Now everything is turned even more upside down than usual. The puppy doesn’t obey one command, can’t be left unattended, and does its business everywhere but where it’s supposed to. I must say, however, that it is as sweet a creature as I have ever known — all furry and black with sad, sorrowful brown eyes.
She’s a Newfoundland. Mrs. Thompson said she’ll be bigger than me soon.
Mr. Wilson said we ought to call her King George in honor of his royal majesty. But Mrs. Thompson reminded him that he’s a she, so we have decided to name her Queen George.
THE BURGLAR
THE FITCH SISTERS AND THE COMMITTEE
The Burglar
Me and Henry stopped at Mr. Williams’s shop on Cow Lane. He has clocks, watches, and a whole collection of instruments for surveying: compasses, quadrants, protractors, scales, magnets, and magnifying glasses. He also makes false teeth. Henry says they look just like natural teeth.
Mr. Williams doesn’t mind if you look at things, as long as you are careful not to break them. He has a spyglass and said it would be all right if we wanted to take it outside and try it, which we did.
Everything looked close: The big British warships that fill the harbor looked like their cannons were pointed right at us. We saw some soldiers way in the distance, down by the docks, and we pretended we were secretly spying on them. We could even see their mouths move as they spoke. At times it appeared they had caught us spying on them, but we were too far away and they were just looking in our direction.
We didn’t stay long because we were afraid we would miss the whipping. Jimmy Carr, Mr. Williams’s apprentice, came with us. We ran most of the way, playing stone poison. I tagged Jimmy first and he lost his balance and stepped on a stone. That made him mad and caused him to say he wouldn’t play anymore. Henry doesn’t like Jimmy Carr. He said he doesn’t trust him.
On the way to the whipping post on King Street, we saw two unfortunate fellows who were hanging in the pillory with signs on them saying CHEATS. Their heads and hands were fitted into the holes and they had to stand in that hapless position and endure the jests and jibes of all those who passed by.
We hurried along because we could see that a crowd was already forming at the post. Fortunately there was enough room for us to be in the front. We wanted to make sure we got a good look at the burglar. They say he took some stockings that were in a shop window on Queen Street.
The wretched-looking man was wheeled out from the prison in a huge iron cage. He was then removed from the cage and tied to the red whipping post. I had brought a load of garbage from the tavern and we threw it at him before they started the whipping. I hit him right between the eyes with a rotten egg. Everyone cheered when I did that. Then forty lashes were applied to his bare back despite his screams, which were, at times, drowned out by the roar of the crowd calling for more.
I don’t think he’ll be taking what isn’t rightly his anytime soon.
I told Mrs. Thompson all about it when I got back. She said it was high time they did something about all the stealing that’s been going on. We lock all the doors at night because of it.
Henry says that’s why Mr. Armstrong has him sleep in a cot in the back room. Mr. Armstrong says it’s a good precaution to take because of the thieves that have been about. I was going to tell Henry that I didn’t think any thieves would take the trouble to break into a bookshop where all they could steal is books, which are of little value to anyone unless you’re going to read them. But I decided not to. Henry is very loyal to Mr. Armstrong and treats the books like they are precious jewels.
Mrs. Thompson said I did a good job with the provisions this time. Last week I forgot two things and had to go back, and it was too late. I left for the square as soon as I heard the bells. Mrs. Thompson said the market was going to close at noon today and to get there before the stalls become crowded and they run out. This has been happening a lot lately. Provisions are getting scarcer each week because the British have closed the harbor. Thankfully sheep from Connecticut, as well as corn, wheat, rice, and barrels of flour, have recently arrived.
This week I was able to get only three of the items on Mrs. Thompson’s list.
As soon as I returned from the market, I had to take Becca to Mr. Monk to see if there was anything he could do about the stye in her eye. Mrs. Thompson has tried using a rotten apple, but the stye persists. Mr. Monk is glad to do anything Mrs. Thompson wants. When he’s at the tavern, his eyes follow her everywhere.
