December 17th, 1773
Arthur Kirkland has requested my presence at his office in Boston this evening. As luck would have it, I'm already in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. I can't imagine why he wishes to speak with me—
Alfred F. Jones frowned at his journal. He hated the way he wrote; it always sounded too formal… like he expected someone to read and grade his private thoughts. Frustrated, Al flipped through a few pages to a sketch of three ships he'd started earlier that evening. With pencil in hand, Alfred flashed his blue eyes, thoughtfully scanning over his near-complete drawing… it was missing something.
A devilish grin slowly spread itself across the boy's face as he wrote Dartmouth, Eleanor, and Beaver on the sides of each respective ship. Now it was perfect.
"Practicing your writing?"
Alfred nearly jumped out of his seat. He looked up and caught the eyes of Kirkland's secretary sitting across the room at the lobby desk. He was an older man, with graying hair and a wrinkled but cheerful-looking face. "Yessir," Al quickly answered as he snapped the journal shut.
This seemed to please the secretary.
"Aren't you the little gentleman," he happily answered as he dipped his quill into a vile of ink and penned something onto a piece of paper. The man looked up again, "Are you still in school?"
Al shook his head and said,
"I used to go to the Boston Latin School, but I finished that up a little while ago."
It wasn't exactly a lie.
Arthur enrolled Al in The Boston Latin School as soon as it opened back in 1635. But after a few years, his caretaker forced him to move to the Rhode Island Colony and start again at a different school. Igg— er, Arthur didn't want any of the colonists growing suspicious of Alfred's seemingly endless youth.
'Never tell anyone who you really are without my expressed permission, America,' he remembered Arthur telling him,
'I don't want you or any of our kind in danger... Believe me, I've seen what happens when too many mortals find out about personifications.' Alfred scoffed at the memory. He'd been so trusting of his mentor back then. 'England would kill me if he found out how many people know I'm The Thirteen—'
"—You still look a little young to be enrolled in any of the colleges," the secretary called out, pulling America from his thoughts,
"What do you do with all of your free time?"
The young colony nervously laughed and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Eh, this and that," he cryptically replied.
Before the secretary could inquire any further, the office door suddenly swung open, revealing the very shaken, very nervous Boston constable, Isaac Townsend. The constable recognized Alfred and offered him a subdued, small smile before continuing wordlessly out the lobby.
There was a pause.
For a blissful moment, America thought England had forgotten he'd asked his colony to talk with him. Then a voice echoed out from inside the room.
"Mr. Jones."
It sounded more like a command than an invitation to meet him inside.
'Here we go,' Al thought as he tucked his journal into his coat pocket and pushed himself off the waiting room chair. He confidently walked into Arthur's office, taking great care to silently close the door behind him.
There were giant, yellowing maps on just about every inch of wall in the room. Many of them had red lines etched on their surfaces marking various trade routes between Europe and North America. Shelves were filled with trinkets taken from across the globe, and each row was neatly organized by culture and region. England sat behind his desk in the center of everything; his head rested on his fist while he silently watched his colony take a seat. The way England looked at America reminded the him of someone trying to outmatch another player at chess.
The colony uncomfortably shifted underneath the weight of the empire's piercing gaze.
"You're looking a little nervous, America. Is something the matter?" England innocently asked as America pulled his chair up to the desk.
"I was supposed to be heading to New York today," America tried to brush off the question, "So as you can imagine, I'm a little behind schedule…. Other than that I'm fine."
"I hope you weren't going there to listen to more of that treasonous, radical nonsense," Arthur noted, bringing his hands down and leaning forward.
America opened his mouth as if to retort the statement but quickly closed it. Britain curiously raised one of his thick eyebrows and allowed the pregnant silence to linger on a little while.
"Tea?" He finally asked as he stood to bring out a kettle and a pair of teacups for the both of them.
"I've lost my taste for it."
"Really?"
England said coolly, in a calculating sort of way,
"Forgive me, but I find it a little difficult to believe that you would stop drinking tea since your colonists drink…what was it…a little over one million pounds of tea each year?"
Without waiting for his colony to say anything in reply, Arthur placed a matching set of teacups and saucers on his side of the desk and began to pour. Al recognized the magenta colored liquid at once. It was hibiscus tea...his favorite, er, what used to be his favorite kind of tea. America watched England add several spoonfuls of what he guessed to be sugar to one of the cups. Arthur wordlessly slid the cup towards the boy.
For a while, Alfred simply stared at the cup, slowly clasping and unclasping his fist— unsure of what to do. England quietly noted the colony's inner struggle of choosing whether to drink the tea or not. He filed his suspicions away for dissection at a later time.
