THOMAS PAINE
THE CROWD ARRIVED after dark.
Their torches lit the street, creating a semblance of daylight, bright against the snow on Cross Street.
At first they were but a handful. Father ordered Mother and me upstairs, and we watched from the window of my chambers as they pressed in close to our home, demanding Father come out from the house.
To our dismay, Father opened the window of the dining room. We could just see the top of his powdered wig as he shouted to the rabble, waving them away as if they were no more than a pesky fly. “Be gone with you! Be assured Governor Hutchinson has promised a bounty of twenty pounds sterling for every Yankee I kill! Be gone, I tell you!”
The mob yelled and cursed at him. From Middle Street, more came to swell its size.
Mother’s hands fluttered to her mouth. “Why must he goad them?”
I looked at her, ashen by the light of the pine knot torches, and saw her anew. Had she once resigned herself to the same wretched fate I now faced? Did she wish she had charted a different course for her life or her children?
For the first time, I thought of my future children—children sired by Samuel, a man who matched, even exceeded, Father in his own baleful temperament. I’d only wanted to protect Noah and John and all the Mohawks when I’d agreed to marry him. But what of my own children? Though they be unborn, did they not deserve my protection?
Quite of a sudden, the crowd outside seemed a threat not only to Father, but to me directly, to my future offspring. ’Twas simpleminded of me to think I could dissuade evil in the marrying of Samuel. Yes, protecting those who’d signed their names to the round-robin was worth my sacrifice, but would union with Samuel truly bring about good for all my days? Would my children bear the brunt of his ire, as I had with Father? Worse, would Samuel’s temperament be passed on to my own sons, a never-ending legacy of my own doing?
My thoughts were interrupted as Mother unlatched my window and leaned out into the cold air, the smoky scent of the mob’s torches rising to us. “Pray, leave us be!” Her sobs filled the air. “Be gracious, I beg of you, on behalf of the tender sensitivities of me and my daughter.”
I wish I could have called out to the men, told them of my Patriot activities on the night of the tea party. Would they leave us then? Yet if they did, I would have Father to contend with. He would be apt to murder me himself.
Some of the men wore neckerchiefs tied about their noses and mouths to ward off the cold of the winter night, but a few faces were visible and seemed to soften at Mother’s plea. I saw a couple confer with one another, jerk their heads up to the window where we stood watching in terror. Not all, but some. ’Twas enough to give me hope.
Yet while some were distracted by our plight, I watched in terror and disbelief as Father stuck his unsheathed sword through the window. The glimmer of the metal flashed quick before he thrust it within the breastbone of the nearest man.
At this violent turn, the crowd lost any thought of Mother’s pleas and feminine sensitivities. They let out a mighty cry, almost animallike, and came upon the house like a swarm of angry bees. The sound of shattered glass and the scent of pitch from their torches filled the air, and I wondered if they intended to burn the house to ash.
I wished for Noah, then. He had saved us all from the mob at the Clarke house with his eloquent words and collected mind. Now, though, in part due to my actions, he was far away—mayhap no longer in the city.
I grasped Mother’s hand and pulled her from the window, where men with ladders and axes prepared to invade our home through my chambers. I sought a weapon—something that could be used to defend us—but found nothing more than a paperweight.
Father barged through my door, the bloodied sword in his hand. He glanced toward the window, the top of a man’s head already appearing. “Come,” he said, leading us to his chambers.
More breaking glass. Steps upon the stairs. My insides quivered with terror. We should not be here, any of us. Father’s pride kept us here. We should have taken leave to Castle Island. Should have known ’twas only a matter of time before a volatile town turned a mob upon an arrogant man who ran amok with his mouth.
Behind the locked door of my parents’ chambers, we huddled in a corner, Father muttering something about his musket in the parlor.
