by John Jakes
His wool nightshirt flapped around his knees as he stumbled for the stairs. The smoke stench was growing stronger. A splinter stabbed his bare sole as he took the risers two at a time. He was terrified by the roseate light at the head of the stairs. He heard a sound. Crackling—
He burst onto the main floor, dashed past the entrance to Ben Edes’ office. Flames shot up from a stack of fresh-printed Gazettes near the press.
The fire was not large as yet; the still-damp ink produced the excessive smoke. He leaped for the burning papers, scorched his hands in the process of spilling the sheets off their pallet and away from the vulnerable wooden press.
The leaping fire showed him a fallen pine-knot torch and the front door half-torn from its hinges. The door’s outer surface bore the scars of gouging and prying. He’d apparently been sleeping so hard that he hadn’t heard the break-in.
“Fire, a fire!” he bawled from the doorway, hoping the hour was not too late.
Relieved, he heard the cry echoed a moment later by other men, some of the loafers hanging around the taverns close to the nearby State House, he suspected. He raced behind the press, seized the bucket of sand kept there for just such emergencies, emptied it on the scattered, burning newspapers with a hurling sweep. That helped—a little.
The voices grew louder in the close confines of Dassett Alley. Philip shouted at figures dimly visible at the door:
“Someone with boots help me stamp this out!”
A tottering tosspot with a red nose and a woolen muffler around his neck was pushed forward by his companions. “And one of you run to Mr. Edes’ house and fetch him—quickly!” Philip cried.
By the time Edes arrived in a quarter of an hour, the blaze was well extinguished. A noisy, quarrelsome-sounding crowd now packed the alley, some with torches. Edes had to struggle and shove his way through.
Shivering in his nightshirt, Philip greeted him at the door. Edes surveyed the damage while Philip explained what had happened.
“Sharp work,” Edes said finally, fingering the smashed-in door. “Thank God you saved the press.”
“Apparently someone discovered the source of the new broadside hung on the tree.”
The printer snorted. “D’you think that’s any secret? I’ve had threats of this—and worse—more times than I can count.”
Philip suggested that perhaps some partisan of the Tory cause had worked the damage. But Edes rejected the idea, searching the crowd outside.
“No, lad, the merchants who still kiss Farmer George’s ass are too concerned about their own hides—and too scared of the Sons of Liberty—to risk villainy after dark. ’Twould be soldiers, most likely. Come over from the garrison at Castle William. The right honorable King’s men.”
He spat, turned and began picking up charred sections of the Gazette.
“They think they can silence our protests about the tea matter with a little hooliganism. ’Course,” he added, managing a smile at last, “they probably got their inspiration from our own organization. We’ve burned before, when circumstances warranted. Well, we must print again tomorrow. It appears they destroyed about a third of the run—”
“And came close to destroying the only place I have to build a future, damn ’em to hell!” Philip said impulsively.
Ben Edes gave him a keen look of approval. He reached under his shirt, pulled off the chain bearing a medal like the one Campbell had shown. He looped the chain around his startled assistant’s neck.
“A little gift, Philip. Wear it proudly. You earned it with what you did tonight. And what you just said.”
CHAPTER IV
Night of the Axe
i
“PHILIP, YOU KNOW THERE’S to be action tonight. We need young men. Are you with us? I should warn you—it may be dangerous.”
Ben Edes spoke the words shortly after noon on a Thursday, the sixteenth of December. Outside, a thin early winter rain spattered Dassett Alley.
Philip wiped his ink-stained hands on his apron, met the inquiring gaze of the older man; he had no doubt about what sort of “action” Ben Edes referred to. Boston had seethed with talk of nothing else during the nineteen days Dartmouth had remained at Griffin’s Wharf, her cargo still in her hold. During those same nineteen days, two sister ships, Eleanor and Beaver, had dropped anchor at the same pier. Both carried more tea.
At public meetings in late November, Samuel Adams had reiterated the demand that all the tea be shipped back to England. Adams’ cohorts skillfully controlled the loud, vocal voting—in favor of the patriot resolutions.
