THE BOSTON TEA PARTY

CHARACTERS

RICHARD STOCKTON JOHN COREY NED PEABODY PHIL AMESBURY JEFFERSON WINWOOD FRANK WHARTON THOMAS RIGBY, a tavern-keeper Young British Lieutenants EGBERT PENROSE SIDNEY MARSH

SCENE:The tavern known as The Golden Pheasant. Place, Boston.

TIME: Six o'clock on a December evening, 1773.

The tavern-room is low-ceilinged and wainscoted with dark woodwork. There is a door in middle background, and windows on each side of it.

At the right, towards foreground, a chimney-place, with smoldering fire. Above is a shelf on which are iron candlesticks and short bits of candles that show economy. Against the right wall a round mahogany table. On it another iron candlestick, which has been lighted. A punch-bowl. Cups. A ladle. Also a brass bowl beneath which a small charcoal flame burns, keeping hot the lemonade. Beyond this table a dark wooden chest with a heavy lock. Under the window in left background a similar chest.

By the hearth, facing audience, a long seat with a high back and pew-like ends. At the rise of the curtain, Thomas Rigby, the rubicund landlord, is lighting with a taper the candles that stand on the mantelshelf, the buttons on his plum-colored waistcoat twinkling in the gleam. He has only lighted one when the door is pushed open, and there enter two young British lieutenants, mere lads, whose scarlet cloaks, exaggerated lace wrist ruffles, and brilliant gold braiding make a fine showing. But Thomas Rigby shows no look of welcome.

MARSH.

Hey, landlord! Brrrr! It's cold! Give us something to warm us.

PENROSE (foppishly).

Aye, and be brisk about it. I do not wish to be served in a loitering fashion.

[Rigby makes as if to speak; but restrains himself, and, with a look of quiet scorn, serves them hot lemon punch. Penrose is by the fire. Marsh by the window.

MARSH.

It promises to be a chilly eve after a cloudy morning.

PENROSE (with a shiver).

More snow and bitter weather!

MARSH (looking out the window).

Nay, not so bitter. The window-panes are clear and unfrosted. The twilight gathers quickly. The streets are gray, and there's scarce a gleam in the darkness of the harbor.

PENROSE (as Marsh leaves window for fire).

Not e'en a light in the rigging o' Francis Rotch's ships? The sailors must be supping at the taverns. They're weary now of staying harborbound. There'll be rejoicing when the tax is paid, and the stiff-necked Yankees bring the tea to land.

MARSH.

There be some who call themselves patriots, and swear they'll never pay it.

PENROSE (sipping).

Not pay it? They'll defy us? Pooh! We could bring them to time with a twist of the wrist did we but wish to! (Looking with approval at his own apparel.) A mere handful of men with scarcely any lace for their ruffles, and tarnished buckles for their shoes! They defy us? You're jesting! No, no, my dear Sidney! In spite of all their protests and town meetings they'll be glad enough to give in at the end, and to pay the tax right speedily. For, mark you, in spite of all the rumors of defiance that we've heard, the town to-night lies as quiet as a church.

MARSH.

Aye, so it does.

PENROSE (rising).

Too quiet for my spirits. Let's seek another tavern where there's more revelry than there is here.

MARSH (draining his glass).

We'll not find shrewder lemon punch at any. On my way back I'll have another glass.

[Tosses money at Rigby, who lets it lie where it falls. He shakes a clenched hand after the retreating figures of the two lieutenants, and then goes back to lighting his candles on the mantelshelf. Marsh and Penrose exeunt. After a moment there comes from without the sound of a halting step, the door is opened, and Richard Stockton enters, a lad with the eyes of a dreamer, and the bearing of a doer of deeds. Thomas Rigby, at sound of the entering step, turns, taper in hand.

RICHARD (coming forward).

'Tis only I. Go on with the candles, landlord.

RIGBY (joyfully).

