American Challenge

by Susan Martins Miller

  Anna scooted over. “There’s room for you here.”

  Stephen squeezed in between Anna and Uncle Cuyler. He felt calmer immediately. Settling back against the bench, he looked absently out into the street, in the direction he had just come from. He wondered why was it so easy for him to be with Uncle Cuyler and Anna.

  “I saw your mother carrying a basket to the print shop awhile ago,” Uncle Cuyler said.

  “I know.” Stephen nibbled politely on the meat.

  “You are welcome to share our lunch,” Uncle Cuyler said. “But if you are still hungry, I’m sure your mother has plenty.”

  “I know. I was just there.”

  “Oh?” Uncle Cuyler raised an eyebrow and questioned Stephen with his eyes.

  Stephen looked away. If he confided in Uncle Cuyler, he would have to repeat what Lydia had said. And he did not want to hurt Uncle Cuyler. He did not want Uncle Cuyler to know Lydia had said something mean about him. He did not want to explain why he was there and not at the print shop eating lunch with his own family.

  The three sat in silence for several minutes. Anna crunched on a carrot. Uncle Cuyler uncrossed his long legs and stretched one arm across the back of the bench. Stephen tried to swallow a bite, but he was having a hard time.

  Uncle Cuyler scanned the sky. Occasional fluffs of white drifted across the peaceful blue expanse. “Looks like a good day for fishing, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” Stephen agreed reluctantly. He had not really noticed the weather before that point in the day.

  “Can we go? Can we go?” Anna loved to fish.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Uncle Cuyler said. “I have to stay here and see patients this afternoon. But I don’t see why you two shouldn’t go. I happen to have two poles propped up behind my office door. And the widow Spencer said we could fish in the pond at the back of her property on any day of our choosing.”

  “Let’s do it, Stephen!” Anna cried.

  “Can we go alone?” Stephen asked. He was still not used to the freedom of Boston without British troops, and he’d always thought the widow Spencer was a scary person.

  “I don’t see why not. It’s not very far away.”

  “I don’t know.” Stephen seemed hesitant.

  “Don’t worry about your folks,” Uncle Cuyler said. “I’ll send a message about where you are.”

  “Come on, Stephen; it’ll be fun!”

  Anna’s enthusiasm won him over. “All right, I’d like to go fishing.”

  They packed up the rest of the lunch, slung Uncle Cuyler’s poles over their shoulders, and headed for the widow Spencer’s property. They left the cobblestones of downtown Boston and followed the dirt road that led to the outskirts of town.

  “All right, Stephen,” Anna said, “we’re alone now, so you can tell me what is bothering you.”

  Stephen smiled at his cousin gratefully. “It’s Lydia, isn’t it?” Anna said.

  “How did you know?” Somehow Anna always knew what he was thinking.

  “Because she is the only person who bothers you so.” Stephen kicked a loose rock in the dirt. “She makes me angry. I get frustrated with the way she talks about the British. She thinks the British do everything wrong and the Sons of Liberty do everything right.”

  “You pay too much attention to Lydia,” Anna said. “You should not let her bother you.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. But she’s my sister. She lives in the same house. And my parents think we should do everything together.”

  “And she likes to talk,” added Anna. Stephen laughed. “Yes, most of all, she likes to talk.”

  “She just says the things she hears. She doesn’t really understand everything she hears. Lots of people in Boston are that way. That’s what my father says.”

  “Lydia doesn’t care what your father says.” Stephen shifted his fishing pole to the other shoulder.

  “Well, she ought to care. My parents are Loyalists. Uncle Ethan and Aunt Dancy are Patriots. So is William. But we’re all in the same family.”

  “Deep down, my parents are Patriots, too,” Stephen said. “But they all want the same thing,” Anna insisted.

  “No, they don’t,” objected Stephen. “Your parents want the colonies to be part of England, and William and Uncle Ethan think the colonies are ready to be a separate country.”

