From the head of Scarlett’s Wharf the Dartmouth was hidden by the weathered buildings erected on the quarter mile-plus of the Long Wharf and the clusters of masts beyond; by the shoulder of Fort Hill and the gray stone mass of the Battery. “You think the Governor’s gonna call the soldiers, to get that tea ashore, m’am?” asked Surry, when Abigail’s eyes turned in that direction. And what did they make of it, Abigail wondered: the Scipios and Surrys of the world. Men and women who not only could not vote, but whom the law permitted to be bought and sold, as if they were truly the cattle that Virginians sometimes called them. What did they make of all this furor among the whites, over three-pence a pound on tea?

“I shouldn’t like to be the commander of the regiment trying to implement the order.” She nodded toward a group of newly arrived youths, making their way along the quay under the watchful eye of a bearded older man. “I understand that the Dartmouth’s captain has offered to take his cargo back to England, but Governor Hutchinson has ordered the vessel to remain until the tea is unloaded and delivered to its consignees.”

“I will purely like,” remarked Surry, as they turned south and started to walk along Fish Street toward home, “to see him try.” She had, Abigail reflected, been with Sam Adams a long time.

Abigail pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders as the gray wind cut at her, tucked her chin into the layers of scarves that swaddled her neck. At any other time, I would be rejoicing.

At any other time—ten days ago—I would have cried out against anyone who tried to stop any of the Sons of Liberty from their endeavors, for any reason. Our liberties—our rights as English citizens—take precedence over the misdeeds of any individual.

In her mind she saw the little black cat on the windowsill, washing itself philosophically with the stump of its paw.

. . . deacon at the New Brick Meeting . . . a-poundin’ on the Fishwire’s door and screamin’ at her . . .