For the briefest of moments, I considered slipping home this very night, entering our unlocked house, and creeping back up the stairs to my chambers, where Father and Mother would be none the wiser by morning.

  But was that what I wanted?

  No. No, ’twas not. And I had thought this through.

  I straightened. “You yourself have explained to me your politics, Sarah. A right to have a voice, a say in the future of our country, in the future of each of us.” I pressed my lips together, chanced a glance at Noah in the corner, silent but studying me with those big brown eyes. “I don’t have such a freedom. I’m destined to be wed to a dishonorable man, to leave the colonies and everything I’ve ever known, all because my parents demand it. I see how Father and my intended speak, what they believe, their ideals and how they act them out.” I brought my gaze back to Noah. He sat, mouth parted, as if hanging on my every word. I’d never had a man, especially one whom I loved, pay me such mind. It caused a pleasant dizziness to swirl over me, making my insides light all the way down to my toes. “And then I see the honor of others—not all the Sons, I realize, but some . . . you all in this room. I want nothing more than to be a part of it.”

  Sarah beamed beside me, squeezed my hand.

  “’Twill not be easy for you, or for any of us, if you make such a break,” John said.

  I looked at the corner of the book Noah had given me, sticking out from my pillow slip. My eyes landed on the round edge beside it, what I knew to be Sarah’s cup. “Aye, your safety is the one thing that makes me consider going back home this very night before Father knows I ever left.”

  Sarah tightened her grip on my hand. “John, we do not fight for what is just by being safe. Surely we can agree on that.”

  He nodded. “Aye.”

  “I realize I am an imposition. Mayhap I could see if your mother needs help at the tavern. I could obtain room and board there.”

  “Nay.” Noah, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke. “I will have you board in the back of the printing shop before you live at a tavern.”

  My face heated.

  “Noah’s right, Emma. The tavern . . . ’tis not a place for a young woman. I have some years behind me, some wisdom to deal with the men while I work. But we need your help here as ever before. You’ll stay with us, won’t she, John? And when we make our move to Medford, we can consider our next course.”

  My heart grew within my chest. I thought of little Mary, her joy at finding me at her home when she awoke. Sarah. John. The children. They would be my family.

  John nodded once, firmly. “For tonight, aye. But her father will no doubt come for her. Without a husband to vouch for her, I am uncertain what can be done or how I can stand in his way.”

  “She’s a woman, not a mule to be sold to the highest bidder. Is that not enough grounds to stand by her?” Sarah said.

  John rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. This is a peculiar situation.”

  I hadn’t realized the depths and consequences of my decision. I had wanted a voice in my future, to prove myself strong, and yet here I was, once again in the hands of others.

  Sarah patted my arm. “Why don’t we simply see what comes of it, hmm? Get some rest tonight and we’ll revisit the situation in the morning.”

  I nodded, the chocolate settling in my stomach like a ball of hot wax.

  “We must finish our previous discussion, now, shall we?” A pleasant smile settled on Sarah’s face as if all were well.

  But I felt John’s heavy gaze on me.

  I rose, thinking he must not want me privy to whatever they discussed. “I will sneak up and lie with the girls. Thank you all, so very much.”

  “Emma. Sit down.” Sarah pointed back to my chair, turned to her husband. “I will respect your decision on this matter, John, but has not the girl done enough to prove herself?”

  John looked to Noah, who nodded.

  “Very well.”

  Sarah turned to me, seeming satisfied. “We were talking about the plans for the tea.”

  I sat. “Only three more days until it will be landed.”

  “It must not be taken off the ship,” John stated.

  Noah inched his chair closer to us. “Emma, that tea will not come ashore. Boston will not pay the tax on it.”

  “What do you plan to do?” I whispered.

  “If all other avenues of compromise fail, we must ready ourselves for more drastic measures.”

  Silence all around. Quite suddenly I feared what I had brought upon my head.

  Noah spoke again. “If a compromise is not reached, we are prepared to dump the tea.”

  “Dump it?” I repeated the words so they might seep in.

  “’Tis the only way.” Sarah’s eyes shone bright, reflecting the candles in their tarnished holders. “Though some have suggested hauling the ships to the Common and burning them, we believe there is a wiser and more peaceable solution.”

  I looked at Noah. Peaceable? “You can’t mean . . . At best you will all be sent to prison . . . at worst, charged with treason.”

  Noah pressed his lips together. “If we are caught. ’Tis what we discussed. There will be a good many of us, and under the cloak of darkness. ’Twill be impossible to arrest us all, and we are taking an oath of secrecy. We are determined to be peaceful, taking only the tea.”

