by John Jakes
From the west gallery, a raucous voice boomed, “Then let’s find out how well tea mingles with salt water!”
Yells of assent, clapping, boot-stamping followed the cry. Philip glanced at Anne again, saw her shining face turned toward the pulpit. She and her father looked pleased—as did almost everyone else present.
Savage’s gavel thwacked again, and still again, to quiet the clamor as Sam Adams rose from his pew.
Savage recognized him. The crowd quieted once more. The familiar, quavering tones carried clearly in the silence:
“I would remind the audience that Captain Rotch is a good man. He has done all that he could to satisfy the wishes of the citizenry—”
Adams turned a little, partially facing the rear of the church. Revere seemed to be standing almost on tiptoes. Ben Edes looked flushed. Adams’ slate-blue eyes glittered with reflections from the smoking chandeliers as he continued:
“No matter what transpires from this hour forward, let it be remembered that no one should attempt to harm the captain, or his property.”
Mopping his face with a kerchief, Rotch glanced up, frowned in genuine alarm.
Adams seemed to grow a bit taller, turning more directly toward the back of the hall as he said, “But this meeting can do nothing more to save the country.”
Then he lifted his right hand to his waist, and moved it outward in a gesture of resignation.
Philip caught his breath. That must be the signal. The roar from the throat of Ben Edes confirmed it:
“Boston Harbor! We’ll brew some harbor tea!”
Men and women surged up from their seats, roaring in approval. Captain Rotch cried, “Wait—!” The rest was lost in the tumult.
Revere spun Philip by his shoulder, thrust him in the direction of the doors, as several of the young men around Edes began to utter wild warwhoops. Philip draped the blanket over his shoulders, fastened it with a pin, pulled on a stocking cap he’d tucked into his pocket. Above the shouts and thud of feet in the aisles, he heard the gavel hammering again, a voice exclaiming, “—meeting is dissolved.”
Pushed and pummeled, Philip finally reached the outer steps. Under the thin moon, a cold north wind whipped across the rooftops. But it couldn’t chill the enthusiasm of the hundreds—perhaps thousands—now gathered in the streets.
“A mob, a mob!” they howled. “Boston Harbor a teapot tonight!”
And over the words shrilled the whooping of the bogus Indians, busy donning their ragged coats and blankets, thrusting turkey and goose feathers in their hair, daubing each other’s faces with lampblack or ochre from hastily opened belt pouches.
Revere decorated Philip’s cheeks with several quick streaks of blacking, then passed the pouch in order that Philip could do the same for him.
“Are we proper Mohawks?” the silversmith wanted to know when Philip was finished.
Philip nodded, nearly losing his balance as the mob crowding outward from Old South shoved relentlessly. Off to the right, he heard Ben Edes calling to his group. He started in that direction as Revere yelled behind him, “Then follow Ben to Griffin’s Wharf!”
Just as Revere shouted, Old South’s bell began to toll the hour of six.
iii
Whooping, Edes’ Indians struggled to rally at the head of Milk Street. It was an indication to Philip of how much secret preparation had been made when the crowd opened with fair speed and order to let the crudely disguised men through, then immediately closed in again and began to troop along behind.
As Edes and his followers started for the harbor, people popped out of doorways carrying whale oil lanterns. Before long, Philip could glance over his shoulder and see torches flaring as well. The mob sang, chanted, howled cheerfully obscene oaths against the King, his tea and his taxes—all in all, it was a carnival atmosphere.
Even Edes looked gay, striding along with hatchet in one hand, his cheeks ochre-streaked. He scanned ahead for the other groups supposed to be gathering on Hutchinson Street near Fort Hill—
But Philip was well aware that the partisan mob could and probably would disappear at the first sign of danger. The Mohawks, not those tramping behind them, would be the ones most easily caught and identified if the British reacted.
By now the effects of the rum punch had completely worn off. Philip felt the gnaw of fear again. So did those around him. There were furtive glances, scowls, teeth nervously chewing underlips because of something the raiders hadn’t seen before. Red-uniformed men. Quite a few of them. In tavern doorways. On balconies. Pistols and swords were in evidence.
