A Catch of Consequence. Diana Norman

stalking in her wake, she took her basket to Faneuil Market instead of to Ship Street’s where she more usually did her buying, partly because the meat in its hall would be kept cooler and freer of flies than that on open stalls and partly to listen in that general meeting place for mention of a missing Englishman. She doubted if she could have heard it if there had been; Faneuil’s was always noisy but today’s clamour threatened to rock its elegant pillars.

      Boston patriotism, simmering for years, had boiled out of its clubs and secret societies into the open. For once a town that prized property and propriety was prepared to sacrifice both for something it valued higher. There was no catharsis from last night’s mayhem, no shame at the damage, everybody there had become a patriot overnight. ‘We showed ’em.’ ‘We got ’em running.’ She heard it again and again, from street-sellers to wealthy merchants. She found satisfaction in hearing it from a knot of lawyers fresh from the courthouse, as exhilarated as any Son of Liberty at last night’s breakdown of order. Deeds, wills, all litigious documents were subject to Stamp Duty; the tax had hit the legal profession hard. But you sharks can afford to pay it, she thought, I can’t.

      Even newspapers – another taxed item – had increased in price; she could no longer take the Boston Gazette for her customers to read as she once had. From the triumphant headlines: ‘The Sons of Liberty have shown the Spirit of America’, glimpsed as copies were passed hand-to-hand through the market, she gathered that the press was trumpeting revenge.

      Indeed, no catharsis. If anything, those who’d taken part were excited into wanting to do it again and gaining recruits who saw their royal Governor taken aback and helpless.

      In one corner, a penny whistle was accompanying a group singing ‘Rule, Bostonians/ Bostonians rule the waves/ Bostonians never, never, never shall be slaves’ with more gusto than scansion. Tory ladies, usually to be seen shopping with a collared negro in tow, were not in evidence, nor were their husbands.

      ‘Mistress Burke.’

      ‘Mistress Godwit.’ Wife to the landlord of the Green Dragon in Union Street. They curtsied to each other.

      ‘Reckon we’ll see that old Stamp Tax repealed yet,’ shrieked Mrs Godwit.

      ‘We will?’ shouted Makepeace. ‘Hooray to that.’

      ‘Don’t approve of riotin’ but something’s got to be done.’

      ‘Long as it don’t affect trade.’

      They were joined by Mrs Ellis, Bunch of Grapes, King Street. ‘Oh, they won’t attack patriotic hostelries. Tories’ll suffer though. I heard as how Piggott of the Anchor got tarred and feathered.’

      The Anchor was South End and gave itself airs.

      ‘Never liked him,’ Makepeace said.

      ‘Sam Adams’ll be speechifyin’ at the Green Dragon tonight, I expect,’ announced Mistress Godwit, loftily.

      ‘And comin’ on to the Bunch of Grapes.’

      ‘Always ends up at the Roaring Meg.’

      Honours even, the ladies separated.

      Despite the ache in her back, but with Tantaquidgeon to carry her basket, Makepeace detoured home via Cornhill so that she might be taunted by fashions she couldn’t afford.

      Here there was evidence of a new, less violent campaign against the government. At Wentworth’s, who specialized in the obligatory black cloth with which American grief swathed itself after the decease of a loved one, a sign had been pasted across the window: ‘Show frugality in mourning.’ The draper himself was regarding it.

      She stopped. ‘What’s that, then?’

      ‘Funereals come from England, don’t they?’ he said. ‘The Sons say as English goods got to be embargoed.’

      Makepeace had never heard the word but she got the gist. ‘Very patriotic of you.’

      ‘Wasn’t my idea,’ said Mr Wentworth, resentfully.

      The Sons of Liberty had been harsher on Elizabeth Murray, importer of London petticoats, hats and tippets for fifteen successful years. One of her windows was broken, the other carried a crudely penned banner: ‘A Enimy to Her Country’.

      Men on upturned boxes harangued crowds gathered under the shade of trees to listen. Barefoot urchins ran along the streets, sticking fliers on anything that stood still, or even didn’t. Makepeace watched one of them jump on the rear of a moving carriage to dab his paper nimbly on the back of a footman. As the boy leaped back into the dust, she caught him by the shirt and cuffed him.

      ‘And what d’you think you’re doing?’

      ‘I’m helpin’ Sam Adams.’

      ‘He’s doing well enough without you, varmint. You come on home.’ She took a flier from his hand. ‘What’s that say?’

      Joshua sulked. ‘Says we’re goin’ to cut Master Oliver’s head off.’

      ‘It says “No importation” and if you kept to your books like I told you, you’d maybe know what it means.’

      She was teaching Betty’s son to read; she worried for his literacy, though he’d gone beyond her in the art of drawing and she’d asked Sam Adams if there was someone he could be apprenticed to. So far he’d found no artist willing to take on a black pupil.

      He trotted along beside her. ‘Don’t tell Mammy.’

      ‘I surely will.’ But as they approached the Roaring Meg she let him slip away from her to get to the taproom stairs and his room without passing through the kitchen.

      ‘Going to be a long, hot night, Bet. I don’t know what about the lobsters. Can the Sons eat and riot?’

      ‘Chowder,’ said Betty. ‘Quicker.’

      ‘How’s upstairs?’

      ‘Sleepin’.’

      ‘Ain’t you found out who he belongs to?’

      ‘Nope. Ain’t you?’

      Maybe she could smuggle him to Government House – she had an image of Tantaquidgeon trundling a covered handcart through the streets by night – but information had Governor Bernard holed up, shaking, at Castle William along the coast.

      ‘Sons of Liberty meeting and an English drownder right across the hall. Ain’t I lucky?’

      When she went up to her room, the drownder was still asleep. She washed and changed while crouching behind her clothes press in case he woke up during the process. Tying on her clean cap, she crossed to the bed to study his face. Wouldn’t set the world on fire, that was certain sure. Nose too long, skin too sallow, mouth turned down in almost a parody of melancholia. ‘Why?’ she complained. ‘Why did thee never learn to swim?’

      As she reached the door, a voice said: ‘Not a public school requirement, ma’am.’

      She whirled round. He hadn’t moved, eyes still closed. She went back and prised one of his eyelids up. ‘You awake?’

      ‘I’m trying not to be. Where am I?’

      ‘The Roaring Meg. Tavern. Boston.’

      ‘And you are?’

      ‘Tavern-keeper. You foundered in the harbour and I pulled you out.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘You’re welcome. How’d ye get there?’

      There was a pause. ‘Odd, I can’t remember.’

      ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Oh God. Philip Dapifer. I don’t wish to seem ungrateful, madam, but might you postpone your questions to another time? It’s like being trepanned.’ He added querulously: ‘I am in considerable pain.’

      ‘You’re