At long last, the boy finally caved into the temptation, picked up his teacup, and took a sip.
He didn't notice right away, but once the tea reached his tongue Alfred knew something was wrong—the flavor was awful, it stung and burned as he gulped the drink down. He covered his mouth and coughed until the horrible choking sensation left his throat.
"What was that?" America asked as he gasped for air, rubbing his teary eyes.
"Hmm?" England stared quizzically at the boy as if he hadn't noticed the small coughing fit.
"Oh. The tea." He said darkly.
"I added salt to it of course. I figured that's how you drank tea now, considering that all 342 crates of tea from the Dartmouth, Eleanor, and Beaver are now in the Boston harbor."
"Oh, that." Al cleared his throat and gingerly placed his teacup down. "Well maybe if the Tea Act was repealed like all of the other Acts, there would be no tea in the harbor right now."
He was immortal, America knew that, but one glance at The British Empire had him doubting it.
"In case you've forgotten, I recently fought a war defending you that ended up gaining you more territory. Is it really too much to ask that the colonists who benefited from my campaign help pay for the war efforts?" England darkly shot back as he took a sip of tea from his own cup.
America held England's gaze before turning to focus on something in the room other than the British officer sitting across from him. He'd been over this with England before, but every time this conversation came up it always slipped into the same argument loop. The taxes weren't what bothered America and his people (that much anyway), it was the lack of—
"I want names, America."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"A wheelwright named Francis Akeley has already been arrested, but one man won't be good enough for Parliament."
"Well since I don't have any representation, I don't really care what's good enough for Parl—"
"—Mr. Adams must've been there with you," Arthur interrupted, "It's common knowledge that he's strongly opposed to the Tea Act."
"Wait," Al held his hands in the air, "are you just assuming that I was involved in the protest?"
Arthur snorted, "There were hundreds of witnesses at last night's 'protest'. Did you really think no one would've noticed a thirteen-year-old boy among a group of rioting men?"
"Well everyone wore disguises, so I really doubt witnesses would've done any good," America flatly stated, folding his arms across his chest.
"I don't recall telling you that they were in disguise…"
"According to the newspapers," he clarified, "the men who raided the ships were dressed like Mohawks and were unrecognizable."
"Alfred F. Jones," Arthur closed his eyes and pinched his fingers on the bridge of his nose as if he was trying to alleviate a headache,
"I need you to consider the consequences of a little stunt like this—appearing weak is not a luxury the Empire has right now. I need you to put an end to whatever madness has seeped into Massachusetts as of late."
"In the meantime," the Englishman continued, "I'm very interested hearing, in great detail, everything you felt happen in Boston last night."
"What I felt in Boston? Okay… " America tried to hide his sly smirk, "Colonists were mad so I felt mad. But instead of participating in the protest, I went to bed like a the good little loyalist I am."
Arthur flatly stared at the American and motioned for him to continue speaking.
Al rolled his eyes and added, "And I didn't feel any sharp stings, so I don't think anyone died. The end."
"You know I'm going to need more than that..."
After nearly another hour and a half of fruitless interrogations (as well as a few more reprimands for good measure), Arthur let out a heavy breath and stood to get the door for Alfred.
"Control your colonists, or I will. Understand?"
England paused, no doubt waiting for his colony's compliance. America joined him at the door and stifled a groan.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir."
Arthur's lips curled into a scowl at the tone Alfred gave him. The boy sensed he was pushing his luck and lowered his eyes from the Empire's cold gaze. Al hoped his small act of submission— regardless of how insincere it was—would be enough to appease the fuming man in front of him.
"I'm leaving tomorrow with the morning tide," England finally said, his demeanor unreadable on the outside though he was anything less than furious within. The heavy-browed man noticed the American slightly stiffened at his statement, but the stubborn boy refused to let his disappointment seep through any other way.
"Understood, sir."
England sighed.
"Dismissed."
It took every ounce of The Thirteen Colonies' self-control not to slam the door shut as he exited the building and stomped down the street.
"Control your colonists or I will!" America mockingly yelled once he was a safe distance away and the howling wind could mask his voice. He grabbed a fist full of snow and threw it at different shop signs as he made his trek down the frozen road, not stopping the onslaught until his hands were too cold to aim properly.
Al shivered, pulled his coat closer to his neck, and angrily shoved his numb hands into his pockets. 'Boston's freezing tonight,' he finally realized once his disappointment and anger fizzled out.
Feeling miserable, America looked out at the shadowy, brick buildings lining the street. Less than a day ago, it was teeming with men who wished to send the world a message. Now the street was quiet and unassuming, covered in a soft blanket of fresh snow. In the distance, a bright glow steadily streamed out from inside a familiar-looking malthouse.
