A patriot lad of old Boston

A pink and golden sunset was flaming across Boston Common. It was one of the prettiest sunsets of the whole winter of 1773; but on that day, the sixteenth of December, few persons were in the mood to stop and admire it. For trouble had come to town.

In the Old South Meeting-House at the corner of Marlborough and Milk Streets the largest and perhaps the most important town-meeting in the history of Boston was in session. The hall was filled to overflowing, and those who had been unable to gain admittance lingered in the streets and tried to learn from their neighbors what was going on inside.

On the outskirts of the crowd in Milk Street two boys were talking earnestly. “This is a bad piece of business,” said one in a low voice. “What right have we to protest against the King’s sending tea to his colonies? We’re his loyal subjects, aren’t we?”

His companion, an alert-looking boy with blue eyes, did not reply at once; but his eyes flashed as he glanced restlessly now at the meeting-house, now at the persons round him, many of whom he knew. At last he said, “Of course we’re loyal, but we’re not represented in Parliament; for that reason we shouldn’t be taxed. The protest is not against the tea but against the tax that the King has put on it. At least that’s what my Uncle Dave says.”

“Now see here, Don,” replied the boy who had spoken first, “there’s going to be trouble just as sure as you’re born. Take my advice and don’t pick the wrong side.” He lowered his voice. “Keep away from trouble-makers. Men like Sam Adams inside there are a disgrace to the town; and anyway they can’t accomplish anything. There are three shiploads of tea at Griffin’s Wharf; it will be landed to-night, and before many days have passed, you and I will be drinking it—as we should. Don’t be a fool, Don!”

Donald Alden lifted his chin a trifle. “I don’t intend to be a fool, Tom,” he replied slowly.

His companion, Tom Bullard, the son of one of the wealthiest men in town, seemed pleased with the remark, though he certainly was not pleased with what was going on about him. From time to time he scowled as the sound of hand-clapping came from within the meeting-house, or as he overheard some snatch of conversation close by. “Cap’n Rotch,” a tall, rugged-faced man was saying to his neighbor, “has gone with some others to Milton to ask the governor for a clearance.”

“Old Hutchinson will never give it to them,” was the quick reply. “He’s as bad as King George.”

“Well, then, if he doesn’t, you watch out and see what happens.” With that advice the tall man smiled in a peculiar way and a few minutes later left his companion.

Meanwhile the crowd had increased to almost twice the size it had been when Don and Tom had joined it. Don guessed that there were between six and seven thousand people inside the meeting-house and in the streets close by it, and he was astonished at the quiet nature of the gathering. Although everyone around him seemed uneasy and excited, yet they talked in ordinary tones of voice. Occasionally a small boy would shout as he chased another in play, but for the most part even the small boys were content to wait quietly and see what was about to happen; for it seemed that something must happen soon.

Almost all of the pink and gold had faded from the sky, and a light breeze was swaying some of the signs over the doors of the shops on Milk Street and making them creak. There were lights flashing in many of the windows; and inside the Old South Meeting candles were burning.

Don and Tom edged as near as they could to the door, which was partly open. They could hear someone speaking, though the words were indistinct; they could see the heads and shoulders of some of the listeners; they could see grotesque shadows flit about the walls and ceiling as somebody moved in front of the flickering candles. It was long past supper-time, but few persons seemed to have any thought for food.

“I’m cold,” said Tom, “and hungry too. Aren’t you, Don?”

“No,” replied Don.

He lifted his hands to loosen his collar; they were trembling but not with cold. Something must happen soon, he thought.

Somewhere a bell was tolling, and the tones seemed to shiver in the chill air. Half an hour dragged by, slowly. And then there was a sudden commotion near the door of the church, and the buzz of conversation rose to a higher pitch. “It’s Rotch!” exclaimed someone. “It’s Rotch,” said another; “and Governor Hutchinson has refused clearance.”

