"Where've you been?" asked my
brother Tim, as I descended the stairs in my proper attire. Tim was tall and gangly. He had the blue eyes and blond hair
characteristic of my family, and looked very much like my father.
"Aw, leave the poor girl alone," my
brother John spoke now. He also had
blond hair and blue eyes, but was much shorter and stockier than anyone else in
the family. John had always been kinder
to me, and while I still did not like him, I felt closer to him than to anyone else
in my family.
Both Tim and John were older than I
by many years. Charles would have been
the eldest in the family, but had been banished long ago. That left Tim as the eldest, with Meg a few
years younger than him. Then came John,
as the third youngest, and me as the very youngest child, looked down upon
always.
"Leave me alone," snapped Tim,
always above everyone else, especially John and I. "This isn't any of your business." Of course Tim would say that. Always picking on everyone, his favorite
phrase was "I'm the oldest in this family, and I say…". All I wanted to do was scream no you're
not! Charles is!
But his name was never mentioned. It was as if he had never existed. I often wondered. If I were to do something as bad as whatever it was that
Charles did, would I be forgotten as well? I half wished that would happen, as then I could perhaps find a life
with people who did not hate me for the color of my deep brown hair, and the
fire in my sharp green eyes.
"I know you weren't home, Abby," Tim continued,
grabbing me by the wrist. "Because I
checked in your room. Now if you don't
tell me where you were, I'll have to use the switch on you." Of course Tim would say that. Always so high and mighty, as if his
authority came directly from God himself. Not that Father would care what Tim did to me, but nor had he directly
given Tim the right to beat his sister.
"Tim, Father never gave you the right to beat his
daughter," said John, standing up for me at last. I had always known John didn't approve of how Tim treated me, but
I was amazed at his sudden boldness.
"She's not just his daughter, John," snapped Tim,
releasing me and glaring fiercely at John. "She's my sister, and I think I can judge whether or not Father would
approve of my actions." Tim grasped my
wrist again, and hurled me onto the floor. I started to get up, but he pushed me down again, now clutching the
switch in his bony hand.
"Tim, you've gone too far this time," John said, as
he grabbed Tim's arm, and tried to wrench the switch from out of his
grasp. "Abby is my sister as well, and
I'm telling you to stop."
"I'm the oldest here!" yelled Tim, as he shook out
of John's grasp. But John, being a
decent brother for the first time in his life, hurled himself at Tim, knocking
him to the ground.
I remained on the floor, watching my
two brothers fiercely tackle each other, seemingly determined to rip each other
apart. I had seen my brothers fight
before, but it had always been restricted to yelling, rather than physically
attacking each other. They continued to
fight for a short amount of time, before my mother entered, shocked at their
lack of "brotherly love", as she so often put it.
"John!" exclaimed my mother, her
hand on her heart. "I am amazed at your
lack of respect for your elders!" Of course Mama sided with Tim-she always
had. John was at fault for this fight,
as well everything that ever happened in this family-providing it couldn't be
blamed on me.
"I'm sorry Mama," said John, as he
looked guiltily at the floor. Oh, I was
so angry! John was a decent brother to
me, and here Mama was about to punish him for it! John would never help me again, knowing what would happen if he
did.
"I should hope you're sorry!" Mama
said, as she walked closer to John, and told him his punishment. He was to stay indoors for the next 2 weeks,
without visitors or messages of any kind. I was filled with strong disappointment. I won't be getting any help from John now, I thought in
despair.
"You owe me big," my brother John
was certainly not very happy about his punishment. But he also seemed to be proud of himself, that he had stood up
and done what was right for once.
"I know, John," I said, looking at
my disheveled brother, with his black eye and torn shirt. "Thank you." His chin was still bleeding, and through all of his misery he
managed to give me a hardy smile, as if to say, you're welcome.
"So where do you go?" he asked,
referring to the countless times I had gone missing in the past few weeks.
"Wherever my feet take me," I
answered, inclined to be as vague as possible, even around John. While I hated all of my family, I could
barely tolerate John. But even he was
untrustworthy, snobbish, and generally hateful. I knew that if I told him where or how I went, he would undoubtedly
tell Tim.
"Abby, I think I deserve an answer from you, considering as how I've just saved you from the switch a moment ago," It was always leading towards something with John. I now realized that he had only stood up for me so that he could get me to answer some of his questions.
"No matter what I tell you, John" I said, now glaring at him fiercely. "You will tell Tim, which will lead to the switch for me. Do you intend to save me from it yet again?" I asked, with newfound boldness.
" I should have let him beat you!"
John raved, walking back and forth in his tiny room. "Maybe it would have taught you some manners!"
"It would've saved your neck,
as well," I screamed, and hoped that my green eyes piercing into him like tiny
knives. "Thank you for your help!" I
exclaimed loudly, and stormed out of the room.
Just as I had begun to think that I did indeed have one
decent sibling, I had been proven wrong. I had learned yet again, that I utterly loathed every member of my
family, excluding Charles. And Charles
was not, technically, a member of my family any longer.
