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 town’s-people 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 any thing that had yet occurred.
Without further preface, Grandfather began the story of
THE BOSTON MASSACRE
It was now the 3d 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 fire-side 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 lobster-backs!" one would say. "Crowd them off the
side-walks!" another would cry. "A red-coat has no right in Boston
streets."
"Oh, 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 fire-sides, 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 red-coat, 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 comrade. At the same time, many of the town’s-people 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 snow-balls 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 town’s-people 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 here
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
semi-circle, 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 lobster-backs!" bellowed some.
"You dare not fire, you cowardly red-coats," 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 street, 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 down 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?" asked Charley.
"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 town’s-people 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.