The cook was squatting at the hearth toasting thin toast. Johnny lifted the teapot to set his note under it. That teapot ... its handle was in the shape of a winged woman! Beside it was the creamer that he had loved so much. Even now he could shut his eyes and feel it in his hands. Ah ... a sugar basin to match! Mr. Hancock had indeed found a smith to make it after Mr. Lapham failed so lamentably. Behind the cook's back Johnny lifted it in trembling hands. The handles were wrong. Done exactly as Johnny had started to do them before he talked with Mr. Revere.
He thought with longing, but contentment, of that other basin ... the one that had been exactly right and never completed. This one he held in his hands was nothing, trash. But how beautiful ... how perfect, had been the other one! 'If I had to hurt my hand, I'm glad it was while doing something worth while—not merely mending an old spoon.'
The cook's wiry black fingers were in his hair.
'You no-account! Don't you never think to go stealing sugar in this house. Mr. Hancock is that generous I'd have given you a piece if you had asked politely.'
Next to the Hancock house was the Lytes'. Mr. Lyte, in his effort to play both ends against the middle, did take the Observer and every Thursday Johnny habitually crossed from one stable yard to the other. There was no reason he should do so today. But it was as he told Cilla—he just about couldn't help watching the Lytes. What did they do on Sundays? Would the merchant be home today? He might have asked Captain Bull to dine with him. Would he see Miss Lavinia—or only the fat cook, the scullery maids, Aunt Best, or the stable men?
The cobbled stable yard was deserted. He did not hear the usual chatter from the kitchen. He glanced at the dining-room window—the one Mr. Lyte thought he broke the night the cup was stolen. Doubtless now that cup Mr. Lyte had actually stolen from him stood with the other three on the sideboard. His jaw clenched. Sometime, someday, he would get it back, and not by snitching it either.
A horse came clattering into the stable yard. Contrary to law and decent propriety, Miss Lavinia had been out for a gallop on the Common. Her black horse was wet and foaming. The young woman sat her side-saddle superbly. Her dark green London habit almost swept the ground. He knew that she had recognized him as the boy who had 'stolen the cup,' the very first time she had met him delivering papers at her house, but she pretended not to. Now she glanced at him and the chisel mark between the sweeping black brows deepened.
'Williams!' she cried. 'Dolbear!'
There was no groom at the stable to help her dismount. The black horse reared. Johnny smiled. He knew enough about equitation to realize she was showing off. Johnny could make Goblin rear like that any time he pleased. It amused him that she pretended such contempt for him and yet condescended to show off her skill before him.
'Well, you then!' she cried to him. With her nervous horse and long skirts it was impossible for her to dismount from a sidesaddle without help. He gave her the help. She did not thank him. It was as if she knew that proximity to such famous beauty was reward enough for any boy or man in Boston. If anyone thanked, obviously it should be Johnny. He thought she was the most disagreeable woman he had ever seen, and yet the fact was he had slipped thus into the Lytes' yard in the hope of seeing her—even risking Captain Bull and that threatened trip to Guadalupe. He liked to tell Rab how awful she was—and then would sneak back to take another look.
Near-by was William Molineaux's house. Its seedy appearance advertised to the whole world that its owner was close to bankruptcy. Mr. Molineaux was standing in his orchard, shaking his cane at a couple of small boys he had treed in an apple tree. He had a terrible temper, which he thoroughly enjoyed. Although Johnny told him three times about those eight shillings, he was not sure whether the idea had penetrated the wild Irishman's thick skull or not. Nor did he care.
His good friend, Josiah Quincy, plump little John Adams, and James Otis he found together at the Quincy house. They were still sitting over their port and cracking nuts. James Otis did not even look up when Johnny entered. He was hunched up in his chair, his thick-skulled, heavy head hung forward. He was busy drawing a row of little people on the paper before him. Quincy, having already heard about the meeting that night, put a finger to his lips and shook his head, at the same time glancing at the heavy, lonely figure of Otis. Johnny guessed that neither he nor John Adams wanted Otis notified of the meeting, although he was a member.