I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer for protection for us and the servants downstairs. My hands and arms shook where they wrapped around my middle. More cries of rowdy men, some slurred with drink from the Royal Exchange tavern, no doubt. The thud of more ladders, the terrifying shatter of glass in the very room in which we cowered, the wind sweeping in to chill us as the men entered.
A man took the neckerchief from his face, and a familiar face appeared before us. He caught me off guard with his kind smile, belying the violent evidence of the glass crushed at his feet.
“Greetings,” he pronounced, tipping his tricorne hat.
“Mr. Russell, you make sport with this crowd?” Father said.
“We come as friends. We seek to speak with you, is all, Mr. Malcolm.” He held out his hand to Father, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Father shook it.
I couldn’t understand the strange turn of events.
“I ask only that you hand over your sword,” Mr. Russell said.
Father wavered slightly, yet what else could we do? The sound of splitting wood, of a hatchet at the locked door sounded to our left. Father and one pitiful sword were no match for the mob.
With a show of reluctance, Father pushed his sword into Mr. Russell’s hand.
“You’ve made a wise choice, Malcolm.” Mr. Russell turned and called toward the window, “He’s unarmed, men!”
More men and boys rushed in through the window. A final hatchet blow dislodged the door, and bodies rushed in from that way also.
Many hands seized Father. I sank into the farthest corner with Mother, both of us clutching each other in terror and trying to muffle our cries as we watched the men beat Father with sticks and tie a rope round him. They lowered him out the window, his words of “Fie!” only seeming to fuel their task.
They left Mother and me alone, their sole quarry now taken. On trembling legs, we made our way past splintered wood and broken glass to the window of my chambers, whence we watched as the men placed Father on a waiting sled. Four men pulled him toward Middle Street, the rest of the crowd following, and the bob of their torches soon faded, leaving the street dark.
Mother and I stared at one another. Chloe entered, tears streaking her face. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. They were ruthless.”
I grasped the dark hands of our servant. “Did they hurt you?”
She shook her head. “They didn’t touch me. They only asked for Mr. Malcolm.”
“Light some candles; get a fire going in the parlor. Stay there for the night.” I donned my cloak, my hat, my warmest boots, and my muff.
“Where will you go?” Mother asked. Her hair came out of her mobcap. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen her so disheveled.
“To get help.”
I didn’t know what they planned to do to Father, but I could not stand by while the drunken mob doled out whatever madness they called justice.
The night had never been colder, the harbor now frozen for two days. With quick steps, I headed toward the South End, slipping on the icy streets but continuing onward, knowing my only hope for help was the people I loved who had once lived on Auchmuty Street. Samuel would surely understand my need to help Father in this desperate moment. John and Noah had swayed an angry mob before—they could perhaps do so again. Mayhap the Fultons hadn’t left Boston after all.
I would soon find out.
My petticoats dragged in the snow, weighing me down. I approached the center of town, lit with the torches of the crowd that had just left our home. The sickeningly pungent smell of tar reached my nostrils. I knew somewhere in the middle of the mob was Father, and I knew what the men planned to do to him. And though some would argue h
e deserved it, I did not think any living being could possibly deserve such treatment.
I rushed past where Father’s clothes were tossed into the crowd. As I hastened toward Old South, I heard Father’s cries and I knew the boiling tar was being smeared along his bare skin, that it cooked his flesh. Tears froze upon my cheeks as I changed my gait to a run, my boots slipping in the snow as I passed the Liberty Tree, its frozen branches a skeleton in the night.
When I finally reached Auchmuty Street, my breath wheezed in the cold. John and Sarah’s house stood cozy as ever, candles lighting the windows. I approached the door, gasping, knocking frantically and calling out for John to answer.
The door opened, but an unfamiliar man stood before me. My heart dipped to the depths of my stomach.
“Can I help you, lass?”
“John Fulton . . . Sarah . . . are they not here?”
“The Fultons moved to Medford. We took over their rental at the beginning of the year. Is there something I can assist you with?”
