American Challenge

by Susan Martins Miller

  When it was over, Papa would go back to the print shop to write a story about it for the next edition of the newspaper. It seemed to Stephen that everyone would have seen the funeral for themselves. Who would be left to read about it in the paper?

  “Why can’t we march?” Lydia whined. “I want to march in the funeral procession.”

  “It is unbecoming to make a spectacle out of the deaths of these men,” Papa told his squirming daughter. He put a hand firmly on her shoulder to make sure she could go nowhere.

  “But everyone else is marching. There must be five thousand people in the street.”

  “I would guess more like ten thousand,” Papa said. “Maybe even twelve.”

  Sam Adams had organized the funeral. He had been quiet since the “massacre,” as he called the shootings. But he was not wasting his time. The funeral was a chance for the Sons of Liberty to let the people of Boston know that everything was under control. Sam had enlisted members of the Sons of Liberty to carry the coffins ceremonially through the streets of Boston, one by one.

  The route included a symbolic turn around the Liberty Tree. Whether or not the four men had belonged to the Sons of Liberty did not matter. Sam Adams presented them as a visible reminder that the British were oppressing the colonies. The elm stood solidly as a reminder to all of Boston of the zeal of Sam Adams and the Sons of Liberty. After circling the tree, the men proceeded up the hill to the burying ground.

  Stephen studied the thousands of people who marched behind the coffin. He had never before seen so many people together in one place. He was curious.

  “Did all these people really know the men who were killed?” Stephen asked his father. “I can’t imagine having twelve thousand friends.”

  “That’s because you’re not a hero,” Lydia snapped.

  “Lydia!” Papa warned his daughter with his tone. To Stephen he said, “No, all these people did not know them. But they have come out of respect, as we have.”

  “Are they heroes, Papa?” Stephen asked.

  “Some people believe they are,” his father answered.

  “I believe they are!” Uncle Ethan burst into the quiet conversation. “They were willing to give their lives for the freedom of Boston. I think that makes them heroes.”

  “We’re not at all sure that is what happened,” Papa said. “Cuyler and dozens of other men tell a different story.”

  “Cuyler is becoming more of a Loyalist every day,” Uncle Ethan said. “His perspective on the facts is colored by his leanings.”

  “Don’t you think your Patriot leanings influence your perspective?” Papa challenged.

  “Please,” Mama pleaded, “let’s not have an argument standing out on a street corner during a funeral.”

  Her husband and her brother quieted, and they all continued watching. The funeral procession plodded past them with the second casket. The six men who carried it on their shoulders, dressed in their finest black clothes, wore somber expressions and looked only ahead of them. Behind them came several thousand mourners. Some were sincere; others were there out of curiosity. The crowd buzzed with opinions and comments. Stephen turned his head from one conversation to another.

  “We will always remember the Boston Massacre, and it will strengthen us to defy the British so that these men did not die in vain.”

  “We must not allow them to die for nothing.”

  Stephen pondered the phrase “Boston Massacre.” That sounded like the troops had killed the men on purpose. But had they? Another fragment of conversation drifted toward him.

  “Crispus Attucks was black. Can he still be a hero?”

  “Any man who gives his life for this cause is a hero.”

  “If only Patrick Carr were here. I’m sure he would have a few words to say to the British officials.”

  But Patrick Carr could not be there. Stephen wondered how many people were even thinking about Patrick Carr right now. Did they know how sick he was?

  “Those soldiers should be hung as soon as possible.”

  “Governor Hutchinson promises that there will be a fair trial.”

  “Only one verdict is fair. Guilty!” The man who said this spoke gruffly and loudly and stood only a few feet away from the Lankfords. Stephen checked to see if his father was listening. Papa turned to the man and started to say something. The touch of his wife’s hand on his arm held him back.

  “He’s right, you know,” Uncle Ethan whispered. “For British troops to fire into an unarmed assembly of citizens and kill four of them is illegal and unforgivable. If we let this go by, the British can come in and massacre all of us whenever they want.”

  “That is not going to happen,” Papa said. “We are subjects of the Crown. We have the king’s protection.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that.”

  “Hey, look!” Lydia shouted as she pointed at the procession. “There’s William. Please, may I go walk beside William?”

  “No, you may not,” Mama said sharply. “You will stay exactly where you are standing.”

  “Mama, please.”

  “Mind your mother, Lydia,” Papa said.

  Stephen searched the procession until he had spotted his older brother. William was tall and easy to find. His brown eyes met Stephen’s. William’s eyes burned with belief in what he was doing. The sleepless nights he sat up writing flyers for the Sons of Liberty, the long meetings under the Liberty Tree in the middle of winter, the missed meals—William did not seem to mind any of that. It was as if he had no choice but to devote his energy to resisting British oppression.

  Stephen’s eyes were wide with questions about what he was watching. Why had all these people come to the funeral? The four men who died were ordinary men who would not have been known by twelve thousand people. If one of them had been struck down by a runaway horse, not more than a hundred people would have come to see him buried. Yet Papa thought there were twelve thousand people marching in the procession, and there were thousands more watching from the sidelines.

