The Boston waterfront seemed deserted by the time Matthew and Abby's longboat touched the foot of a long wharf, lined with sheds and warehouses its entire length, stacked with barrels and bales. The only light was that afforded by the bright snowbanks, although here and there a lantern with a bravely fluttering candle added a drop of yellowish color.
Once they turned inland and began making their way toward the State House in the distance, they had to thread their way between knots of slower-moving Bostonians. Matthew raised his nostrils and sniffed a tangy wreath of smoke, feeling that he must cut quite a figure in his wig, jacket, stockings and, of course, sword. He had to fight off a smile, even as he tried to come up with a plan of action.
Once they arrived at the base of the steps to the State House, he scanned the crowd for a way inside. Abby grabbed his elbow: "Follow me," she whispered. Around the back of the building they went, and before Matthew could stop to worry, Abby grabbed up a cloth hanging over a railing, draped it over one arm, and barged in the servants' entrance.
The lower floor gallery was packed with Colonials and British visitors in their finery, pressed uncomfortably together to give room to the ceremony taking place in the center of the floor. A puffed-up man was making a speech, but all Matthew could focus on was his really big wig, its wire-like white curls cascading down his back. "Governor Hutchinson," said Abby. He nodded as if he understood; she gave him an exasperated glance. "You know," she whispered fiercely. "The one what's jammin' the East India tea down our gullets."
Now a procession of couples stepped onto the dance floor in two lines, one British, the other Colonial, as their names were announced: Delancey, Livingston, Oliver, Dickinson, a slew of others, and finally two whom Matthew actually recognized: John Hancock and John Adams.
Touching his waist, Matthew recalled the letters he had been carrying since escaping the Rose frigate: Weren't they to be delivered to Sam Adams? Surely John Adams would be a relative! He started edging toward Adams, a plain-looking man, balding on top, with graying hair sticking up above his ears like twin wire brushes. But now the British guests were being announced: "Admiral Montagu, Francis Rotch, Lord Tarleton Blunt. . ."
Nicky Blunt, resplendent in his naval uniform, stepped out with a pretty girl on his arm. Matthew sucked in a breath so hard it whistled between his teeth: Prudence!
"Lady de Vere Lee," intoned the stiff-backed footman. Again a flaming wave of humiliation washed over Matthew, along with an emotion he did not recognize. But that was before he caught sight of a fiercely blushing Abby, staring at Nicky with despairing eyes and lips slightly parted, as if someone had punched her in the stomach.
But here was John Adams, walking toward the exit in close conversation with another gentleman. Matthew intercepted him in the cloakroom as Adams was putting on a heavy greatcoat and a tricorn hat. "A word with you, sir," Matthew said, doing his best to sound Colonial. "If you are the brother of Sam Adams."
John Adams visibly recoiled. "We are cousins—distant cousins."
"Do you know where I can find him?"
The other gentleman smiled sardonically. "I would imagine you'd find him at some tavern, submerging his sorrows with the other jilted lovers of liberty."
Though John Adams shook his head slightly, he did not contradict the man, who went on in a gloating fashion: "Some people just do not know when to quit." But Matthew and Abby were already on their way. Down State Street they hurried, in a lightly blowing snowfall, peering into smoky, ill-lit taverns and asking for Sam Adams. Each time the name brought a smile, which promptly died as the proprietor sized up Matthew and his sword. Eventually, however, a barman jerked his thumb. "In the back."
Sam Adams sat alone in a side room with a pewter tankard by his side and a clay pipe lying on a scarred wooden table: a man with a pale narrow face, weak chin, and lips that looked as if they had just stopped quivering and were about to start up again. Matthew leaned forward, suddenly breathless. "Did you receive certain letters from a captain from Rhode Island?" Adams shook his head, all the while biting his lower lip. Abby added, "He was supposed to pass them to you, letters from London." Adams glanced down at the table as if unimpressed. "Intercepted by Ben Franklin," whispered Matthew.
"I have received no letters," replies Adams, wearily. "Nor do I wish to."
"Even if these letters would set America on fire?"
"Our spark is out. Lord Dartmouth has doused it like a fireman with his bucket of water. Only he has used buckets of rum, barrels of bribes and blandishments, and an ocean of cunning. Do you know, there was a time not three months ago when I would have bet my best bed that Dartmouth and his addle-pated peers would provoke the Colonies to a separation. I was counting on a ripe provocation over that three-cent tea tax." Adams' voice had started trembling; he paused to calm himself. "But an epidemic of rationality has broken out in London. Even the King has gone sane. Not with a crystal ball could one have foreseen it."
