American Dream

  Uncle Blake shook his head vigorously. “No, Philip, I don’t think so. We did our best to come to the aid of England during the war, and Parliament has all but ignored the contribution we made in winning the war. Parliament is treating us like we have been naughty children.”

  Lizzie smoothed a napkin that she had already smoothed a dozen times. It was impossible for her to judge who was right.

  “I don’t know what to make of it all, but I do know one thing,” her father said thoughtfully. “Parliament and the colonies cannot continue this bickering for much longer without consequences. Men like Sam Adams have nearly reached their limits.”

  “Adams is a man of vision,” Uncle Blake said.

  “Adams is a man itching to stir up trouble,” Uncle Philip said, disagreeing. “He’s been in my clinic, spinning his stories about what is to become of the colonies.”

  “No matter what you think of him,” Papa said, “he is a man to be reckoned with.”

  With a lump in her throat, Lizzie balanced herself against the ladder-back chair.

  “The table looks lovely!”

  At the sound of Aunt Johanna’s gentle voice, Lizzie turned her attention away from the conversation in the next room and focused once more on the table.

  Aunt Johanna laid one hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. “No one lays a table as nicely as you do, Lizzie.”

  “I had some help,” Lizzie said.

  “So Charity told me. You are so patient with the little ones. Everything is beautiful.”

  “Thank you. The tablecloth needs mending. I think Mama would like a new one, but …”

  “Yes, I know,” Johanna said softly. “It’s hard to find anything in the shops now.”

  “Mama said she had to make all sorts of substitutions for Christmas dinner. She couldn’t find anything she wanted, and she wouldn’t buy any of the things that came from England.”

  “I know. We tried shops all over Boston.”

  “I’m so glad Mama has kept this china,” Lizzie said. “It helps me remember what Christmas was like when I was little, before all of this started.” She turned her head back toward the men.

  “Have you been listening?”

  Lizzie nodded.

  Aunt Johanna sighed. “I would love to tell you not to be concerned about anything you have heard and that everything is going to be all right. I would love to promise that by next Christmas everything will be the way you want it to be. But I can’t.”

  “I know,” Lizzie murmured.

  “Many of the things that people are angry about started a long time ago. But you were too young to be concerned with politics and loyalties. Now you’re growing up. You understand more.”

  “I’m not sure I like it,” Lizzie said as she pushed a chair in neatly under the table. “Aunt Johanna, can I tell you a secret?” “I hope you will.”

  “It’s not really a secret. Joshua already knows.” “What does he know?”

  Lizzie looked down at her hands. “That I’m frightened. All the time.”

  “What are you frightened of?”

  “I’m not sure…. Everything, I guess. I’m afraid something bad is going to happen. Something bad will happen to somebody in the family. I hate thinking about it, but it’s always in my mind.”

  “Do you think you can stop something bad from happening?”

  Lizzie shook her head. “That’s the problem. I want to stop it, but how can I? I don’t even know what it is.”

  “Who could stop it?” Aunt Johanna probed.

  Lizzie shrugged. “God, I guess. But I don’t know if He will. He has already let a lot of bad things happen.”

  Aunt Johanna sighed. “These are not easy questions, Lizzie, so I will not give you easy answers. But remember who truly is in charge.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is King George in charge?”

  “Well, he thinks he is, but a lot of people don’t agree.”

  “Is Sam Adams in charge?”

  “He might like to be, but he’s not.”

  “Think about who is in charge, Lizzie, and find your peace there.”

  Before Lizzie could press Aunt Johanna further, they both jumped at the sound of a crash above them.

  Aunt Johanna rolled her eyes. “That would be Emmett and Charity jumping off the bed again. I’ve told them a hundred times not to do that.” She gathered her billowing skirts and turned to go inspect the damage.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Mob

  The temperatures rose, and the ice on the pond where Lizzie had taken Olivia and Emmett to slide around during the harsh winter months melted. The heavy snows of January and February gave way to the rains of March and April. The grass, brown and brittle during the winter, once again sprang up thick and green.

  As much as Lizzie loved the winter, she loved the spring even more. She dropped her satchel of books in the grass and threw herself down beside it. She had had a hard time paying attention in school that day. Every time she glanced out the window and saw the clouds pushed along by the breeze, she wanted to be outside watching them. At last the clock had struck three, and the teacher had dismissed the class. Lizzie would have to work on her arithmetic after supper, but for now, she wanted to gaze at the sky and imagine.

  What did she imagine? People always wanted to know. Anything and everything. That was her answer. She would imagine the clouds were exotic animals she had never seen or mansions she would never live in. And sometimes, lately, she would imagine that the clouds were British soldiers sailing across the ocean, back to their homeland. And she would imagine that there was peace in the colonies.

  Lizzie lingered in the grass outside the school as long as she dared. Papa was expecting her at the print shop to help with errands. She did not want to be scolded. So reluctantly, she pulled herself to her feet, picked up her satchel, and began the walk. By now the other children were far ahead of her, and she could at least be alone with her thoughts.

