Stephen shook his head. “I came straight from school. Lydia’s going to be really mad, too. I didn’t wait for her.”
“Come on. I’ll walk you over to the print shop, and we’ll make sure everything is all right.”
Stephen was right. Lydia was annoyed that Stephen had left her to walk alone. But his father was simply relieved that Stephen was safe. His older sister Kathleen was there too, working on typesetting some flyers.
“Where is William?” Stephen asked.
“With the Sons of Liberty, of course,” Lydia said. “Where would you expect him to be on a day like this?”
“What about the papers? Is he coming to deliver them?”
Papa shrugged. “If he does not get here in a few minutes, you and Lydia will have to do it again.”
Lydia moaned.
The print shop door opened, and in came William. “Just in time!” Lydia said gleefully.
“We’ve done it!” William announced. “We have beaten the British.”
“William!” Uncle Cuyler said harshly. “Another man died today. I hardly think that is cause for rejoicing.”
“No, of course not.” William sobered for a moment. “I’m as sorry about Patrick Carr as you are, Uncle Cuyler. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
With puzzled eyes, everyone looked at William.
“The troops are being withdrawn,” William announced.
“The troops are being withdrawn?” his father echoed.
“Yippee!” shouted Lydia. She threw a stack of flyers into the air.
Stephen glanced at Uncle Cuyler for his response. “When?” Uncle Cuyler asked quietly.
“Immediately.” The sound of victory in William’s voice was unmistakable. “This is the beginning of the end of British oppression.”
Kathleen leaned across the counter. “How do you know the troops won’t be back when Boston has quieted down?” she asked.
William shrugged carelessly. “We won’t let them back this time. We are much more organized than we were two years ago when they first arrived in such numbers. Sam Adams has a wide following—and not just in the Sons of Liberty. We simply would not allow them to row ashore.”
“Britain has a much larger army than Boston can muster,” Uncle Cuyler said.
“But don’t you see, Uncle Cuyler? It’s not just Boston. It’s all the colonies. Ever since the Stamp Act, leaders in all the colonies have been thinking alike. The British are only beginning to realize what they are up against.”
“The British Parliament is a powerful institution, William. It will not be as easy as you think.”
“The Patriots are quite serious, Uncle Cuyler. Do not take us lightly.”
Kathleen turned back to her typesetting. Papa took the rag from William and continued wiping off the press.
“I’d better get back to the clinic,” Uncle Cuyler said. He stepped toward the door.
“I’ll get the cart loaded,” William mumbled. “Then I have to leave.”
Stephen watched as everyone turned back to the work that gave structure to their days in times of great change.
Was William right? Was this really the beginning of the end?
CHAPTER 10
Family Feud
Captain Preston and the other twelve men accused of crimes were jailed.
Stephen had seen the inside of the jail once. What he remembered most about it were the strong walls. There was one tiny window high in the wall with bars across the glass. A bundle of straw served as the bed. The heavy wooden door had a slot in it, through which the prisoner received his food. If the prisoner had any energy for resisting imprisonment, he was put in iron chains. Jail was a dismal place.
Stephen thought of Thomas Preston, captain in the king’s army, wearing his fine red coat. Thinking of a man like that sitting in a dark cell on a damp pile of straw was an ugly picture. Whenever it came into Stephen’s mind, he blinked his eyes until it went away.
Despite the ugliness of prison, Uncle Cuyler thought it was the safest place for the accused men to be. Many people in Boston were ready to take the law into their own hands and hang the men at the first chance they got. If the men were walking around free, their lives would be in danger, and a jury would never get the chance to decide their guilt or innocence. If justice was to be served, Uncle Cuyler kept saying, the men should stay in prison until their innocence was proven. Even then it might not be safe for them to walk the streets.
Boston thrived under the management of Sam Adams and the Sons of Liberty. The thousands of British troops were gone, and Boston felt freer than it had for years. Technically, the governor and officials appointed by Parliament were in charge, but anyone who lived in Boston knew that it was the Sons of Liberty who were running the city.
More and more often, William recruited Stephen and Lydia to deliver papers because he had other things to do—things that he felt were of utmost importance. With the soldiers gone, Bostonians were left to quarrel among themselves. It was becoming more and more difficult to remain neutral on political questions. To be a Loyalist meant to support the king and Parliament and accept their right to govern the colonies any way they saw fit. On the other hand, to be a Patriot meant to detest anything British and do everything possible to throw out the British. There was very little ground in between the two extremes.
William and Uncle Cuyler had learned to hold their tongues with each other—most of the time. Uncle Ethan just shook his head at the path his younger brother had chosen. Stephen hated to see squabbling in the family.
The trials of the accused men did not happen as quickly as everyone expected. The judge who was to preside over the case became ill, and Preston and the others needed time to find lawyers who were willing to defend them. Spring stretched into early summer as the men languished in their cells and all of Boston waited for justice.
Stephen was enjoying a new sense of freedom. School was not in session in June, and the troops were gone. He could walk from home to the print shop or Uncle Cuyler’s clinic whenever he wanted.