"I guess it's time to pay Sam Adams a visit," the boy whispered to himself as he made his way to the door.
The strong smell of ale and the voices of numerous large, rowdy men greeted the colony as he walked inside the building. Lit lanterns cast a warm, orange light on the brick walls surrounding the room. Men laughed, sung, and merrily drank their pints of alcohol in small clusters all around. Alfred didn't give any of it much attention though and found an empty barstool to sit on.
From the corner of his eye, Al saw a figure walking in his direction on the other side of the bar counter.
"Whiskey," Al said, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Wha–– Alfred?" the figure, Samuel Adams, laughed, "I almost didn't recognize you with that serious face." The bar's owner reached over and roughly ran his hands through Alfred's blonde hair, trying to cheer him up.
The gesture didn't help lift his spirits much, but Al put a small smile on his face for Adams' sake.
Sam Adams was one of the men who knew Alfred as America. He was a confident man with bright, kind eyes and a face usually plastered with a grin on it. The prominent Sons of Liberty leader always seemed up to something— his energetic nature and natural ambition completely masked the fact he was pushing 50. Wrinkles on the sides of his eyes and streaks of gray in his dark hair were the only indications Adams' had of his true age.
"I'm afraid my wife would be upset if she found out I served whiskey to a little boy—" Sam defensively put up his hands in response to the look the colony gave "—but I promise I'll pour you a glass once you look a little older."
'And if England got his way that would be never,' America bitterly thought as he slumped lower onto the counter, 'He thinks I've grown too fast already.'
The malthouse's owner took note of his colony's mood, and with a quick snap of his fingers, returned with a fizzy, bubbly drink in hand.
"Warm apple cider," the man stated while sliding the cup closer to the pouting boy, "I'm sure it will cheer you up just the same," he added with a wink.
Sam wasn't wrong, the cider warmed Alfred from the inside out. Though Al was pretty sure anything Mr. Adams offered him would've been better than the tea Arthur tricked him into drinking.
'And speaking of tea…'
"How are The Sons of Liberty?" Al asked in between sips of apple cider.
"Look around you," Sam gestured out into the room as he cleaned a glass, "everyone here's been giddy all day. It's too bad about Akeley though, but I'm sure he'll be out of prison in no time." He placed the newly clean glass down and started working on another. Sam's head snapped up as if he suddenly remembered something, "Hey, weren't you supposed to be riding down to Manhattan to let the New York chapter know what's happened?"
America wiped his mouth on his sleeve, "I was delayed by Arthur Kirkland."
"The British officer who arrived in Boston this morning?"
"That's the one," Al confirmed, "he's briefly investigating the protest to give a report to Parliament. Kirkland had a long talk with the harbor constable, and probably had a chat with Akeley in prison. He's convinced I was a part of everything too."
"...How much does he know?"
"It's hard to say… he's suspicious of the right people, but he lacks proof. I'd be cautious moving forward if I were you."
"I'll keep that in mind," Adams nodded. A patron sitting on the other end of the bar grabbed his attention, so he bid Alfred goodbye and walked over to serve the new guest.
America took another big gulp of his cider. He knew he needed to get back to his house to rest for the journey to New York, but the malthouse was too cheerful and warm for Alfred to justify leaving just yet. After his grueling interrogation with England, he needed to be around other free-spirited Americans to help bring his mood up.
But what to do in the meantime?
Al smirked as he reached into his coat pocket, grabbed his journal, took out a pencil, and continued where he'd left off:
—However, if I had to guess, I would say that my guardian was a little upset with my alleged involvement in a certain incident that happened last night. But honestly, Arthur should've been proud. It was a Tea Party after all…
Fog and condensation began to build up on the delicate windows of the church. The creaks and moans of the wooden floorboards gave testament to the fact that the building's capacity was being pushed to its limit. A lucky few stood on the pews while the large majority of people were packed tightly around the pulpit or atop the second story balcony. Alfred found himself pinned near a support beam in the corner of the room, too invested in what was being said to be uncomfortable.
He was inside the Old South Meeting House, and the tension here was sharp enough to kill a man. Earlier that day, Governor Thomas Hutchinson gave permission to the captains of the Dartmouth, Eleanor, and Beaver to dock at Boston's harbor and unload their supply of tea the next morning. In short, Boston was being forced to pay the Tea Tax, and the Massachusetts Bay colonists were not pleased with their governor's resolve.
"NO TAXES ON TEA!"
The foundations of the church practically shook as thousands of people yelled out their chant in unison.
