Historical Fiction

I remember standing at the very front of a long, wood paneled room, with rows of scratched wooden tables of different heights that served as desks, and an array of mismatched chairs. In these chairs were children of all ages, about twenty in all, both male and female, though the sexes sat on separate sides of the room. Although some of the older boys leaned back in their chairs as though trying to test the teacher’s authority, the rest of the class sat primly in their seats, and they were all staring at me. The teacher cleared her throat before speaking.

“This is Anna, and she is- How old are you?” she asked me.

“Eight,” I replied nervously.

“She will be joining us for the rest of the year,” she said to the class. Turning to me, she introduced herself. “My name is Ms. Sullivan. We are very pleased to meet you.” I nodded shyly. The rest of the children announced their own names, boys first, from oldest to youngest. There were several Johns, a Paul and a Peter, and some Williams as well as a few names I couldn’t make out. The girls then proceeded in the same fashion. As far as I could tell, half of the girls were Mary. Mary Ann, Mary Clare, Mary Ellen and so forth. After the last Mary (Mary Elisabeth), I was allowed to take my seat and class began.

That first day and all of the ones after vanished into the monotony that was the New England Primer. Day after day, we learned the same thing, no matter how much I insisted I could, in fact, read. My Father was a University professor at Harvard and had taught me all I knew. He thought it unwise for a girl to learn Latin and Greek, but I could read and write fairly well, if only in English. Well… I read well for an eight year old girl with no proper schooling. But I survived, and I endured the boredom that is inevitable when it comes to school, almost completely oblivious to the rebellion rising up around me.

You see, the year I turned nine was 1773, in the midst of the turmoil that led to the start of the American Revolutionary war. There were, of course, interruptions in the monotony of school, caused by tensions between the colonists and those invading and obsessively controlling the British. This biggest of these interruptions that year, was of course, the Tea Act and the resulting Boston Tea Party. There had already been arbitrary taxes in place on many necessary items, including tea, paper, oil, and glass since 1769, but many people felt that this was one step too far. The East India Trading Company had over eighteen million pounds of unsold tea, and it was to be sold cheaply to our colony. The reason for this of course was to support the Trading Company. The British carefully overlooked the consequence of our local merchants being driven out of business by this. Needless to say, we were not pleased.

Even at the age of eight I understood, with some explanation, that it was an outrage. When ships upon ships showed up in Boston Harbor demanding to unload their cargo, they were turned away. Late in the night, many men dressed as Native Americans tossed three hundred and forty two chests of tea into the Harbor. The amount of tea totaled to forty six tons. Not one drop of that tea was made, and certainly none graced the lips of a single colonist. That tea, that threatened the very freedom our forefathers came here for, plunged to the bottom of the sea on a cold December night.

That was a triumphant day for us, a day to prove ourselves. For the British however, it was a sting in the side, a threat and most of all, a misdeed that demanded punishment. And punished we were. It came in the form of yet another act, the Regulatory Act. Lieutenant Governor Thomas Oliver and Judges Samuel Danforth and Joseph Lee were specially appointed by the King to the newly founded Mandamus Council. I never really found out what the council was meant to do, but it was law related. Whatever it was for, it enraged the public. Not only was this abomination put in place to rule us, but three of its members were from Tory Row, the most hated street in all of Cambridge. These people were from Cambridge, yes, but their alliance was with Britain.

Hostilities had been growing for some time now, and with each injustice, we were rallied anew. Secret meetings abounded and small protests broke out all over town. It wasn’t until the gunpowder incident, however, that anything happened on a larger scale. We shared a powder house with a few neighboring towns, and in 1774, one year after I came to Cambridge, we and the other towns removed our shares. Unfortunately, British powder was stored in the same building. Although we did not take their powder, they worried we would after William Brattle, another Cambridge loyalist informed General Thomas Gage of our actions. He ordered that his soldiers seize it for themselves. Two hundred fifty half barrels were removed along with two cannons. The powder house itself was not in Cambridge, but on September First, the soldiers streamed into our town with the cannons in tow.