It was no easy task taking Queen George and Becca all the way to Mr. Monk’s. Queen George darted in and out of every alley in search of adventure or food, I wasn’t sure which. Becca wriggled in my arms, attempting to climb down and walk, which was quite out of the question. Fortunately she’s such a good-natured girl that when I decided to run the rest of the way, she giggled the whole time while Queen George brought up the rear.
Mr. Monk held Becca close to the flames of his fire — Becca let him because she likes him so much — and in no time the steamy heat broke the stye. She didn’t even cry once. She’s a strong girl, just like her mother. She was so happy when we got back. I put her in her go-cart and let her race around the barroom floor to her heart’s content.
The Fitch Sisters and the Committee
Mrs. Thompson is still angry about the Fitch sisters, who have a shop on Milk Street. She never raises her voice like that.
“It’s just like them to think they could bring in British goods and get away with it. You can count on the Fitch sisters to be concerned only about themselves, even in times like these. Imagine, claiming they are just trying to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Isn’t that all any of us are doing?”
The Fitch sisters say that if they didn’t have British goods to sell, they would find themselves poor in no time. But Mrs. Thompson says they’re only making it harder on themselves by defending their actions and they should just admit their mistake.
Mrs. Thompson has known the Fitch sisters since she was a little girl. She said she didn’t like them much then either.
“They’re just a pair of old maids and if that little one doesn’t mind her tongue I’ll take the other eye out and then she won’t be able to see any of her precious British baubles.”
One of the Fitch sisters, the short one, is blind in one eye.
“They ought to get the same treatment as Mr. Carlisle,” Mrs. Thompson said.
Henry told me all about Mr. Carlisle. We saw him one day walking down King Street dressed in lace and ruffles. Henry said he has long been suspected of being loyal to the crown and one night he finally got what he deserved. Some of the men from town marched out to his house. Mr. Carlisle is very rich, Henry said, “Almost as rich as Mr. Dudley. Mr. Carlisle’s house was one of the grandest in Boston.”
As soon as the crowd arrived they trampled the lawn, hacked down the trees, and overran the gate that surrounds the house. They smashed the big front doors with axes and then poured into the house, where they tore up the floorboards, ripped the curtains from the windows, and, after finding Mr. Carlisle’s portrait, tore the eyes out.
They dragged his finely carved furniture outside and smashed it to bits, ran off with his carpets, and drank his wine cellar dry.
They found Mr. Carlisle cowering upstairs, trying to hide behind his bed curtains. They pulled him out despite his feeble efforts to hold on to the bedpost and then took his feather bed and threw it out the window. A ladder was put up and Mr. Carlisle was lowered to those waiting below.
Once they had him outside, they stripped off his nightclothes, smeared him with hot tar, and covered him with the insides of the feather bed.
When the house caught fire someone wanted to call for the firemen, but the crowd shouted him down, yelling, “LET IT BURN, LET IT BURN,” and so they did. The flames, Henry said, could be seen for miles by dawn. When it was over, Mr. Carlisle’s grand house had been reduced to a charred and smoldering skeleton.
Most of the men pulle
d nightcaps over their heads or darkened their faces with chimney soot so they wouldn’t be recognized. Some were armed with sticks and clubs, and Henry said that Mr. Carlisle was lucky not to have suffered even greater injury to his person than to his pride.
Of course, Mrs. Thompson didn’t say any of this to me. I overheard it when she was talking to Mr. Wilson right before he went into the regular Tuesday night meeting with the Committee.
That’s why I stay put on Tuesday nights. I never go anywhere. They meet late, after the tavern closes, in the small room next to the big barroom. As soon as I hear them all coming in, I just lie there quietly on my cot and listen. The room is right over my head. Directly above where I sleep. The cracks in the floor are so wide that I can hear everything that goes on. And there’s an awful lot that goes on lately.