For four years Otis had been crazy and sane, turn and turn about, on again and off again. He was the most brilliant man of them all, thought in the largest terms, not ever merely of Boston; was passionate in his demand for the rights of Englishmen everywhere—over here and in Old England too. Now he was not even listening to what was going on about him. His heavy head was swinging back and forth. John Adams and Josiah Quincy were watching him so intently their heads were also moving a little. Johnny stole out and closed the door softly after him. He guessed that in a day or two he'd hear it whispered, James Otis had got into a mad freak and fired guns from the windows of his house: James Otis had been seen leaving Boston in a closed chaise with a doctor and in a straitjacket.
Next he went to Doctor Church. Here was a queer man surely. He was still in his bedgown and slippers, with paper, inkhorn, and pens about him, writing poetry. Johnny did not care for Molineaux because he bellowed and roared so loudly. But he disliked Doctor Church. He did not know one thing against him, but he felt the man was crooked, and he knew that Paul Revere and Joseph Warren felt as he felt about Church.
Doctor Warren was in Roxbury tending a sick woman. His wife bade Johnny come back at five.
2
Johnny had saved Paul Revere for the last because he lived at North Square and, being a Sunday, he knew that Cilla and Isannah would be waiting for him by the town pump. Guiltily he remembered he had not bothered to meet them last Thursday, nor the Sunday before, nor the Thursday before that.
He glanced about. The girls were not there, and secretly he was relieved. He went on to Mr. Revere's. The silversmith was busy drawing a political cartoon concerning tea and tyranny. He did not draw well—not the way he made silver. As he drew, his children crowded about him, standing on the rungs of his chair, breathing down his neck, dropping crumbs of ginger-bread into his hair; but Paul Revere took all this confusion as he took everything else, without any fussing.
'I believe I owe you eight shillings?' he said, with a wide smile on his dark, ruddy face. The eyes gleamed.
Now there was only Doctor Warren left; then he'd go back and help Rab set out all those chairs in the attic, get ready for the meeting that night. But Cilla and Isannah were standing by the pump. Cilla looked little and forlorn. The delicate face was pale. Things were not going too well for the Laphams. Cilla was a little shabby. The sight of her touched Johnny's heart. He pitied her—and yet he wished she had not come. Now it seemed years ago, not months, that he had lived at the Laphams', and then surely Cilla and Isannah were the only friends he had. But he had on going to the Observer entered a new, vast, and exciting world. He had made new friends. He was absorbed in the excitement over the tea, over the secret meeting tonight. Of all of these things and people Cilla knew nothing, nor could he tell her, yet he tried to show interest in what she had to tell him. Once he would have been very interested. Now he felt like a hypocrite, and because he was uncomfortable he blamed it in some way on Cilla.
Had Mr. Tweedie decided whether he would marry Madge or Dorcas?
Cilla hoped he would choose Madge. Dorcas was just about crazy over Frizel, Junior. She said she would elope with him if Ma tried to make her marry Tweedie.
How was Dove?
Just like always.
Dusty?
Hadn't he heard? Dusty had run away to sea.
Old master?
No, he had not even stepped inside his shop since he had signed with Mr. Tweedie. He said he hadn't long to live and he was going to spend all his time preparing to meet his Maker.
But Johnny wasn't really interested in all this
news. He was absorbed with the meeting this night—the tea ships. It bothered him a little that Cilla was so faithful. There had been many and many a Sunday when he did not get to North Square. He was too busy with Rab and his new world. But he knew that Cilla, usually as today toting Isannah along with her, never failed. She said she understood he could not always keep his schedule, but if he had tried harder he could certainly have done a lot better. That very feminine faithfulness of the girl irritated him, but he had not admitted this to himself. She took it for granted that Johnny had not changed, and he had changed much. If, the winter of seventy-three, Johnny Tremain had a romantic attachment to anyone, it was to that black-haired and, as far as he knew, black-hearted, bad-tempered, disagreeable, conceivable 'cousin' of his Miss Lavinia Lyte. Certainly not Priscilla Lapham.