The watching enlisted men and officers did not draw their weapons or attempt to interfere. Nor did the mob molest them—except verbally. The British gave back a few curses and shaken fists, but nothing more. Perhaps they were awaiting a signal? Philip started to sweat again.
Another hundred Indians waited at the rendezvous point near Fort Hill. The whooping grew even louder as the raiders swept down Hutchinson Street, the distorted shadows of their feathered heads leaping out ahead of them along the walls of buildings. But the first ranks grew quiet suddenly as they swung into the head of Griffin’s Wharf. The others following fell silent in turn.
The masts, spars and furled sails of the three tea ships stood out against the emerging white stars. Beyond, in the harbor, all could clearly see the riding lights of the squadron. Were gunners with slow-matches crouched behind the rails—?
By now quite a number of soldiers mingled with the throng following the Indians. Philip saw no muskets. Yet. He scanned nearby rooftops for possible points of attack. Nothing suspicious there—
But in spite of the apparent quiet, his tension grew.
Ben Edes called for his group to follow him aboard the vessel nearest the head of the wharf, Rotch’s Dartmouth. Other groups charged on down the dock to Eleanor and Beaver, while the dock itself became more and more crowded with the people who had turned out to watch.
Philip saw men race by carrying coils of rope over their arms. And he did indeed notice a lace cuff or two, as Revere had suggested. In moments, Griffin’s Wharf grew virtually as bright as day, lanterns and torches by the dozen held aloft to illuminate the spectacle of Edes and his men clambering up Dartmouth’s plank to confront an alarmed mate and a man whose uniform identified him as an official of the Customs House.
A total hush had descended on the wharf. Edes’ followers gathered behind him as he approached the mate. Philip braced his feet on the gently tilting deck, heard Edes say over the lapping of the water:
“Mr. Hodgdon, it will be to your advantage to stand aside and let this work be done. You know why we are here?”
Mate Hodgdon glanced nervously at the semicircle of torchlit, painted faces.
“Yes. Captain Rotch informed me that something like this might transpire. We will not interfere.” As if it were possible! Philip thought.
The mate and the gaping Customs House man retired to the quarterdeck. There, together with a few astonished seamen, they watched as Edes spun to his followers.
“Remember—harm no one and nothing but the tea. Now to work!”
A young apprentice near Philip let out an ululating whoop. Edes silenced him with a glare. The carnival mood was gone. Eyes roved nervously toward the lights of the British warships as Philip and the others sped for the hatches and opened them.
Edes organized the activity. Philip soon found himself too busy to worry about danger. He was sent to the rail on the harbor side, as men who had dropped below helped raise the first of the canvas-covered chests by means of a hastily rigged tackle.
The chest was passed along by hand to the rail, and set down. Philip and two others proceeded to hack it open with their axes. When a cut of sufficient length was opened, they lifted the chest, tilted it and let the powdery contents spill over the side. Then they threw the empty chest over too, and went on to the next one.
The strange silence continued. It was punctuated by the heavy breathing of the men, the creak of the
tackle, the thump of the chests, the hack of the weapons, the loud plop as the empty chests hit the water. Philip and his two associates sneezed repeatedly as the fine Bohea dusted into their nostrils, clogged their eyelids. But they kept working.
The mob on the pier lingered an hour, two. It showed no sign of diminishing. But the number of red military jackets increased. Sweating and breathing hard, Philip could discern the faces of the soldiers as little more than blurs. But here and there, closer to the tea ships, a few did stand out. Incredulous. Or, more often, enraged.
Once more he scanned the roofpeaks. Was that a Tommy by that chimney—?
He started to point and cry a warning. Then he realized his imagination had tricked him. The watcher clinging to his high vantage point wore civilian clothes.
The Boston citizens made no effort to bother the officers and soldiers who continued to arrive in twos and threes. Occasional jeers and curses continued to ring out, but the lobsterbacks, still outnumbered, could do little more than return looks of fury and loud promises of reprisals.