  “But don’t you see? They all want what they think is best for the colonies.”

  “But they don’t agree on what is best.” Stephen kicked at the ground in frustration. Dry dirt sprayed up in front of them.

  “That’s not the important part,” Anna said. “What matters is that everyone wants what is good for Boston and all the colonies.”

  “That’s the part that Lydia forgets.”

  “And that’s why you have to remember it.”

  Stephen did not respond. What Anna said made sense. But how was that going to help him get along with Lydia?

  They arrived at the widow Spencer’s pond and cast their lines. To Stephen’s relief, the widow was nowhere to be seen. Anna took off her socks and shoes and wiggled her toes into the dirt. Giggling, Stephen did the same. The damp black earth at the edge of the pond oozed between his toes. He squished his feet down deeper. It felt cool.

  “Do you think this dirt was ever part of England?” Anna asked.

  “What do you mean?” Stephen looked at the ground. It was ordinary dirt.

  “We’re on one side of the ocean, and England is on the other side. The tide washes back and forth on both sides. Maybe this very dirt used to be on the shores of England.”

  Stephen tilted his head. “I suppose that’s possible. But it’s Boston dirt now.”

  “That’s what the Patriots would say,” Anna observed.

  “And the Loyalists would say that if this dirt was ever part of England, it still is.”

  They laughed at the strange comparison.

  Anna pulled in her line and cast it out farther. “Do you think Aunt Dancy and Uncle Ethan are ever going to name their baby?”

  Stephen laughed. The baby was more than three months old, and still she had no name. Aunt Dancy and Uncle Ethan’s inability to agree on a name had become a family joke. Various members of the family made suggestions, which Uncle Ethan and Aunt Dancy promised to consider. But the longer the process went on, the more ridiculous the suggestions became.

  “They could call her Indecisive,” Anna suggested.

  “Or Patience, because she waited so long for a name.”

  “Or Hope, because she has to hope she’ll have a name someday.”

  “Or Tiny, because she is so small.”

  “Or Wakeful, because she won’t sleep through the night.”

  “Or Quarrel, because Uncle Ethan and Aunt Dancy quarrel about her name.”

  Stephen dropped his pole and plopped back in the grass laughing. “Can you imagine such a name!”

  “Right now they just call her Sister. I’m afraid they might decide to stay with that.”

  “That would be awful—not to have a real name of her own.”

  “Maybe we’ll have to choose a name and sneak her off to the minister to be christened,” Anna said, giggling.

  “We’ll have to try to look very tall to make him think we are the parents.”

  “I’ll use stilts and wear one of my mother’s longest dresses.”

  Stephen laughed at the mental image of Anna on stilts in an oversized dress.

  “I just want the baby to grow up happy and to have a good life no matter what happens to Massachusetts.”

  After that, they did not speak. The fish were not biting, but they sat with their poles stuck in the ground and watched the pond anyway.

  Stephen was glad he had escaped with Anna for the afternoon. When the two of them were together, they were just Stephen and Anna, ten-year-old cousins who enjoyed being together. They were neither British nor American, neither Loyalist nor Patriot. Just Stephen and Anna. And he liked that feeling.

>   Stephen stared at the pond and tossed an occasional pebble. He watched as even the tiniest pebble disturbed the smoothness of the pond. From one shore to the other, the entire pond rippled from the gentle plink of each pebble. Stephen picked up a handful of pebbles and some larger stones. He threw them in the pond, one after the other, rapidly. One ripple followed closely after the one before it.

  As Stephen watched the ripples and the small waves he had created, he saw a collage of images. He saw the strain in his mother’s face as she tried to keep the family together in a time of turmoil. He saw Kathleen’s guarded expression as she gave the factual answers to his questions. He saw his father’s determination to be fair at all times. Lydia’s face rose in his mind with self-assured green eyes, and William’s face burned with the fire of change. The only face missing in Stephen’s mind was his own. He could not see himself, could not make out his features in the greenish background of the pond. Why wasn’t he in the picture?

