American Dream

by Colleen L. Reece

  “The Sons of Liberty were not the only ones involved in that,” Joshua argued. “The mob got out of control.”

  “But who stirred up the mob? It was Adams, I tell you. Hutchinson is chief justice of the superior court, and that mob took away everything he owned. He was right when he said that simple indignation could touch off an uncontrolled emotional frenzy. The indignation may be just; the frenzy is not. The Sons of Liberty are only hurting their own cause by such behavior.”

  Joshua stood up again and folded his arms across his chest. “But you agree that taxation without representation is not fair, don’t you?” he pressed.

  “You know that I agree. We have discussed this many times before. The Stamp Act will draw resources out of the colonies. We are being taxed without having a say in the decision for how to use the taxes. That is not fair.”

  “Then why won’t you print this?” Joshua thrust a paper toward his father.

  Papa did not take the paper. He had already looked at it closely enough. He turned to the tray of metal letters on the counter next to Lizzie. She watched him expertly pick the letters he needed. “What is written on that paper is inflammatory and lacking in facts. I will not print it.” He began setting the letters in the tray he was working on.

  “Papa, be reasonable.”

  “That is exactly what I am trying to do.”

  Lizzie watched her father work with admiration. She wondered if she would ever be able to set type as fast as he could. Even Joshua’s nagging did not distract him.

  “What is written on this paper is important to the cause of the colonies. Papa, you have a printing press. Surely you realize what a great help that is to the cause. You can make an important contribution without ever leaving your shop.”

  “I will not print that article, Joshua.” Papa spoke without turning around.

  “Then let me do it,” Joshua said. “I know how to work the press. I’ve been helping you for years.”

  “I will not contribute to the violence, Joshua, even indirectly. I will not stir up the anger of the people so that they go out and destroy property. I do not wish to endanger lives without just cause.”

  “I’m not asking you to do any of that. I just want to print a few papers.”

  “Rewrite the article. Then come to me again.”

  “I can’t change the article, Papa. Sam Adams wrote this himself.”

  “Then ask him to rewrite it.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Papa finally turned from his tray of type. “You can do anything you choose to do, Joshua,” he said as he looked his son in the eye. “You have already proven that.”

  Joshua sighed and stuffed the paper into his pocket.

  The first time Lizzie had overheard such a discussion, she had been shocked that Joshua would use such a tone with their father. When they were younger, talking back to their parents had been strictly forbidden. She herself would never question her father’s authority.

  However, after several of these discussions, she knew just how both Joshua and her father would sound. Joshua would plead for his father to be more involved with the cause of the Patriots. Specifically, he thought Papa should use his press to print only literature in favor of the Patriots. He argued that the Loyalists had more than enough support coming from England. But the Patriots had to organize themselves from nothing and make the most with what little aid they could find. Duncan Murray’s press could be a precious resource.

  Lizzie’s father, on the other hand, reserved the right to examine and approve anything that his press was used to print. In the newspaper, he was concerned about being fair. He gave the facts on both sides of any controversy. When everyone else in Boston seemed free with their opinions, Duncan Murray held up the facts and held back his tongue. In fliers and pamphlets, he steadfastly refused to print anything he thought would cause further violence, no matter who had written it.

  This infuriated Joshua. If Sam Adams was seeking what was fair for all the colonies, why shouldn’t Duncan Murray help?

  “It’s important that people understand what the Stamp Act Congress is, Papa,” Joshua pleaded. “The colonies have to work together to oppose the Stamp Act, and this congress is the way to do that. Will you at least print Sam’s article on the congress?”

  “I have already printed several articles informing people the congress is taking place,” Papa answered.

  “I know, Papa, and Sam appreciates that. But the people need more than information about when the congress will happen. They need to understand why it is needed. This will be the first time that all the colonies stand united in one protest against Parliament. This is a new strategy, for the good of the colonies.”

