Chapter Five
BOSTON
Massachusetts Bay Colony
I wrinkled my nose at the bitter taste of coffee while trying to ignore the uncomfortable looks from patrons of the Green
Dragon Tavern who were forced to mind their manners because a lady was present.
In truth, I wouldn’t have been present if my husband weren’t late in meeting me for our planned excursion to Henry Knox’s
new book and stationery store near Pi Alley. It was too cold to wait for John on the street. And the proprietor of the tavern
had taken pity upon me with a steaming cup of coffee to help me ward off the chill.
I could not now seem ungrateful by refusing to drink it. But when my husband finally stomped in, dusting snow from his shoulders,
he noticed my expression and laughed. “You’ll get accustomed to the taste of coffee. And it might even ease your headaches.”
In Boston we could no longer get our hands on honestly smuggled tea. Which meant either surrendering to Parliament’s newest
outrages or going without tea for our morning sustenance.
Now, staring down into the steaming coffee that was meant as a substitute, I whispered, “But it is such a noxious drink.”
Mirth shone in my husband’s eyes. “I quite like it myself. Certainly better than the witch’s brew of chicory and whatever
else you ladies pluck from the meadow to make so-called liberty tea.”
That I could not entirely deny. Nor that tea was the topic of conversation all around us as John’s friends and colleagues gathered.
I noticed Sam Adams, in an austere black cloak, and Dr. Warren, in a woolen blue coat with wooden buttons. They were at home
in this establishment. But John Hancock—an exotic bird of a man whose throat wobbled beneath a lace cravat as he adjusted
the embroidered sleeves of his yellow frock coat—was decidedly out of place.
A man of Hancock’s stature and fortune wouldn’t normally frequent the Green Dragon Tavern, but because it was too cold to
meet beneath the Liberty Tree, the tavern now served as a meeting spot for patriots.
Sam was speaking to Dr. Warren and a bespectacled schoolteacher named James Lovell, who asked, “Do they really think they
can force us to drink only the East India Company’s tea?”
Sam’s reply was a husky growl beneath his dark tricorn hat. “They may think it, but by what moral authority do they forbid
a free people to import tea from anywhere else but Britain?”
Having quite forgotten a lady was present, James Otis Jr. now banged his tankard on the table. Having once been violently
struck by a British customs official, Mrs. Warren’s brother had been wrong in the head ever since, but sometimes he still
spoke eloquently, as he did now. “What of the legal authority? Parliament has committed this outrage on hardworking colonists for the sole benefit of the East India Company
to rescue it from its debts. If we accept these shipments of tea, then we are accepting the idea that Parliament can tax us
without our consent. And I, for one, say no taxation without representation!”
As this wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion, the men repeated his slogan as a chant. They were, in some sense,
performing for each other and working up their courage to do something about the forced shipments of tea sitting on vessels
in our harbor.
That I had myself become all but enslaved to that baneful weed, there could be no doubt. Since quitting it, my throbbing temples
told the tale. But so much the worse if a whole people should surrender their rights because of it.
In other colonies the protests had been so vociferous that ships turned around and returned their cargo. But here in Boston, despite thousands gathering in protest, the governor forbade the ships from returning the crates of tea because his sons intended to sell it on consignment.
I hoped sincerely such blatant government corruption would not be placidly endured by Bostonians. And encouraged by the talk
in the tavern, I now thought it would not be. Still, I was glad to abandon my coffee when my husband said, “Come, wife. I
promised you books.”
I wanted a primer for Nabby, who had spent the summer with Mrs. Warren and returned with better prospects of learning before
she turned nine. But a few days later, Nabby soured on learning when her six-year-old brother, Johnny, mastered her primer
and was hungry for more.
“Your papa says you’re a prodigy,” I told our oldest son, who was now wearing britches and looked quite the young gentleman.
Meanwhile, Nabby lingered by the window where it seemed that crowds were again swelling in the streets. “What’s happening,
Mama?”
“No doubt a protest is gathering about the tea,” I said. “A tax on the tea must be paid today or it will be confiscated and
unloaded anyway.”
I thought the crowd was likely to be in the hundreds, but I was wrong.
Thousands were heading to the Old South Meeting House.
Indeed, all manner of humanity moved together, shoulder to shoulder.