  CHAPTER 12

  The Trial

  Stephen went fishing with Anna many times that summer. The Lankfords and the Turners feasted when they caught something, and their mothers were happy to have them bring home something that the British could not tax.

  But it did not really matter if they caught any fish or not. They simply loved walking down the dirt road together, confiding their secrets to each other, and wading in the pond on the hottest days to cool themselves. They stretched out on the grassy slope beside the pond and daydreamed about a time when Boston would be at rest. The British troops would stay away, and Boston’s citizens would stop quarreling.

  The widow Spencer was not nearly as scary as Stephen had thought. It turned out that she was only sad, not mean. Mr. Spencer had been killed accidentally when Stephen and Anna were little. He had been at the wrong place at the wrong time when a street riot broke out during the Stamp Act. The Spencers did not have very strong political opinions. He was not a part of the riot. But he got knocked over, hit his head on a post, and died the next day.

  The widow Spencer had never gotten over feeling angry and frustrated that her innocent husband had died for someone else’s cause. She hardly talked to anyone anymore. She had stopped going to church, and she never chatted with people in the town commons. But she did seem to enjoy having Stephen and Anna come to fish. Sometimes she even brought them a snack or a cold drink.

  During the summer, Boston grew restless for the trials to take place. The citizens waited impatiently for the presiding judge to regain his health, and they stormed through the streets when they heard that John Adams had agreed to defend Thomas Preston. Only two lawyers in Boston were not afraid to defend the British soldiers. Josiah Quincy Jr. was eager to assist John Adams. All of Boston respected John Adams.

  Stephen remembered how surprised William was that John Adams, a distant cousin of Sam’s, would take the case. John had always supported the views of the Patriots when they opposed the British. He was well known as a person who defended the rights of people living in American colonies. He believed England had been wrong to send thousands of troops to Boston. For all these ideas, William admired John Adams. But John Adams also believed that any person living in the colonies deserved a fair trial and a strong defense. So he took the case, and with the help of Josiah Quincy Jr., he put together the best defense possible.

  Captain Preston’s trial date kept getting pushed back later and later, until finally it was set for Wednesday, October 24. As the summer of 1770 gave way to autumn, and the farmers gathered their crops, and school resumed for the children, Stephen grew more and more nervous. Uncle Cuyler was confident that Captain Preston would have a fair trial and be found innocent. William was certain Captain Preston would have a fair trial and be found guilty.

  On the morning of October 24, Mama handed Lydia and Stephen their lunch buckets and made sure they were dressed warmly enough for the day. The two children set out on their usual route to school. Lydia put a book on her head to prove that she had practiced her posture well. Stephen giggled at the ridiculous sight. He was glad he was a boy and did not have to do that. Lydia marched ahead of Stephen. That was fine with him. They were supposed to stay together on the way to school. Stephen figured that as long as he could see Lydia ahead of him, they were together. They had plenty of time. They would not be late for school. He could not imagine what her hurry was that morning.

  Then suddenly Lydia veered to the left, down a street that did not lead to school.

  “Lydia!” Stephen started pumping his legs. His lunch bucket knocked against his knees. “Where are you going?”

  Lydia did not slow down. Stephen ran faster, till he caught up with her and grabbed her elbow. The book on her head tumbled to the ground.

  “Look what you did!” she cried.

  “Where are you going?” Stephen demanded. “This is not the way to school.”

  “No, but it is the way to the courthouse.”

  “The courthouse!”

  “You can go to school if you want to,” she said, “but I’m going to the trial.”

  “Don’t be silly, Lydia. You’ll never be allowed inside the building.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I know a good place outside, in the back of the building. If I sit under the window, I’ll be able to hear what people are saying.”

  “Mama and Papa will be very angry,” Stephen said.

  “Mama and Papa do not have to know,” Lydia answered, glaring at her brother with a dare in her eyes.

  “Do you want me to lie for you?” Stephen could not believe what Lydia was asking of him.