The wrecking and emptying of the chests went on for the better part of three hours. At the end of that time, Edes announced, “She’s empty. Someone have a count—?”
“Eighty whole chests, thirty-four half-chests,” came the reply.
Philip leaned on the rail, stifling another sneeze with his thumb before he thrust the axe back into his belt. In all his life he had never seen such a bizarre sight: the torches; the rapt faces of the silent watchers, friend and enemy; the water all around Griffin’s Wharf afloat with ruined chests, some of which sank even as he watched. The firelit surface of the harbor seemed to gleam with a peculiar opaque scum—the tea. One whiff of the cold December air would have convinced anyone that he’d suddenly been plunged into a pot of the stuff—
Halloos from the decks of the other two ships indicated that work had been finished there too. According to accounts in the Gazette, the entire three-vessel shipment amounted to three hundred and forty-two full chests. That was a mighty lot of the King’s duties ending up in the ocean, Philip reflected.
He honestly didn’t know what to make of the whole affair, beginning as it had with a mixture of worry and loud revelry, and ending in this strange, eerie silence, as a few men used brooms to neatly sweep up the spilled tea remaining on the deck. He rubbed sweat from the corners of his eyes, squinted at the squadron lights again. No attack had come. He almost felt let down. The strain of waiting for possible reprisals was nearly as bad as outright hostilities—
Yawning, he watched Mr. Edes salute Mate Hodgdon politely to signal the departure of the exhausted Indians.
Certainly there would be repercussions, he thought as he stumbled down the plank to the pier, his arms aching, his nostrils still tickling. How could it be otherwise? But Adams and the rest had never seemed to care about possible consequences. Thinking back on the attempt to burn out the Gazette, Philip decided that perhaps they were right.
But all he really wanted to do now was go back to the cellar room, throw off the filthy, flea-ridden blanket, wipe the black from his face and sleep.
The crowd was dispersing. Fewer torches and lanterns were visible every moment. Singly and in small groups, the weary tea raiders passed the head of the pier where their group leaders waited to pass out compliments:
“Well done, gentlemen.”
“A tidy night’s work for liberty.” Edes caught Philip’s shoulder as a fife began to shrill farther up the street. “Some of the company are assembling to march to the State House—”
“I’d just as soon go home, sir. I’ve tweaked the King’s nose sufficiently for one evening. I’m worn out.”
Edes smiled a thin smile. “Fair enough. Shed the disguise quickly, then. Go your own way—but I suggest the back streets.”
Philip nodded, moving on alone as the crowd thinned still more. He turned into the mouth of Hutchinson Street, barely aware of a pair of red-coated officers staring at him from shadows by a wall. He was distracted suddenly by commotion a few doors down: the clatter of a window rising, shouts from the Indians who were just passing in double marching file beneath.
“Sweet Christ, there’s the admiral!” one of them pointed. As Edes dashed by, Philip saw a stout man lean from the second-floor window, wig askew. “The yellow dog’s been watching from a safe hideout the whole time!”
“Indeed I have, boys,” Admiral Montague shouted down. “And you’ve had a fine, pleasant evening for your Indian caper, haven’t you?” A fat finger shook, the voice harsher. “But mind, you’ve got to pay the fiddler yet.”
“Oh, never mind, never mind, squire,” another of the ragtag Indians yelled back. “Just come out here, if you please, and we’ll settle the bill in two minutes!”
The admiral of the squadron crashed the window down immediately. A second later, the lamp that had been burning in his chamber went out. Raucous laughter rang as the fife resumed, and the marchers continued their parade, in high spirits.
Philip managed a weary smile, started to trudge on. Suddenly he heard faster footfalls behind him.
He turned. Two British officers, hurrying—
The same ones he’d passed a few moments ago?
One of them pointed at him. Then he shoved a woman and her two small boys out of the way. Philip’s belly wrenched.
He faced front, quickening his step. The tension and subsequent letdown had lulled him into false security. He’d wasted precious seconds after going by the two watchers without giving them a close look; walked when he should have fled at full speed—
Glancing back a moment ago, he’d glimpsed the face of the soldier who pointed. It was the tall, long-nosed grenadier with the white scar on his chin.
