From the direction of the Town House came the sound of conch shells being blown, of whistling and stamping and shouting.
Odd . . .
The door to the Clarke home flew open. Mother appeared, eyebrows raised. “Truly, you’ll catch your death out here without your cloak. Come back inside at once, dear.” She stilled, the sound of the horns growing closer, raucous catcalls now mounting upon them.
“Do you hear that?” I whispered.
Mother’s face pinched. She grasped my arm, pulled me inside. “Come.” She walked to Father, waited patiently beside him until he directed his attention to her. Meanwhile, the sounds outside grew louder.
“Father,” I interrupted.
A look of annoyance flashed across his face before he recovered, likely for Mr. Clarke’s sake.
“John,” Mother started, “I fear a mob is brewing.”
Father and Mr. Clarke summoned Samuel and the other men present, then ordered the women to the upper chambers.
I fled toward the stairs, along with the wives and daughters in attendance. From below, the sound of the door bolt came, its echo chasing us up the stairs. The rowdiness outside rose to a deafening pitch.
“What do they want?” Mrs. Clarke sobbed into her handkerchief as she led us to an empty guest chamber.
“They’re demanding your family resign their position as consignors for the tea. They want your husband and sons to refuse the tea upon its arrival,” I said. How did she not know the circumstances her husband found himself in?
The clamor grew louder and more frantic. Surely they didn’t mean to harm anyone. I wondered if John Fulton were among the group, but I found it difficult to believe Sarah’s husband would contribute to such a fracas.
I slid toward the window, curiosity overcoming me.
“Emma, get away from there!” Mother’s voice rose on edge, but ’twas so filled with terror it appeared uncontrolled, giving me the courage to ignore it.
Outside, a crowd had gathered with tin lanterns and pine-knot torches, shaking fists.
“Listen to the Body or suffer the consequences!”
“This is our town. We won’t be daunted by the likes of you!”
“Huzzah!”
Additional “Huzzahs!” met our ears.
From another window upstairs, on the far side of the house, Samuel shouted down to the crowd. “You rascals, be gone or I’ll blow your brains out!”
“He can’t mean it,” I whispered. Though I understood the fear which would make him say such words. And Father . . . he must be near insane with rage to be locked up in the Clarke home, at the mercy of a mob . . . for once, not in control.
Was a bloody fracas to start this very night, in this very home?
The crowd called back hisses and shouts at Samuel.
The fire of a pistol shattered the frozen night air.
The women behind me screamed, the gun’s explosion echoing down School Street and all the way to the harbor. Though the mob grew silent, they certainly wouldn’t take kindly to the shot. I sank back from the window, fearful to look down and see an injured person.
“Dear Father in heaven.” Catherine Clarke whispered a quiet prayer, the scent of gunpowder finding its way to us.
Banging started then. Catsticks on the black iron hitches in front of the Clarke home. Then the shatter of glass and the sound of wood splitting. I crept closer to the window to see men throwing stones and brickbats at the first-floor windows of the house.
I clamped my hand over my mouth, wondered what was to become of us. Would they burn the house to the ground? Drag Father and the Clarkes away to be tarred and feathered? They seemed to grow mad, insensible. What might they do to the women in the house?
For once, I wished I were a man. Each day I hated this helpless feeling more and more. In Father’s circles—in most of the world—women were to remain quiet and keep their noses out of politics. Yet here, now, we were in the thick of it, and without one opinion or claim to call our own.
From down the street I glimpsed the bob of torches. As they neared, my heart beat out a thrumming as fast as the cycle of a spinning wheel.
Noah. And John.
They did not know of my presence. Would I see them contribute to this tumult? I’d respected them, thought them beyond such measures, but truly, how well did I know either one? I’d heard that men often acted differently when outside the home, some of the less honorable visiting local brothels. I’d heard rumors of Samuel doing so, had wondered how I could reconcile marriage to such a faithless man.
But Noah and John? Join the fomented rabble below? To fight for a cause was one matter. But with such unruliness?