"We have the letters," Matthew says. "Copies."
A long silence. "Show them to me," said Adams. At that exact moment, a brown clay bowl filled with steaming hot milk appeared on the table, set there by a sweating red-faced woman in thick braids. "Captain Spencer sends his compliments to the young lord and his pretty sister." She leaned forward, her ample bosom threatening to pop a button. "His is the tea ship just docked—ten thousand pounds' worth, he says!"
Nobody said a word. Taking the hint, she swayed off. Sam Adams dipped a finger and tasted the punch. "Of course it would have to be from the Captain of the Dartmouth himself. Well, why not!" He took a long swallow; when he set down the bowl, a milk moustache adorned his upper lip. "As long as it's not tea, I'll drink it." He shoved the bowl over to Matthew.
Matthew raised the bowl of steaming hot milk, took a gulp—and promptly blew it out his nose. His throat was on fire; there was ginger, spices, some kind of liquor in it. "Yuck," he muttered, honking into his handkerchief. Abby looked at him curiously, took the bowl from his hands, and drank deep. "That's how it's done," she said, with a superior glance.
By now Adams had unsealed and was reading the letters. "Oh-ho!" His face reddened. "Governor Hutchinson betrays his true feelings, and calls down his contempt on us. Just as I always suspected, the rascal would deny us English liberties. What treachery. This is good stuff, very good . . . but too late, my honest fellow."
"Why? You just said it's treacherous—insulting—dishonest."
"Mere words. Lord Dartmouth has taken away their sting by removing the tax."
"But if there's no Tea Party, there will be no Revolution!"
"Revolution? The only revolution anybody's talking about in Massachusetts is that of the farmers versus the merchants and lawyers," said Adams. "Or how, in Virginia, gentlemen and women have allowed themselves to be swayed by the King's liberal gifting of titles, Burgundy, and gilt coaches to ride in. Or how in Charlotte and Savannah they are getting such good prices in London for indigo and cotton that every man who can is buying himself a dozen slaves. We are drowned in prosperity—and we are torn apart by envy, rivalry between Colonies."
Abby grabbed Matthew's arm. She pointed across the smoky tavern. "Lower thy head," she said, burying her face in his jacket. "‘Tis that evil man, from the Rose—the Tall Preacher!" Matthew peeked: Yes, it was Wydontia Gaway, still in the costume of a man of the cloth. He groaned.
But Sam Adams seemed to perk up. "You know this canting knave? He is the main culprit, in my opinion. He prints a scandal sheet that has got hold of the Colony." He rummaged in a pocket, threw down a crumpled printed handbill. Matthew read:
Outside, the sun had not yet risen. Inside the tavern, though, a roaring pair of fires in twin hearths were doing much to restore warmth to Matthew's feet and fingers. Next to him, half-dozing in hard chairs, were Abby, Sam, and several of the Sons of Liberty who'd helped distribute piles of broadsheets to taverns and merchants. A sleepy girl of perhaps ten years set a tray of ceramic cups on the floor, then slowly, carefully poured steaming coffee out of a pewter pot. Meanwhile, her even younger brother placed a large hot lobster pie on the low table and began cutting it into savory wedges. Sam and the Sons of Liberty began to stir.
By the time they'd breakfasted. the tavern had filled up, grown clamorous, and the talk was of but one thing—the broadsheets which were passing from hand to hand:
In the midst of talking and laughing, a familiar contemptuous hail sent a chill through Matthew: What ho, young Roving! I see we are quite the trencherman."
Nicky Blunt, resplendent in uniform, stood at the head of a group of revelers, looking slightly the worse for dancing all night at the Friendship Ball. Nicky held a broadsheet between thumb and finger, as if afraid the ink would smear. "Have I heard correctly? That you have added Author to your many attributes, to go along with Impostor, Thief, Traitor and—Deserter?"
Some laughter; mostly, smirks of the ruffled and effect party-goers. It shouldn't have stung, but then, Prudence shouldn't have been there, standing back with the women and girls, wrapped in a dark cloak—Nicky's greatcoat.
"The greatest thief is he who steals Liberty," Matthew said, in a shaky voice.
A faint murmur from the back of the tavern was cut short by Nicky's ringing voice: "As you ape the dress and manners of a gentleman, then shall you answer by a gentleman's code." He learned forward and gently, then stingingly slapped Matthew across the face with a single glove. "Now we shall see how you handle that piece of steel at your waist—assuming that it isn't made of paper-maiche, like a child's Christmas toy."