One Small Spark

When I reached Essex Street, I saw a large crowd gathered on the corner. They were watching a gang of young men under an elm tree yelling and shaking their fists in the air. Some were brandishing broken branches as if they were swords. One of the taller boys waved a red and white striped flag. Something about the gang reminded me of the incident on King Street, and I knew I should ignore them and keep walking. But my curiosity got the best of me. I squeezed into the crowd to see what all the excitement was about. A tall gentleman holding a gold-headed cane shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. “These demonstrations are getting out of hand,” he told a heavyset man in a blue butcher’s apron. “It has been nearly four years since the Stamp Act was repealed, but these bully boys have only grown more brazen.” “So ye enjoy being taxed t’ death by King George, do ye?” The butcher folded his arms across his chest. The tall man stepped away from him. “My good man, I—I didn’t say that. I merely meant I would prefer peace in the streets.” “Ye sound like a dirty Tory coward. The Sons of Liberty know how t’ deal with the likes of ye.” The butcher raised his fist. “Down with the king! Down with Tory traitors!” Shouts of “Hear, hear!” and “Huzzah!” went up from the crowd. The tall man scurried away. I stood on tiptoe to see what was happening under the tree. Two boys had broken from the group and were shimmying up the tree’s thick trunk. One carried what looked like a large rag doll. The other held a length of rope. When I got a good look at their faces, I realized they were William Palmer and Christian Holbrook. They crawled out onto a thick limb. Then they straddled the branch, balancing themselves as Christian fashioned a noose and slipped it over the doll’s head. William pointed to the boy with the flag. “You there! Sammy Gore! Give me the placard.” The boy dropped the flag and tossed William a sign, which he fastened around the doll’s neck. I tried to read it, but I was too far away, so I pushed to the front of the crowd. “This should do her well enough.” Christian tied the end of the rope to the branch and let the effigy fall toward the shouting mob. Its neck jerked as the noose held it suspended over the ground, swinging like a ghoulish pendulum. Now, I could see the sign clearly. It read, “Anne Cuming, traitor.” I recognized that name. Anne Cuming and her sister, Betsy, owned the millinery shop where Mother bought hats and fabric. Anne was a mousy woman with thick spectacles who rarely left the store. Mother said she wasn’t very sociable, but she priced her wares fairly. A traitor? I couldn’t imagine it. William and Christian leapt from the branch and joined the others on the ground. “This is what we do to the traitors who break our boycott and buy their goods from the Crown.” William picked up a stone and hurled it as hard as he could at the effigy. It struck the doll’s leg, causing it to spin like a top. The others followed his lead, and stones flew like hail, pelting the effigy from every direction. Cries of “Traitor!” and “Dirty Tory!” echoed through the air as several boys used branches to strike the hanging figure. The crowd on the corner tripled in size as neighbors came out of their houses and passersby stopped to watch the commotion. A man appeared at the edge of the crowd, holding a lighted torch. He crossed the street and handed it to the boy William had called Sammy Gore. A woman standing in front of me nudged the lady next to her. “There’s Samuel Adams.” The lady craned her neck to get a better look. “The Lord love him. He’s trying so hard to break us free of King George.” The gang began gathering sticks, leaves, and twigs, heaping them beneath the hanging effigy. Sammy Gore touched the torch to the pile. I felt like I was under a spell as I watched flames lick at the dried wood and thick plumes of smoke curl into the darkening sky. Soon, the pile was ablaze, and the gang swarmed around it, hooting and shouting. William took a flaming branch and set the effigy on fire. The crowd erupted into cheers. The sheer wildness of the spectacle frightened me. Smoke stung my eyes and made me cough. I backed away, unable to tear my gaze from the frenzy playing out under the tree. The effigy’s flaming body separated from its neck and fell into the bonfire, sending a swarm of sparks swirling into the sky like hellish fireflies. The smoking head swung twice from the end of the burning rope before falling to the ground. It rolled toward William, who stomped on it until ‘twas nothing more than a smoldering smudge of ash. Part of me wanted to run, but my feet wouldn’t cooperate. I was gripped by the sense that something about the scene looked familiar. My eyes were drawn to the stately elm tree silhouetted against the setting sun. Then I remembered. I reached into my pocket and removed something I’d almost forgotten. ‘Twas there, at the top of the handbill I’d found. The Liberty Tree.