half-mast, as if on some sudden agreement. Or church bells would toll when it was not the Sabbath. Everyone was waiting for the pernicious stamps. They were to arrive in November.
Aunt Cumsee laid a cold supper for us that night. Meats and pickles, relishes and fresh fruit. When Mr. Wheatley praised her, saying it was too hot for anything else, she apologized.
"All I could do," she said. "I had no firewood."
"Where is Prince?" Mr. Wheatley looked around.
"Not been here all afternoon," she said.
"He'd best be back before dark," Nathaniel said. "The town clerk has ordered that no mulatto or Negro servants be abroad after nine at night. I heard Prince was running messages to the Sons."
"What is the nature of the messages?" Mr. Wheatley asked.
"Every post for the last day or so is bringing messages of encouragement from other colonies," Nathaniel said. "All we hear is 'Resolved,' from the citizens of Annapolis, Plymouth, Newport"
"What have they resolved?" Mary asked.
Nathaniel sipped his cold cider. "That with submission to divine Providence, we can never be slaves. And the Virginians passed a set of resolutions that are absolutely daring."
"And what makes them any more daring than our Braintree Instructions, written by John Adams?" Mary challenged.
"The Virginians are men with money. Landed proprietors."
"So, since men with money are against this Stamp Act, you're against it now, too." Mary's tone was snide.
"It will ruin our economy," Nathaniel said.
Mary grimaced. "If something affects trade you care. My John is preaching against the Stamp Act for the good of all."
"The good of all is his business," Nathaniel said; "mine is trade." Then he grinned. "Did John not tell you how it affects those contemplating marriage?"
"Don't jest, Nathaniel," Mary said.
"I don't. The
Gazette
said today that many young people are joining in wedlock earlier than they intended, because after the first of November it will be difficult to have the ceremony performed without paying dearly for stamping."
Mary flushed. "Mother, make him stop."
"Enough, children," Mrs. Wheatley chided. "You know we encourage intelligent discourse. But let's not let it divide our family."
I looked at Nathaniel.
It affects us all,
he'd said.
We can never be slaves.
I liked the ring of it.
When Aunt Cumsee brought in the whipped syllabub, we heard the clamor outside. Dusk had fallen; candles flickered on the table. We ran to the windows. A crowd had appeared.
Mary gasped. "Where did they come from?" She was afraid.
I was not. I was seized by a sense of excitement.
"Crowds come from nowhere these days," Mr. Wheatley said. "I suggest we close all the shutters."
We went about fastening the shutters on the inside.
Nathaniel secured all the doors. "Mary, play your harpsichord so Mother and Father don't hear the noise." And he ran up the stairs.
Mary sat to play. Aunt Cumsee served the syllabub. I lighted more candles. Nathaniel came back down and took his place at the table. Inside his frock coat he had a long pistol stuck in the waistband of his breeches. Was I the only one to notice?
After dessert Mr. and Mrs. Wheatley sat in chairs before the empty fireplace. Mrs. Wheatley took up some petit point.
I slipped out of the room and followed Nathaniel across the hall into the parlor. He had one shutter open. From outside there came the dull murmur of many voices as more and more people surged down King Street, waving their arms, one great body driven by their anger.
High above them they carried the straw Andrew Oliver on a bier.
Nathaniel stood watching, hands behind his back.
"What is it?" I whispered.
"A mock funeral procession."
"What are they chanting?"
"'Liberty, property, and no stamps!'"
I listened, making sense of the chant then. Over and over they said it. Louder and louder. There was a rhythm to it, a sense of purpose. They were coming right by our house.
"Are you afraid?" Nathaniel asked.
"Mary is. But no, I'm not. I think it's
Aunt Cumsee laid a cold supper for us that night. Meats and pickles, relishes and fresh fruit. When Mr. Wheatley praised her, saying it was too hot for anything else, she apologized.
"All I could do," she said. "I had no firewood."
"Where is Prince?" Mr. Wheatley looked around.
"Not been here all afternoon," she said.
"He'd best be back before dark," Nathaniel said. "The town clerk has ordered that no mulatto or Negro servants be abroad after nine at night. I heard Prince was running messages to the Sons."
"What is the nature of the messages?" Mr. Wheatley asked.
"Every post for the last day or so is bringing messages of encouragement from other colonies," Nathaniel said. "All we hear is 'Resolved,' from the citizens of Annapolis, Plymouth, Newport"
"What have they resolved?" Mary asked.
Nathaniel sipped his cold cider. "That with submission to divine Providence, we can never be slaves. And the Virginians passed a set of resolutions that are absolutely daring."
"And what makes them any more daring than our Braintree Instructions, written by John Adams?" Mary challenged.
"The Virginians are men with money. Landed proprietors."
"So, since men with money are against this Stamp Act, you're against it now, too." Mary's tone was snide.
"It will ruin our economy," Nathaniel said.
Mary grimaced. "If something affects trade you care. My John is preaching against the Stamp Act for the good of all."
"The good of all is his business," Nathaniel said; "mine is trade." Then he grinned. "Did John not tell you how it affects those contemplating marriage?"
"Don't jest, Nathaniel," Mary said.
"I don't. The
Gazette
said today that many young people are joining in wedlock earlier than they intended, because after the first of November it will be difficult to have the ceremony performed without paying dearly for stamping."
Mary flushed. "Mother, make him stop."
"Enough, children," Mrs. Wheatley chided. "You know we encourage intelligent discourse. But let's not let it divide our family."
I looked at Nathaniel.
It affects us all,
he'd said.
We can never be slaves.
I liked the ring of it.
When Aunt Cumsee brought in the whipped syllabub, we heard the clamor outside. Dusk had fallen; candles flickered on the table. We ran to the windows. A crowd had appeared.
Mary gasped. "Where did they come from?" She was afraid.
I was not. I was seized by a sense of excitement.
"Crowds come from nowhere these days," Mr. Wheatley said. "I suggest we close all the shutters."
We went about fastening the shutters on the inside.
Nathaniel secured all the doors. "Mary, play your harpsichord so Mother and Father don't hear the noise." And he ran up the stairs.
Mary sat to play. Aunt Cumsee served the syllabub. I lighted more candles. Nathaniel came back down and took his place at the table. Inside his frock coat he had a long pistol stuck in the waistband of his breeches. Was I the only one to notice?
After dessert Mr. and Mrs. Wheatley sat in chairs before the empty fireplace. Mrs. Wheatley took up some petit point.
I slipped out of the room and followed Nathaniel across the hall into the parlor. He had one shutter open. From outside there came the dull murmur of many voices as more and more people surged down King Street, waving their arms, one great body driven by their anger.
High above them they carried the straw Andrew Oliver on a bier.
Nathaniel stood watching, hands behind his back.
"What is it?" I whispered.
"A mock funeral procession."
"What are they chanting?"
"'Liberty, property, and no stamps!'"
I listened, making sense of the chant then. Over and over they said it. Louder and louder. There was a rhythm to it, a sense of purpose. They were coming right by our house.
"Are you afraid?" Nathaniel asked.
"Mary is. But no, I'm not. I think it's
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