  “You should be proud of William,” Uncle Ethan said to Papa and Mama. “He has grown into a fine young man. I hope my own boys learn to act with as much conviction as he has.”

  “I want all my children to do what they know is right,” Papa said.

  Stephen looked into his father’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if Papa was really proud of William or not. But that was the way Papa was. He wanted to be fair. It did not matter if people could tell what he was thinking. Papa did not always agree with what William did. Was he proud of him anyway? Would he ever be proud of Stephen?

  William moved down the street and was lost in the crowd again. The third coffin was coming into view from the other direction. When the funeral had begun late that March afternoon, no one had known how many people would come to pay their respects. But after watching and listening, Stephen decided that most of the people had come to pay their respects to the Patriots’ cause, not to the four men who were being buried. He felt sad about that.

  “Ethan,” Mama said, as they were waiting for the next coffin to pass them, “have you and Dancy given that child a name yet?”

  Uncle Ethan laughed. “I’m afraid we can’t seem to agree on anything except that she is a beautiful little creature.”

  “I don’t understand why the task is so difficult.”

  “I only got home yesterday,” Uncle Ethan reminded his sister. “We have not really had time to discuss names.”

  “Is the baby all right?” Stephen asked. He knew from talking to Uncle Cuyler how many babies died within a few weeks after being born. Several of his friends had lost little brothers or sisters. He shivered in the March chill and thought of the tiny baby being held in her mother’s arms at home next to the warm fire.

  “The child is fine,” Uncle Ethan said confidently. “She is so small that I can almost hold her in one hand. But her cry is every bit as loud and demanding as the boys’ when they were babies.”

  Mama laughed. Stephen felt better. How
badly he wanted the baby to thrive and grow strong. If only he could protect her from the sorrow of the night of her birth.

  The fourth casket came into view. Stephen did not want to watch anymore.

  CHAPTER 9

  Important News

  Stephen! Over here!” Stephen blinked into the bright sunlight outside the schoolhouse a few days later. William was waiting for him with the horse and cart that he used for delivering newspapers in the afternoon.

  “What are you doing here?” Stephen asked. He walked toward William, glancing over his shoulder for Lydia. His usual afternoon routine was to wait for Lydia, who liked to dillydally after school, and the two of them would walk home together. Sometimes they would stop by their father’s print shop.

  “Where’s Lydia?” Will asked. His eyes scanned the school yard. He was in a hurry.

  “She’s still inside,” Stephen said. “She likes to talk to her friends after school. What’s happening?”

  “She doesn’t have time for gossiping today,” Will said. “We’ve got to get going.”

  “Why? What’s going on?” Will was not answering his questions, and Stephen was getting more anxious by the moment.

  “Go back in and get Lydia,” Will said, “and tell her to hurry.”

  “William! Tell me what’s happening. Is Mama all right? Papa?”

  Lydia appeared in the doorway. At the sight of William, she forgot all about her friends and dashed toward him.

  “William!” Stephen was certain his sister’s screech could be heard for blocks.

  “Quickly, get in the cart. Both of you.” William gestured that they should hurry.

  “You mean we don’t have to walk home today?” Lydia clambered up into the seat in front of the cart, while Stephen jumped into the open back. William took the reins and immediately started the horse in a quick trot.

  “William, you’re scaring me,” Stephen called from the back. “I’m sorry, Stephen. Everybody is fine. No one is ill.”

  “Then why have you come for us?” The cart rumbled along. Stephen held tight to the side to keep from falling over. “While you were in school today, the grand jury met.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that Captain Preston and eight soldiers will stand trial for the massacre last week. The prosecuting attorney believes he has enough evidence to convict them of murder.”

  “Oh,” Stephen said, and he leaned back against the side of the cart.

  Lydia was thrilled with the news. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, William?”

  “It’s the first step toward justice,” William said. He slapped the mare’s rump to make her go even faster.

  “I still don’t understand,” Stephen said. “Why would you come all the way over to the school to tell us that?”

  “I need the two of you to do the deliveries this afternoon.”

  Lydia groaned. “I hate delivering newspapers. They’re so dirty and heavy. And they smell funny.”

  “That’s the ink,” Stephen said matter-of-factly.

  “You can do this,” William said. “Kathleen and I used to do this when we were your age. Use the map that I drew for you a few months ago. This is the kind of emergency the map is for. I marked an X on all the corners where you need to leave papers.”

  “But where will you be?” Lydia asked.

  “I have some important business to take care of.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened with excitement. “Sons of Liberty business?”

  “Never mind what the business is. Just deliver the papers.”

  They pulled up in front of the print shop. William jumped down and flew through the door. Stephen and Lydia followed him in.

  “Papa, Stephen and Lydia are here.” He stopped abruptly. “Oh, hello, Uncle Cuyler.”

  “Hello, William.”

  Stephen furrowed his brow thoughtfully. William and Uncle Cuyler had become very cool toward one another in the last few days.

  Papa set a jumbled tray of metal letters on the counter and began putting them back in their proper places. “Uncle Cuyler just heard the news about the grand jury,” he said. “He wanted to read our story.”