But that made no difference to the Royal Governor. Hutchinson issued orders to the Customs authorities who patrolled the harbor that the tea ships could sail only on presentation of official documents to certify that the duty had been paid.
Tomorrow—December seventeenth—would mark the end of a crucial period. Twenty days after any ship’s arrival, Customs men could board her and seize her cargo for non-payment of duties. Dartmouth’s twenty days expired tomorrow.
In anticipation of that—so Edes had confided to Philip—three or four days ago, Adams had convened a secret session of Committees of Correspondence from Boston and four neighboring towns. The object was to prepare the plan that had to be carried out before the sun rose on the seventeenth—and the tea fell into Crown hands.
“The Governor won’t relent?” Philip asked now. “I heard at the Dragon there was to be another last-minute meeting to press for it.”
“Aye, there’s a meeting. At Old South Church, beginning at three this afternoon. But it’s doubtful Hutchinson will change his mind. If he does, several gentlemen I know will be exceedingly disappointed. The Governor obviously realizes trouble’s coming. He’s fled to his big country place over by Blue Hill in Milton.”
“Yes, I heard that too.”
“So the tea will be seized unless he permits Dartmouth to sail tonight. Which he won’t.”
“But what about the troops, Mr. Edes? Will they stand for what’s been planned?”
“That’s the question—and the risk. The soldiers could move in from the island garrison to block us. Worse than that, when we’re at Griffin’s, we’ll be in range of the guns of the English squadron. If that damned Admiral Montague decides to throw a little grape or canister to discourage our—protest, we could be in for it.”
“You think they’d damage the tea ships and the wharf?”
“To damage some patriots at the same time? I don’t think it’s impossible.”
Philip shivered. In response, Edes said, “There’s no guaranteeing anything, of course. With the town in its present mood, the lobsters might choose inaction. There’s also a question of what orders would be required for the soldiers to act. Orders to shoot us? We plan no harm to any person. Still—” He shrugged. “That’s not to say bloody hell couldn’t break loose. On purpose or by accident. So you’re fairly warned, lad. What’s your answer?”
The younger man grinned. “Risk or not, do you think I’d miss it? Especially after they tried to burn us out? Tell me what time and where.”
Edes clapped him on the shoulder. “My parlor. We’ve three groups organizing—one at my home. Lock the shop and be there before sundown. I understand those gathering at Old South will try one final time to force Dartmouth’s captain, Francis Rotch, to sail this evening. We’ll wait for his refusal—then Sam’s signal.”
With that, Edes bundled into his surtout of dark gray wool and hurried out of the shop.
Watching him go, Philip noted that Dassett Alley was enjoying more pedestrian traffic than usual this morning. Despite the wretched weather, the Boston streets teemed with people. Almost as if there were a fair, Philip thought wryly. The public mood hardly seemed suitable for a day when a clear and open blow was to be struck against the King’s law. Peculiar people, these Americans.
ii
Philip arrived at Ben Edes’ home at quarter to five. The rain was beginning to slack off, the clouds to blow away as winter twilight
came on. Edes’ young son Peter admitted him to the house, conducted him to closed parlor doors.
“I’m not allowed in, except to keep the bowl filled with rum punch,” he said unhappily.
The boy knocked. Philip heard muffled voices go silent suddenly.
A moment later the doors slid aside. Edes greeted Philip, gestured him in. He was unprepared for what he saw as Edes shut the doors again.
The room was crowded with young men, all of them unfamiliar. Most were mechanics; artisans, to judge by their clothing. They resumed conversing in lively fashion, joking and posing for one another in ragged costumes that ranged from tattered wool blankets to women’s shawls. But the talk seemed too boisterous, as if it concealed each masquerader’s apprehension—
The same apprehension Philip felt. Throughout the afternoon, worried-looking strangers had hurried into the shop, hunting Edes. Philip had sent them on to the printer’s home.
All at once Philip did recognize one face in the gathering. Revere, the silversmith. He was bundling a blanket under his arm and tucking what appeared to be two wild bird’s feathers beneath his coat.