Through the window, I recognized the local barber, having closed his shop in the middle of the day to make his voice heard.
I recognized, too, Paul Revere, a prosperous silversmith, in powdered wig, a hammer dangling from his belt.
Close to him, a knot of fishwives marched in their kerchiefs.
Shipowners with jeweled walking sticks and cloaks flapping behind them confidently strode past. Next to them walked groups of Black freedmen, mostly sailors and whalers judging by their rough linen shirts, short-waisted jackets, and woolen Monmouth caps.
Mud-spattered farmers from nearby towns pushed wagons of cabbages, having been diverted from the market to protest. Millers, rope makers, tanners, and coopers marched in force.
Irish dockworkers were there, too, their hands rough and red, fists raised as they shouted, “Boston must not surrender!”
As if called, I went onto the front stoop to better witness the sight. On the street corners, printers hawked pamphlets. Enterprising
vendors sold mincemeat pies, hot johnnycakes, and roasted nuts from their carts. Children ran alongside the moving mass as
if it were a parade or a festival.
This assemblage of angry citizenry was a sight that might have once repelled my husband, but I did not think it would perturb
him now. Three years more of abuses had worn down his refrain but your methods, Samuel. We’d grown used to—and even been exhilarated by—some of the unrest.
So even though John was away for the night riding legal circuit, I did not bolt the windows or hide upstairs. Instead, I entrusted
my children into the care of servants, donned my coat, and eagerly plunged into the crowd.
I could not get close enough to the front to hear the fiery words of Sam Adams as he whipped up the audience to appeal to
the governor. But we did catch word, passed on the cold wind, that the governor had already refused. The royal governor of
Massachusetts Bay Colony would not hear the citizens of Boston. He would not allow the ships to turn back.
“You rabble can drink the tea or choke on it,” some Tory cried from a window on the street—risking his life in this crowd,
I thought. “Either way, you will pay.”
At that moment I chanced a glance in the direction of my husband’s hotheaded cousin. Seldom did Samuel Adams let himself look
defeated, but in this moment, he seemed utterly so. He shouted with a ring of true regret, “This meeting can do nothing more
to save the country.”
With angry muttering, people dispersed. But I did not think that could possibly be the end of it. And indeed it was not. For
that night, the Sons of Liberty descended upon Griffin’s Wharf with hats pulled low, hoods covering their heads, some even
adorned in Mohawk war paint to reject their British roots and pronounce themselves thoroughly American.
I knew this because word spread quickly amongst the patriot ladies of Boston that the idea had been Sarah Bradlee Fulton’s. She’d helped with the disguises and advised the men on how to conduct themselves.
My neighbor confided, “Once they stole aboard the Dartmouth and her sister ships, they dumped more than three hundred crates of tea into the harbor.”
“Three hundred crates!” I cried.
“Aye, and they took care to ensure that this act of political protest cannot be dismissed as anything else. Not a ship was
damaged; no other cargo destroyed. They even swept the decks clean of spilled tea leaves.”
Only a woman would have suggested that, I thought.
It was admirable restraint. Only the tea was destroyed. But that was enough. The damages would be . . . well, nearly incalculable.
When John finally returned, I’d attempted to work out a figure on Nabby’s chalk slate. “My God, the expense,” I told John,
a bit too gleefully. “The destruction of that much tea might be worth nearly ninety thousand pounds!”
“It’s the governor’s own fault,” John said, surprisingly gleeful himself. “If he wasn’t afflicted with such stubbornness and
greed, this tea might’ve been saved. Now the East India Company may be bankrupted. Certainly, they will be if other colonies
follow our example. And I could wish it upon them.”
How shocked I was to hear him speak of the destruction in such approving tones! “Are you no longer a champion for law and
order?”
I expected him to say that having seen the law perverted entirely for the purposes of greed, that law and order could no longer
prevail. But he was still too much a lawyer not to sidestep my question. “We were forced to a choice. Not whether we’d pay this tax, but only in what circumstances we’d pay. So it’s a matter of indifference whether it was drunk or drowned.
It may take them ten years to get us to pay, in which time we’ll save interest on the money. Whereas if we drank it, we’d
have to pay immediately. And we’d also have been drinking to the final ruin of American liberties.”