  “Peaceful while destroying private property?” Inwardly, I applauded their bravery, their audacity. Yet I also saw how much could go awry.

  “We have no other choice,” John said. “The consignees are unwilling to compromise. New York and Philadelphia press
us. Baneful weed it is, and all for a threepence tax.”

  “There was a meeting today at Old South,” Sarah said. “Some came from as far as twenty miles!”

  “What transpired?”

  “Francis Rotch, owner of two of the ships, requested clearance from the port’s collector. The Body will meet again in two days’ time to hear his answer. If it is unfavorable, as it is like to be, we will enact our plan.” John sounded so sure, so firm.

  “A disguise is necessary, John.” Sarah seemed to plead with her husband.

  “There is talk of such, but I rather despise the idea of skulking behind a mask.”

  “Then if not to protect yourself, do it to protect the Body.”

  My gaze landed on the hard corner of my pillow slip again, where Mary Rowlandson’s narrative lay. I thought of the stories Father used to tell of the Mohawks during the Seven Years’ War. How many took the side of the British, how they were compelled to fight against even their brothers in Canada. How they treasured their freedom with a fierce sort of reverence.

  I thought of the weather vane atop Province House, of the Chronicle cartoons depicting the colonies as a petulant Indian.

  I opened my mouth, wondered if my idea was foolish, yet swallowed down my doubts. “Mohawks,” I said.

  Sarah tilted her head. “Pardon?”

  “Mother obtained a European guide to dressing for masquerade balls not long ago. I remember a picture of a Mohawk. I think it may be a . . . fitting disguise.”

  I waited for their responses, the only sound the crackling flames in the hearth.

  John slapped his hand on his thigh, breaking the silence. “Very fitting indeed!”

  Noah laughed. “Beyond fitting—flawless, I might say!”

  Sarah beamed at me, and just like that, I was not only considering their side, I was an accomplice to it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Emma

  The profound secrecy in which they have held their names, and the total abstinence of plunder, are proofs of the character of the men.

  JOHN ADAMS

  DECEMBER 16, 1773

  Father did not come for me.

  The fact stung as much as it brought relief.

  Yet I was not free of fear. For I lived every hour quaking inside, anticipating that Father might overtake my plan to leave my family, to live a life of my own choosing.

  And still, a part of me wished for him to show up at the Fultons’ door—for surely he knew my whereabouts. Part of me longed for him to come, hold his arms out to me, tell me he loved me despite my politics or despite whom I wished to marry. While I determined they did not deserve my loyalty, I still longed to be wanted by the family I’d been born into. To be missed. Could we not sort out our differences?

  I was a fool, perhaps, to even think it. With Father, there never was such a thing as sorting out differences. There was only his opinion, and little else.

  Instead I took comfort in the thought that if Uncle Daniel watched from eternity, he at least might approve of my actions.

  A cold rain poured upon the town. John and Noah had made their way to Old South at ten o’clock that morning to await the decision of the customhouse. Hours ran precious; the deadline for the tea to be unloaded drew nigh. ’Twas quite likely that a stroke after twelve would bring customs officers and the king’s soldiers to the three ships at Griffin’s Wharf to unload the tea. The duties would be paid, supporting the salaries of those the Body despised—men who spoke for the king and for whom our liberties were affronted—men like Governor Hutchinson. Men like my father.

  Sarah and I busied ourselves about the keeping room, anticipating the men’s return, the little ones underfoot.

  Mary climbed onto the chair beside me where I sat at the table. She leaned in close to the flame of the oil lamp before me, the light playing off her soft cheeks and rosebud mouth.

  “Not too close, little one,” I warned.

  “What, Emmy?” She pointed to where I held a copper pan over the sooty flame.

  I turned it so she could see the lampblack gathering beneath the pan. The smoke from the process made me cough, but today was not a day to be conducting such business outside.

  “Are we making pictures today?” Ann asked.

  Sarah turned from where she gathered soot at the hearth. “Not today, dears. We need all the lampblack for Papa tonight.” We exchanged nervous glances, and I wondered if our plan would truly work. Would the Mohawk disguises render John and Noah and the others who planned to dump the tea unrecognizable?

  And yet we held out hope that an agreement could be made. Each of us wished it to happen, however unlikely it seemed.

  The door burst open and I jumped, pushed the lamp aside as if I could hide the heavy smoke within the room.

  Sarah went to her husband as Noah closed the door behind him. “Has the meeting adjourned so soon?”