Only you, Dick Stockton! Zounds! There's none whom I'd sooner see! Quick! Tell me the news! These be stirring days, and here am I tied to this tavern-room, and afraid to leave it lest those brawling red-coats loot it while I'm gone. To leave a tavern-room empty is to invite disaster—and yet—what patriot should bide indoors on days like these! 'Faith! I'm torn 'twixt necessities! Come! Your news. Sit by the fire and out with it! What's to become of the tea we won't pay taxes on?

RICHARD.

Give me breath and I'll tell you! There's news to make your blood boil. I've been at the town meeting in the Old South Church all day. What think you—! The governor at Milton has refused a pass to Francis Rotch, and the tea ships cannot leave the harbor. The British have sworn they'll make us pay the tax or wring our scurvy necks.

RIGBY (outraged).

Zounds! There are necks I'd like to have the wringing of! What else, lad, what else?

RICHARD.

The Old South Church could not hold half the patriots who wish to talk and listen. Such speeches! Oh, they'd stir your blood if you could hear them!

RIGBY (eyes a-gleam).

'Tis stirred enough already! Go on, lad, quickly!

RICHARD.

Josiah Quincy is presiding at the New Old South. 'Twas he who thought of sending word to the governor. And now the governor has refused, and if there's nothing done we're beaten—beaten, Tom Rigby, we who so love freedom!

RIGBY.

Tut! Tut! Lad! The night's not done yet. Are they still at the meeting?

RICHARD.

Aye, and are like to be for the next hour. 'Tis scarcely six—just candle-lighting time.

RIGBY.

You look white, lad. Have you eaten?

RICHARD.

Eaten! On such a day as this!

RIGBY.

Nonsense, lad. You must keep up your strength. (Crosses to serving-table where bowl stands.) Here! If you will not eat, at least you can drink a cup of steaming lemon punch. No lads who come to my tavern get anything stronger—unless, mayhap, a cup of apple juice. Youth is its own best wine. Cider for you. Burgundy for your betters, eh, lad? (Gives Richard a cup and takes a cup himself.) Here's to taxless tea! (Drinks.)

RICHARD (joining him in the toast).

And the confounding of the British! And now, since there are no red-coats about, I may tell you that the Old South Church is not the only place that's to hold a meeting. There's going to be one here.

RIGBY (surprised).

Here?

RICHARD.

In less than half an hour the lads will meet me. We call ourselves "The Younger Sons of Freedom."

RIGBY (somewhat severely).

All that I have is at your service; yet 'tis only lately that lads have been allowed to rove past curfew time.

RICHARD.

Such days as these lads grow to men right quickly. Do you think we waste our time with games and—and snowball forts, Tom Rigby? No! The Younger Sons of Freedom have learned to fight and fence, to run and swim, and to swarm up a ship's ladder if need be. How could any lad be idle these last nineteen days, with fathers and brothers patrolling the wharves day and night to keep the tea from landing; when patriot sentinels are stationed in every belfry; and when all Beacon Hill is topped with tar-barrels ready to blaze out into signals at a moment's notice. I tell you—my very dreams are of defiance! But my deeds—what can a lad do when he goes through life halting? A maimed foot makes a maimed ambition, unless—unless as I would fain believe, the spirit is stronger than the body. It is the will that counts.

RIGBY.

You're wiser than most lads, Richard. You've a head on your shoulders. I've known you long; but you have never spoken—until to-night. It was your will that took you through your puny childhood, fatherless, motherless, and made your stern old uncle proud of you. Why now be down-hearted? I've heard you spoken of as a lad of spirit by Dr. Warren, aye, and by Paul Revere.

RICHARD.

There's a patriot for you! Would I could do such deeds as he can do. Oh, all I think of is to serve my country—my city and my country!

RIGBY.

That's all I think on, too.

RICHARD (amazed).

You, Tom Rigby?

RIGBY (somewhat bitterly).

