Daniel at the Siege of Boston, 1776 Page 2

  Samuel Adams nodded vigorously. Some said his ideas were so radical that they would lead to complete independence from England, but I could not imagine such a thing. Surely the king would come to his senses. Father believed he would, that our rights as free Englishmen would be restored.

  “Massachusetts cannot stand for a government that rules with an iron fist and gives its citizens no freedom, no voice,” Father often said. “But the king isn’t a tyrant. He will restore our rights when he hears our case.”

  Others believed that we would be forced to go to war to win back our liberty and break from England completely.

  It was as if Dr. Warren heard my thoughts. “An independence from Great Britain is not our aim. No, our wish is that Britain and the colonies, may, like the oak and the ivy, grow and increase in strength together.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I feared what war would bring. Would Father have to fight? Would I? If this morning’s test was any measure, I would be a failure as a soldier. I didn’t know which scared me more, war or tyranny.

  Dr. Warren stood on the side of freedom. War might come, he knew, and he trusted the people of Boston to fight. “However difficult the combat,” he said near the end of his speech, “you never will decline it when freedom is the prize.”

  Colonel Stockdale’s forehead creased in a devilish frown. No doubt he was looking for the missing ensign and wondering why the egg had not flown through the air.

  When the doctor finished, Samuel Adams took the pulpit and thanked him for his spirited and elegant oration. He was not one to let the day end without an insult to the Redcoats. He called on the town to make plans for next year’s commemoration of the “bloody massacre.”

  Some of the Redcoats began to hiss. Shouts of “Fie! Fie!” were heard, which were misunderstood and soon became cries of “Fire!” All was panic and confusion. People in the upstairs gallery climbed out of windows and down gutters, sure they were about to be burned alive.

  I was thrust this way and that in the frenzied rush for the door. I lost Master Richardson. Josiah pushed past me, his wig askew. Someone knocked into me, and I fell to my knees. Twice I tried to get up, only to be struck down again by the rush of bodies. I buried my head in my hands and screamed, sure that I would be trampled to death. Suddenly there were hands on my shoulders and someone pulled me to my feet.

  “There you go, lad,” the man said, patting my shoulder with a chuckle.

  I grabbed the edge of a pew and fought to catch my breath. The crowd had thinned. Father stood near the doors, anxiously scanning the room.

  “Good work, son,” he said as I passed by him in the flow of people rushing for the street. “Hurry home now.”

  On my walk, I turned Dr. Warren’s words over and over in my mind.

  However difficult the combat, you never will decline it when freedom is the prize.

  His sentiment stirred me, but I knew I did not deserve my father’s praise. He believed I was the one who stopped the ensign. He thought I had been calm in the panic. I wanted Massachusetts to have her freedoms back, like my father. But I had declined the combat. I had been a coward. Would I ever be worthy of the prize?

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Tar him! Tar him!”

  After the anniversary of the massacre, tense quiet settled over Boston. Many of the Sons of Liberty slipped away to the safety of the countryside. I never told Father of my cowardice, nor did I speak of it with the schoolmaster. I avoided Josiah Henshaw, concentrated on my schoolwork, and helped out more than usual in the tavern.

  If the town paid for the tea the Sons of Liberty had destroyed, would King George call his soldiers home? I asked as much at the noon meal one day. Master Richardson joined us, as he often used to before the officers moved in. Mother tended the taproom so Father could eat with us in the kitchen.

  “The king and parliament are determined to steal the fruit of our labors without our consent,” Father said. “Every effort was made to settle the business with the tea in a peaceful manner.”

  “Those ships could have sailed back to England with their cargo. That’s what happened in every other colony when the people refused to pay the tax,” Master Richardson reminded me. “The king’s puppet governor here in Boston refused. They aimed to teach us a lesson. To force us to pay. We could not allow it—tyranny must be opposed.”

  “But things have only gotten worse,” I said. “More soldiers. More laws to punish us. If we pay for the tea, would they not go away? Give us our due rights?”

