We must be a curious sight, he thought. There were fifty or so of them, streaming out of the mist and out of the darkness and through the cold of winter, toward the harbor ships. At first glance they would appear to be Indians, for they were half naked, bronzed, darkly bewigged, and painted, as if in warpaint.
They were at war, in a way, but they were not Indians, and it was not death they sought to bring to the ships, unless it was the death of tyranny.
They rowed out to the three British ships riding in the harbor and streamed upon them.
Frederick stood in the background then.
The head “Indians” were polite as they demanded the keys to the tea chests from the captains.
“All right, men!” came the command.
Frederick still remained in the distance, watching as his friends apologized when they knocked out the guards. Then he joined in; they all set to their tasks, dumping the contents of 340 chests of tea into the sea. Fires burned high against the darkness and the mist. The men went about their task with efficiency, unmolested, for it was unexpected by the British and condoned by the multitude of the citizens of Boston.
Frederick Bartholomew, printer by trade, quietly watched the tea fall into the sea. Beside him, one of his friends, Jeremy Duggin, chortled. “A fine brew we’re making, strong and potent!”
“And sure to bring about reprisals,” Frederick reminded him.
Jeremy was silent for a moment. “We’d no choice, man. We’d no choice at all. Not if we intended to keep the British out of our pockets.”
“Lads! Hurry now. Swab down the decks, see that all is left shipshape! We’ve not come to cause real injury to the captains or the men—the tea has been our business, and that is all. Now hurry!”
The older men in the crowd had planned the action. The younger ones had carried it out with glee. Many of the boys were college students from Harvard. For some it was a prank, a lark.
Others saw what the future might bring, but all carried out the work, and to a man, they cleaned the ships when they were done.
The keys were politely returned to the captains.
“Away!” someone called. “Our deed is done. Let’s flee! The troops will be out soon enough.”
“Come then, Jeremy!” Frederick called. They were both oiled and slick, wearing buckskin breeches and vests. Frederick was starting to shiver violently. Out on the water, it was viciously cold.
“Aye, and hurry, man!” Jeremy said.
They climbed down to the small boats that would bring them to the dock. “A teapot she is! The harbor is a teapot tonight! She steams, she brews! And what comes, soon, all men will soon see.”
It was one of their leaders shouting then, passionately, heartfully.
The British fighting force was estimated to be one of the finest in the world. If it came to war…Frederick thought.
If they were caught…
There were so many of them. The entire port of Boston had been with them, except for the British troops and the minority of loyalists.
The Indians reached dry land again. They were making little secret of their actions, marching to the grand old elm, the Liberty Tree. They would not hang for their deeds this night. The governor could not see that they all hanged! If the king had thought that Boston rebelled before, let him see the people after a heinous act like that!
“Back home, me lads! And a deed well done!” one of the leaders called.
Frederick tensed, for he was not done with his night’s work. As the others began to drift away, returning to their homes or heading for their chosen taverns, Frederick stood waiting by the tree.
Two men soon appeared before him, one another printer, a man named Paul Revere, and one the wealthy and admired John Hancock. Hancock was a cousin of the well-known patriot Samuel Adams, but it was the seizure of his shipLibertyby the British that had turned him so intensely toward the cause of the patriots. He was a handsome man, richly dressed in gold brocade and matching breeches. “Have you come by the arms, Frederick?” Hancock asked him.
Frederick nodded.
“We still hope it’ll not come to conflict, but the Sons of Liberty must now begin to take precautions,” Revere warned him. Frederick himself had become involved because of Paul Revere. He had begun as an apprentice in the older man’s employ. Now they were both kept busy printing pamphlets and flyers for the cause of freedom.
“They come from Virginia, sir. A good friend travels to the western counties and gets French weapons from the Indians there,” Frederick said nervously. This was not like their tea party—this could be construed as high treason. “The wagon is down the street, near the cemetery.”
“Good work, Frederick. And your Virginian is a good friend, indeed. Go ahead now, and the West County men will follow quietly behind you. If you see a redcoat anywhere, take flight. Sam has said that we’ve had a leak and that the Brit captain Davis knows we’re acquiring arms. Go quickly, and take care.”
