The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles (46 page)

Philip hadn’t seen the craftsman of North Square in a month or more. Tonight Revere’s dark eyes snapped, alert. His color looked excellent again. Philip reminded himself to remark on the happy reason for the change, if he had the chance.

At the moment Edes was leading him to a polished walnut table in the center of the room. On it were piled a good dozen axes and hatchets. The printer chose one, pressed it into Philip’s hand.

“Tonight, my boy, you’ll be a noble savage.” Edes’ smile faded. “Don’t be surprised if you’re required to use this on something other than tea.”

Hefting the weapon, Philip frowned. “Trouble coming?”

“Not sure. The district near the wharf is crawling with tommies. And everyone’s lost track of that damn admiral—he may have got wind of this and be readying his guns. But Samuel won’t call it off for a piddling reason like that.”

Possible bombardment by English sea gunners hardly seemed to deserve the description “piddling.” Philip said nothing, however. Edes pointed to a heap of frowsy clothing in the corner.

“Find some costume that suits you. Once we leave Old South, we’ll add lampblacking or the ochre to our faces and—lo!—law-abiding townsmen turn into wild Mohawks.”

Philip picked up a blanket and cocked an eyebrow as a flea hopped to the back of his sweating hand, then hopped off again.

“Why all this mummery, Mr. Edes? I mean, these outfits will hardly fool anyone—”

“No, but they just might keep you from being recognized if the troops move in and there’s a fracas.”

Paul Revere walked up, saying, “Some disguises will be more complete than others, Mr. Kent.” As Edes moved off and Philip slung the blanket around his shoulders, the silversmith went on, “Look sharp and you may notice gentleman’s lace at a cuff or two. Some who support our cause can’t afford to risk discovery just yet. But they’ll make good Indians nonetheless. And on top of what Ben said, these rags can be shed quickly if we’ve got to run for it. But come, nothing’s happened yet! Let’s celebrate while we have a chance.”

Smiling Revere signaled one of the young mechanics, who handed them both cups of rum punch. By now Philip could definitely detect the falseness of the glee turning the room noisy. The bogus Indians were pretending the evening was to be nothing more than a grand party. But it could turn out to be something entirely different.

With the wicked-bladed axe thrust into his belt, he definitely felt like a lawbreaker. He thought glumly of the English men-o’-war riding at anchor. Surely the admiral in command wouldn’t be so thick-witted as to order the guns trained on the town. Surely not. But accidents could happen. Tempers could snap—

Trying to forget his tension, Philip hoisted his cup in salute:

“Mr. Revere, I haven’t seen you to congratulate you on the happy event in October.”

“Why, my thanks, Mr. Kent. A widower with a flock of children can’t run a business and a household. Fortune smiled when she directed Miss Rachel Walker my way.”

The said Miss Walker, only twenty-seven, had become Revere’s second wife less than sixty days earlier. She was not supposed to be a great beauty. But she was called kindly, intelligent, capable. And Edes said that Revere became his old self during the short courtship.

“I was distressed to hear of the death of your youngest child, though,” Philip added.

“Your sympathy’s appreciated. Poor little Isanna—she wasn’t meant to live. But a man can’t mourn forever. I’ve turned my back on past sadness and I take delight in my new and happy state.”

“Ben Edes told me you’d made up a clever riddle about the new Mrs. Revere—”

“About her name,” the other nodded. “ ‘Take three-fourths of a pain that makes traitors confess—’ ”

Helping himself to a second cup of punch, Philip said, “That’d be ‘rack,’ I guess. And three-fourths? R-a-c?”

“With three parts of a place which the wicked don’t bless—”

“H-e-l from ‘hell’—that makes Rachel—”

“Time to leave!” Ben Edes yelled. “Time, gentlemen!”

Philip and Revere tossed down the rest of their punch, the latter saying, “The next two couplets give the name ‘Walker,’ and the last two are sheer romantic compliment. But she deserves ’em. So I’ll accept an earnest wish that we all live long enough for me to enjoy my first anniversary.”

“Gladly given,” Philip grinned. “And many more.”