  “All right.” Papa turned back to his typesetting. “Sam Adams may write a piece, and if it is not inflammatory, I will print it.” “Thank you, Papa.”

  “But,” Papa continued, shaking a finger at Joshua, “if someone else chooses to write an article opposing the congress who presents reasonable arguments, I will print that, too.”

  Joshua sighed. “I suppose that is only fair.”

  “Good. You see my point at last.”

  Lizzie was relieved that this one battle seemed to be over.

  The shop door opened, and the bell tinkled. Lizzie swung around on her stool to see her uncle Blake enter. He was red in the face and angrier than Lizzie had ever seen him.

  “Blake!” Papa exclaimed. “What’s going on?”

  Uncle Blake waved a paper. “They want Charlotte and me to take in two British soldiers; that’s what’s going on.”

  Lizzie hopped off her stool to greet her uncle and pay closer attention to the conversation.

  “The Quartering Act,” Papa stated flatly.

  “Yes, the Quartering Act. Is it my problem that the king’s army cannot provide enough barracks for its own troops? They have brought that upon themselves, if you ask me.”

  “Let me see the paper,” Papa said, reaching for it. He read it closely. “They leave you no option, Blake. You could face severe penalties if you refuse to do this.”

  Uncle Blake pounded the edge of the printing press. “Charlotte and I are barely finding enough food for the boys and ourselves as it is. How can we possibly stretch our meager rations to feed two more full-grown men?” “We’ll help all we can,” Papa assured him. Lizzie pictured her mother trying to make her precious staples extend to another household.

  “You already have six mouths to feed at your house,” Uncle Blake retorted. “You haven’t got a morsel to spare, and you know it.”

  “Especially not for a British soldier,” Joshua blurted out. “I’ll not have my brother’s and sisters’ food cut back so that a lobsterback can eat well.”

  “And I would not take a crumb out of their mouths,” Uncle Blake assured Joshua. He sighed. “Duncan, I don’t know how you keep going. If things do not get better soon, Wallace Coach and Carriage will face serious problems. I hate the thought of closing up the business. I want to give my boys the same legacy my uncle gave me when he left me Wallace Coach.” “And you will, Blake, you will.”

  “Do you see why we need the congress, Papa?” Joshua said. “Forcing residents of Boston to feed and house British soldiers is just another form of taxation without representation. We have to stop this before it goes any further.”

  “Listen to the boy, Duncan,” Uncle Blake said. “He’s absolutely right about this.”

  “You are in favor of the congress, then?” Joshua asked hopefully. “Certainly, I am.” Uncle Blake was emphatic. “And you think Sam Adams is right?” “Sam Adams—and a lot of other people. I know Sam has drummed up a lot of support. He gives talks under the Liberty

  Tree and organizes the Sons of Liberty. But he is not the only man in Boston thinking this way. The idea of the congress really came from James Otis. It makes a lot of sense to me.”

  “It’s against the law,” Papa said. “Any governor who sends representatives will be openly defying the king. The m
en who attend could be arrested as soon as they return.”

  “It will be worth that price if the congress accomplishes what James Otis hopes it will,” Uncle Blake said.

  “That’s right!” Joshua exclaimed.

  “Not everyone agrees,” Papa pointed out. “The governors of Virginia, Maryland, North Carolina, and Georgia have forbidden their representatives to attend.”

  “That still leaves nine colonies,” Uncle Blake said, “a large enough majority to make an impression on the king. And the other governors will no doubt send their own letters of protest. We are all suffering because we are boycotting British goods. Eventually the boycott will hurt England more than it does us. Then the progress we make will be worth the price we are paying now.”

  “I am concerned that the Stamp Act Congress will bring more violence to the streets,” Papa said.

  “The violence will come with or without the congress,” Uncle Blake insisted. “When the Stamp Act goes into law in November, madness will follow. But if the people believe in the Stamp Act Congress, if they commit to a reasonable course of action, then perhaps less damage will be done.”