It was a Thursday, so we were in school, and we heard the rhythmic marching of the British Army thundering past. We heard the outrage of Cambridge citizens above the steady beat. I remember rushing to the window with the rest of the class and thinking only that I had never seen so many people in one place, what with the hundred or so soldiers and the civilians lining the street. I thought about the difficulty Ms. Sullivan had controlling our class and marveled at the strict obedience with which the soldiers marched. We watched, open mouthed until the stream of uniformed men slowed and stopped.

The next day, the streets were almost empty. The usually bustling town was still and quiet. It was only later when I learned that thousands of people had gathered in Harvard square to protest both the seizing of the gunpowder and the Mandamus Council. In the midst of their shouting and threats, Benjamin Hallowell, a loyalist with many enemies appeared. The angered Cantabrigians fired shots into the air. My mother and father stayed up late into that night, whispering with worried looks on their faces. Rumor was the long awaited war had broken out.

Despite the cautious whispers of the old and wise, and the continuous boasting of young and arrogant men, nothing of real importance happened for another six months. There were various politically significant events, most of which made little sense to me. All I knew was tensions were rising, and fast, though there was no actual fighting until April of 1775.

Rumors were flying once again, but this time people thought not of war, but that the British would seize Concord’s gunpowder as well, or that the great leaders Hancock and Adams would be arrested. Both sides were so tense it was only a matter of time until the war broke out. We were unfocused during lessons, and instead of reading and memorizing, we peppered Ms. Sullivan with questions about the war. Yes, she thought it was inevitable, but no she did not know who would fire the first shot or when it would start or if school would continue. Every “no” chipped at my faith in her and in adults in general. To my eight year old mind, her age meant she was wise, and that she should have known these things. It was disarming to see that she knew no more than I did. I realize now, of course, that she was barely over twenty and had every right to be confused and scared. In that moment, however, the uncertainty was more than unnerving, it was downright terrifying.

Almost six months later, our commander, suspecting that the British might attack, told a man to watch and wait. Should the redcoats come by land, he was to hang a lantern in the arch of the tower from which he watched, or two if the approach came from the sea. There were men waiting, ready to ride at a moment’s notice and warn the people of Cambridge and the surrounding towns. Sure enough, late in the night, two lanterns burned brightly in the arch of the belfry tower. Paul Revere and William Dawes hopped into their saddles and sped off through the night.

Of this plan, I heard nothing until long after. All I knew was that at around two in the morning I woke to the sound of hooves on pavement. The rhythmic beating on the cobblestones was soon followed by unintelligible shouts. My father threw a window open in time to hear the words “the war has begun! The redcoats are coming, we march to Lexington!” My father grabbed his rifle, and with one last kiss to my mother and me, ran from the house. We stood in the doorway and watched him run off into the night, until he became indistinguishable from the other men. The first shot of the American Revolution was fired around five o’clock in the morning, and the dam finally broke, unleashing a torrent of fighting. My mother and I waited anxiously for hours. Finally, at sunset, we heard the thundering of thousands of footsteps. It was not, however the orderly march of the victorious. Our army flew by, in full retreat. The last thing I remember is a man, a friend of my father’s, pounding on our door. When we answered, he looked down, then up again, and with his eyes locked on my mothers, uttered the words that changed my life forever.

“Your husband, I’m so sorry. I saw him fall…” He gazed at us apologetically, and then fled, mumbling that he needed to rejoin the army. My mother’s hand flew to her gaping mouth, her eyes widened in disbelief. We stood, unmoving for what felt like hours, the door shut tight on the tragedy that had cursed this house, pitching us into darkness. He had walked out of that door, living and breathing, less than twenty four hours before. The sun set and the moon rose without me seeing, and finally I moved. I sat down and didn’t get up until the next morning, eyes staring blankly at the wall before me, only vaguely aware of my mother beside me.

Now, try as I might, I cannot recall a single event that took place after my father’s death. I went through the motions of life, detached and unfeeling. I found it difficult to celebrate victories in the war that stole my father from me. Over the following years, I gradually began to wake up. It was not until the Treaty of Paris was signed, more than ten years later, that I finally breathed easily. The monster that was the war that devoured my father was slain. After his death, the enemy was not the British. It was not the King. The enemy was the senseless fighting that took his life. With its end, a weight was lifted off of my chest, and finally, I did what I did not have the courage to do all those years ago. I stood up tall, grasped the handle firmly in my hand, and threw the door open, letting in all of the light that our newly founded America has to offer.