[Illustration: “YOU NEEDN’T BE AFRAID OF THIS TEA; NOBODY’S PAID A TAX
ON IT.”]
A PATRIOT LAD
OF OLD BOSTON
BY
RUSSELL GORDON CARTER
Author of the Bob Hanson Books
[Illustration]
Illustrated by HENRY PITZ
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1923
COPYRIGHT
1923 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
[Illustration]
A Patriot Lad of Old Boston
Manufacturing
Plant
Camden, N. J.
Made in the U. S. A.
INTRODUCTION
The story of Don Alden is the story of Boston during the British
occupation. Like the sturdy out-of-doors boy of to-day, Don was fond of
hunting and fishing and trapping; it is of little wonder therefore that
Glen Drake, the old trapper from the North, formed an instant liking
for him.
But from the moment that the Port Bill went into effect--yes, and
before that unfortunate event--there were other things than hunting and
fishing to think about. Don’s aunt, a heroic, kindly woman of old New
England, refused to leave her home in Pudding Lane, even though the
town seemed likely to become a battle ground. And Don was not the boy
to forsake his aunt in time of need.
How he helped her during the period of occupation; how he acted
when his best friend cast his lot with the Tories; what he did when
he suddenly found that he could save the life of one of the hated
Redcoats; and what happened at the end when Crean Brush’s Tories
forced their way into the house--those events and many others only go
to prove that heroism is not limited by age.
There were other things also to test the courage of a lad like Don--the
Battles of Concord and Lexington and of Bunker Hill, the felling of
the Liberty Tree, and the many small annoyances that both Tories
and Redcoats committed to make life a little more miserable for the
suffering townsfolk. But he met them all in such a way as to deserve
the words of praise from the one man whom he admired more than any
other--General Washington.
Boston in the days of the Revolution resembled Boston of to-day in one
noticeable respect: many of the streets were narrow and crooked and
bore the names that they bear at present. But the differences between
the old town and the new are many and astonishing. In Revolutionary
days mud flats, which were exposed at low water, lay where South Boston
and the Back Bay are now situated; near where the present North Station
stands there used to be a broad placid mill-pond that extended down
almost to Hanover Street; and to the south, where to-day many broad
streets and avenues cross one another over a wide space, there used to
be a very narrow strip of land known as the Neck--to have cut it would
have made of the town an island. Such in brief was the Boston of Donald
Alden and of his friends.
If Don is a fictitious hero he is at least typical of many another
patriot lad who, too young to serve a great cause under arms, did serve
it nevertheless as best he could. How he cared for his Aunt Martha
throughout the long trying months of British occupation and in the
end foiled Crean Brush’s Tories and performed a service for General
Washington makes a story that is well within the beaten paths of
history.
The facts of history, taken alone, are likely to seem cold and
colorless; regarded from the point of view of a hero in whom we are
interested, and whose life they are affecting, they glow with warmth
and romance. If readers who follow the adventures of Don find that
at the end of the story the Tea Party, Bunker Hill, Lexington and
Concord and other important events of history are a little more real to
them than they were at first, I shall be content. That is one of the
purposes of the book. The other, and perhaps the more important, is
simply to provide an interesting story of a boy--a Patriot Lad of Old
Boston.
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS
I. TEA AND SALT WATER 11
II. DON FINDS A NEW FRIEND 24
III. A REDCOAT GETS WET 36
IV. A TRIP TO CONCORD 49
V. THE REGULARS COME OUT 62
VI. ACROSS THE FLATS 77
VII. JUD APPLETON 92
VIII. THE BOYS SET A TRAP 105
IX. THE REGULARS EMBARK 116
X. FROM A HOUSETOP 128
XI. THE LIBERTY TREE 142
XII. A BLUSTERING SERGEANT-MAJOR 152
XIII. A FARCE IS INTERRUPTED 162
XIV. A BROKEN LOCK 173
XV. MARCH WINDS BLOW 184
XVI. CREAN BRUSH’S MEN 194
XVII. DON MEETS GENERAL WASHINGTON 207
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“YOU NEEDN’T BE AFRAID OF THIS TEA;
NOBODY’S PAID A TAX ON IT.” _Frontispiece_
HE LIFTED HIS HEAD CAUTIOUSLY AND BEGAN TO COUNT 72
“WHO LIVES HERE BESIDE YOURSELF, YOUNG SIRE?” 154
[Illustration]
A Patriot Lad of Old Boston
CHAPTER I
TEA AND SALT WATER
A pink and golden sunset was flaming across Boston Common. It was one
of the prettiest sunsets of the whole winter of 1773; but on that day,
the sixteenth of December, few persons were in the mood to stop and
admire it. For trouble had come to town.
