“I am,” said Aunt Charlotte.
The shop owner smiled smugly. “And yet here you are in my shop,” said she.
“My niece admires the bowl in your window,” said Aunt Charlotte.
“That’s a fine bowl, indeed,” said the shopkeeper. “’Twas made in Wedgwood, England.”
“Made in England?” said Aunt Charlotte. Her voice was steady but firm. “Shame on you for selling frippery and finery that’s come from Britain, just like the tea on those hateful ships in our harbor. Don’t you support the Patriots’ fight for justice?”
My heart swelled with pride to hear my aunt stand on her beliefs, and I promised myself that I, too, would always stand strong for what I believed was right. But the shopkeeper was having none of it.
“Have you no loyalty to our king?” she asked. “Besides, everyone knows that if those ships are not sent back to England in the next eight days, British agents will seize the tea and start selling it—and charging the tax on it. No, I won’t stand against the king, and nor should you if you’ve any common sense.”
“I have something better than common sense,” said Aunt Charlotte. “Principles. I believe the Patriots are right.”
“Humph,” snorted the shopkeeper. She turned to me and asked, “Do you want to buy this bowl?”
“No, thank you,” I said politely. Suddenly, the bowl from England didn’t look lovely to me anymore.
On the morning of November 29, 1773, the people of Boston woke to the sound of church bells ringing throughout the city to signal an emergency. Many left their homes and filed into the streets to investigate.
A meeting was being held at the Old South Meeting House, on the corner of Milk and Cornhill Streets, to discuss the arrival of the Dartmouth. More than five thousand people descended on the brick meetinghouse, Boston’s largest building at the time. Huge crowds of people spilled onto the street.
The meeting lasted for two days. The stench from unwashed bodies was intense, and people had to stamp their feet and huddle close to keep warm. But with the fate of the colonies hanging in the balance, none of that seemed to matter.
Colonial leaders, including Samuel Adams, explained the situation. The law stated that the tea from the Dartmouth had to be unloaded and all the taxes paid within twenty days. The Patriots did not want that tea, and certainly did not want to pay the taxes! They were determined to find a way to beat the king at his own game.
The Sons of Liberty stationed guards at Griffin’s Wharf to make sure no chests left the ship. More guards were posted when a second ship, Eleanor, arrived on December 2, and a third ship, Beaver, entered port on December 15.
Messages were sent to Governor Hutchinson, demanding that he send the ships back to Britain. He refused.
The mood throughout Boston darkened. Tensions flared, and nerves grew tense. Patriots and Loyalists who passed one another on the street could hardly look each other in the eye.
In the days leading up to the deadline, the Sons of Liberty held secret meetings. They reached a difficult decision: The tea had to be destroyed if they wanted to avoid paying taxes and giving in to British rule.
* * *
The morning of December 16 finally arrived. A cold drizzle fell as the people of Boston assembled one last time at the Old South Meeting House. The leaders voted to make a final appeal to Governor Hutchinson.
Francis Rotch, whose family owned the Dartmouth, was sent to Hutchinson’s home outside the city. He would ask for permission to remove his ship from the harbor with the tea on board. Rotch was expected back by three o’clock that afternoon. But as the sun set over Boston, there was still no sign of him. The crowd grew restless.
Finally, around six o’clock, Rotch returned to the hall. His slumped body language told the bad news even before he opened his mouth. The governor would not give in. The tea would remain. And in just six hours, the colonists would be forced to pay up.
Samuel Adams took to the podium and declared, with a quiver in his voice, “This meeting can do no more to save the country!”
As if on cue, a round of whoops and whistles rang out from the balcony at the back of the meeting hall. As the people looked around, they saw that many of the men were disguised as Mohawk Indians, their faces painted with soot and grease and blankets draped over their shoulders. The costumes were a symbolic gesture meant to show the colonists’ loyalty to America, as the Indians were native to the land.
“Boston Harbor is a teapot tonight!” someone shouted.
“Who knows how tea will mingle with salt water?” another asked.
As the crowd poured onto the street, the Sons of Liberty looked on with a combination of pride and fear. “Let every man do what is right in his own eyes,” said John Hancock, one of the Sons of Liberty’s most distinguished leaders. He said it knowing full well that the men before him were prepared to take action and defy the British.
At first, a few dozen protesters carrying axes, hatchets, and tomahawks marched down Milk Street. Others joined the mob along the way, and by the time they reached the harbor, they numbered nearly one hundred.
The most prominent Sons of Liberty, including Samuel Adams and John Hancock, were too recognizable, so they stayed behind. Instead, young carpenters, bricklayers, butchers, and smiths, like Joshua Wyeth, a sixteen-year-old blacksmith, carried out the mission. A young man named Samuel Sprague was on his way to a date with a girl when he was swept up in the crowd. He had no disguise handy, so he blackened his face with soot from a nearby stovepipe. Peter Slater was just fourteen years old and a rope maker’s apprentice. He witnessed the scene from his upstairs bedroom, where his employer had