A voice rose above the crowd. John’s. “Men, stop this madness.” I exhaled my relief, pressed my forehead against the cold pane of the window.
A few of the men elbowed one another, quieted, nodded toward John. “Let us not indulge in violence, but act in honor at all times. Surely an agreement can be reached.”
A man from the crowd waved a catstick. “I’ve an agreement for ya. We shall disperse if the Clarkes choose to stop aligning themselves against their country and promise to appear at our town meeting scheduled tomorrow aft. Either that, or agree to reship the tea this minute.”
The crowd stomped their feet, yelled hearty assent.
Samuel laughed loudly, still from the second-story window. “Fie! We shall not acknowledge illegal and underhanded meetings beneath trees! Especially not those with men of low rank, who choose to ruin honest men’s personal property and throw our women in distress.”
The crowd grew fierce at Samuel’s words. I near cursed him in my head for stirring them up again when John had attempted to dispel their vigor.
A shrill whistle pierced the night air, and Noah climbed atop the Clarkes’ carriage step. “Men of Boston! I beg of you, listen to reason! Is this the way to come to a solution? Out on a winter’s night, yelling at one another, terrorizing the ladies in the house?” My heart blossomed tenfold for him in that moment. I knew his beliefs, but here he stood for what was moral and right. Though unaware of my presence, he defended the ladies within. He defended Father, who had belittled and embarrassed and cursed him just days earlier. “Let us not forget ourselves in this dispute. Let us not be accused of using violence to obtain that which is honorable and right. Let us not reduce ourselves to indecorum. Instead, let us conduct ourselves with poise and grace as we demand our God-given rights as people who should have a voice within our government!”
Some cheered his words, shouting, “Huzzah,” stomping their feet as a sort of applause. Yet some in the crowd turned away, mumbling, likely not impressed with Noah’s speech and the impasse it brought on the entire gathering.
Nevertheless, the crowd did disperse. Father and the Clarke men came from the house to clean the shattered glass left on the walkway. Noah and John stooped to help, and when I realized they would stay and aid the Clarkes, I pushed through Mother and Mrs. Clarke to descend the stairs.
I would not be welcome outside with the men, but I made busy cleaning the glass inside the parlor, staring intently until Noah straightened from his work and caught my gaze. His mouth parted in surprise, and hiding myself partly behind the drapes, I raised my hand in greeting and gratitude.
He dipped his head, the tug of a half smile upon his face as he stared at me. I hadn’t seen him since the night he escorted me home. I suspected he avoided the Fultons, not wishing to garner more trouble for me by way of my father.
Yet, to see him now . . . something bold and new burst within my heart.
What Noah took part in, what he thought worthy to fight for, who he was—titled gentleman or not—was noble. The thought made me feel at home, secure. Quite of a sudden, I longed to be a part of it.
“You there!”
Noah snapped to attention at Samuel’s words.
“Do you dare ogle my intended through my father’s broken windows? Off with you, now, you hear? We needn’t any more aid from the
likes of you.”
I despised Samuel’s haughty tone, the very voice of the man I was to wed.
And as Noah dipped his head again to me and then to Samuel beneath Father’s glare, I knew without a doubt whose side I longed to be on.
Nay, it might not be moral for the mobs to attack the Clarke house, but neither was it moral for those of a certain station to snub their noses at others as if they were plebeians, riffraff, and blackguards. Especially the likes of Noah, who had curtailed the fury of the mob with his timely words and peaceful presence.
For the first time, I saw clearly why Sarah, John, Noah, and the Liberty Boys fought so adamantly for that which was not yet theirs.
They were in a sort of prison. One where the gaolers told them they mattered less than their fellow humans. One where they were denied a voice.
One where they and their families were forced to endure circumstances they didn’t have a decision in, forced to bow to the whims of the so-called gentlemen of the town. Men like Samuel. Men like my father.