In the Old South Meeting-House at the corner of Marlborough and Milk
Streets the largest and perhaps the most important town-meeting in the
history of Boston was in session. The hall was filled to overflowing,
and those who had been unable to gain admittance lingered in the
streets and tried to learn from their neighbors what was going on
inside.
On the outskirts of the crowd in Milk Street two boys were talking
earnestly. “This is a bad piece of business,” said one in a low voice.
“What right have we to protest against the King’s sending tea to his
colonies? We’re his loyal subjects, aren’t we?”
His companion, an alert-looking boy with blue eyes, did not reply
at once; but his eyes flashed as he glanced restlessly now at the
meeting-house, now at the persons round him, many of whom he knew. At
last he said, “Of course we’re loyal, but we’re not represented in
Parliament; for that reason we shouldn’t be taxed. The protest is not
against the tea but against the tax that the King has put on it. At
least that’s what my Uncle Dave says.”
“Now see here, Don,” replied the boy who had spoken first, “there’s
going to be trouble just as sure as you’re born. Take my advice and
don’t pick the wrong side.” He lowered his voice. “Keep away from
trouble-makers. Men like Sam Adams inside there are a disgrace to
the town; and anyway they can’t accomplish anything. There are three
shiploads of tea at Griffin’s Wharf; it will be landed to-night, and
before many days have passed, you and I will be drinking it--as we
should. Don’t be a fool, Don!”
Donald Alden lifted his chin a trifle. “I don’t intend to be a fool,
Tom,” he replied slowly.
His companion, Tom Bullard, the son of one of the wealthiest men in
town, seemed pleased with the remark, though he certainly was not
pleased with what was going on about him. From time to time he scowled
as the sound of hand-clapping came from within the meeting-house, or
as he overheard some snatch of conversation close by. “Cap’n Rotch,” a
tall, rugged-faced man was saying to his neighbor, “has gone with some
others to Milton to ask the governor for a clearance.”
“Old Hutchinson will never give it to them,” was the quick reply. “He’s
as bad as King George.”
“Well, then, if he doesn’t, you watch out and see what happens.” With
that advice the tall man smiled in a peculiar way and a few minutes
later left his companion.
Meanwhile the crowd had increased to almost twice the size it had been
when Don and Tom had joined it. Don guessed that there were between
six and seven thousand people inside the meeting-house and in the
streets close by it, and he was astonished at the quiet nature of the
gathering. Although everyone around him seemed uneasy and excited,
yet they talked in ordinary tones of voice. Occasionally a small boy
would shout as he chased another in play, but for the most part even
the small boys were content to wait quietly and see what was about to
happen; for it seemed that something must happen soon.
Almost all of the pink and gold had faded from the sky, and a light
breeze was swaying some of the signs over the doors of the shops on
Milk Street and making them creak. There were lights flashing in many
of the windows; and inside the Old South Meeting candles were burning.
Don and Tom edged as near as they could to the door, which was
partly open. They could hear someone speaking, though the words were
indistinct; they could see the heads and shoulders of some of the
listeners; they could see grotesque shadows flit about the walls and
ceiling as somebody moved in front of the flickering candles. It was
long past supper-time, but few persons seemed to have any thought for
food.
“I’m cold,” said Tom, “and hungry too. Aren’t you, Don?”
“No,” replied Don.
He lifted his hands to loosen his collar; they were trembling but not
with cold. Something must happen soon, he thought.
Somewhere a bell was tolling, and the tones seemed to shiver in the
chill air. Half an hour dragged by, slowly. And then there was a sudden
commotion near the door of the church, and the buzz of conversation
rose to a higher pitch. “It’s Rotch!” exclaimed someone. “It’s Rotch,”
said another; “and Governor Hutchinson has refused clearance.”