Did I seem to you only a waistcoat with buttons? Nay, don't protest! 'Tis how most folks think of me. What have I to do with valor? I'm Tom the landlord, Tom the tapster, Tom the tavern-keeper! How should they guess in me Tom the patriot, Tom the hero-worshiper? And yet there's not one bit of my country's past, not one smallest Indian war but what has meaning for me. What do you think those chests are full of? Trophies!

RICHARD.

Trophies!

RIGBY.

From all the wars we've had. (Unlocks chest at right wall, excitedly.) Look! Tomahawks. Headdresses. (Taking things out of chest.) Feathers. A war-knife. An Indian robe taken in Philip's war.

RICHARD (delighted: interested).

In Philip's war.

RIGBY (with emotion).

They're more to me than a king's ransom!

[He pauses, looking over contents of chest.

RICHARD (going back to seat by fire, and speaking to himself as he sits by it).

A king's ransom! What have we to do with kings, who cannot even thwart the tyrant who would rule us! If there was but some way——

[Sits, lost in thought.

RIGBY (putting trophies back in chest, looking at them fondly, and singing softly for the sheer joy of touching them).

"Oh, a seaman's life is a jolly life—Trol de rol, de rol!" Wampum. A woven blanket. A peace-pipe. (Sings.)

I had a goodly old sea-chest, Twas filled with—India dyes Oh, wide the harbor, deep the sea, Five fathoms down it lies! Five fathoms down it lies!

RICHARD (half-hearing Tom's voice, and repeating to himself).

"Five fathoms deep it lies——" (In a suddenly electrified voice.) Tom! Tom Rigby! I have the way! Your song has given it to me! I have the way!

[He has rushed to Rigby.

RIGBY (as sounds of approaching footsteps are heard without).

Hush! Here come the Sons of Freedom! (Door is flung open. Rigby's professional manner asserts itself.) Welcome, my lads. Come in! Come in!

WINWOOD (to Richard).

Are we on time? What have you planned for us, Dick? My hands and heart are ready for a night's work! (Offering his portion of cider in loving-cup fashion.) Some cider?

RICHARD.

No. I've supped on revolution!

WINWOOD.

Would there were something stirring!

RICHARD (throughout with growing excitement).

Are folk still in the Old South Meeting-house?

WINWOOD (impatiently).

Aye, still talking of what's to be done. Hancock and Paul Revere are at a coffee-house.

COREY (as the lads gather about table).

Come, Dick, you've heard the governor's reply. How would you deal with the taxers?

RICHARD (at table, center, one foot on table and one on chair).

I'd set their tea to brew!

ALL (amazed).

What!

RICHARD.

In a monstrous teapot!

PEABODY (jesting).

As big as Rigby's bowl.

RICHARD (flaming with excitement).

Oh, larger! Larger!

AMESBURY (indicating large cockade).

Or as Frank Wharton's hat.

RICHARD (inspired).

Larger by far!

AMESBURY.

You mean——

RICHARD (impassioned).

I'd take the ocean!

ALL.

The ocean! Zounds! The harbor! Does he mean it?

RICHARD.

Overboard—all of it! Listen. The ships are deserted: the sailors on shore drinking at different taverns. If we can go disguised, we can slip to the water front unnoticed. You know how many Indians roam our streets, and no one ever heeds them. We'll all be braves and chieftains.

AMESBURY.

But where are our disguises?

RIGBY (opening his chests, tossing out his treasures, wild with delight).

Here! Here and here!

RICHARD.

Wait. We must have other followers. Followers, said I? Leaders—with sagacity. Run, Winwood! Speak to John Hancock, Paul Revere, and Dr. Warren. You know the coffee-house they sup at. Tell them there are disguises for us all. But let no red-coat hear you. Quick! The time is passing.

[Exit Winwood, on the run.

RIGBY (half-overcome with his emotion).

Richard!

RICHARD (helping him and the rest to dress, assisting first one and then another).