Despite the anger incubating around him, America felt… happy. There were men and women from different towns, backgrounds, and social classes from all across Massachusetts gathered in the meeting house. All of them were united despite their individual status, gender, and age… it energized The Thirteen Colonies in a way he couldn't fathom.
"NO TAXES ON TEA!"
America smiled as he looked around at the people, soaking in whatever mystic energy this rally was bringing him. A few years ago in Virginia, he'd made the mistake of asking England what these feelings meant... He was promptly barred from attending any more protests after that.
Naturally, this left Alfred no other choice than to try to find the source of whatever he'd felt himself. What he ended up finding— or perhaps was destined to find— was a tiny group of rebellious colonists.
Al continued to scan the room and smirked once he spied a few familiar faces. Some of the men gathered in the church building were from the Loyal Nine, the original secret group before the Sons of Liberty formed. 'We've come a long way since 1765,' America proudly thought as he listened to Adams rile up the crowd:
"—We have exhausted each and every mean of legal action and diplomatic negotiation— Boston, tell me, where have these pleas gotten us?! It is clear to me now that this meeting can do nothing more to save the country!—"
Al gasped, 'That was it,' he thought, 'the signal—' the boy looked around and noticed a select few spectators began to discreetly exit the Old South Meeting House '—The Boston Tea Party is starting.'
He felt a heavy hand press down on his shoulder and looked up to see James Swan, one of the members of the Sons of Liberty, staring expectantly at him. America quickly nodded and followed Swan as he weaved through the crowd of fuming attendees.
"—And now, Dr. Thomas Young will come to the pulpit to speak on 'The Ill Effects of Tea on the Constitution'," America heard just as he quietly exited the meeting house.
"Do you think the plan to stall will work?" Al called out to James as the pair quickened their pace to meet up with the other members of the rebel group.
"Hard to say," he replied in a thick, Scottish accent, "but it does sound like a niche topic to me…"
Alfred frowned as they caught up with another group of men further down the street, this plan needed time. As the colony thought this, more people— both members of the Sons of Liberty and angry citizens alike— began to join their number, many of them sported feathers and painted faces. A few of the rioters even went as far as to bring their own tomahawks to complete their Mohawk Indian attire.
Swan dumped the ashes from the pipe he'd been smoking into the palm of his hand and used the black powder to disguise his face with different markings. The Scotsman offered some ashes to America, who thanked him and did the same.
Wild cries, yells, and screams echoed throughout Boston as the protestors ran down the wharf and over to where the ships were located. Alfred ran from the docks onto the Eleanor, laughing and shouting the loudest among everyone else who boarded. Hundreds of men entered the decks of the three vessels and began destroying the tea.
James Swan joined a group of rioters who immigrated from the same town in Scotland he had, leaving America to join a small group of teenagers participating in the destruction. The boys seemed hesitant to let Alfred join them at first, seeing how he looked younger than they were, but their attitudes changed after they saw the thirteen-year-old lift an entire crate of tea and throw it off of the boat unassisted.
"NO TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION," America yelled out as the crate met its fate with a prominent splash. His loud cry was met with a hearty "hurrah" from the men dumping tea on the neighboring ship.
Smiling, the teens joined America and happily hacked at the crates of tea and dumped their contents into the salty harbor water below.
Time seemed to fly as the destruction of the cargo continued. Suddenly, an alarm bell sharply rang out across the wharf.
"Redcoats!" Alfred heard a voice cry out.
"Abandon ship!" Came the concerned cry of another rioter.
Patriots started scrambling left and right— a few of them opted to jump off the side of the ship and swim to the dock for a quick getaway. Not willing to plunge into the freezing December water, Alfred ran to the plank connecting Eleanor to the dock and stealthily made his way off of the boat.
"We did it," he triumphantly stated as more men gathered around him on the docks.
Just then, red cladded soldiers ran up to the rioters. As if a silent command had been given, the group dispersed into the shadows–– each man heading in a different direction.
Soldiers closely tailed Alfred, loudly blowing their whistles, probably thinking the smallest boy would be the easiest to detain.
'Their mistake,' Al snorted, sprinting away from the soldiers.
"Come back here at once!"
"This is treason!"
At that, Alfred turned to face the redcoats, "'If this be treason, make the most of it'!" America laughed, quoting one of his favorite Virginian radicals. Before the soldiers could get too close, the boy started running again. He dodged between the gaps of closed stores, climbed over the fences of different residences, and sprinted through Boston's large network of streets and alleyways all in an effort to lose the men.
Eventually, he found a rogue group of fleeing rioters and joined their rank. They were doing fine sneaking around until a sharp whistle indicated more soldiers spotted them.