The crowd pressed closer to the door. Don could see people moving
about inside the meeting-house. Then he saw somebody at the far end of
the hall lift his hand, and he barely distinguished the words: “This
meeting can do nothing more to save the country.”
An instant later there was a shout from someone on the little porch
of the church, and then the startling sound of war-whoops rang in
Marlborough Street. In a moment the people in the church began to pour
out of the door. In Milk Street, near Bishop’s Alley, Don spied half a
dozen figures clothed in blankets and wearing feathered head-dresses;
their faces were copper-colored, and all of them carried hatchets or
axes. Where they had come from no one seemed to have any clear idea,
but as they started down the street others joined them; and the crowd
followed.
“Where are you going, Don?” Tom asked sharply as his companion turned
to join the throng in Milk Street.
“He’s going to have a look at the King’s tea, aren’t you, my lad?” said
a voice near by.
“Come on along,” cried Don.
But Tom seized his companion’s arm and held him. “Don, are you crazy?”
he demanded. “Keep out of this; it’s trouble; that’s what it is----”
Don jerked his arm free and ran ahead; soon he was lost to Tom in
the crowd. At Long Lane he caught a glimpse of bobbing head-dresses.
He started to run as best he could. Once he stumbled and fell to his
knees, but somebody helped him quickly to his feet. “No time to stumble
now,” said the stranger, whoever he was.
A few moments later those at the head of the throng turned sharply to
the right, and as they stumbled over the cobblestones down a narrow
street Don observed that the moon was shining. In and out among the
streets the throng went, past Cow Lane, past Belcher’s Lane and
straight toward Griffin’s Wharf. Everyone was excited, and yet there
was a certain order about the whole movement.
“Remember what Rowe said in meeting?” remarked a florid-faced man whom
Don recognized as a grocer from King Street. “‘Who knows how tea will
mingle with salt water?’ Well, I guess we’ll all know pretty quick.”
Don felt his heart take a sudden leap. So they were going to throw
the tea overboard! These were no Indians; they were Colonists, all of
them! He thought he even recognized one of the leaders as the tall,
rugged-faced man in the crowd who had advised his companions to wait
and see what would happen if the governor refused the clearance.
Once on the wharf, the first thing the men did was to post guards, and
then Don noticed that all of the little copper-colored band had pistols
as well as hatchets and axes. The _Dartmouth_ was the first ship to be
boarded; someone demanded that the hatches be opened, and the sailors
complied with the demand at once; there was no resistance. In a moment
square chests with strange markings were being lifted to the deck.
Again Don observed that everything was being done in an orderly manner.
It was a night that he should long remember. The tide was low, and the
three Indiamen with their high sides and ornamented sterns reminded
him of huge dragons lying beside the wharf in the moonlight. He saw
chest after chest broken open with axes and hatchets and then tumbled
overboard into the water; he heard the low voices of the men as they
worked--they seemed to be talking in Indian dialect, though he knew
that it was not genuine, for now and again he would catch a word or two
of English.
For a while Don leaned against one of the great warehouses and tried to
guess who the “Indians” were; at one time he counted as many as fifteen
of them, but he could not be sure that there were not more; for at
least a hundred persons were on the wharf, helping to get rid of the
tea. Some of the chests that they tossed overboard lodged on the mud
flats that were out of water, but young men and boys waded in and broke
them into pieces and pushed them off. It was fascinating to watch the
destruction.
Don remained near the warehouse for perhaps three hours; and not until
the last chest had been tossed from the _Eleanor_ and the _Beaver_,
the other two tea vessels, did he realize that he was hungry; he had
entirely forgotten that he had missed his supper.
Taking one last glance at the pieces of broken chests, which the
turning tide was now carrying out into the harbor, he set forth toward
home. At the head of Atkinson Street he heard someone call his name,
and, turning, he saw Tom Bullard close behind him. “Oh, Don, wait a
minute.”
Don paused. “I can’t wait very long,” he said and grinned. “My Aunt
Martha won’t be very well pleased with me as it is.”