  When she came to the town square though, something was not right. Far too many people were gathered for the middle of the afternoon. Merchants who should have been busy in their shops were standing in little groups discussing something intently. The blacksmiths had left their fires, the carpenters had left their hammers, and the tailor had left his cloth. What could possibly have brought everyone out on a spring afternoon in the middle of the week? With a knot in her stomach, Lizzie quickened her steps and hurried to the print shop.

  She could hardly get in the door. Inside the print shop were nearly as many people as she had seen on the square.

  “Papa?” she called, but she knew he could not possibly hear her over the din of voices that filled the room.

  She raised her eyes to the top of the printing press that rose from the floor and was bolted to the ceiling. Usually the huge beams of the press were the first thing she saw when she entered the shop. It was an enormous structure, and when she was six she had insisted that her father explain to her how it worked. She wanted to know everything about the iron workings inside the wooden frame, the metal that was cast into molds and pressed onto the paper that her father printed.

  Today though, she could hardly see the press—only the top where it rose above the heads of the tallest people in the room. But Lizzie could see enough to know that the press was not moving. This was the busiest time of day for the print shop. The afternoon newspaper should be stacking up on the tray, and the smell of fresh ink should be filling the room. Yet the press was still. People liked to read the newspaper, but very few ever visited the shop where it was printed. Something was very strange.

  “Papa!” Lizzie called out again, louder.

  “Over here, Lizzie!” The voice that spoke her name cut through the din of the crowd, and she turned her head toward it. Joshua was gesturing that she should come stand beside him along one wall.

  Getting through the crowd was not easy. Lizzie had to squeeze past elbows in motion and brush against swishing full skirts. No one seemed to notice he
r. Along the way she caught snatches of conversation.

  “This is illegal!”

  “Parliament has gone too far this time!” “The colonies should act now! We can’t let them steal from us like this!”

  Finally Lizzie managed to reach her older brother. “What has happened?” she asked breathlessly. “What is going on?” “The Stamp Act,” Joshua answered.

  “You mean the Sugar Act,” Lizzie corrected. “But that’s not new.”

  “No, I mean the Stamp Act. Parliament passed it in March. Only now has the message reached the colonies.”

  Lizzie leaned against the wall and let her shoulders sag. “What does it mean?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure about all the details yet,” Joshua said. He almost had to shout to be heard over the crowd. “But I think it means that people have to pay for a stamp to put on papers.”

  “What kind of papers?”

  “Any kind of paper. Legal documents, newspapers, almanacs. Just about everything.”

  “So why are all these people here? What does Papa have to do with it?”

  “They want to know if he is going to charge more for the newspaper and the other things he prints. But most of all, they want to know if he is going to print a story against the Stamp Act.”

  “Papa always tries to be fair in the stories he prints.” Lizzie had always admired her father’s sense of fairness, but she was beginning to wonder if it would get him in trouble.

  “These people are not concerned with what is fair,” Joshua said. “They are angry.”

  “I can see that!” Lizzie said, her voice rising to be heard above the crowd. “Were all these people in the shop when you got here after school?”

  Joshua nodded. “Most of them. I don’t think Papa knows I’m here yet.”

  The crowd pushed forward toward the printing press. The door opened, and still more people entered.

  Lizzie and Joshua squeezed themselves up against the wall and listened.

  “Duncan, do you understand what this means?” one man shouted, shaking his fist.

  “Of course I do. This will impact my business more than you know.” Duncan Murray stood on a stool trying to calm the crowd. He shook his head. “Imagine, every paper I print with a stamp on it means I have to collect more money from all of you. I don’t like it any more than the rest of you.”

  “Then what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to report the facts,” Lizzie’s father said solidly, “so that everyone will know exactly what the law is and what it means for them.”

  “We already know what it means, Duncan,” another man called out. “It means that Parliament is trying to squeeze more money out of us.”

  “Yes,” said another, “and this time they are taking money that ought to stay in the colonies. Take your business, for example, Duncan. You own and operate this business completely within Massachusetts. Why should a penny of your earnings leave the colonies to go into the treasury of the king?”

  Papa held up his hand and shook his head. “I didn’t say I agreed with the law. I simply said I was going to report the facts.”

  “Make sure you report all the facts!” Ezra Byles, the customs agent, shoved his way through the crowd and stood before Duncan Murray. “Make sure that you report the true condition of the king’s treasury. The Seven Years’ War was fought at a dear price, and the colonies were greedy, stingy, and uncooperative. Be sure to report that fact!”

  “Stick to your job, Byles.” The voice sounded aggravated.

  “Don’t you bother enough people down at the harbor?” “Who let that redcoat in here?” demanded a gruff voice. The crowd began to murmur the question over and over again.

  Lizzie nudged her brother. “Why would Mr. Byles come into a shop full of people angry at Parliament? Doesn’t he know these people don’t like him?”

  Joshua laughed. “Ezra Byles thinks that just because he says, ‘The king said so,’ everyone will be happy to obey. Maybe his job is going to include collecting the stamp taxes now, too.” Lizzie saw her father raise his hands above the crowd. “Mr. Byles is free to come and go as he pleases,” Papa said. “He has a right to his opinion just like the rest of us.”