  “If we pay for the tea, we will have consented to an unjust tax,” Master Richardson said. “We might as well lay down and invite them to pick our pockets.”

  “Every man has a right to govern himself. A right to enjoy what is acquired by his own labor. A right to freedom,” Father told me. “We only demand the same rights as any other free British citizen.”

  “Without those rights, we become mere slaves to a tyrant,” my schoolmaster said. “We cannot allow parliament to intimidate us now.”

  Their voices had risen in their passion for the subject. Then we heard the front door open and the stomping of officer’s boots. The conversation quickly ended. We could not be overheard.

  I feared what would happen if peaceful means to bring the conflict to a close came to an end.

  One night, as I worked in the tavern, I saw that war would surely come. It was a chill evening, but there was a promise of spring in the air. Rachel, our serving girl, and I ran back and forth from the kitchen to the taproom with plates of food for the officers. The Connecticut colony had driven one thousand sheep overland to Boston for our relief. A saddle of mutton turned on the hearth; Mother had roasted potatoes and made corn bread. It was a real feast.

  Father quietly surveyed the room while he drew ale and poured rum. Mother busied herself over the cook pot. My little sister, Sarah, who was but three, supped in the kitchen. There was a low rumble of voices, the occasional call for drink, but all was peaceful.

  Then the door slammed open and a group of regular soldiers rushed in, dragging a man between them. They stopped in front of Lieutenant Colonel Stockdale.

  “Private Osborne, colonel,” said the regular who seemed to be in charge.

  Colonel Stockdale was none too pleased to have his evening meal disturbed. He sat back and sucked a piece of mutton from between his teeth. “Yes, private?”

  “This peddler has been promising to help us desert the king’s service, in exchange for our muskets.”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t,” the man stammered. His eyes were fixed on the colonel’s boots.

  “My soldiers say you did,” Stockdale said. “What proof have you that you didn’t?”

  “I . . . I have no proof,” the peddler said. He jutted out his chin in a determined manner. “Nor do they have proof that I did.”

  The officers gathered around Stockdale. “Prove it. Prove it,” they chanted, drowning out the man’s words. They seemed more interested in revenge than in the truth. General Gage, the military governor of Massachusetts, had threatened to execute all deserters from the British army and any who helped them. More than one soldier was shot on the Common, caught in the act of trying to leave Boston. Still, everyone knew that Redcoats continued to creep out of the town in search of a new life, leaving their uniforms behind. Some were even training our Minutemen in the ways of war.

  Father’s hands were underneath the bar, no doubt reaching for the musket that was hidden there. I froze. If he pulled it out in defense of the man, surely the British would kill them both. Mother rushed in and put her hand on his arm. The kitchen door was ajar and I saw that Sarah watched, her little face pale and frightened. I stepped in front of the door so she would not see, but my sudden movement put one of the soldiers on alert. He swung around and pointed his musket at me. His bayonet was fixed, candle-light flickering against the shiny blade. My breathing stopped. I tried to stand still, but my body shook. I thought I might fall right into the blade.

  Mother ste
pped forward and pushed the weapon upright. “There’s no call for that,” she said evenly.

  Would he turn his bayonet on Mother? I wanted to step between them, but once again, my feet would not do my bidding.

  Mother held the soldier’s gaze steady. “There’s no call for any of this,” she said in a lighter tone, urging the men back to their seats. “Come, finish this nice meal I’ve made for you. A free glass of rum for all.”

  But the officers didn’t want to be distracted. I could see it on their faces. They were hungry for another opportunity to teach the people of Boston a lesson.

  “Surely this has been a misunderstanding,” Father said.

  Colonel Stockdale waved his saber over his head to call for quiet. There was immediate silence. We waited to hear his verdict.

  He leaned back and surveyed the peddler. “Let’s give these Boston rebels the same punishment they heap on their own enemies,” he said. “Give the man a new coat. Make it out of tar and decorate it with feathers.”