Philip hadn’t seen the craftsman of North Square in a month or more. Tonight Revere’s dark eyes snapped, alert. His color looked excellent again. Philip reminded himself to remark on the happy reason for the change, if he had the chance.
At the moment Edes was leading him to a polished walnut table in the center of the room. On it were piled a good dozen axes and hatchets. The printer chose one, pressed it into Philip’s hand.
“Tonight, my boy, you’ll be a noble savage.” Edes’ smile faded. “Don’t be surprised if you’re required to use this on something other than tea.”
Hefting the weapon, Philip frowned. “Trouble coming?”
“Not sure. The district near the wharf is crawling with tommies. And everyone’s lost track of that damn admiral—he may have got wind of this and be readying his guns. But Samuel won’t call it off for a piddling reason like that.”
Possible bombardment by English sea gunners hardly seemed to deserve the description “piddling.” Philip said nothing, however. Edes pointed to a heap of frowsy clothing in the corner.
“Find some costume that suits you. Once we leave Old South, we’ll add lampblacking or the ochre to our faces and—lo!—law-abiding townsmen turn into wild Mohawks.”
Philip picked up a blanket and cocked an eyebrow as a flea hopped to the back of his sweating hand, then hopped off again.
“Why all this mummery, Mr. Edes? I mean, these outfits will hardly fool anyone—”
“No, but they just might keep you from being recognized if the troops move in and there’s a fracas.”
Paul Revere walked up, saying, “Some disguises will be more complete than others, Mr. Kent.” As Edes moved off and Philip slung the blanket around his shoulders, the silversmith went on, “Look sharp and you may notice gentleman’s lace at a cuff or two. Some who support our cause can’t afford to risk discovery just yet. But they’ll make good Indians nonetheless. And on top of what Ben said, these rags can be shed quickly if we’ve got to run for it. But come, nothing’s happened yet! Let’s celebrate while we have a chance.”
Smiling Revere signaled one of the young mechanics, who handed them both cups of rum punch. By now Philip could definitely detect the falseness of the glee turning the room noisy. The bogus Indians were pretending the evening was to be nothing more than a grand party. But it could turn out to be something entirely different.
With the wicked-bladed axe thrust into his belt, he definitely felt like a lawbreaker. He thought glumly of the English men-o’-war riding at anchor. Surely the admiral in command wouldn’t be so thick-witted as to order the guns trained on the town. Surely not. But accidents could happen. Tempers could snap—
Trying to forget his tension, Philip hoisted his cup in salute:
“Mr. Revere, I haven’t seen you to congratulate you on the happy event in October.”
“Why, my thanks, Mr. Kent. A widower with a flock of children can’t run a business and a household. Fortune smiled when she directed Miss Rachel Walker my way.”
The said Miss Walker, only twenty-seven, had become Revere’s second wife less than sixty days earlier. She was not supposed to be a great beauty. But she was called kindly, intelligent, capable. And Edes said that Revere became his old self during the short courtship.
“I was distressed to hear of the death of your youngest child, though,” Philip added.
“Your sympathy’s appreciated. Poor little Isanna—she wasn’t meant to live. But a man can’t mourn forever. I’ve turned my back on past sadness and I take delight in my new and happy state.”
“Ben Edes told me you’d made up a clever riddle about the new Mrs. Revere—”
“About her name,” the other nodded. “ ‘Take three-fourths of a pain that makes traitors confess—’ ”
Helping himself to a second cup of punch, Philip said, “That’d be ‘rack,’ I guess. And three-fourths? R-a-c?”
“With three parts of a place which the wicked don’t bless—”
“H-e-l from ‘hell’—that makes Rachel—”
“Time to leave!” Ben Edes yelled. “Time, gentlemen!”
Philip and Revere tossed down the rest of their punch, the latter saying, “The next two couplets give the name ‘Walker,’ and the last two are sheer romantic compliment. But she deserves ’em. So I’ll accept an earnest wish that we all live long enough for me to enjoy my first anniversary.”
