Henry James Browne and I are inseparable. For the twenty five long years that we have been friends, we’ve hardly quarreled or fought. Maybe fate turned, or God just got bored, because one day something changed.

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       December 15, 1773

       The radiant, amber sun blooms like a flower, gracing the glistening, white, snow-filled streets with its light. The periwinkle and salmon colored sunrise melts exquisitely into the sky. The cobbled roads of Boston, Massachusetts are busy with horse drawn carriages and people. Some folks stroll, some saunter leisurely, and others hurry by. All of them don thick, heavy winter coats and cloaks to shield themselves from the frosty gusts of winter wind. The homes and shops visible out my window are slowly awakening. The streets and roads fill up with hustle and bustle, like the buzzy chatter of working bees.

       I hurry hastily to the kitchen. My home is small but cozy nonetheless. A big, brick fireplace occupies a corner of the kitchen. A thin, wooden table for dining sits in the center, accompanied by wooden chairs the color of fresh cider. On the table now is bread and porridge. Several shelves run along another wall, home to food and cookware. Lydia, my wife, hands me my morning tea. I sip contentedly, inhaling the bittersweet and somewhat smoky scent.

       I bid Lydia goodbye and button my thick, warm, wool coat up all the way. An icy gust of early morning wind makes me shiver as I head down the cobbled road. Snowflakes fall as gracefully as pollen would during springtime. They land onto my cheeks, feeling like little pricks of a needle. My nose is pink with cold. I hear a sudden voice from behind me.

       “Oliver, wait up please!” Henry shouts. 

       “Good day, Henry.”

       “Good day to you as well. Quite a bit chilly, if I do say,” Henry observes. His cobalt gray eyes are shiny with enthusiasm. “It’s happening, Oliver! What I mentioned yesterday, if you remember. Tomorrow at half past six, I will be leaving my workshop early. I might as well jump out of my shoes, I’m so very excited!” Henry exclaims eagerly. “No taxation without representation,” Henry then whispers, because there could be Loyalists on the streets. A broad grin stretches across his face, like a string being pulled taut. I grimace.

       “Yes, um, good for you. And the Sons of Liberty as well, I suppose,” I say flatly. 

       Henry rambles on, oblivious to my tone of voice. My patience with him gets thinner and thinner until it cracks, like a plank of wood snapping.  

       “Henry, I don’t support the Patriots. I full well believe that the British can tax us. They have established us, after all. I really see no point in all of this protesting,” I comment obstinately. “I see no point in destroying perfectly good tea.”

       Henry mulls this over, biting his lip thoughtfully. I see myself reflected in his cavernous, blue eyes. My bronze and brown head of hair. My pale, light skin. My serious, solemn face. Henry comes to a conclusion, and I see the thoughts clicking together behind his eyes.  

       “Oliver, nothing will deter me from doing what I believe in. I want to be a Patriot, and I will. I want to protest, and I will. I want to partake in the Destruction of the Tea, and I will. I don’t quite agree with your opinions, but I will still tell you to do what you believe in as well. Otherwise I would be contradicting my own advice,” Henry states firmly. “I should go now, it’s almost time for me, and you as well, to open shop,” Henry reminds me. He turns down a corner and waves behind his shoulder. 

       I sigh and turn the opposite way, my mind filled with pique, and my cedar colored eyes sharp with irritation. My day has gone from great to irksome.  It’s just so ridiculous, I think indignantly. The British have every right to tax the colonies. They have established us, so they are in charge of us. I don’t understand what is so hard to comprehend.

       “It’s darn straight twaddle, really,” I mumble. 

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       The honey colored sun rises placidly to a new day. Splatters of pink, saffron, and lilac paint a picturesque winter sunrise. The streets and roads of Boston are masked in a snowfall up to one’s ankles. Wispy clouds accompany the sun into the sky. Boston is blanketed in a shimmering, white bed sheet. 

        I hurry to the kitchen, eager for my invigorating Bohea tea. 