His head hummed from the punch. His earlier fear was gone. When he hurried with Edes, Revere and the others down Marlborough Street shortly before five-thirty—no man making the slightest attempt to conceal the disguise he carried—thanks to the liberating effects of the punch, Philip shared the holiday mood. Under a just-showing sickle of moon, he laughed when loungers in doorways applauded and feigned shrieks of terror:

“ ’Fore God, it’s a Mohawk rising! Look at them tommyhawks shine!”

By the time they neared the corner of Marlborough and Milk streets, darkness was nearly complete. The intersecting streets were packed wall to wall, a larger crowd than Philip had ever seen at one time in Boston. More cheering, more yells of encouragement welcomed Edes and his followers as they shoved their way toward the doors of Old South.

But the Crowd whistling and applauding outside was as nothing compared to the huge throng jamming the interior of the church.

Every pew and gallery was filled. Every inch of aisle space was occupied by standees. Edes and his group managed to squeeze into standing room at the very rear. Overhead, the church’s chandelier candles flickered.

Philip scanned the restless audience. A man near Edes was whispering, “—oratory’s been plenty hot so far. Adams and Quincy and Dr. Warren kept the crowd fired for two hours. But now they’re impatient. Already been several motions for adjournment—”

From the pulpit, a man someone identified to Philip as a Mr. Samuel Savage was just gaveling down another such motion:

“I repeat—Captain Rotch has been sent on his way to His Excellency’s home in Milton, and there is no reason to doubt the captain’s good faith. Besides, our several towns are very anxious to have full information as to this matter, and are desirous that the meeting should be continued until Rotch returns.”

Grumbles and catcalls greeted the statement. Philip’s eyes kept ranging over the faces in the high galleries. Suddenly, he recognized two of them. Lawyer Ware and, beside him, Anne.

She was staring at him. He couldn’t clearly read her expression. It seemed admiring, yet sorrowful. Perhaps the admiration was to acknowledge his presence, the other emotion more personal—

Another flea crawled down his collar. He scratched, then acknowledged Anne’s look with a nod, a tentative smile. She nodded ever so slightly in return.

Studying her fair, bonneted face high up in the crowded rows, he felt a tug of emotion. He wished he could speak to her—

Abruptly, there was commotion at the side doors. A cry went up:

“Rotch is returning! Open the way!”

Everyone began talking at once. Savage hammered them to silence as a pale man in sodden, mud-stained clothing struggled through to a point just below Old South’s pulpit. In one of the rows near the front, Philip recognized the back of Sam Adams’ unmistakably trembling head. Adams was half-risen in his pew, straining forward to listen.

Revere whispered, “I see you’ve spotted Sam. He’ll give the signal if we’re to go.”

“Yes, Mr. Edes told me,” Philip nodded.

Hammer-hammer-hammer.
Finally, the immense crowd quieted.

“Captain Rotch,” Savage said to the exhausted-looking man, “have you called upon the Governor?”

For an answer, Rotch gave a tired nod.

“And what is his disposition of the matter?”

The hush was complete. Across the packed pews, Philip heard the master of
Dartmouth
reply, “The same His Excellency indicated several days ago. He is willing to grant anything consistent with the laws and his duty to the King. But he repeated that he cannot give me a pass to sail from the harbor unless my vessel is properly qualified from the Customs House—with the duty paid.”

Shouts of
“No, no!
” rang from scattered points in the church. Again Savage banged his gavel for silence.

“In that event,” Rotch continued wearily, “I would be free to accede to—to public opinion, and carry the cargo back to England.”

“In other words,” Savage said, “you are not presently free to sail from the harbor?”

“That is correct.”

“But it is the will of the citizens that the tea be returned. Unless you weigh anchor tonight, your vessel is liable to seizure. Therefore, sir, you must sail.”

“I cannot possibly do so,” Rotch said with a shake of his head. “It would prove my ruin.”

From the west gallery, a raucous voice boomed, “Then let’s find out how well tea mingles with salt water!”

Yells of assent, clapping, boot-stamping followed the cry. Philip glanced at Anne again, saw her shining face turned toward the pulpit. She and her father looked pleased—as did almost everyone else present.

Savage’s gavel thwacked again, and still again, to quiet the clamor as Sam Adams rose from his pew.