“See here, Don,” began Tom abruptly, “I know where you’ve come from,
and I know what’s happened down at the wharf. I know also that those
men weren’t Indians. The thing I want to ask you is, what do you think
of it?”
“Why,” replied Don slowly, “I’m afraid it won’t please you, Tom, if
I tell. I think we--that is, the Indians,--did the proper thing in
throwing the tea overboard.”
Tom stiffened. “So you’re a young rebel,” he said. “A young rebel!
Well, I thought so all along. I’m through with you from now on.”
“I’m sorry, Tom; we’ve been good friends.”
“Well, I’m not sorry,” replied Tom, turning part way round. “A young
rebel!” he repeated, flinging the words over his shoulder. “Well, look
out for trouble, that’s all.” And he crossed the street.
Don bit his lips. He had lost an old friend; Tom was a Tory. Well, he
was not astonished; but he had hoped that their friendship might last
through their differences.
He felt somewhat depressed as he made his way along the crooked streets
to his aunt’s little house in Pudding Lane. No light was burning in the
store at the front where his aunt sold groceries and odds and ends of
a household nature to eke out the income of his Uncle David, who was
employed at MacNeal’s rope yard on Hutchinson Street. He entered the
small sitting-room at the back of the house. “Hello, Aunt Martha,” he
said cheerfully.
“Donald Alden, for goodness’ sake, where have you been?” Aunt Martha
Hollis dropped the stocking that she had been knitting and adjusted her
spectacles.
“Well, first I went up to the town-meeting.”
“Did you see your Uncle David there?”
“No, ma’am; there was an awful big crowd. I’m pretty hungry, Aunt
Martha.”
“What happened at the meeting?”
“Well, there was a lot of talking, and then just as it broke up, a band
of Indians--that is, a band of men with tomahawks and feathers and
colored faces--appeared in Milk Street and started down to Griffin’s
Wharf and--is there any pie, Aunt Martha?”
“Donald, go on!” said his aunt, whose fingers had begun to tremble
violently.
“They boarded the three tea ships and tossed all the tea into the
water. My, you should have seen them! Then they went home. Aunt Martha,
I certainly am hungry.”
“Was--was anybody hurt, Donald?”
“Oh, no, ma’am--except one man whom I didn’t know; a chest of tea fell
on him. Another man tried to put some of the tea into his pockets, but
I guess he was more scared than hurt.”
Aunt Martha drew a deep breath and rose from her chair. In a few
minutes she had placed some cold meat and potatoes and a large slice
of apple pie on the table. “Now don’t eat too fast,” she cautioned her
nephew. Then she seated herself again, but she did not go on with her
knitting.
She was a little woman with blue eyes and silvery hair parted in the
middle. She was naturally of a light-hearted disposition, though
perhaps somewhat overly zealous for the welfare of her only nephew,
whom she had taken to live with her eight years ago on the death of
both his parents. Now her eyes were gravely thoughtful as she watched
him eating.
“This is mighty good pie, Aunt Martha.”
“Well, eat it slowly, then, for that’s all you can have.”
Don grinned and held up his empty plate, and a moment later his aunt
went to the kitchen and returned with another piece. As she was setting
it on the table, the door opened, and David Hollis entered. He nodded
and smiled at his nephew and then strode quickly into the kitchen,
where Don heard him washing his hands and face. Then Don heard his aunt
and uncle talking in subdued voices. When they entered the sitting-room
again Aunt Martha carried more meat and potatoes, which she placed on
the table.
Uncle David, big and broad and hearty, sat down opposite his nephew.
“So you were at the wharf this evening?” he inquired. “Did you see
the--the Indians?”
“I saw feathers and tomahawks and painted faces,” replied Don, and
Uncle David laughed and quickly lowered his hands to his lap, but not
before his nephew had caught a glimpse of dark red paint round the
finger-nails.
“It was a bold thing that the Mohawks did,” said Uncle David. “Don’t
ever forget, Donald, that the men who tossed that tea overboard were
Indians.”
Don nodded and, turning to his aunt, said, “This is awfully good pie,
Aunt Martha. Maybe there’s another piece----”
“Donald! Of course not!” Nevertheless, Aunt Martha went again to the
kitchen cupboard.