They were all there: Mr. Wilson; Mr. Cummings — he’s a merchant; Dr. Endicott; Mr. Palmer, who is a lawyer; Mr. Armstrong; Mr. Davis, the barber, who doesn’t say much; and Mr. Monk.
Tonight they talked about the Fitch sisters and what is to be done.
Mr. Cummings said anyone found bringing in goods from the “mother country” should be punished swiftly and harshly. You could tell by the way he said “mother country” that he didn’t mean it nicely. He wants to place a wooden post with a hand pointed toward their shop as a warning not to buy from them.
Mr. Palmer said that buying from England is “giving aid to the enemy, plain and simple.” Mr. Palmer is of an ardent temperament and the most talkative man alive. He’s quite quick-tempered and sometimes gets so excited, his jaw twitches and he stutters. I think it’s because he has too much spit in his mouth when he talks.
Mr. Armstrong said they should proceed with caution because “we don’t want to turn our own against us.” Mr. Armstrong is calm and good-natured — a fair-spoken and fine gentlemen. But, he warned, if they do not mend their ways, perhaps a visit from the Committee would be called for.
As far as I could tell, Mr. Wilson was just listening quietly the whole time. I did not hear him speak once. Mr. Wilson likes to choose his words carefully — like he was paying a high price for each one.
Mr. Wilson’s article about the Fitch sisters appeared in the Gazette this week. He is a powerful writer.
It took me all morning to clean the candlesticks. First I had to go around and make sure I found all of them. Sometimes the candlesticks are left where I can’t find them, which makes my work that much harder. Last week I forgot to check the back room and had to do them late at night. I always try to do the candles in the morning. I clean off all the unburned tallow and remove any that are too short to last the evening. When I am done I put them in a tin box I keep in the pantry. That is so the mice won’t get them. It’s also a handy place, so everyone knows where to find them when nighttime comes.
The barroom was crowded today as everyone was waiting for Mr. Wilson to return with the papers. All are eager to hear what is being said in London about our present circumstances.
Today is Becca’s birthday. Mrs. Thompson made her a blueberry pie, which is her favorite. I think that’s because it makes the best mess. Mr. Monk gave her a tea set he fashioned, Mr. Armstrong a miniature leatherbound book, Mrs. Paddock and Mrs. Dill a gingerbread house they made, and Mr. Wilson a waxed doll. I think Becca had a good time.
DOWN AT THE DOCKS
KEEPING ACCOUNTS
Down at the Docks
Henry and me went down to the Long Wharf and played pitch penny. It was nearly deserted now that the British have closed the port. None of our ships can come or go. The only vessels are their warships, sitting in the harbor riding their moving chains — cannons pointed menacingly toward the town.
Time was, Henry said, before this summer and all the trouble started, that the docks were alive with sailors in their black-brimmed hats and blue bell trousers. Back then, he says, the ships were constantly discharging their catches and cargoes onto the docks. The workmen were kept busy rolling barrels down the planks and pushing their loaded carts into the warehouses and shops along the Long Wharf.
Now, many of the shops have closed because business is so poor.
It was so hot, we just stripped off our clothes. I jumped in and swam all the way out to where the British fort is. It must be two miles to Castle Island, maybe more. I’m a good swimmer. Papa said he taught me to swim before I could walk, but Mama told me that wasn’t entirely true.
Henry waited on the dock. He can’t swim and besides he was afraid he would get into trouble. Henry said Mr. Armstrong warned him to stay clear of the lobsterbacks. Back in England, he said, they get unsuspecting men drunk, shove a shilling in their palms, and, when they wake up in the morning, they discover they’re British soldiers for the next seven years. Most of them, Mr. Armstrong said, are the sweepings from England’s jails and are not to be trifled with. Mr. Armstrong hates the British nearly as much as Mr. Wilson does. They’re good friends, those two.
Mr. Armstrong is right about the soldiers, but Henry has a rambling imagination and works himself into a state about the smallest matter.
Last night, being Tuesday, the Committee met and talked until late about the closing of the harbor.