  “Is that so? If he can come and go freely, then why cannot we do the same? Why should we pay a tax that we have not chosen?”

  “We are still subjects of the king,” another voice said. “We have a duty to obey this law, regardless of whether we agree with it.”

  “Balderdash!” “Nonsense!” “Another redcoat!”

  “I never suspected Duncan Murray of being a redcoat!” Lizzie gasped and looked at Joshua. Her father was being called a redcoat, one of the meanest terms anyone in Boston ever used. How can anyone question his loyalty to the colonies?

  “Silence!” Duncan Murray shouted above the crowd. “I realize many of you disagree with this law. But it is the law of England, and we are part of England. If you want to change the law, you must take the right steps. Shouting at Mr. Byles is not going to change the law.”

  Lizzie’s back tensed. She knew that tone in her father’s voice well. He was reaching the limit of his patience.

  “I want to know one more thing, Duncan,” said the man who had started the whole discussion. “If an agent of the king comes to your shop and asks you to print stamps to put on legal documents, will you print the stamps?”

  The room hushed. Everyone wanted to know the answer to that question. Lizzie froze, her mouth half open.

  “I will not answer that question one way or another right now,” Lizzie’s father said. “I have not been asked to print stamps, and I may never be asked to print stamps. Now, please, I have a newspaper to print, and it is late already. Please let me get back to work.” He hopped off the stool, turned his back to the crowd, and began loading paper into the press.

  “I think we have some more issues to talk about,” someone said.

  “Not here, you don’t,” Papa said, wiping his hands on his leather apron. “This is a private print shop, not a public assembly hall.” He lifted another stack of paper and fit the corners squarely in the metal tray. He did not look up at the crowd again.

  Gradually the crowd broke up. At first they simply backed away from the press so it could be operated. Glancing at him every few seconds, they talked among themselves in low tones. But then Ezra Byles left. When they realized that the object of their opposition was gone and that Duncan Murray truly was not going to discuss the issue further, others started to drift out the door.

  In a few minutes, Joshua and Lizzie were alone with their father. They looked at each other, unsure whether or not they should speak to him. Slowly they walked toward the press.

  “Let me help you, Papa,” Joshua said.

  “I’ll get the ink ready,” Lizzie offered.

  Papa opened his arms to his children, and they accepted his embrace. “I’m sorry if I seemed angry. I did not know you were here.”

  “We saw everything, Papa,” Joshua said.

  Papa handed Joshua a paper. “Here is a copy of the Stamp Act. You can read it for yourself.”

  “Are you frightened, Papa?” Lizzie asked.

  Her father gave her a squeeze before answering. “Not frightened, exactly. But I am uncertain about what will happen now. Parliament has pushed the people too far this time.” He turned to his son. “Joshua, from now on I want you to walk with Lizzie after school. Take her straight home or bring her here. I don’t want her out on the street alone.”

  “Then you are afraid, Papa!” Lizzie cried.

  “I’m just being careful,” he replied.

  “Papa?”

  “Yes, Lizzie?”

  “Will there be another war?”

  Papa shook his head. “I can’t believe anyone wants a war, Lizzie. We just have to straighten out a few wrinkles in the relationship between England and the colonies.”

  “So, no war?”

  “No war.”

  CHAPTER 5


  Sam Adams’s Speech

  But are you absolutely sure of that?” Lizzie listened carefully to see how her classmate would answer the teacher’s question.

  “Yes, sir.” Sixteen-year-old Daniel Taylor answered quite confidently. He stood next to his seat as he spoke, and his eyes blazed with conviction. “I have no doubt that England needs the colonies more than the colonies need England. The king recognizes this fact, and that is why he is so eager to make the colonies submit to his will, even when his actions make no sense.”

  “And you think the Stamp Act makes no sense?” the teacher challenged.

  “None whatsoever,” Daniel said. Voices around the classroom murmured in agreement. Only a few days had passed since news of the Stamp Act had reached Boston. Already the city was polarized. Loyalists supported the king and Parliament. Patriots found that their loyalties to the colonies ran deeper than their loyalties to England. It seemed that people talked of little besides the Stamp Act. Every newspaper or flier Lizzie’s father printed was sold almost immediately. People could not seem to get enough information. And most people Lizzie overheard agreed with Daniel Taylor that the stamp tax made no sense.

  “Let’s suppose,” the teacher said thoughtfully, “that your father suddenly became ill and could no longer work at his blacksmith’s shop. Suppose that any money your parents had saved was used up by keeping the household running and seeking medical care. While the shop is still open, your father’s hired hand is not able to keep up with all the work and makes very little profit. Are you following me, Mr. Taylor?”

  “I’m not sure what you are getting at, sir.”

  “Under the circumstances that I have described, would you not consider it a reasonable request if your father were to ask you to contribute to the family finances, even if it meant a personal sacrifice on your part?”

  “Well, I suppose, if my family needed money to pay for necessary goods, then, yes, I would try to earn some money and give it to my father.”