  “I think Uncle Blake is right,” Joshua said. “And what you print can influence people to support the congress and help stop the riots.”

  Papa smiled faintly as he looked from his son to his brother-in-law. “The two of you are sure thinking alike.” Papa handed Uncle Blake the quartering orders. “But none of that changes this command, Blake. It will be unpleasant, but for the sake of your family’s safety, you must obey.”

  Blake shook his head. “If I refuse, I am in danger with the government. If I obey, I am at risk with the mobs. I am not worried about myself or even Charlotte. But I do not want the boys to be caught in the middle of all this.”

  “Send the boys to stay with us,” Lizzie suggested. “That’s a great idea,” Papa agreed. “Olivia and Emmett would love it. Just until things settle down.”

  Lizzie was glad she had made the suggestion. Like her uncle Blake, she hated to think that anything might happen to Isaac or Christopher. Her little cousins would be safer at her house. But would things ever settle down enough for Isaac and Christopher to go home?

  CHAPTER 12

  Just One Soldier

  They’re back!” came the cry. And suddenly the cobblestone street was filled with activity. Merchants left their shops. Women grabbed their babies and left their homes. Horses and carriages and people on foot gathered in the town square to greet the Boston representatives of the Massachusetts Assembly. They had returned safely from the Stamp Act Congress in New York City, and the whole city of Boston was curious to hear their report.

  “Whoa.” Lizzie tugged on the reins and pulled Merry to a stop. The afternoon deliveries would be delayed for a few minutes. Without waiting for the cart to stop, Joshua abandoned his newspapers and leaped down from the seat. He ran toward the returning delegation and became part of a crowd clamoring for information. Lizzie did not even try to persuade Joshua to stay with the cart. He had been waiting for this moment so eagerly. For the past few days, he had talked about little but the Stamp Act Congress and how Parliament would respond.

  Lizzie decided to stay with Merry, lest any harm come to the old mare in the middle of a crowd. She held the reins tightly in case a sudden movement spooked the horse into action. She could not hear much, but because of the height of the cart, Lizzie could see most of what was happening.

  The representatives were tired, dusty, and eager for a hot meal. They would make a complete report later, but the townspeople would not wait for formalities. They wanted their news firsthand and immediately. Those closest to the mounted representatives asked the questions on everyone’s mind.

  “Did you tell the king to forget about his taxes?”

  “Do all the colonies agree?”

  “What’s next?”

  The report was organized soon enough, and word filtered back through the crowd. Nine colonies had sent representatives, and the other four had agreed to abide by the outcome of the congress. The result of the meetings had been a letter to the king declaring certain American rights and listing the complaints of the colonies about the British government’s recent actions.

  Joshua came whooping out of the crowd. Thrashing with excitement, he pushed his way past a line of human obstacles and hurled himself up into the carriage next to Lizzie.

  “Did you hear all that, Lizzie?” he asked.

  The fire in his eyes was burning brightly, and he grinned as he had not grinned for weeks. She nodded.

  “And do you know what it means?”

  Again, Lizzie nodded. Then she said, “But, Joshua, the letter will not reach King George for weeks. The Stamp Act will be in effect before that.”

  Joshua took the reins and nudged Merry forward ever so slightly. “That’s true. But the congress is about more than just the Stamp Act.”

  “What do you mean? It’s called the Stamp Act Congress.”

  “But it goes beyond that.” Joshua paused to reach back and throw a small bundle of papers to a waiting merchant. He continued. “We’re Americans, and we have rights. That’s what it is about. The king has to see that we will not stand for the Stamp Act or anything else that does not respect our rights and independence. You see, we aren’t simply trying to change the stamp tax. We’re trying to change the way the British government looks at the colonies.”

  “That sounds like an awfully big job to me.”

  “It is. But the Stamp Act Congress is an important first step.”

  “And in the meantime?” Lizzie asked, dreading the day the Stamp Act would take effect.