“Gladly given,” Philip grinned. “And many more.”
His head hummed from the punch. His earlier fear was gone. When he hurried with Edes, Revere and the others down Marlborough Street shortly before five-thirty—no man making the slightest attempt to conceal the disguise he carried—thanks to the liberating effects of the punch, Philip shared the holiday mood. Under a just-showing sickle of moon, he laughed when loungers in doorways applauded and feigned shrieks of terror:
“ ’Fore God, it’s a Mohawk rising! Look at them tommyhawks shine!”
By the time they neared the corner of Marlborough and Milk streets, darkness was nearly complete. The intersecting streets were packed wall to wall, a larger crowd than Philip had ever seen at one time in Boston. More cheering, more yells of encouragement welcomed Edes and his followers as they shoved their way toward the doors of Old South.
But the Crowd whistling and applauding outside was as nothing compared to the huge throng jamming the interior of the church.
Every pew and gallery was filled. Every inch of aisle space was occupied by standees. Edes and his group managed to squeeze into standing room at the very rear. Overhead, the church’s chandelier candles flickered.
Philip scanned the restless audience. A man near Edes was whispering, “—oratory’s been plenty hot so far. Adams and Quincy and Dr. Warren kept the crowd fired for two hours. But now they’re impatient. Already been several motions for adjournment—”
From the pulpit, a man someone identified to Philip as a Mr. Samuel Savage was just gaveling down another such motion:
“I repeat—Captain Rotch has been sent on his way to His Excellency’s home in Milton, and there is no reason to doubt the captain’s good faith. Besides, our several towns are very anxious to have full information as to this matter, and are desirous that the meeting should be continued until Rotch returns.”
Grumbles and catcalls greeted the statement. Philip’s eyes kept ranging over the faces in the high galleries. Suddenly, he recognized two of them. Lawyer Ware and, beside him, Anne.
She was staring at him. He couldn’t clearly read her expression. It seemed admiring, yet sorrowful. Perhaps the admiration was to acknowledge his presence, the other emotion more personal—
Another flea crawled down his collar. He scratched, then acknowledged Anne’s look with a nod, a tentative smile. She nodded ever so slightly in return.
Studying her fair, bonneted face high up in the crowded rows, he felt a tug of em
otion. He wished he could speak to her—
Abruptly, there was commotion at the side doors. A cry went up:
“Rotch is returning! Open the way!”
Everyone began talking at once. Savage hammered them to silence as a pale man in sodden, mud-stained clothing struggled through to a point just below Old South’s pulpit. In one of the rows near the front, Philip recognized the back of Sam Adams’ unmistakably trembling head. Adams was half-risen in his pew, straining forward to listen.
Revere whispered, “I see you’ve spotted Sam. He’ll give the signal if we’re to go.”
“Yes, Mr. Edes told me,” Philip nodded.
Hammer-hammer-hammer. Finally, the immense crowd quieted.
“Captain Rotch,” Savage said to the exhausted-looking man, “have you called upon the Governor?”
For an answer, Rotch gave a tired nod.
“And what is his disposition of the matter?”
The hush was complete. Across the packed pews, Philip heard the master of Dartmouth reply, “The same His Excellency indicated several days ago. He is willing to grant anything consistent with the laws and his duty to the King. But he repeated that he cannot give me a pass to sail from the harbor unless my vessel is properly qualified from the Customs House—with the duty paid.”
Shouts of “No, no!” rang from scattered points in the church. Again Savage banged his gavel for silence.
“In that event,” Rotch continued wearily, “I would be free to accede to—to public opinion, and carry the cargo back to England.”
“In other words,” Savage said, “you are not presently free to sail from the harbor?”
“That is correct.”
“But it is the will of the citizens that the tea be returned. Unless you weigh anchor tonight, your vessel is liable to seizure. Therefore, sir, you must sail.”
“I cannot possibly do so,” Rotch said with a shake of his head. “It would prove my ruin.”
From the west gallery, a raucous voice boomed, “Then let’s find out how well tea mingles with salt water!”