  “If they ask you if I went to the courthouse, then I suppose you’ll have to tell the truth,” Lydia conceded. “But they won’t ask that question as long as they think I was in school as usual.”

  “Lydia, you could get in a lot of trouble.”

  Lydia scowled. “Is that all you ever think about—staying out of trouble? Stephen, there is more to life than obeying the rules all the time. You ought to try to be adventuresome once in a while.”

  “I can be adventuresome!”

  “Oh, yes? Then prove it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Skip school. Come to the courthouse with me.”

  Stephen scraped the toe of his boot around in the dirt. “I don’t know, Lydia.”

  “Fraidycat!”

  “I am not a fraidycat!”

  “Then come with me.”

  “All right,” Stephen decided. “I will.”

  Lydia led the way around to the back of the brick courthouse while a crowd of adults gathered in the front.

  “Nobody will pay any attention to us back here,” Lydia assured Stephen.

  Stephen did not feel comfortable. His stomach had turned sour during the walk to the courthouse. His eyes darted around to see who might be watching them.

  Lydia pointed up above their heads. “See those windows? All we have to do is figure out how to get up there, and we’ll hear everything.”

  Stephen scowled. “I thought you had this all figured out. How are we going to get way up there?”

  “Uncle Cuyler keeps saying you have a good brain,” Lydia said. “Use it. Help me figure something out.”

  They looked around. The space behind the courthouse was littered with forgotten items.

  “See that barrel over there?” Lydia said, pointing about twenty feet away. “Roll it over here.”

  “Why don’t you roll it?”

  “If I muss up my frock, Mama will know something’s up.”

  Frowning, Stephen went to inspect the barrel. It was empty, and he easily tipped it over. He heard one of the slats splinter as it hit the ground. As he awkwardly rolled it toward Lydia, he said, “This barrel is half rotted. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “It’s the only idea we’ve got. Stand the barrel up over here, right under the window. Climb up on it.”

  “It might break,” Stephen protested.

  “It might not,” Lydia countered.r />
  Sighing, Stephen did as Lydia instructed. The barrel, frail as it was, held his weight. “Now help me up.”

  Stephen squatted and linked his hands together. Lydia put one foot in his hands and grabbed the top of the barrel. As she hoisted herself up, the barrel creaked.

  “Lydia, I don’t think—”

  The barrel gave way, and Lydia tumbled to the ground, knocking Stephen over. Lydia scrambled to her feet and began brushing the telltale dust off her dress. Stephen glanced around. No one seemed to notice them.

  “Let’s just forget this and go to school,” Stephen said.

  “You can if you want to,” Lydia answered. “I’m staying here.” She surveyed the rubble behind the courthouse again. “Look, there are some crates. We could stack them and climb up.”

  “Those crates won’t even be as strong as that old barrel, and look where the barrel landed us.”

  “We’ll figure something out.” Lifting her skirt out of the dust with one hand, Lydia picked up a crate with the other and set it next to the brick wall.

  “Maybe if we make a wide base,” Stephen pondered. He picked up two more crates and set them next to the first one.

  Soon they had a pyramid of crates that he was certain would be sturdy enough to hold them. They climbed the makeshift stairs and perched side by side on the top crate next to the window.

  The window was closed.

  “See if you can get the window open,” Lydia directed.

  Stephen rolled his eyes. But it was too late to back out now, he thought. So he shoved on the window frame. To his surprise, it lifted several inches.

  “See?” Lydia said. “I told you this would be easy.”

  Lydia peered inside.

  “What’s happening?” Stephen asked.

  “The attorney for the prosecution is saying something. I can’t hear him very well. And he is using a bunch of big words. Why can’t lawyers talk in plain language?”

  “Do you think we’re really going to be able to see what’s going on from here?” Stephen was doubtful that all their effort would bring any reward.

  “Maybe it’s like studying French,” Lydia said. “If we listen long enough, we’ll start to understand the words.”