LITTLE ALICE, by her last remark, proved herself a good judge of what
was expressed by the tones of Grandfather’s voice. He had given the
above description of the enmity between the townspeople and the soldiers
in order to Prepare the minds of his auditors for a very terrible event.
It was one that did more to heighten the quarrel between England and
America than anything that had yet occurred.
Without further preface, Grandfather began the story of the Boston
Massacre.
It was now the 8d of March, 1770. The sunset music of the British
regiments was heard as usual throughout the town. The shrill fife and
rattling drum awoke the echoes in King Street, while the last ray of
sunshine was lingering on the cupola of the Town House. And now all the
sentinels were posted. One of them marched up and down before the Custom
House, treading a short path through the snow, and longing for the
time when he would be dismissed to the warm fireside of the guard room.
Meanwhile Captain Preston was, perhaps, sitting in our great chair
before the hearth of the British Coffee House. In the course of the
evening there were two or three slight commotions, which seemed to
indicate that trouble was at hand. Small parties of young men stood at
the corners of the streets or walked along the narrow pavements. Squads
of soldiers who were dismissed from duty passed by them, shoulder to
shoulder, with the regular step which they had learned at the drill.
Whenever these encounters took place, it appeared to be the object of
the young men to treat the soldiers with as much incivility as possible.
“Turn out, you lobsterbacks!” one would say. “Crowd them off the
sidewalks!” another would cry. “A redcoat has no right in Boston
streets!”
“O, you rebel rascals!” perhaps the soldiers would reply, glaring
fiercely at the young men. “Some day or other we’ll make our way through
Boston streets at the point of the bayonet!”
Once or twice such disputes as these brought on a scuffle; which passed
off, however, without attracting much notice. About eight o’clock, for
some unknown cause, an alarm-bell rang loudly and hurriedly.
At the sound many people ran out of their houses, supposing it to be an
alarm of fire. But there were no flames to be seen, nor was there any
smell of smoke in the clear, frosty air; so that most of the townsmen
went back to their own firesides and sat talking with their wives and
children about the calamities of the times. Others who were younger and
less prudent remained in the streets; for there seems to have been a
presentiment that some strange event was on the eve of taking place.
Later in the evening, not far from nine o’clock, several young men
passed by the Town House and walked down King Street. The sentinel
was still on his post in front of the Custom House, pacing to and fro;
while, as he turned, a gleam of light from some neighboring window
glittered on the barrel of his musket. At no great distance were the
barracks and the guard-house, where his comrades were probably telling
stories of battle and bloodshed.
Down towards the Custom House, as I told you, came a party of wild young
men. When they drew near the sentinel he halted on his post, and took
his musket from his shoulder, ready to present the bayonet at their
breasts.
“Who goes there?” he cried, in the gruff, peremptory tones of a
soldier’s challenge. The young men, being Boston boys, felt as if they
had a right to walk their own streets without being accountable to a
British redcoat, even though he challenged them in King George’s name.
They made some rude answer to the sentinel. There was a dispute, or
perhaps a scuffle. Other soldiers heard the noise, and ran hastily from
the barracks to assist their comrades. At the same time many of the
townspeople rushed into King Street by various avenues, and gathered
in a crowd round about the Custom House. It seemed wonderful how such a
multitude had started up all of a sudden.
The wrongs and insults which the people had been suffering for many
months now kindled them into a rage. They threw snowballs and lumps of
ice at the soldiers. As the tumult grew louder it reached the ears of
Captain Preston, the officer of the day. He immediately ordered eight
soldiers of the main guard to take their muskets and follow him. They
marched across the street, forcing their way roughly through the crowd,
and pricking the townspeople with their bayonets.
A gentleman (it was Henry Knox, afterwards general of the American
artillery) caught Captain Preston’s arm.
“For Heaven’s sake, sir,” exclaimed he, “take heed what you do, or there
will be bloodshed.”
“Stand aside!” answered Captain Preston, haughtily. “Do not interfere,
sir. Leave me to manage the affair.”
Arriving at the sentinel’s post, Captain Preston drew up his men in a
semicircle, with their faces to the crowd and their rear to the Custom
House. When the people saw the officer and beheld the threatening
attitude with which the soldiers fronted them, their rage became almost
uncontrollable.
“Fire, you lobsterbacks!” bellowed some.
“You dare not fire, you cowardly redcoats!” cried others.
“Rush upon them!” shouted many voices. “Drive the rascals to their
barracks! Down with them! Down with them! Let them fire if they dare!”
Amid the uproar, the soldiers stood glaring at the people with the
fierceness of men whose trade was to shed blood.