       “Thank you, Lydia,” I say gratefully, taking the warm cup from her hands. When I go to take a sip, I realize that something is different. The usual smoky and bittersweet scent of my tea is gone, replaced by a bitter smell, acrid and sharp. 

       “Why is there coffee in my cup?” I ask, addled.

       “Well, If you remember, I went to the market a few days ago,” Lidya begins to answer. She gazes at me meaningfully with her eyes, as bold as the evergreens of winter. Her wavy, ginger hair falls about her face.

       “Yes, go on,” I urge her. Lydia continues cautiously, like she is about to antagonize an already aggravated lion.

       “Well, I know that this is a sore subject for you, Oliver, but I decided that I shouldn’t support British taxes on tea.” 

       “But…” I start.

       “You’re…” I stammer. 

       “Aren’t…” I stutter.

       “Don’t you realize?” I retort, struggling to speak. First Henry, and now Lydia? 

       “Oliver. You need to understand. I believe that the British don’t have a right to tax us. I am a woman, so I cannot be an active Patriot. I cannot join the Sons of Liberty. I cannot participate in protests. But I can still do my part here, by not supporting the British,” Lydia states resolutely. 

       “Lydia. Britain owns the Thirteen Colonies. They have established us. They have aided us in the French and Indian War. Now people are saying that the British cannot tax us. I don’t understand why they believe that, but I certainly do not,” I aver, a bit annoyed. 

       Lydia thinks about my answer for some time. I’m certain I’ve ended the discussion, but Lydia goes to the root cellar and comes back with an apple. She places it on the table.

       “Well, Oliver. We can both agree that this is an apple. I see the yellow side of this apple. You see the red side. It still remains an apple, as nothing has changed.” 

       I open my mouth to tell Lydia that even a foolish person would see the sides of an apple. But before I can, Lydia ushers me outside, and that ends the discussion. I hurry along, buttoning my russet brown coat against the frigid December wind. The early morning sun is disappearing behind swirled clouds, ashy and silver. I hastily make my way to my workshop, anticipating the slightly warmer atmosphere, and the shelter from the frosty wind and cold snow. A sudden thought comes to my mind. It comes so quickly, like an abrupt stormy day in the summer months. Colonists are protesting. Patriots are protesting. Henry is protesting. Even Lydia is protesting. If all of them are, then I will take action, too.

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       I peer out of the small window in my workshop. The sun glows a fiery, vivid orange, sinking back into the horizon. The winter clouds are still higher up in the sky, but now they are glowing coral pink, orange, and a pastel purple. The snow on the wooden rooftops glistens and shimmers as the sinking sunlight shines down. I glance at the clock. Thirty-seven minutes past six! I promptly tug on my worn, woolen coat and start out into the Boston winter sunset. Crossing the street, I spot Henry hurriedly heading out of his workshop, and promptly pick up my pace, ignoring the stinging December wind, and weaving and dodging past other colonists. 

       “Henry, wait!” Henry turns at my voice. “Henry, can I come?” I manage to say, slightly wheezing after jogging to catch up.

       “Come? Come where?” Henry asks perplexedly, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. Realization dawns on his face like a wave washing over the shore. “Ohhh! You want to come to the Destruc–” I cut him off before he can finish.

       “Yes please, if you don’t mind,” I say, but it sounds more like a plea than a request. 

       “Of course! This is wonderful!” Henry beams with excitement, eager about my change of mind. 

       I can’t help but grin as well, but it’s not for the same reasons. 

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       I creep quietly in Henry’s wake. A cream colored cloth is draped across my shoulders. Both my face and the cloth are smeared with lampblack and soot. I clutch a hatchet, the handle wooden, and the head metal. A knife is tucked away under my clothes. Henry looks identical to me, except for his mop of sandy, brown hair, and his blue-gray eyes. Gray and brown bird feathers on headbands rest on our foreheads. It's quite a ridiculous disguise, in my opinion. Why would Indians want to destroy British tea? Even a foolish person wouldn’t be fooled by that. 