The crowd pressed closer to the door. Don could see people moving about inside the meeting-house. Then he saw somebody at the far end of the hall lift his hand, and he barely distinguished the words: “This meeting can do nothing more to save the country.”

An instant later there was a shout from someone on the little porch of the church, and then the startling sound of war-whoops rang in Marlborough Street. In a moment the people in the church began to pour out of the door. In Milk Street, near Bishop’s Alley, Don spied half a dozen figures clothed in blankets and wearing feathered head-dresses; their faces were copper-colored, and all of them carried hatchets or axes. Where they had come from no one seemed to have any clear idea, but as they started down the street others joined them; and the crowd followed.

“Where are you going, Don?” Tom asked sharply as his companion turned to join the throng in Milk Street.

“He’s going to have a look at the King’s tea, aren’t you, my lad?” said a voice near by.

“Come on along,” cried Don.

But Tom seized his companion’s arm and held him. “Don, are you crazy?” he demanded. “Keep out of this; it’s trouble; that’s what it is——”

Don jerked his arm free and ran ahead; soon he was lost to Tom in the crowd. At Long Lane he caught a glimpse of bobbing head-dresses. He started to run as best he could. Once he stumbled and fell to his knees, but somebody helped him quickly to his feet. “No time to stumble now,” said the stranger, whoever he was.

A few moments later those at the head of the throng turned sharply to the right, and as they stumbled over the cobblestones down a narrow street Don observed that the moon was shining. In and out among the streets the throng went, past Cow Lane, past Belcher’s Lane and straight toward Griffin’s Wharf. Everyone was excited, and yet there was a certain order about the whole movement.

“Remember what Rowe said in meeting?” remarked a florid-faced man whom Don recognized as a grocer from King Street. “‘Who knows how tea will mingle with salt water?’ Well, I guess we’ll all know pretty quick.”

Don felt his heart take a sudden leap. So they were going to throw the tea overboard! These were no Indians; they were Colonists, all of them! He thought he even recognized one of the leaders as the tall, rugged-faced man in the crowd who had advised his companions to wait and see what would happen if the governor refused the clearance.

Once on the wharf, the first thing the men did was to post guards, and then Don noticed that all of the little copper-colored band had pistols as well as hatchets and axes. The Dartmouth was the first ship to be boarded; someone demanded that the hatches be opened, and the sailors complied with the demand at once; there was no resistance. In a moment square chests with strange markings were being lifted to the deck. Again Don observed that everything was being done in an orderly manner.

It was a night that he should long remember. The tide was low, and the three Indiamen with their high sides and ornamented sterns reminded him of huge dragons lying beside the wharf in the moonlight. He saw chest after chest broken open with axes and hatchets and then tumbled overboard into the water; he heard the low voices of the men as they worked—they seemed to be talking in Indian dialect, though he knew that it was not genuine, for now and again he would catch a word or two of English.

For a while Don leaned against one of the great warehouses and tried to guess who the “Indians” were; at one time he counted as many as fifteen of them, but he could not be sure that there were not more; for at least a hundred persons were on the wharf, helping to get rid of the tea. Some of the chests that they tossed overboard lodged on the mud flats that were out of water, but young men and boys waded in and broke them into pieces and pushed them off. It was fascinating to watch the destruction.

Don remained near the warehouse for perhaps three hours; and not until the last chest had been tossed from the Eleanor and the Beaver, the other two tea vessels, did he realize that he was hungry; he had entirely forgotten that he had missed his supper.

Taking one last glance at the pieces of broken chests, which the turning tide was now carrying out into the harbor, he set forth toward home. At the head of Atkinson Street he heard someone call his name, and, turning, he saw Tom Bullard close behind him. “Oh, Don, wait a minute.”

Don paused. “I can’t wait very long,” he said and grinned. “My Aunt Martha won’t be very well pleased with me as it is.”

“See here, Don,” began Tom abruptly, “I know where you’ve come from, and I know what’s happened down at the wharf. I know also that those men weren’t Indians. The thing I want to ask you is, what do you think of it?”