"Stop in the name of the King!"
"Halt, I say!"
Of course, the Patriots did nothing of the sort, and America's laughter rang out through the night as he and the other Sons of Liberty evaded capture.
We spent the rest of the evening and early morning running from British soldiers. After today, I doubt I'll ever drink another cup of tea again!
America finished writing his entry in the comforts of his own Bostonian home. Yawning, he closed his journal, carefully laid it on his nightstand, and blew out the candle lighting his bedroom.
He awoke the next morning before sunrise to prepare for his journey to meet with The Association of Sons of Liberty in New York. It would be a five-day ride at least, and he wanted to be out of Boston before the sun made its way above the ocean's horizon. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Al slipped his white linen shirt over his head and pulled up a clean pair of breeches to his waist.
As America slipped on his riding boots, a loose piece of paper hanging on the edge of the dresser caught his eye. The young boy grabbed the paper and recognized it as the drawing he'd planned on giving England for Christmas. He glanced over at the trash bin… Then shook his head and tightly folded the paper in his hands. Al sighed and tucked the now pointless present into his pocket.
With the minor distraction out of the way, he quickly packed the rest of his provisions and was ready to depart. He fearlessly walked out his home and latched the front door behind him. It locked with a satisfying click.
But instead of heading in the direction of the stables as he planned, America found himself walking down the street toward the docks.
Greeting him upon arrival was an enormous black ship with sailors running across the decks preparing for the voyage to Great Britain. Men on the dock carried supplies to and from the ship's cargo hold all the while a certain English gentleman oversaw the process.
Some part of Al begged him to run out and hug Arthur like he used to— back when he could fool settlers into thinking he was only five or six. But that had been a long, long time ago... everything was different now. England no longer put America on his hip and promised 'He'd be back before he knew he was gone'. And America no longer tallied each day England was away. He was thirteen in the eyes of mortals. He needed to act like it.
Then why, why, did America suddenly feel his feet stepping closer to where England was standing. Maybe it was because he could see the way his mentor expectantly looked at each spectator walking by. Maybe it was because Alfred wanted to yell at Arthur and tell him to never come back. Maybe it was because deep down America still wanted everything to be all right between him and England. Whatever the reason, Alfred was now standing in front of Arthur, who'd only acknowledged Al's presence with a curt nod— although America was positive he saw a glimmer of relief in England's green eyes.
In the distance, the first rays of sunlight began to peek up over the ocean.
Arthur and Alfred were both still mad at each other… Anyone with a penny's worth of common sense could tell. The empire and the colony were both stiff as they waited for either one of them to say...
something…
everything...
anything.
Wordlessly, they both embraced in a tight hug.
"I hope when we meet again it's under more cheerful circumstances," Britain quietly said.
"Me too," America breathed out, burying his head into Arthur's chest, "Goodbye, England."
"Goodbye, America," England solemnly replied as he slowly broke off their hug and turned to board the Europe-bound vessel.
In that moment, if Arthur had truly known when next they'd meet, he would have never let his little brother go.
Author's Note:
I'm definitely going the historical fiction route with this fanfic. I will do my best to keep things accurate, but I can't guarantee everything will be 100% correct! It's going to be more of a story than a lecture (I'm hoping anyway).
If Chapter 1 had a credits song it would be "We Were So Close" from the Frozen OST. Sad, slow, and subdued— perfect for a quick farewell at the docks of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.
•The Boston Tea Party happened December, 16th 1773… the fic just opens the next day
•The Boston Latin School was the first school opened in the United States Isaac Townsend was an actual constable in Boston in 1773 that I came across while reading "Documents of the City of Boston, Volume 3". I couldn't find anything indicating that he was directly involved with the Boston Tea Party, but I still wanted to reference a random person a part of America's history.
•Francis Akeley was the ONLY guy to be imprisoned in the aftermath of the Boston Tea Party… I guess he skipped arts and crafts day at the Sons of Liberty meetings.
•According to The Old South Meeting House Museum, Dr. Thomas Young was really asked to stall the crowd with his speech on 'The Ill Effects of Tea on the Constitution' xD
•James Swan was an actual Sons of Liberty member!
•Thomas Hutchinson was a huge Loyalist and the Governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony at that time… untiiiilll he was replaced by the British appointed Governor, Thomas Gage, who would usher in the "Coercive Acts". The Acts would of course be known under a different name here in America, but that's a chapter for another time…
Updates will be sporadic (if ever) as I'm a starving student hard-pressed for time. A special thank you to my wonderful friends for test reading the chapter :D
Thanks for reading!