When he arrived at the print shop one afternoon in late June, Stephen’s heart sank. As soon as he pushed open the door, he could hear William’s raised voice. His whole family was there. Kathleen had come in to work on a typesetting project, Lydia had been tagging along after William every chance she got, and Mama had just brought a basket of lunch. When Stephen arrived, the Lankford family was all in one place—but not exactly enjoying one another’s company.
“Papa, you cannot possibly print this!” William was red-faced and serious.
“I have an obligation to my readers.” Papa dampened the paper in the press, preparing to print on it.
“Have you no sense of patriotism, Papa?” William had lowered his voice, but he had not changed his tone.
Richard Lankford glared at his oldest son until William shamefully turned his eyes to the floor.
Stephen had no idea what they were talking about, but it must have been very serious to make William speak to his father in such a tone. Circling around the edge of the room, Stephen decided he would ask Kathleen what the argument was about.
“If you feel this work is beyond your conscience, you may be excused for the afternoon,” Papa said. He straightened the paper in the tray. “I am not a member of the Sons of Liberty. Sam Adams has not earned my undivided, unthinking loyalty.”
“My loyalty is not unthinking,” William retorted. “My loyalty to Sam comes from a deep conviction that he is the leader who will bring fairness and freedom to the colonies. I am honored to be associated with him.”
Stephen reached Kathleen and tugged on her sleeve. “What are they fighting about?” he asked quietly.
Kathleen set down a tray of letters and sighed. “Captain Preston wrote a letter to the king. Papa wants to print it, and William does not think he should.”
“Why not?”
“Because Captain Preston is defending himself in the letter.”
“If he didn’t think he did
anything wrong, why shouldn’t he defend himself?”
“William thinks Captain Preston went too far. In the letter, he did not just defend himself. He almost came right out and accused several men of starting a fight with the sentry that night on purpose. William does not want Papa to print that part of the letter.”
“Captain Preston really does think somebody planned the massacre?”
“Not exactly. Captain Preston believes that there was a group of men determined to break into the Customs House and steal money.”
“The Customs House is where they put the money for the king.”
“Right,” Kathleen said. “Captain Preston said the men wanted to take that money back. If they would have to kill the sentry on duty to get into the building, then they were willing to do that.”
“Ow!” Stephen wheeled around to see that Lydia had snuck up on him and poked him in the back. “Stop that, Lydia.”
“Oh, don’t be such a baby.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“Maybe not, but you’re a Loyalist, aren’t you?”
“Don’t be silly,” Kathleen said. “Stephen is far too young to get involved on either side of a political question—as are you.”
Lydia stamped her foot. “I’m old enough to think for myself, and I agree with William. Papa should not let the paper be used to defend Captain Preston’s outrageous order to fire on an innocent crowd.”
“It’s Papa’s job as owner of the newspaper to keep people informed. This is news. Everyone will be interested in the letter whether they agree with it or not.”
Stephen nodded his emphatic agreement with what Kathleen had said. Lydia rolled her eyes.
At the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, they turned their attention back to William and their father. William sat heavily in the wooden chair.
“If you have any respect for me at all, you will not print that letter,” William said.
“William, you will gain nothing by putting me in a difficult position. Your mother and I have raised you well. You know what you believe, and you have the courage to act on your convictions. You must allow me to do the same.” Papa raised his eyes to Kathleen. “We don’t have time for a rest, Kathleen. Keep working on the type.”
Kathleen’s hands flew into action again. Stephen could see the letter she was copying from. It had already been printed in the newspapers in England and read by the king and the members of Parliament. Only recently had a ship brought a copy of it back across the ocean to the city where the letter had been written weeks ago.
William was silent. Papa continued preparing the press. Stephen held his breath, waiting to see what William would say next. At last William spoke.
“At least let Sam Adams write a companion article. He spoke to Preston and challenged the contents of the letter. Preston did not deny that someone may have tampered with his words.”
“There is no time for that today. We must begin printing in the next few minutes.”
“Please, take time for a bit of lunch.” Mama had spread a cloth across the counter and laid out bread, cheese, and coffee.
“What about tomorrow?” William pressed his father further, without responding to the invitation to lunch. “We could print Sam’s article tomorrow. Give him a chance to get to the truth behind Preston’s accusations.”
Papa paused to consider William’s proposal. “The article must be on my desk first thing in the morning.”
“That is fair.”
“And I reserve the right to approve it before we print.”
“I understand.”
“So be it.” Papa turned to Kathleen. “Is the first page of type almost ready?”
“Yes, Papa, just a few more words.”
“Richard, please, eat some lunch.” Mama gestured again to the lunch. “Children, come and eat. There is plenty for all of you.”
William stood up, walked over to his mother, and kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry, Mama. The lunch looks lovely. But I have no time to eat it now.”
“Will you be home for supper?”
“I’m not sure. Don’t wait for me.”
“Can I come with you?” Lydia linked her arm through William’s.
Mama threw a sharp look at Lydia. “You know the answer to that.”