  “I’m glad to see that the course of justice will be followed,” Uncle Cuyler said to William. “I heard some rumors that the Sons of Liberty were threatening to take matters into their own hands.”

  “We all want justice,” William said. He took a rag from the counter and wiped the press in random places. “It’s only a matter of time before those men will hang.”

  “I’m disappointed to hear you say that,” Uncle Cuyler said. “I was hoping you would have an open mind toward justice. The men have not yet been tried. How can you know they deserve to hang?”

  “Under the law, hanging is the penalty for murder.”

  “True enough—but only men who have committed murder deserve the penalty.”

  “The jury will confirm what we already know.”

  “I trust that your own personal opinions will not influence your work on the paper,” Uncle Cuyler said evenly.

  “My father does not complain about my work.” William locked his eyes onto his uncle’s.

  “Nor should he.” Uncle Cuyler met William’s gaze evenly. “He has a reputation for being fair-minded. I’m sure you appreciate the importance of that quality in Boston right now. I know you would do nothing to compromise your father’s reputation.”

  Stephen suddenly realized he had been holding his breath while he listened to this exchange between his brother and his uncle. He gasped for air.

  William turned to Stephen. “I’ll help you load the papers. Then I have to go.”

  “I don’t want to deliver papers,” protested Lydia. “I want to go with William.”

  “You will do as you are told,” Papa said. “We tied the papers in smaller bundles so you will have no difficulty lifting them.”

  Lydia groaned, but she returned to the cart. “At least I get to drive the cart. Stephen is much too young for that!”

  “Slow down!” Stephen called from the back of the cart. “You’re going past the marks on the map.”

  Lydia yanked on the reins and brought the cart to an awkward stop. Stephen slammed into the side of the cart. She looked at him with eyes full of mischief. “Is that slow enough for you?”

  Stephen sighed, then jumped off the back of the cart and ran with a bundle of papers to the shop they had passed. Word had already spread around town about the indictments. People were eager to see the paper.

  “It won’t be long now,” the merchant said as he scanned the headline. “We’ll have us a public hanging of nine lobsterbacks.”

  “That will teach the rest of them not to push around the people of Boston,” a customer added.

  Stephen walked back to the cart, wondering why everyone—except Uncle Cuyler—was so sure the men would be found guilty.

  “Did you hear? Did you hear?” a schoolmate ran alongside Stephen the next afternoon. Stephen had been walking very slowly, hoping that Lydia would soon realize how late it was getting and leave her friends so they could go home.

  “About the indictments?” Stephen answered his schoolmate. “Of course I heard. My father publishes a newspaper.”

  “No, not that. That’s yesterday’s news.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Patrick Carr. He died today.”

  Stephen hardly glanced over his shoulder at Lydia. It took him only a fraction of a second to decide what he would do. Without another word to his friend or a thought about Lydia, he sped off toward Uncle Cuyler’s clinic. Yesterday Patrick had opened his eyes for a few minutes while Stephen visited. Stephen had wanted very much to believe that this was a good sign. And now the news of his death!

  As he ran through the commons, past the Customs House, and down King Street, he saw people talking in little groups. Even though he did not stop, portions of their conversations wafted to his ears.

  “The British will pay for this!�
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  “Patrick Carr’s death will be added to the indictments! He was murdered just as surely as the others.”

  “We will have our revenge when those men hang!”

  “Tomorrow would not be soon enough for me.”

  Stephen burst breathless through the doors of Uncle Cuyler’s clinic.

  “Is it true? Is he …?” He looked toward the cot. It was empty and freshly made up. “I thought he was better. Yesterday he looked at me.”

  “He was very badly wounded, Stephen. You knew that.” Uncle Cuyler caught his nephew up in a hug. “We did everything we could for him. It wasn’t enough.”

  “Were you here?”

  “No. Dr. Jeffries was with him.”

  “Now everyone wants the soldiers to be tried for murdering Patrick Carr, too. I heard people talking in the streets.”

  “Yes, I know. I expected that.” Uncle Cuyler led Stephen to a chair.

  “The Sons of Liberty will have another funeral, and everyone will come and watch. They’ll say horrible things about the British soldiers all over again.”

  Uncle Cuyler nodded. “But Dr. Jeffries told me something interesting about Patrick Carr’s last moments.”

  “What was that?”

  “Patrick said that he bore the soldiers no malice.”

  Stephen was puzzled. “What does that mean?”

  Uncle Cuyler leaned back in his chair and spoke thoughtfully. “I think Patrick knew that the soldiers were in a difficult situation and responded as any of us would. He did not hold their actions against them.”

  “So it is not their fault?”

  “Patrick Carr did not think so.”

  “But everyone else in Boston does.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “Everyone except you.”

  Uncle Cuyler shook his head adamantly. “I am not alone in my opinion. Those of us who disagree with the Sons of Liberty are not as visible as they are. But we have great confidence that the justice system will treat these men properly.”

  “Will Dr. Jeffries tell the judge what Patrick said? Will it make a difference?”

  Uncle Cuyler shrugged. “The decision will be in the hands of the jury.” He looked at Stephen with raised eyebrows. “Does your father know you are here?”