Watching Noah’s torch bob away in the inky night, I vowed not to stand on fence posts any longer. I vowed to do what I could for the decent folk of the town—unlike me perhaps, but worthy people nonetheless. I would follow Noah’s example and stand as a light for that which was noble and right.
Samuel entered the house again, disgust on his face at the broken glass near my slippers. “Your father tells me that ruffian takes an interest in you. We’ve decided it best you no longer visit the South End, Emma. Now that I am home, there is no need, and you have a wedding to plan and a trip across the sea to prepare yourself for. Is that clear?”
I pressed my lips together, breathed through my nose, the fierceness of a fairy-tale dragon longing to break free. Yet I must plan my steps with care and wisdom. Succumbing to feisty feelings would not do, not if I were to truly take charge of the design formulating in my mind.
“Emma. Is that clear?”
I raised my chin to Samuel, for the first time thankful that I would not be his wife in the end.
“Aye, Samuel. You are indeed very clear.”
If I could grasp this newfound courage, refuse to release it to weakness, refuse to doubt whether or not I owed my parents my loyalty, then mayhap I would find my voice after all.
CHAPTER FIVE
Emma
This tea now coming to us [is] more to be dreaded than plague or pestilence.
SAMUEL ADAMS
DECEMBER 14, 1773
I held the forbidden newspaper to the light of the candle flame beside my bed and pressed my feet nearer to the warming pan beneath my covers. While Father preferred the Chronicle with its funding from the customs office and its English cartoonist’s replications featuring the colonials as inferior Indians, I had been voraciously reading both the Chronicle and the Gazette, trying to come to a decision of my own regarding politics.
In the Gazette, I read a letter from Philadelphia, posted earlier in the month. “Our Tea Consignees have all resign’d, and you need not fear; the Tea will not be landed here or at New-York. All that we fear is that you will shrink at Boston.”
I put the paper on my lap, leaned back against the headboard. The Sons were not only being pressed by those within the town; they were being pressed by Philadelphia and New York.
Three ships bobbed heavy with tea at Griffin’s Wharf. The Sons of Liberty had swayed most of the town to their side, and now the time for the tea to be unloaded and the taxes paid by the people of Boston loomed before us, just days away. The soldiers at Fort William had loaded their muskets and charged their cannons to prevent the Dartmouth or any other ship from leaving the harbor, and it seemed the town was at a standstill, holding its collective breath, waiting to see the fate of the tea.
As for me, Father had sent the Fultons a letter after the riot at the Clarke house, stating I would no longer be aiding them in the care of their children. I no doubt disappointed Sarah, and as each day passed, I waited for a letter from her, assuring me this was not the case.
But no letter came. Yet that didn’t mean one had not been sent. In our household, Father controlled the post as well.
I slid from my feather mattress, crept to the window, where a sliver of moon lit the night sky. A breath trembled up my lungs. For days—and nights—I’d been attempting to summon up the courage to do what I’d vowed I must the night the mob came to the Clarke house. And night upon night, I looked out my window onto the cold streets below, Mill Creek just beyond, and allowed fear to swallow up my courage.
Who was I without my parents? Who was I to think I could live apart from them? Such thoughts were highly irregular. What if I could not find a place with the Fultons? Father would never forgive such a betrayal. No doubt he would lock me away, humiliate me, and then marry me off to Samuel.
And yet still, the time drew nearer when the entire town might explode. Father already spoke of sending us away from “all these rebels.” If I didn’t act soon, it might be too late. Would I never again see little Mary, nor Sarah and the rest of the children again? Would I never see Noah?
Yet if I took action, if I carried out my plan, what of Mother and Margaret? And Father . . . Though we were at odds and I had never, sadly, felt a genuine love from him, he was still my father. To imagine cutting myself off from them forever seemed as absurd as cutting off one of my hands.
I thought of the book Noah had given me. I had devoured it. In it I saw how uncertain all of life is, how the Lord continues to show mercy through trials, and how He longs to free us from spiritual—and perhaps many times, physical—bondage.