I hastily donned my boy's clothing, and rushed into
the street. I had become so fed up with
my family, so tired of their hatred and condescension. I thought maybe I could form a new life, as
a young boy, running various errands for people. I walked through the streets of Boston, and sought out the only
person I knew in such a life, Chris Snieder.
"Back again so soon?" asked Chris, quite surprised to see me. "Like I said, it en't safe fer you here." Oh, so this was how he was always going to be. It isn't safe, it isn't safe. I didn't consider it safe at home, either. I explained to him what I wanted to do, and as dubious as he was, he agreed to let me accompany him on his errands.
We first traveled to the home of
John Hancock. He was a rich young
merchant, recruited by Sam Adams to pay the bills for the Whig doings. One might therefore consider him quite
gullible, to be recruited simply based on his money. However, as Chris told me, John Hancock was smarter than all of
that, and often had some insightful suggestions for his fellow Whigs.
John Hancock was a thin, touchy, and
proud young man. Although even some
Whigs agreed that his intellectual abilities were very mediocre, the fact that
he kept his uncle's fortune alive for so many years remains as a tribute to his
intellect.
He always seemed very nervous
whenever I saw him, and was in constant bad health. He considered it the gout, and was taken to headaches. It had always seemed as if he were
continually trying to please the public, but I believed that the constant
sneering heard about him was more than his due. I saw in him a man who had a sincere eagerness to do great things
with his vast fortune.
As we approached his great mansion,
I looked up at the three stories of stone. In the coach house was his legendary 'chariot', with a coachman from
England to drive it. The English
gardeners tended the magnificent gardens, and from the looks of John Hancock's
mansion one might not be able to tell that his politics lay with the
Whigs.
The door was answered by a black
slave, who haughtily told us "Mr. Hancock is indisposed". No, we would not be allowed to see him, as
we would undoubtedly only increase the severity of his headache. Chris was forced to give the servant a note
for Mr. Hancock, under the instructions that it was to be seen by no other than
him.
Through the alleys and back streets
of Boston, we eventually reached the home of Sam Adams. His home was exactly the opposite of that of
the young John Hancock. A small home,
it looked as if it might collapse at any moment.
At first Sam Adams had wished to set
up business as a politician. His father
lent him a thousand pounds, which he then lent to a friend, and never saw it
again. He either didn't notice or
didn't care. His father was dismayed in
his general disinterest in money or material objects.
Sam Adams was then apprenticed to a merchant, when
the merchant complained to his father that he was training businessmen, not
politicians. His father took him from
the merchant house, and kept a close eye on him while he worked in the family
brewery.
When his father died, Sam Adams let
the brewery generally decay, and the wharf where it once sat was now
disappearing into the sea. He then
could focus on his real passion: politics. He was generally unsuccessful, being middle-aged when he acquired his
first public office. But this did not
stop him, nor discourage him in the least.
Sam Adams then became Boston tax
collector, a job for which he was not at all qualified. He was softhearted, as he listened to
people's hard luck stories, and of course could collect no taxes. There was talk of him being some fifteen
hundred pounds short.
Through constant persistence, Sam
Adams gained the status he had now, as controller of "the mob" and a leading
force towards independence in the colonies.
We knocked, and were admitted
immediately. "I've a message for Mr.
Adams." Chris told the servant who answered. She seemed skeptical about letting a pair such as us into the house, but
went to fetch her master nonetheless. Sam Adams appeared presently, and recognized Chris.
"You've a message for me, have you?"
his tone was not unfriendly, but he addressed Chris as his station permitted,
as a master would speak to his servant. Was it not he who often employed many boys such as Chris to carry
messages, and, as the public often surmised, to harass the British soldiers?
Sam Adams was a man frail, middle-aged
man. His hair had prematurely grayed,
showing the toll of his life's hardships. He had a soft pallor to his face, and his hands shook faintly, as did
sometimes his voice. Sam Adams'
tattered, dusty clothes suggested middle-aged failure, and general disinterest
in appearance.
In fact, Sam Adams' only real
interest was politics. He apparently
loved to pull the strings, and set the stage for each new act. It did not particularly matter who strutted onto
the stage, as long as he followed what had been planned. Sam Adams was perfectly happy to let another
man strut, while he mapped out exactly what this man was to do.
"Yessir," Chris replied. He handed Mr. Adams the message, and was
awarded a coin for his efforts. We then
turned out of the house and walked back to North Square, as close to my home as
I would allow Chris to escort me.
North Square was full of its usual
hustle and bustle. Three times a week
it was transformed into a market square. Foods of all kinds were being sold. Towering stacks of grain, and delicacies from faraway places could be
bought, as if it were no trouble at all. North Square was a neat, tidy place, with elaborate and respectable
houses. Beautiful trees were found all
around, and tidy gardens lined the sides. I waited until Chris had left, and quickly turned the corner onto North
Street, slipping in the side door of my well to do home.