Isannah especially got on his nerves. She was showing off more and more all the time. She knew that if she kept her hood off someone would come along and say how pretty she was. Even now an elderly clergyman was approaching, opening his mouth.
Johnny did not stop to hear. He left.
Doctor Warren was back from Roxbury. He was sitting in his surgery, still in his riding boots and spurs.
'Eight shillings, sir,' said Johnny.
'I guessed we'd meet tonight. I'll be there ... but wait a moment. I promised this article to Mr. Lorne this morning—got held up. Woman fell out of an apple tree. Broken thigh...' He went on writing.
He was a fine-looking young man, with fresh skin and thick blond hair and very bright blue eyes.
Even a horse boy merely entering that surgery would feel confidence in him and his skill. Johnny took off the red mittens Aunt Lorne had knit for him and stretched his hands toward the fire blazing on the hearth.
The pen stopped scratching. Doctor Warren had stopped writing, and, although his back was to him, Johnny knew those clean, clear blue eyes were staring at him. They were staring at his crippled hand.
Instantly Johnny thrust it back into his breeches pocket. He straightened himself unconsciously, preparing to be either sullen or arrogant.
'My boy,' came the doctor's gentle voice, 'let me see your hand.'
Johnny did not face him. He said nothing.
'You don't want me to look at it?'
As long as it might take to count ten, there was complete silence. Then the boy said, 'No, sir—thank you.'
'Was it God's will it should be so?' Doctor Warren meant was it crippled from birth. If so, it would be harder for him to help.
'Yes,' said Johnny, thinking of how he had ruined it upon a Lord's Day.
'God's will be done,' said the young doctor.
He went back to his writing.
3
Outside, Johnny could hear shouting, yelling, whistles, the running of feet. With the coming of night, the Sons of Liberty were abroad, tacking up Mr. Adams's placards. Tonight Rab was not out with them, although he had been off once or twice of late helping to frighten the tea consignees out of Boston to the protection of a handful of British soldiers stationed on Castle Island. Johnny was too young to be a 'Son.' But when the Observers met, the boys always stayed in the room below to run errands for them, and it was always Rab who mixed the fragrant punch with which the meetings ended.
All over Boston was a feeling of excitement. Everyone knew that the Dartmouth was but a few miles away. Great events were brewing. Johnny went to the door to see what the clamor was. A courageous Tory was chasing the men whom he had found tacking a placard on his property. They had let him chase them thus far to dark Salt Lane and now had turned on him. Such street brawling made Johnny feel sick. He closed the door, sat down beside Rab, and began slicing lemons, oranges, and limes.
'Rab...'
'Yes?'
'What will they decide ... those men upstairs?'
'You heard Sam Adams. If possible, the ships will sail home again with their tea. We've got twenty days.'
'But if the Governor won't agree?'
'He won't. You don't know Hutchinson. I do. And you saw how happy Sam was this morning? He knows the Governor a lot better than I do.'
'And then ... and what next, Rab?'
Johnny heard blows and oaths from the street outside. His hands shook. He put down the knife so Rab wouldn't know. They were doing something—something awful, to the Tory.
'As soon as we go upstairs with our punch, we'll know. Look at Sam Adams. If he looks as pleased as an old dog fox with a fat pullet in his mouth, we'll know they've agreed to violence if everything else fails. He doesn't care much any more about our patching up our differences with England. He'd just about welcome a war.'
'But the King's warships are in the harbor. They'll protect the tea. They'll fight.'
'We can fight, too.' Rab was putting the last delicate touches to his ketteleful of brew, for tonight the punch would be hot. He was grating nutmegs, cautiously sprinkling in cloves, and breaking up cinnamon bark.
'Taste it, Johnny. That Madeira Mr. Hancock brought with him is first-class.'
But Johnny heard a low moaning in the street, close to the shut door. That Tory, who had been so brave—and foolish—as to follow the Sons of Liberty down a black alley was alone now—was sobbing, not from pain but from humiliation. Johnny declined to taste the punch.
Mr. Lorne called down the ladder.