Savage recognized him. The crowd quieted once more. The familiar, quavering tones carried clearly in the silence:

“I would remind the audience that Captain Rotch is a good man. He has done all that he could to satisfy the wishes of the citizenry—”

Adams turned a little, partially facing the rear of the church. Revere seemed to be standing almost on tiptoes. Ben Edes looked flushed. Adams’ slate-blue eyes glittered with reflections from the smoking chandeliers as he continued:

“No matter what transpires from this hour forward, let it be remembered that no one should attempt to harm the captain, or his property.”

Mopping his face with a kerchief, Rotch glanced up, frowned in genuine alarm.

Adams seemed to grow a bit taller, turning more directly toward the back of the hall as he said, “But this meeting can do nothing more to save the country.”

Then he lifted his right hand to his waist, and moved it outward in a gesture of resignation.

Philip caught his breath. That must be the signal. The roar from the throat of Ben Edes confirmed it:

“Boston Harbor! We’ll brew some harbor tea!”

Men and women surged up from their seats, roaring in approval. Captain Rotch cried,
“Wait
—
!”
The rest was lost in the tumult.

Revere spun Philip by his shoulder, thrust him in the direction of the doors, as several of the young men around Edes began to utter wild warwhoops. Philip draped the blanket over his shoulders, fastened it with a pin, pulled on a stocking cap he’d tucked into his pocket. Above the shouts and thud of feet in the aisles, he heard the gavel hammering again, a voice exclaiming, “—
meeting is dissolved.”

Pushed and pummeled, Philip finally reached the outer steps. Under the thin moon, a cold north wind whipped across the rooftops. But it couldn’t chill the enthusiasm of the hundreds—perhaps thousands—now gathered in the streets.

“A mob, a mob!” they howled. “Boston Harbor a teapot tonight!”

And over the words shrilled the whooping of the bogus Indians, busy donning their ragged coats and blankets, thrusting turkey and goose feathers in their hair, daubing each other’s faces with lampblack or ochre from hastily opened belt pouches.

Revere decorated Philip’s cheeks with several quick streaks of blacking, then passed the pouch in order that Philip could do the same for him.

“Are we proper Mohawks?” the silversmith wanted to know when Philip was finished.

Philip nodded, nearly losing his balance as the mob crowding outward from Old South shoved relentlessly. Off to the right, he heard Ben Edes calling to his group. He started in that direction as Revere yelled behind him, “Then follow Ben to Griffin’s Wharf!”

Just as Revere shouted, Old South’s bell began to toll the hour of six.

Whooping, Edes’ Indians struggled to rally at the head of Milk Street. It was an indication to Philip of how much secret preparation had been made when the crowd opened with fair speed and order to let the crudely disguised men through, then immediately closed in again and began to troop along behind.

As Edes and his followers started for the harbor, people popped out of doorways carrying whale oil lanterns. Before long, Philip could glance over his shoulder and see torches flaring as well. The mob sang, chanted, howled cheerfully obscene oaths against the King, his tea and his taxes—all in all, it was a carnival atmosphere.

Even Edes looked gay, striding along with hatchet in one hand, his cheeks ochre-streaked. He scanned ahead for the other groups supposed to be gathering on Hutchinson Street near Fort Hill—

But Philip was well aware that the partisan mob could and probably would disappear at the first sign of danger. The Mohawks, not those tramping behind them, would be the ones most easily caught and identified if the British reacted.

By now the effects of the rum punch had completely worn off. Philip felt the gnaw of fear again. So did those around him. There were furtive glances, scowls, teeth nervously chewing underlips because of something the raiders hadn’t seen before. Red-uniformed men. Quite a few of them. In tavern doorways. On balconies. Pistols and swords were in evidence.

The watching enlisted men and officers did not draw their weapons or attempt to interfere. Nor did the mob molest them—except verbally. The British gave back a few curses and shaken fists, but nothing more. Perhaps they were awaiting a signal? Philip started to sweat again.

Another hundred Indians waited at the rendezvous point near Fort Hill. The whooping grew even louder as the raiders swept down Hutchinson Street, the distorted shadows of their feathered heads leaping out ahead of them along the walls of buildings. But the first ranks grew quiet suddenly as they swung into the head of Griffin’s Wharf. The others following fell silent in turn.

The masts, spars and furled sails of the three tea ships stood out against the emerging white stars. Beyond, in the harbor, all could clearly see the riding lights of the squadron. Were gunners with slow-matches crouched behind the rails—?