I shook my head, backing away from the home where so many of my fond memories lay. No longer. While I had suspected John and Sarah had moved, I’d found meager comfort in not knowing for certain, imagining them on the other side of town should I want to see them again. And as much as I had hoped, for their safety, that they had gone to Medford, I couldn’t help the feeling of abandonment that came over me.
They had truly left. Had Noah told them of Samuel and the list? Did they realize that I had not betrayed them? Or had they left knowing I was to marry Samuel?
Sarah had claimed me a daughter. And yet she had left me alone.
I sniffed back tears, suddenly uncertain of everything.
I continued down Auchmuty toward the frozen harbor, past the distillery where John used to work, past the small beach where Samuel had accosted me with both hands and wits. The printing shop where Noah apprenticed stood on a nearby street corner, the shutters tight. I rapped on the door. No answer.
I turned away, dejected, knowing in my heart that Noah must have left with the Fultons to open his own printing shop in Medford. Hadn’t I myself urged him to do so?
Foolish really, to cling to his words of finding a way for us. This was better.
Yet where had I to turn?
As I made my way back toward the Liberty Tree, I saw the mob approach, Father in a cart before them, shivering, a coat of feathers upon his skin. They stopped the cart before the tree, ordered Father to stand and curse the governor.
Now, more than ever, I could see that they did not aim simply to exact justice for the violence done Mr. Hewes that morning. While I knew the crowd held a political agenda in parading Father’s tarred and feathered form around the streets, I saw also that Mr. Hewes had little to do with the justice meted out. For before the Liberty Tree, with Father shivering naked within his coat of feathers, Mr. Hewes pushed his own coat upon Father, no doubt taking pity on the man who had smashed him on the head with his cane just hours earlier.
Though I thought to put myself in the midst of the hissing mob, to beg them to stop the madness, I could not bear to face Father in his humiliation. And when he refused to curse the governor, instead letting out a hearty “God save the king!” I was reminded that his very stubbornness and crude spirit had put him in this predicament.
Still . . . not an ounce of honor rested in how they treated him.
My mind turned to Samuel then. Would they listen to him? Could, by some miracle, he help them see reason? While he was not liked by the mob, perhaps all they needed was a bit of persuasion. Samuel was respected in London. Would a voice of the crown be just enough to stop the crowd?
I tried not to think of the broadsides still posted upon the doors of Province House and the Town House, the Royal Exchange tavern, and other prominent places about town. A voice of the crown would likely not dissuade the mob, but rather anger them.
Even so, I must try.
I took off trudging through the snow again, heedless of being seen, of proper etiquette, back toward the center of town until I was before the Clarke house on School Street. I pounded my fist against the door, my limbs spent and aching. I saw a shadow at the window before it opened, a small fire within.
A man I recognized as a servant of the Clarkes’ opened the door. I fell across the threshold. “Please, is Samuel here?”
Before the man could answer, I heard footsteps on the stairs and Samuel came into view.
“Emma? What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
“Please, Samuel, I need your help.” I hated my groveling, yet if I could not run to my intended when my father’s life was in danger, where else could I go?
“You are soaked to the bone. Come by the fire.”
I welcomed the heat, tried not to flinch when Samuel drew the cloak from my shoulders and placed it upon a chair near the fire as the servant left the room.
“Wh-where are your parents?”
“Father and Mother left for Castle Island yesterday.” Bitterness laced his words. Quite suddenly his demeanor and tone lacked the cocky luster I’d come to expect from him, but he covered it up quickly. “I was just about to settle in for a cozy night with a glass of port. Perhaps you’d like to join me?”
I shook my head. “Have you not heard the news? Father—they’ve taken him. Tarred and feathered him. I fear for his life.”
Samuel’s gaze traveled lazily over my body, then back to the window. “I’m sorry. There’s naught to be done.”
“Please—I’ve nowhere else to turn. Will you come with me . . . try to talk some sense into them?”