'Boys, ready with your punch?'
'They made up their minds fast tonight,' said Rab. 'I rather thought they would.'
Johnny carried a handful of pewter cups and the big wooden bowl. Rab followed with two pitchers of his spicy brew.
The attic where the boys commonly slept looked strange enough with those chairs pulled out and arranged for the meeting. John Hancock sat in the moderator's chair. His face looked white and drawn. Probably his head still ached. Beside him was Sam Adams leaning toward him, whispering and whispering. Johnny thought how the Tories were saying that Sam Adams seduced John Hancock, even as the Devil had seduced Eve—by a constant whispering in his ear.
Adams turned his face as Johnny set down the wooden bowl on the baize-covered box before the moderator. Johnny had never seen an old dog fox with a fat pullet in his mouth, but he recognized the expression when he saw it. Rab poured the punch and instantly the tense silence was broken. The men were on their feet, crowding up about the bowl. Rab and Johnny were well known. Here was Paul Revere clinking his cup with Rab, and John Hancock was telling Johnny how far too well his old slave woman guarded his privacy. Actually three men had come to the house to tell him the first of the tea ships had been sighted, but he had not known anything was afoot until he got Johnny's 'bill' on his tray. Then he guessed what had happened.
'Here's to December the sixteenth.'
'Hear! Hear!'
They drank to that last day, the day on which the tea must be destroyed—unless it was allowed to return to England. And Johnny saw that Sam Adams had carried them all with him. They did not honestly want the tea returned and a peaceful settlement made. They wanted grievances and more grievances ... well, yes, armed warfare. Things were in such a state they did not honestly believe there could be any permanent, friendly settlement with the mother country.
Johnny looked about through the haze of tobacco smoke. There was Doctor Warren. He was talking with Uncle Lorne and John Adams about that article he had written for the newspaper. Suddenly he lifted his head, smiled, almost laughed.
Johnny did not know why Warren smiled. Why had Johnny been such a fool ... why couldn't he have shown his hand to the doctor? He bit into his lower lip. After his rudeness to Doctor Warren, he did not see how he ever could go to him and say, 'I've changed my mind. I want you to look at it. I think you are the only person in the world who can help me.' So when Doctor Warren, a little later, looked toward Johnny ready to smile, forgive his discourtesy, the boy looked away. He was so embarrassed he was rude again.
Sam Adams was standing at the far end of the room and Mr. Hancock still sat, his head in his hands. Adams clapped slightly and instantl
y conversation stopped.
'Gentlemen,' he said, 'tonight we have made our decision—and know the method by which the detested tea can be destroyed, if the ships are not allowed to return. Here we have with us two of exactly—ah—the sort of boys or young men we intend to use for our great purpose. Two boys in whom we have implicit trust. If it is the wish of the assembled club members, I suggest we approach them with our proposition tonight ... enlist their aid. Twenty days will be up before we know. We'd best get on with our plans.'
The members once more took their seats, but the pewter cups of punch were passing from hand to hand. Only Will Molineaux was too restless to sit. He was muttering to himself. Ben Church sat alone. He often did. No one really liked him.
All agreed the boys were to be told.
'First,' Adams said to the boys, 'raise your right hands. Swear by the great name of God Himself never, for as long as you live, to divulge to anyone the secret matters now trusted to you. Do you so swear?'
The boys swore.
Hancock was not looking at them. He sat with his aching head in his hands.
'There's no chance—not one—those ships will be allowed to return. The mass meetings which will be held almost daily demanding the return of the tea are to arouse public opinion and to persuade the world we did not turn to violence until every other course had been blocked to us. When the twenty days are up, on the night of the sixteenth of December, those ships are going to be boarded. That tea will be dumped in Boston Harbor. For each ship, the Dartmouth, the Eleanor, and the brig, the Beaver, we will need thirty stout, honest, fearless men and boys. Will you be one, Rab?'
He did not say Rab and Johnny, as the younger boy noticed. Was this because he thought Johnny too cripple-handed for chopping open sea chests—or merely because he knew Rab better and he was older?
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