       The brick buildings we creep behind seem ominous and stony, like mysterious, brooding statues. The sun has mostly disappeared into the horizon, the last fiery rays bathing Boston in a burst of light. The sea of wooden roofs coated with snow is made glowing by the sunset, and the alley we creep in is not spared either. The streets of Boston are still filled with some stragglers heading home for dinner. 

       Henry and I approach Boston Harbor, our sights set on Griffin’s Wharf. The daunting ships, Beaver, Dartmouth, and Eleanor, creak and sway gently in the water, illuminated by the last explosion of the sun’s light. A gathering of about sixty or so men is huddled behind a building by the docks. Henry and I join the crowd. Up in front, a man seems to be the leader.

       “Who’s that man? Up in the front?” I whisper to Henry.

       “Oh, that’s Samuel Adams. The leader. Everybody here looks up to him,” Henry quietly states. 

       Yes, I think. That is, everybody but me.

       In a few more minutes, several others join us. I try to see their identities, but every face is smeared with soot or black powder. Everybody has a type of weapon, whether it be an axe, hatchet, or knife. I even see a few pistols and tomahawks. The murmurs, mumbles, and quiet chatter dies out as Samuel Adams addresses the crowd of restless people. 

       “Fellow Sons of Liberty, I welcome you to the Destruction of the Tea. We haven’t much time, but I will inform you on the basics. There is currently a meeting at the Old South Meeting House. Francis Rotch has returned with a message from Thomas Hutchinson. Mr. Hutchinson will not give a permit for the Beaver, Dartmouth, and Eleanor to depart back for Europe, as you know that he is a Loyalist.

        “I unfortunately cannot participate in the Destruction of the Tea, but I trust you to do what I have asked of you. It is necessary for me to report back to the meeting. When you hear the words, ‘This meeting can do no more to save the country!’ I want you all to start dumping the tea.” Mr. Adams then gestures at three men in the front. “These three men will assign every one of you a ship, and you are to report there and start the tea dumping.” With that, Samuel Adams departs from the group, heading towards the Old South Meeting House. 

       As we wait for the signal, small conversation and chatter starts among the men. The mood feels rebellious, but I stay quiet at Henry’s side. The time ticks by. My hands start becoming slippery with accumulating sweat. My grip on the smooth, cool, wooden handle of my hatchet starts to slip. 

       “This meeting can do no more to save the country!”

       The abrupt shout rings out, startling me. The mood instantaneously becomes serious and urgent. Everybody files to the docks and gets on the ships instructed by the ones in charge. In the distance, people are spewing out of the Old South Meeting House, viewing the silent scene. I go onto the Dartmouth with Henry, as we have been instructed.

       Everybody gets to work. Everything is silent. Only the creak of wood, chopping of crates, and splash of water can be heard. I go to the nearest chest. My hands are clammy, and they fumble with the hatchet. Thoughts spin through my brain frantically, like the wheels on a quick wagon.

       Now is your only chance. Report this to an official. My mind thinks one thing, but my body thinks something else. I want to move, to get off of this ship and go to someone. I want to report this. 

       But my legs can’t move. 

       They don’t move.

       My handling of the hatchet is too clumsy. I place down the tool on the smooth, wooden floor of the ship, slightly wet from melted snow. I reach into my coat for my knife. My palm feels the polished handle, smooth as glass, but my finger feels the blade, cold and honed. I quickly snatch my hand back out of my pocket, feeling a sharp sting. Crimson red blood trickles from a sharp slash in my first finger. The bold red makes me recall something. Something…something…oh! The memory of Lydia comes back to me. 

       “Well, Oliver. We can both agree that this is an apple. I see the yellow side of this apple. You see the red side. It still remains an apple, as nothing has changed,” I mumble to myself. 

       I turn around, watching the silent men as they crack and slice open the wooden chests and then dump them into the water. Splashes echo through the night, each one sounding like cloth being ripped and torn. 

       I don’t believe what these men believe, and they don’t believe what I believe. 

       Then a thought clicks into place.

       But every apple in the barrel won’t be red. 

-Mili P.