William released his arm from Lydia’s hold. “We’ll talk about all this later.”
William left then, and Lydia scowled. Papa and Kathleen went back to work. Stephen watched his mother nibble at a piece of bread. Her face was drawn and her shoulders rigid.
Stephen stepped up to the counter. “I would like some lunch, Mama.”
Mama smiled through her strain at her youngest child. “Have as much as you like, Stephen. It appears that I brought more than we need.” She glanced hopefully at her husband. He glanced back, but he made no move to come and eat.
“Lydia, come and eat,” Mama said.
Lydia had her face pressed against the window in the front of the shop, watching William disappear from sight.
“He went to the Liberty Tree,” she said. “I just know that’s where he went.”
“Pay no mind to William’s whereabouts,” Mama said. “Come and eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You must eat properly, or you’ll fall ill.”
“I’m not hungry!” Lydia insisted, not moving from the window.
“Do as your mother says,” Papa commanded. But he did not stop working.
Dragging her feet noisily, Lydia crossed over to the counter and picked up a piece of cheese. “Kathleen,” she said, “William told me that when you were my age you actually wanted to help a British soldier.”
Stephen stopped chewing and looked up at Kathleen. A wave of pain crossed her face before she answered. He forced the lump in his throat down. Kathleen spoke calmly, but her voice quivered ever so slightly.
“That’s right, Lydia. I did. He was hungry and cold. He had been shot during a Stamp Act riot. I helped Uncle Cuyler nurse him back to health. I’m only sorry that I could not have done more for him.”
“But he was a British soldier!” Lydia protested with disgust.
“He was a human being,” Kathleen said simply. “He died a few months later. He was only sixteen.” She turned away to put the last letter of type in place.
“You and Stephen are just alike.” Lydia tossed her unmanageable hair over her shoulder and picked up a piece of cheese. “You sympathize with the British so much that you are almost lobsterbacks yourselves. It’s because you spend too much time with Uncle Cuyler.”
“Lydia, hold your tongue!” Papa’s voice meant what he said.
Stephen threw down a half-eaten piece of bread and wheeled around at Lydia.
“And you are too much like William!” he shouted. “Nothing matters to you except the Patriot cause.”
“It is the most important thing!” Lydia retorted.
“What about truth?” Stephen challenged. “Doesn’t that matter?”
Stephen ran to the door and yanked it open. Both his parents were calling to him, but he ignored them and ran out into the street. He had to get away from Lydia.
CHAPTER 11
Escape
Stephen tumbled out into the street, hardly able to see through the tears welling up in his eyes. He heard the print shop door open behind him and his mother’s voice pleading for him to come back. But he did not want to face her just then. He did not want to see the lines in her face that deepened with every political quarrel that erupted in the family.
It was bad enough that her two brothers, Uncle Ethan and Uncle Cuyler, held opposing views. And even though Papa and William agreed on many things, they quarreled about the best way to bring change to the colonies. Lydia never missed a chance to side with William, no matter whose feelings she hurt. Stephen was tired of it all. So he kept running.
He kicked at the cobblestones with his boot. All he accomplished was to hurt his toe. With the back of his hand, he wiped the tears from his eyes.
He was hurt by the spiteful way Lydia spoke to him. But even more than that, he was angry at himself for letting her upset him.
His feet took him where they most naturally wanted to go—across the town square to Uncle Cuyler’s medical clinic. Whenever he needed refuge, he went to the clinic. The building itself, with its warm wood tones, comforted him. The clinic was a place where anyone could come for help, Patriot or Loyalist. Uncle Cuyler had worked hard to make sure the clinic was neutral territory, no matter what his own political opinions were.
And if his uncle was there, Stephen knew that he could stay as long as he liked. He only had to stay out of the way while Uncle Cuyler was with a patient. Sometimes Anna was there, too. Anna had told him she would be there all that morning. It was barely lunchtime. Stephen hoped she would still be there.
As he rounded the last corner, Stephen forced himself to slow down and catch his breath. He made sure his cheeks were dry of tears. Anna and Uncle Cuyler were sitting on a bench in front of the clinic munching on lunch. Uncle Cuyler was leaning back comfortably with his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Anna swung her short legs in the wide space beneath the bench. They looked content to be together.
Stephen smiled weakly at them.
“Do you feel all right, Stephen?” Uncle Cuyler asked. “You look a little red in the face.”
“I’m all right,” Stephen said. “I’ve just been running—that’s all.” He hoped that they would not be able to tell he had been crying—almost.
“What is the hurry?” Anna asked.
Stephen shrugged. How could he explain the scene that had driven him from the print shop?
“Have you had lunch?” Uncle Cuyler asked. He offered Stephen a piece of dried meat.
Stephen thought of the half-eaten chunk of bread he had left on his father’s counter. He felt guilty about running out on his mother’s lunch. She would ask him later if he had eaten anything.
Stephen accepted the meat. “Thanks,” he said. With the knot in his stomach, he did not know if there would be any space for food.
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