  The man gasped, but the colonel simply continued his instructions. “Carry him through the streets so all can see what happens to those who defy the king.”

  “Tar him! Tar him!” the officers chanted.

  I cringed. The Sons of Liberty had indeed tarred and feathered some of their enemies. It was a terrible thing, and now the Redcoats were using this poor man to get their revenge.

  The soldiers rushed to their task like boys to a game of ringer, only it was a life they played with, not marbles. Some men did not survive such torture.

  I watched from the window as they dragged the peddler onto Fish Street. Our tavern sign, a blue whale, creaked in the wind. The soldiers laughed and sang “Yankee Doodle,” a song that mocked us, as they dragged the man toward the wharves.

  The peddler’s eyes darted around wildly in search of help. For a moment they landed on me. I stepped back into the shadows.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Shots Fired in Lexington

  April, 1775

  Colonel Stockdale spent more and more time at the Province House with General Gage. When at the tavern he was often shut in his room with his officers. Each morning at school Master Richardson greeted me with raised eyebrows, but I could only shake my head. I had no secret news to report.

  Rachel generally cleaned the officer’s rooms, but one day Mother took over the task and saw that Colonel Stockdale had maps on his desk.

  The next morning I nodded in answer to my assistant schoolmaster’s silent question. During our morning writing assignment, I asked to go to the necessary out back. Master Richardson met me outside the door upon my return.

  “What news, Daniel?” he asked.

  “Stockdale studies maps. The route to Concord is marked,” I told him.

  He nodded. “Guns and gunpowder both are being stored in Concord. They must mean to capture it and end any chance of rebellion before it begins.”

  ”Are any of the Sons of Liberty in hiding there?” I asked. I knew that some had slipped quietly out of Boston.

  “John Hancock and Samuel Adams are staying in Lexington,” Master Richardson said. “Was there anything more?

  “No,” I told him. “Nothing more.”

  “Good work, Daniel. I’ll tell Dr. Warren this evening. Keep your ears open.” Then he raised his voice as he opened the door to our schoolroom and ushered me in. “Stop wasting time, Daniel Prescott. There’s work to be done.”

  I took my seat and raised my quill.

  In the middle of April the grenadiers, the biggest and best soldiers in the king’s army, along with the light infantry, were relieved of their regular duty. We heard they were to learn new exercises, but no one believed that story. Each day brought new activity and new rumors.

  “They’re planning something,” Father said to me the next evening.

  “Do you think they mean to seize the gunpowder?” I asked him.

  “Aye.” Father nodded. “And mayhap Samuel Adams, too. We must be on alert for any crumb of information.”

  I was as still as possible when I waited on the officers, willing them to forget I was there. But I learned nothing new that would help our cause.

  A few days later I watched while longboats, used for rowing soldiers across the waters that surrounded Boston, were launched from the men-of-war ships in the harbor. A thin strip of salt marsh—the Boston Neck—was all that connected the town to the rest of the colony. Father had thought the longboats might be a trick to fool us into thinking the soldiers would travel by water to Cambridge and then march to Lexington and Concord when they really planned to reach Cambridge by marching over the Neck. Dr. Warren had men at the ready to warn the people in the countryside whether the Redcoats set out from Boston by land or by sea. Our militia would be ready to defend our gunpowder and protect Samuel Adams from being seized by the British.

  That night the air was thick with the sounds of rattling drums, clanking muskets, and stomping boots. Officers barked orders. Soldiers obeyed. I longed for information. So did Father. Colonel Stockdale was out, but the tavern was crowded with soldiers who were not part of the night’s plan. Father and Mother were too busy to leave the tavern. Father bid me to try and find out what was happening.

  I slipped out the kitchen door and ran to the Common. Along with a hundred others I watched in the bright, cold moonlight as Redcoats filled the longboats and were ferried to Cambridge. Colonel Stockdale was at their head.