Oh, what a crisis had now arrived! Up to this very moment, the angry
feelings between England and America might have been pacified. England
had but to stretch out the hand of reconciliation, and acknowledge that
she had hitherto mistaken her rights, but would do so no more. Then
the ancient bonds of brotherhood would again have been knit together as
firmly as in old times. The habit of loyalty, which had grown as strong
as instinct, was not utterly overcome. The perils shared, the victories
won, in the old French War, when the soldiers of the colonies fought
side by side with their comrades from beyond the sea, were unforgotten
yet. England was still that beloved country which the colonists called
their home. King George, though he had frowned upon America, was still
reverenced as a father.
But should the king’s soldiers shed one drop of American blood, then it
was a quarrel to the death. Never, never would America rest satisfied
until she had torn down the royal authority and trampled it in the dust.
“Fire, if you dare, villains!” hoarsely shouted the people, while the
muzzles of the muskets were turned upon them. “You dare not fire!”
They appeared ready to rush upon the levelled bayonets. Captain Preston
waved his sword, and uttered a command which could not be distinctly
heard amid the uproar of shouts that issued from a hundred throats. But
his soldiers deemed that he had spoken the fatal mandate, “Fire!” The
flash of their muskets lighted up the streets, and the report rang
loudly between the edifices. It was said, too, that the figure of a
man, with a cloth hanging down over his face, was seen to step into the
balcony of the Custom House and discharge a musket at the crowd.
A gush of smoke had overspread the scene. It rose heavily, as if it were
loath to reveal the dreadful spectacle beneath it. Eleven of the sons
of New England lay stretched upon the street. Some, sorely wounded, were
struggling to rise again. Others stirred not nor groaned; for they were
past all pain. Blood was streaming upon the snow; and that purple stain
in the midst of King Street, though it melted away in the next day’s
sun, was never forgotten nor forgiven by the people.
Grandfather was interrupted by the violent sobs of little Alice. In his
earnestness he had neglected to soften clown the narrative so that it
might not terrify the heart of this unworldly infant. Since Grandfather
began the history of our chair, little Alice had listened to many tales
of war. But probably the idea had never really impressed itself upon
her mind that men have shed the blood of their fellow-creatures. And
now that this idea was forcibly presented to her, it affected the sweet
child with bewilderment and horror.
“I ought to have remembered our dear little Alice,” said Grandfather
reproachfully to himself. “Oh, what a pity! Her heavenly nature has now
received its first impression of earthly sin and violence. Well, Clara,
take her to bed and comfort her. Heaven grant that she may dream away
the recollection of the Boston massacre!”
“Grandfather,” said Charley, when Clara and little Alice had retired,
“did not the people rush upon the soldiers and take revenge?”
“The town drums beat to arms,” replied Grandfather, “the alarm-bells
rang, and an immense multitude rushed into King Street. Many of them
had weapons in their hands. The British prepared to defend themselves. A
whole regiment was drawn up in the street, expecting an attack; for the
townsmen appeared ready to throw themselves upon the bayonets.”
“And how did it end?”
“Governor Hutchinson hurried to the spot,” said Grandfather, “and
besought the people to have patience, promising that strict justice
should be done. A day or two afterward the British troops were withdrawn
from town and stationed at Castle William. Captain Preston and the eight
soldiers were tried for murder. But none of them were found guilty.
The judges told the jury that the insults and violence which had been
offered to the soldiers justified them in firing at the mob.”
“The Revolution,” observed Laurence, who had said but little during the
evening, “was not such a calm, majestic movement as I supposed. I do
not love to hear of mobs and broils in the street. These things were
unworthy of the people when they had such a great object to accomplish.”
“Nevertheless, the world has seen no grander movement than that of our
Revolution from first to last,” said Grandfather. “The people, to a man,
were full of a great and noble sentiment. True, there may be much fault
to find with their mode of expressing this sentiment; but they knew no
better; the necessity was upon them to act out their feelings in the
best manner they could. We must forgive what was wrong in their actions,
and look into their hearts and minds for the honorable motives that
impelled them.”
“And I suppose,” said Laurence, “there were men who knew how to act
worthily of what they felt.”
“There were many such,” replied Grandfather; “and we will speak of some
of them hereafter.”
Grandfather here made a pause. That night Charley had a dream about the
Boston massacre, and thought that he himself was in the crowd and struck
down Captain Preston with a great club. Laurence dreamed that he was
sitting in our great chair, at the window of the British Coffee House,
and beheld the whole scene which Grandfather had described. It seemed to
him, in his dream, that, if the townspeople and the soldiers would but
have heard him speak a single word, all the slaughter might have been
averted. But there was such an uproar that it drowned his voice.
The next morning the two boys went together to State Street and stood on
the very spot where the first blood of the Revolution had been shed. The
Old State House was still there, presenting almost the same aspect that
it had worn on that memorable evening, one-and-seventy years ago. It is
the sole remaining witness of the Boston massacre.