I thought of how I had become much a prisoner in my own home, held captive not by a native tribe, but by Father. And this being only temporary, until I was to be chained to another gaoler—a husband.
I thought of Uncle Daniel and his legacy. A true son of Liberty . . . an Enemy to oppression.
There would be no rescuer. This was the time to act with boldness and courage, to find my voice, to grasp and lunge for the future I would have for myself.
Suppressing every last harrowing doubt, I stripped the bolster pillow free of its slip and shoved in underpinnings, two dresses, a comb Mother had given me when I was but ten, a few personal items, and finally, Sarah’s cup and the book Noah had gifted me a fortnight earlier.
Energy rushed to my limbs and I fought off a dizzying sensation as I acted upon my thoughts. I donned my most inconspicuous traveling dress with front-lacing stays and sat upon my bed, the embers from the chamber hearth growing dim, the slip of my pillow filled and in my lap. A note to my family lay upon the chest of drawers in my room, the latest copy of the Boston Gazette boldly beside it. I clutched my possessions tight to me, strained my ears for the sound of Chloe cleaning downstairs.
As the night wore on, as I became certain that all were in deep slumber, I thought to act quickly before I could scare myself with more doubts. I donned my warmest cloak and grasped my bag with clammy fingers. In my other hand, I held a candle. As I passed Mother and Father’s chambers, my heart reached a pace so frantic I thought it would surely wake my parents from a sound sleep. And how would I explain my dress, my pillow slip with only my most cherished possessions? I imagined Father’s stern stare and what would come if I were to be found out.
Despite the coolness of the hall, a trickle of sweat ran down the middle of my chest, wetting my stays. When I reached the stairs, I had a terrible urge to run, to never, ever look back again. Yet I held myself at a slow gait, stopped at the creak of one step, a rushing sound loud in my ears.
The feeling passed as no one stirred from their dreams. I continued with wobbly steps until I reached the entrance. I looked back toward the stairs, remembering the greenery Mother sometimes wrapped around the railings in cold winter months. Once, I’d caught Father singing a merry tune as he came down the stairs, thinking himself alone in the house.
I imagined them waking, finding me gone, finding my note. Would Father search for me and, if I were discov
ered, demand I obey him? Or would he wipe his hands of me altogether? Would Mother mourn her younger daughter, or would she mourn her chance at a connection to the profitable Clarke family more?
The fact that I truly didn’t have an answer to that last question, no matter how intently I searched my heart, prodded me to unbolt the door with shaking fingers, open it just wide enough to slip into the dark, cold folds of the night air, and shut it quietly behind me.
I inhaled a quivering breath and stared at the closed door, its wood splintered and worn from the weather. I had doubts, but nothing—nothing—was worth going back up those stairs and putting myself at risk of being caught. I scurried toward Mill Creek bridge, the flame of my candle out with the first breeze. The scent of smoky beeswax lingered for only a moment.
When I reached Mill Creek, I glanced back up Middle Street. No one followed, and as I glimpsed my house—my parents’ home—through the tight confines of other dwellings, I felt an unexpected sorrow. Not so much over leaving perhaps, but a sorrow for what I wished we’d been.
And what now we would never have a chance to be.
I’d never been out so late, and without an escort. The streets were empty of chimney sweeps and apprentices, of oystermen and ladies and gentlemen in their fine frippery. All lay quiet. I kept my head down, my steps quick. When I passed the dim lights of the Royal Exchange tavern, a drunken man with a tricorne hat and a cane stepped forward.
“What’s a nice lass like you doing out so late?” His words slurred, and I walked faster. “Come back, wench!”
I broke into a run until I passed Old South and was certain he no longer followed. My breathing returned to normal and I walked the rest of the way without incident, save for a small stumble on a protruding cobble.
The wind sent a gust up from the sea, and when I saw the Fulton house, with the glow of candles bright among other dark houses, I near sobbed with relief.
I rapped on the door, was surprised how long it took for John to open it.
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