The night of December 16, 1773 hung over Griffin’s Wharf, thick with the scent of salt water, wet wool, and impending rebellion. Cyrus stood among the shadowed thongs of men, his face smeared with soot and red ochre to mask his identity. The cold Boston air bit at his exposed skin, but the heat of the crowd— the sheer, pulsing energy of hundreds of citizens pushed to their absolute brink— kept the winter chill at bay.
Above them, the Darthmouth’s and two other merchant ships bobbed gently in the dark harbor, their holds pregnant with the East India Company’s heavily taxed tea. The time for petitions and town meetings had passed. As the signal was given Cyrus tightened his grip on hus hatchet, his heart hammering against his ribs in a chaotic rhythm.
“To the harbor!” a voice cried out, swallowed instantly by the roaring cheer of the Sons of Liberty. The Boston Tea Party had begun, and as Cyrus vaulted over the ship’s rail, he knew with terrifying clarity that there would be no turning back against the defiance they wrought tonight.
Aspiring writer Freedom Stillwell 
Leave a comment