He laughed. The derisive sound seemed to shake the vacant house. “There is no sense when it comes to the rebels.” Something in his features softened. “You could come with me, Emma. With the turn of events within the town, I fear I must leave. We could pack tonight. I could hide you away until the situation with your father is sorted out.”
“I don’t think—”
Samuel grasped my hands. “I know I’ve been harsh with you, but I do care for you. Come with me and we will see what comes of our circumstances.” He ran a finger along my cold cheek and I tried not to cringe at his touch. Without warning, he ducked his head to mine, forced a hard kiss upon my mouth.
I pressed my hands to his chest, fear gripping my insides.
His mouth left mine to roam lower, along my neck.
“No, Samuel . . . I must help Father.”
“There is nothing we can do.” His whiskers raked against the tender skin near my dress collar, his hands lingering at my waist.
With all the force I could muster, I pushed him from me. “No!”
All softness evaporated, a hard anger overtaking him as he stared at me.
But then, with the sudden quiet, the familiar sound of the mob came to us. “Please. They are nearby. Help Father, Samuel.”
He strode to the window, pushed back the drapes. The raucous noise grew louder. He turned to face me. “They come this way. You sent them.”
“What? No, no, I only wish for them to stop—to bring Father home.”
The yells grew close, closer still. Unfamiliar terror came over the man before me. He lunged for his cloak, donned it. “Bartholomew!” He called for his servant, and when the man appeared, Samuel gave orders to ready for departure at once. He turned to me. “Come with me, Emma. You’re no longer safe here. We must leave straightaway.”
I shook my head. “No. I came for Father. I will not abandon him.”
He shoved a hat upon his head. “Suit yourself. You would only make my travel slower, I suppose. I will return for you.” He opened the door to the sound of conch shells and whistles, loud “Huzzahs!” at the sight of him and his servant. I went to the door, watched them run from the mob.
The mob did not pursue.
I stepped out into the cold, stopped two stairs above the crowd, held my hands up. “Please! Please, stop!”
They did not listen, and as I rushed to the front of the mob, averting my eyes f
rom the cart that held my father, I near tripped on their many feet, near fell at the press of their bodies.
I yelled for them to stop, was pushed and shoved. I fell to the icy ground, felt the sharp edge of boots stomping upon my limbs and hair, loose from my mobcap.
Then arms lifted me off the street, and I was looking into the kind face of Mr. Hewes.
“Miss Malcolm, where is your cloak, lass? You must go home. It is no use, I’ve tried to stop them. Leave at once. You will only be injured. Your father has dug this grave for himself. I daresay there is naught to be done.”
My bottom lip trembled, and I nodded as the men prepared to march.
Mr. Hewes was right. I had done all I could. I must retrieve my cloak and go home, fetch Dr. Warren if possible. Perhaps the mob would return Father to us. Perhaps he would still be alive.
I hurried back up the stairs, breath tight in my chest.
I shut the door against their madness, crept to the Clarkes’ front window, and watched them pass, Father’s stiff form in the cart paraded before them.
I closed my eyes, accepting that I could do no more, the ache of my frozen body testifying to this fact.
The sound of the jeering crowd fell away, and as the warmth welcomed me, I realized the circumstance I found myself in.
The Clarke home. Alone.
Noah had mentioned entering the home of his own accord to find the list. Never had we anticipated this opportunity would come to us. Fleetingly, I wondered if God had given us the miracle I’d prayed for—the one I scarce believed could be possible.
Fearful Samuel would return with the parting of the mob, I grabbed a candle, held it to the hearth. It came alive, bright in its polished holder, casting shadows on the papered walls of the Clarke parlor. I scurried up the stairs, searching out Samuel’s chambers, praying he hadn’t had the oath on his person when he fled.
There was nothing more I could do to help Father. But there might be something I could do to help Noah and the Fultons. There might be something I could do to change the course of my future.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Tea Chest Page 13