  Josiah Henshaw stood about looking important while his father was in discussion with an officer. I greeted him, but my aim was to see what I could overhear.

  “The Redcoats will soon put an end to this silly rebellion,” Josiah boasted. “And we can begin importing goods again.”

  I shrugged, hoping he would be quiet long enough for me to hear what his father said. He was not. He prattled on and on about the fine things he would have when trading ships once more filled the harbor, and the delicious food that would grace his table.

  “I am to have all the lemons and pimientos and sugar I want. Cakes—lots and lots of cakes.”

  I only grunted in response and thought of the British and their muskets in our tavern. How dare he speak of cakes while soldiers threatened our very lives? I wanted to shove him. But to do so would only gain his father’s attention. I willed Josiah to be quiet so I could hear. But his father’s conversation was long over before Josiah had run out of imaginary treats to boast of.

  Master Richardson had a better opportunity. After catching my eye and nodding briefly, he strolled up and entered a quiet conversation with Mr. Henshaw. No doubt he was trying to learn something of use to the Patriots. I ran home and shared what I had seen.

  The next morning I went to school as usual, but Boston was crazy with guessing games. How desperate we were for news! More Redcoats left our town that morning, marching over the Neck. Finally, around ten o’clock, we heard riders galloping through the streets with reports.

  Two hundred boys could not attend their handwriting on such a morning. We buzzed like bees at their honey. Our schoolmaster had not yet appeared. His assistant, Master Richardson, tried to maintain order, but it was impossible.

  “Daniel Prescott,” he said sternly, “go and gather whatever information you can. Perhaps when we know what has happened you boys will settle down to your schoolwork.”

  “Why him?” Josiah Henshaw asked.

  Others shouted, “I want to go! I want to go!”

  Master Richardson dropped the quill he was mending and pounded on his desk. “Silence! Daniel Prescott is to go. The rest of you will continue your lesson.”

  I raced out of the classroom and ran down Middle Street toward Faneuil Hall, stopping to listen whenever I spied a messenger.

  A group of townspeople surrounded a man on horseback. He had been riding hard. “They’ve done it,” he said. “The Redcoats have fired on the people.”

  I hoped his information was false, but too many confirmed it. Shots had been fired in Lexington.

&nbs
p; “Are you certain?” I asked.

  The messenger nodded. “I’ve seen the dead with my own eyes.” Then he rode off.

  I shuddered. Blood had been shed. My mind raced. What did this mean for Boston? For Father?

  I ran to the Common. One man said the British had seized all and won the day.

  “Why would Gage send more soldiers this morning if that were true?” I asked.

  “The Massachusetts militia has driven them back!” shouted another rider. “The Redcoats are retreating!”

  One man claimed that the Redcoats had shot women and children, another that they had scampered away like frightened rats when faced with Massachusetts’s might. I pieced together what facts I could and trudged back to school. I had no more energy for running.

  My chest heaved as I tried to speak the words. “Shots were fired in Lexington. Many are dead. I think the Redcoats are being driven back to Boston by our militia.” My voice wavered. My heart was divided. I felt pride in the farmers, hunters, blacksmiths, store-keepers, and fishermen who had stood up against the mightiest army on earth. They had said no to tyranny. At the same time, I feared war. I especially feared the British revenge that would surely follow. They shot at unarmed citizens in the Boston Massacre. They tarred and feathered the peddler for mere suspicion. How many would they kill now?

  “Have the British really begun it?” Master Richardson asked.

  “They’ve begun it and they’ll end it,” Josiah Henshaw said, jumping to his feet. His words were all bluster, but there was fear in his eyes.

  Timothy Otis drowned him out. “Liberty!” he shouted. Soon all the boys who sided with the Patriots joined the chant. “Liberty! Liberty! Liberty!”

  I held my silence, as always. But I saw that Josiah’s eyes flicked from me to the assistant schoolmaster and back again.

  “Go home, boys,” Master Richardson said. “Go home.”