Be quick. Let me help you. Here are feathers. Beads. A knife. Hatchets. A Frenchman's sash-belt. A head-dress.

AMESBURY (hurriedly fastening on his disguise).

Where are yours, Dick?

RICHARD.

Hush! (Touches his knee.) I cannot scale a ladder. Listen! Here's Winwood.

WINWOOD (bursting in).

Paul Revere, John Hancock, Dr. Warren—all come with us. I've run ahead to tell you they'll meet us on the way. Give me disguises. (They clap an Indian robe across his shoulders, and he takes an armful of Indian finery.) John Hancock says there's a boat and oars at the foot of the wharves, and Paul Revere will lead us. Come quickly, lads!

[He dashes out the door, with his armful of finery. The others follow one by one, as their readiness of costume determines.

RICHARD (to himself).

And Paul Revere will lead them!

RIGBY (his hand on Richard's shoulder).

Richard, you've been the brains, and we are but the fingers! We toss the tea: but 'twas your heart that planned it. Will you not serve us—serve us here on land? If any British come, see they don't go a-roving. The fewer on the streets the better. D'ye catch my meaning? And, Richard, one word more. You can see the ships from here. The work we'll do will take but twenty minutes. If we succeed, I'll send you a signal. I'll wave this lantern three times in the darkness.

RICHARD.

Bless you, Tom Rigby.

[Richard is left alone, and goes to seat by fire.

RICHARD (dreaming aloud).

First they'll go to the wharves...stealing quietly through the darkness. Then there'll be the muffled dip of oars...and then——Oh, would that I could aid them in this hour! But I am impotent, impotent!

PENROSE (querulously, as he and Marsh enter).

This tavern's still deserted. Is there naught alive in this town save the half-dozen Indians we've met a-prowling the streets! Where's the landlord?

RICHARD (mock-humble).

He's absent, sir, on business of importance. But he will soon return. If I may serve you—some cider, sir, or steaming lemon punch?

PENROSE (haughtily).

Let it be punch, and see that it is steaming.

RICHARD (busying himself).

At once, sir.

PENROSE (languidly).

Mark how importantly he takes the landlord's place. How old are you, young tapster?

RICHARD.

About your own age, sir, I have been thinking.

MARSH (with a laugh).

Zounds! You're well answered, Penrose.

RICHARD (seeing that Penrose starts up angrily).

Indeed 'twas truth I meant, sir, and no insult.

MARSH.

Sit down. Sit down. He is a simple fellow. (Taps his forehead.) He means no wrong. We might have sport with him.

RICHARD (still mock-humble).

If I can serve you, sir, to anything?

MARSH.

Suppose we call for tea?

RICHARD (simply).

We do not serve it.

MARSH (amused).

Oho! Oho! This is a rebel tavern. And so—no tea. You Yankees do not serve it.

RICHARD.

No; but we sometimes brew it—with salt-water.

MARSH (more and more amused).

'Tis as I said. Simple. Let's try him further. This tea you brew. It must have a new flavor?

RICHARD.

Aye, a new flavor. Some will find it bitter. It is a brew that will be long remembered.

MARSH.

I doubt not, if 'tis made as you have said.

PENROSE (yawning impatiently).

Come! I am weary for adventure! (Draws his cloak about him. Marsh somewhat reluctantly follows his example.) Let's see if there be sport about the wharves——

RICHARD (to himself).

The wharves——

MARSH (still reluctant).

On such a night as this—! Why, but a moment since you swore it was too cold! Besides, at the last tavern that we visited that fool of a Barton took my sword in jest. (Darkly.) He thought 'twas a rare bit of nonsense; but 'tis one I'll make him pay for! I'll not go roaming without my sword.

PENROSE (insisting).

But I have mine. One sword's enough for both. More than enough for any Yankees we are like to meet. We could give some of them a rare fright, comrade. Come, then, in search of——

RICHARD (who has utilized the time in which they were talking by silently taking a foil from the nearest chest).