Dr. Endicott said the blockade was already taking a toll. The sailors have no work and many businesses are suffering. People are in a distressed state. He said the British will not rest until they have made us pay for dumping their precious tea. They will keep the port closed to all seagoing traffic until they have their money and we have given up our resistance to their rule.
Mr. Cummings interrupted and said, “If we let them tax our tea, the next thing we know, they’ll tax the sunlight that brightens our day and the water that quenches our thirst. If they’re waiting for us to surrender our rights because we fear being starved into submission by their sinister blockade, then we must let them know that the port can remain closed for all eternity.”
When he said that, everyone cheered. Mr. Cummings is a rousing speaker — he speaks as well as Mr. Wilson writes.
Keeping Accounts
Mrs. Thompson asked me to take an inventory of all the things in the cellar. She said she couldn’t remember the last time anyone went through all of it.
I had to straighten everything out before I could even begin. It took me all night and the better part of the next day just to get things in order. When I was done, nothing was in the same place it had been when I started. I just finished the list last night. I would have finished it in half the time if I hadn’t had Becca with me. She did have a good time, I’ll say that. I wasn’t watching as closely as I should have and she and Queen George got into an empty barrel that must have been lying on its side. When I turned around to see what all the noise was about, this barrel, barking and laughing, came rolling across the floor at me. I stopped it with my foot and dumped the two of them out, which resulted in even greater squealing. Queen George is almost as big as Becca now. I was surprised the two of them could fit in the barrel.
Mr. Wilson wants me to help Mrs. Thompson keep the tavern’s account book. He showed me the desk in the corner next to the bar where it is kept. There’s a quill box and ink horn on it that Mr. Wilson uses.
He raised the slanting top and showed me how to calculate anyone’s bill that is over thirty days old. But, he said, I had to be sure not to mention that to Mrs. Thompson. If she knew, she would not allow it.
Mr. Wilson said that if we don’t find a way to get Mrs. Thompson out of the hole she’s in, we’ll have to look elsewhere for our lodgings. The tavern, he said, is close to financial ruin.
I can tell from the account book that Mr. Thompson left Mrs. Thompson with a long list of people who owe the tavern money.
Mr. Wilson and Mrs. Thompson have even talked about moving to another location where business might be better. Business is better at the British Coffee House — down by the Long Wharf — that’s where all the loyalists go.
Mrs. Thompson says that if we move, she would have to find new patrons
and start all over again and that’s too risky.
But Mr. Wilson thinks they will all follow Mrs. Thompson wherever she goes. I think Mr. Wilson is right about that. She treats everyone with such courtesy — even those who don’t deserve it.
Mr. Wilson says that Mrs. Thompson is too generous. “Generosity,” he said, “is usually a trait I admire but given the greatness of the rent and the meagerness of the business, either our generosity has to diminish or we do.”
He told me sternly that I should be dunning in the strictest manner.
I think Mrs. Thompson should be more like Mr. Williams. He sells only for cash. He has a sign up as soon as you walk in his shop, plain as day:
Mrs. Thompson is hoping that coffee will help. Once tea was all anyone drank, but now no one does, unless they want to be considered a traitor to their country. Coffee is becoming fashionable with the better sort. That’s what Mrs. Thompson says. If you ask me it’s more trouble than it’s worth. I have to mill it right in the barroom and as if there wasn’t enough to do already, I have to keep track of cups and dishes just for coffee.
Mr. Wilson says there are just too many taverns on King Street and too little money.
I would like us to stay where we are. I’m so tired of moving about. It would be best if everyone would just pay Mrs. Thompson what they owe her and our worries would be over.
Mrs. Thompson let Mr. Bacon, the hatter on Newbury Street, pay her in beaver hats. Now he owes us nothing and we have seven beaver hats. This seems foolish to me. The hats, all seven of them, are still down in the cellar. I tried one on when I was cleaning up. I admit they’re nice but I don’t see that they will do us much good.
A True Patriot Page 2