“Why,” replied Don slowly, “I’m afraid it won’t please you, Tom, if I tell. I think we—that is, the Indians,—did the proper thing in throwing the tea overboard.”

Tom stiffened. “So you’re a young rebel,” he said. “A young rebel! Well, I thought so all along. I’m through with you from now on.”

“I’m sorry, Tom; we’ve been good friends.”

“Well, I’m not sorry,” replied Tom, turning part way round. “A young rebel!” he repeated, flinging the words over his shoulder. “Well, look out for trouble, that’s all.” And he crossed the street.

Don bit his lips. He had lost an old friend; Tom was a Tory. Well, he was not astonished; but he had hoped that their friendship might last through their differences.

He felt somewhat depressed as he made his way along the crooked streets to his aunt’s little house in Pudding Lane. No light was burning in the store at the front where his aunt sold groceries and odds and ends of a household nature to eke out the income of his Uncle David, who was employed at MacNeal’s rope yard on Hutchinson Street. He entered the small sitting-room at the back of the house. “Hello, Aunt Martha,” he said cheerfully.

“Donald Alden, for goodness’ sake, where have you been?” Aunt Martha Hollis dropped the stocking that she had been knitting and adjusted her spectacles.

“Well, first I went up to the town-meeting.”

“Did you see your Uncle David there?”

“No, ma’am; there was an awful big crowd. I’m pretty hungry, Aunt Martha.”

“What happened at the meeting?”

“Well, there was a lot of talking, and then just as it broke up, a band of Indians—that is, a band of men with tomahawks and feathers and colored faces—appeared in Milk Street and started down to Griffin’s Wharf and—is there any pie, Aunt Martha?”

“Donald, go on!” said his aunt, whose fingers had begun to tremble violently.

“They boarded the three tea ships and tossed all the tea into the water. My, you should have seen them! Then they went home. Aunt Martha, I certainly am hungry.”

“Was—was anybody hurt, Donald?”

“Oh, no, ma’am—except one man whom I didn’t know; a chest of tea fell on him. Another man tried to put some of the tea into his pockets, but I guess he was more scared than hurt.”

Aunt Martha drew a deep breath and rose from her chair. In a few minutes she had placed some cold meat and potatoes and a large slice of apple pie on the table. “Now don’t eat too fast,” she cautioned her nephew. Then she seated herself again, but she did not go on with her knitting.

She was a little woman with blue eyes and silvery hair parted in the middle. She was naturally of a light-hearted disposition, though perhaps somewhat overly zealous for the welfare of her only nephew, whom she had taken to live with her eight years ago on the death of both his parents. Now her eyes were gravely thoughtful as she watched him eating.

“This is mighty good pie, Aunt Martha.”

“Well, eat it slowly, then, for that’s all you can have.”

Don grinned and held up his empty plate, and a moment later his aunt went to the kitchen and returned with another piece. As she was setting it on the table, the door opened, and David Hollis entered. He nodded and smiled at his nephew and then strode quickly into the kitchen, where Don heard him washing his hands and face. Then Don heard his aunt and uncle talking in subdued voices. When they entered the sitting-room again Aunt Martha carried more meat and potatoes, which she placed on the table.

Uncle David, big and broad and hearty, sat down opposite his nephew. “So you were at the wharf this evening?” he inquired. “Did you see the—the Indians?”

“I saw feathers and tomahawks and painted faces,” replied Don, and Uncle David laughed and quickly lowered his hands to his lap, but not before his nephew had caught a glimpse of dark red paint round the finger-nails.

“It was a bold thing that the Mohawks did,” said Uncle David. “Don’t ever forget, Donald, that the men who tossed that tea overboard were Indians.”

Don nodded and, turning to his aunt, said, “This is awfully good pie, Aunt Martha. Maybe there’s another piece——”

“Donald! Of course not!” Nevertheless, Aunt Martha went again to the kitchen cupboard.