Back! Do not come any nearer. You see this door is guarded.

[Stands before it, his mock humility gone, his voice resounding.

MARSH (angrily).

What does this mean?

RICHARD (suavely).

One of my crack-brained fancies. I wished to keep you, sirs, for twenty minutes.

PENROSE (insulted).

Even a crack-brained lout may go too far.

MARSH.

Have at him! He's but one——

RICHARD (clearly and passionately, his voice a-thrill).

Behind me are a hundred—a thousand souls—all those who stand for freedom. Although you do not see them, they are there!

PENROSE (astounded).

What! Would he challenge us?

MARSH (scornfully).

A turn of the wrist and the thing is done. Have at him, Penrose.

[Penrose and Richard engage. Richard fights coolly, with his back ever to the door. Penrose grows more and more flustered. Marsh holds an iron candelabrum aloft, for the other candles have gutted and the room is shadowy.

PENROSE (fear in his voice).

The candles—higher. They're getting low. I cannot see——

[Richard and Penrose engage a second time, and Penrose's foil is flung across the room to left. Marsh is about to crash the candelabrum on Richard's sword, when Richard, with a deft movement, seizes it and hurls it to the floor, where it falls with a dull clatter. Marsh, discomfited, turns to Penrose, who has picked up his fallen sword, and is holding his wrist.

PENROSE (peevishly).

The lout has turned my wrist, and torn my ruffles.

RICHARD (who has darted to window, and stood looking out for the space of a second before he turns to them).

A thousand pardons! (Bows ironically.) Go! The play is ended! (With growing fervor.) Through the black night I've caught my prompter's signal. I've seen a light—a light that swings in the darkness—a light that swings three times——

PENROSE (querulously, leaning on Marsh's arm as they go towards door).

What does he mean? A signal?

RICHARD (turning on them with passionate triumph).

A signal that a blow is struck for freedom! A signal that your tea is overboard! A signal that the time will come when liberty will be the watchword of our nation!

MARSH.

Come! Come! He dreams!

[They go out.

RICHARD (with face upraised in the waning fire-glow).

May all such dreams come true!

CURTAIN.

COSTUMES

RICHARD STOCKTON. Coat and knee-breeches of dull-blue cloth. Loose white shirt. Soft white collar turned down on his coat. Black stockings. Low black shoes. Unpowdered hair.

JOHN COREY. Suit of the same fashion as Stockton's, made of black cloth. All the lads, unless otherwise indicated, wear low black shoes, black stockings, and have unpowdered hair. But if the wigs of longish natural hair which they should wear are too expensive, then they may have powdered wigs made of white cotton batting stitched to tight-fitting white skull-caps.

NED PEABODY. Suit of same style in dark-brown.

PHIL AMESBURY. Suit of same style in somewhat shabby black velvet, with black braiding. It is evident that the suit has been "handed down" to him.

JEFFERSON WINWOOD. Suit of same style in slate-gray, with buttons and pockets of cobalt blue.

FRANK WHARTON. Suit of very dark green. Green buttons. Has a black cloak, and a black three-cornered hat.

THOMAS RIGBY. Well-worn suit of dark plum-color. Plum-colored waistcoat. Gold buttons on it. White shirt with full soft sleeves. A white stock. Black stockings. Low black shoes.

PENROSE. Scarlet jacket with gold buttons and epaulets. White broadcloth breeches tucked into high topboots. White vest. Lace stock. Lace wrist ruffles. Scarlet cloak with gold braiding. Carries a sword.

MARSH. The same as Penrose. Carries no sword when he comes in a second time.

If "The Younger Sons of Freedom" cannot obtain suits of the colors described, let them wear the usual boys' coats with Colonial pockets basted on, and let them have full knee-breeches, such as those of gymnasium suits. For older boys who play the parts, black evening suits, the coats shaped and basted back to resemble Colonial coats. White lace stocks and cravats, and lace wrist ruffles, and jabots.