  The men doffed their wet hats and capes, hung them on a rack by the hearth. Droplets fell from them like fat tears upon the wood floor. “Harrison denied Rotch’s clearance back to London.”

  “That be it, then?” Sarah put her hands on her hips, looked at Mary perched on the chair, her tiny legs tucked beneath her pinafore.

  “There is one more hope. One man whose authority can override Harrison’s decision.”

  Sarah nearly snorted. “Governor Hutchinson is not like to do that.”

  “Still, we will exhaust every avenue before we turn to disobedience.”

  “The governor is in Milton,” I said, knowing these facts from Mother. With the increase in violence, many of the consignees had fled to Fort William. The governor had fled to his country home.

  John nodded. “Rotch is making the journey. We will convene at Old South at three to await him.”

  Cold rain ran on the panes of the window, and I thought what a muddy mess it would be for Mr. Rotch to make the seven-mile journey to Milton and back, likely all for naught.

  I resumed the making of my lampblack. No doubt it would get its use tonight.

  John and Noah did not return to Old South at the designated time, though they met a messenger—an apprentice from the distillery where John worked keeping ledgers—every hour or so, who reported that Mr. Rotch still had not returned.

  As dusk settled early on the dreary town, John finally stood. “It’s time.” His deep voice spoke of a finality, a sadness, and I realized how torn he was over this decision.

  Noah had told me earlier that on Queen Street, at the Boston Gazette’s Long Room, Benjamin Edes’s son kept a punch bowl filled for the Mohawks. The punch was said to give the men strength, physically and perhaps mentally, to carry out the deed that must be accomplished before the stroke of twelve.

  John and Noah chose to remain at home. While some men hid from their families what they would do that night, I admired John and Sarah’s openness and unity with one another. I longed for it, even, for Father and Mother had never once united in a worthy cause, unless of course one were to deem marrying their daughter off to a rogue such as Samuel Clarke worthy.

  Yet even as the thoughts scrambled my mind, they set off a pinch of . . . something. Not quite regret, but more akin to grief. For I might not have grieved my relationship with my parents, but I did grieve what we had never had—what I saw in the Fulton family now. And although I was a part of this new home, I stopped just short of being a part of their family. I felt, deep down, that I would always be on the outside looking in, that something—mayhap only my blood—prevented me from fully belonging to this new world. And for that, I grieved.

  As Sarah applied lampblack to her husband’s face, using burnt cork and soot to supplement where we fell short of lampblack, I stood above Noah doing the same. The echoes of the children’s feet creaked along the ceiling above us, as they were given strict orders to remain upstairs.

  My fingers shook as I smoothed the sooty paste over the right side of Noah’s face and worked my way around to his brow, my fingers along his skin, the intimacy of the moment no
t lost on me.

  “These disguises are superb, Emma. All who participate this night have adopted them.”

  I ran the pads of blackened fingers along his forehead, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his brow as I did so. “I pray I do not come to regret them.”

  He scooped my fingers from his face, held them still in his warm grip. “I trust you won’t. Don’t you see? We are doing this as amiably as we can, following orders not to touch any property except the tea.” He took a piece of paper from the pocket of his cloak nearby, held it out. “See? We are to commit no violence or mayhem. If we must do this thing, we vow to do it peacefully.” The paper held many different signatures, all in different hands in a round-robin, spiraling from a printed oath at the center.

  He folded the paper and replaced it within his cloak. I felt better with it out of sight, and although I admired his words, his courage, still I wondered . . . “Have you no qualms, then? I admit, I search my heart before God night after night—I feel I will never be certain. Though I do feel certain it is right that I am here, in this moment.”

  He ran his thumb lightly over the inside of my wrist, just against my pulse. A desire both foreign and forceful burgeoned within me. This was love, then. This wonder of life, this all-consuming feeling of flight. One that would have me disregard every other notion and cause and plight under the sun if it meant being with this man.

  “I suppose, if I am to be honest, I would admit doubts in the quietest corners of my heart. Yet they are quickly silenced when I think of our freedoms and how they may be lost if we continue on this path.”

  Sarah’s laugh came from behind. “You are shaping up to be a fine-looking Mohawk, my husband.”

  I slid my hands from Noah’s, twisted so I could see John. Sure enough, half his face was blackened, his hair slicked back with oil.

  I dipped my fingers into the lampblack, continued my work on Noah’s face, my own reddening at his gaze, which seemed intent upon my mouth. I turned my attention to the task, tried not to think too much on the familiarity of it. “I am glad I’m a part of this, Noah Winslow. And if standing for freedom means I have a say in my own future . . . then I will no longer dwell on my qualms, either.”