  Joshua shrugged. “We live one day at a time and see what each day brings.”

  Lizzie reached over and pulled on the reins. “You missed a stop. We’re still delivering papers, remember?”

  “Right.” Joshua jumped down. “Help me with these. We leave two stacks at this stop.”

  Lizzie got down. She could not lift the bound stacks as easily as Joshua could. She often pleaded with him to tie smaller bundles, but he just told her to grow bigger muscles. He was already gone with the first stack. Huffing, she tugged the second stack off the back of the cart and strained to carry it to the shop’s door.

  “Here, let me help you with that.”

  Lizzie looked up into the face of a British soldier. Her heart leaped in her throat. Never had a soldier spoken to her before. But this was not just any British soldier. She recognized the clear gray eyes and soft brown hair. This was the young man she had helped care for in Uncle Philip’s clinic.

  After that day when the soldier had been injured, Lizzie had stopped by the clinic to check on his recovery several times. But she had always spoken with her uncle, never directly with the soldier. She had not seen him at all in the six months since Uncle Philip had declared him fit and sent him back to his regiment.

  “I can manage,” she muttered, adjusting her load. Her heart pounded. Any second she was sure to drop the newspapers on her foot.

  “I insist,” he said, and he took the stack from her. “Where do they go?”

  She gestured. “Just over there, by the door.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. Joshua came out of the shop.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” He snatched the papers from the soldier.

  “I was just helping your sister.” The soldier’s response was calm. “I wanted to repay her kindness of some time ago.” He looked down at Lizzie with steady gray eyes. She had looked into those eyes six months ago and seen fear. Now she saw emptiness. Her heart softened as she returned his gaze.

  “I appreciated the way you cared for me,” the soldier said. “You could have left me to bleed to death.”

  “I would never have done that.” Lizzie did not know how she found the strength to speak. “Besides, it was my uncle who knew what to do.”

  “All the same, I’ve been wanting to thank you. But I did not know how to find you.”

  Joshua finally reali
zed who the young man was. “You’re … you’re better.” He let the stack of newspapers drop to the ground several feet off target.

  “Yes, I am fully recovered.” The soldier turned to look at Joshua. “And I extend my thanks to you as well.”

  Lizzie looked at his jacket and saw the crude stitching on one shoulder. Someone inexperienced with a needle and thread had tried to repair the uniform where Uncle Philip had cut it. The soldier looked even more thin and ragged than he had six months ago, if that was possible. Lizzie’s heart tightened.

  “Are you on duty?” Lizzie asked. He carried no musket.

  The soldier glanced around. “I am looking for work.”

  “Around here?” Lizzie asked. She knew that the merchants in this neighborhood were not likely to be able to pay a hired hand—even if they would agree to hire a British soldier, which was doubtful.

  “The jobs at the docks are all taken,” the soldier explained. “I thought it could not hurt to look elsewhere.”

  “But you have a job. You’re a soldier.” Joshua spoke with an edge to his voice. Lizzie glared at him. If Joshua would only look at the pitiful state this soldier was in, he would not say such cruel things.

  The soldier’s voice was low. “I have not been paid in months,” he said. “The barracks are crowded. There is not enough food.”

  His voice drifted away.

  Lizzie glanced down at the soldier’s boots, wondering if he had gotten new ones or if he still filled the holes with layers of newspaper.

  “Perhaps we can help you,” Lizzie said impulsively.

  “Lizzie!” Joshua said in a harsh whisper. “May I speak with you?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed her wrist and jerked her back over toward their cart. Merry neighed and swished her tail.

  “Have you gone mad? Lizzie, why would you offer to help a British soldier? Have you listened to nothing that I have said in the last few months?”

  Lizzie twisted out of her brother’s grip. “Of course I’ve heard you. Every word. You never stop talking about your cause. But have you looked at him, Joshua? Really looked at him?”