Walking faster, Philip twisted around again. He caught a flash of yellow lapel. Captain Stark shouted for him to hold up.
Philip flung off his cap and stinking blanket, left them lying on the cobbles as he ran. He heard the boots of Stark and his companion clatter in pursuit.
Philip hadn’t gone two blocks before he realized he couldn’t outrun them. He was too tired.
iv
Desperately, he turned to the right, into an unfamiliar alley. Once more Stark shouted for him to halt. The man’s voice sounded peculiarly thick. Had he been drinking?
If so, it didn’t seem to lessen the grenadier’s steady pace as he and his comrade rushed to capture their quarry.
Philip’s right boot slid out from under him, slicked with some animal’s turd into which he’d stepped. He sprawled hard, his chin smacking the ground, snapping his teeth together. He heard and felt a cracking in his mouth. He spit out something that clicked and gleamed white on the stones.
The breath knocked out of him, he struggled to rise. His tongue told him he’d broken off most of an upper front tooth.
He pushed up with both hands, heard Stark cry:
“Down here!”
Turning, Philip saw a glitter at the alley’s mouth; Stark drawing his sword.
The other officer protested that he couldn’t keep up. A group of citizens with lanterns appeared in Hutchinson Street, hurrying home. Two of these men spotted Stark with his sword drawn, broke away, seized the second officer and began to jostle him. But Stark was too fast. He eluded the others and sprinted on into the alley’s darkness.
On his feet, Philip started running hard again. His eyelids itched furiously from the tea. His shoulders hurt. The relentless thud of the grenadier’s boots coming on tightened his belly with cold, sick fear. It was only one on one now—but Stark had the advantage of energy and determination.
The alley veered obliquely left. Philip dodged a refuse heap, jumped over a squalling cat whose eyes glowed like gems. Stark’s companion was long gone from sight. But the big captain was gaining.
A plank fence loomed on Philip’s left. Pretty high, but maybe he could clamber over. He leaped for the top—
But not with enough spring. Cursing, he fought for a handhold, lost it, felt himself fall
ing—
He landed on his spine with a jolt, panting. The failure to scale the fence had cost him his only margin of safety.
Captain Stark loomed, checking his run. His blade, held out in front of him, gathered the starlight and shimmered.
Stark’s chuckle sounded heavy. Philip smelled rum. The captain’s eyes were invisible in the pits of shadow under his brows. But his face shone white as a skull in the semi-darkness.
Captain Stark took a step forward. Philip jumped up, backed against the fence.
“I thought I recognized you under that blacking,” the grenadier said. “Not only do you insult His Majesty’s officers—you flout his laws. I suppose I could haul you up before a magistrate. But I think I prefer more personal justice—”
Again Stark chuckled. This time, it was a laugh of humorless pleasure. He added:
“Especially since I doubt anyone will mourn long for an obvious lawbreaker. And while you’re rotting here with the dogs picking over your bones, I’ll call on the young lady again. Remember that while you’re bleeding to death, eh?”
Without warning, he launched into a formal thrust.
Lightning-quick, his right knee bent as his boot slammed down. His long arm drove the sword forward like a streak of white fire.
Philip calculated his time, ducked at the last possible instant and flung himself forward at the grenadier’s boots.
The sword point chunked into the plank fence. Captain Stark swore, pulled the blade free. By then, Philip had his arms wrapped around the man’s right leg, pulling him off balance.
Arms windmilling, Captain Stark cursed again. Philip toppled him backward.
But the grenadier was superbly conditioned. Even as he toppled, he managed to use his left leg to kick Philip’s shin, hard. Philip danced away.
Captain Stark scrambled up again, his scarlet-clad shoulders faintly white from the powder knocked loose from his wig. He lunged, simultaneously raised his right arm, then brought it whipping down—
Philip jerked his head aside. The blade glanced his temple, the edge nicking a long cut from hairline to cheek. Blood ran down the left side of Philip’s face as he took two hopping steps to the side, managed to free his axe from his belt—