Michala Woodruff

CHARACTER ROLE: Protagonist

NAME: Tomas David Hamilton [MALE]

DATE OF BIRTH: September 25, 1760

HAIR COLOR: Brown

EYE COLOR: Dark brown

MARKS: Several small scars around neck

HEIGHT: Estimation of 4 cubits

GURDIANS: Joseph Hamilton and Cynthia Hamilton

DWELLING: England

            Until . . .

[2]

Bosun Hamilton

Abroad the Avalon

7:23 PM

The cannonball knocked me to the ground. My sweaty palms stuck to the floor of the ship, to the fine substance covering the wood. Powder. Almost like tea, but I knew it wasn’t.

It was gun powder.

Just because something is illogical does not mean that it is impossible. Cause when there’s a storm, you’re either succumbing to it or fighting it. Just don’t let the fighting make you into the storm.

“It’s time to rally, Mohawks! Bring out your axes, and tell King George, we’ll pay no taxes on his foreign tea!’”

Some may have said this was ungrateful. British tea was cheaper than smuggled Dutch tea, but tea became the symbol of tyranny, and no one was going to push it down my throat. No one. I would not submit to tyranny.

“Now, remember, only the tea!”

            Feather, had it. Paint, wet and sticky. Target . . . was in view.

            We split up onto the different merchant ships. “No taxation without representation!” The cry reflected our hearts and minds.

I broke into my first crate. More of the powdery substance sprinkled onto the main deck when I heaved the crate toward the edge of the ship. Then tea showered my boots as I dumped the drink into the harbor.

I may have been a scrawny thirteen-year-old, but I raced across the ship’s deck raising my heart’s cry every time I dumped tea in the water below.

I tried to clear the way for the other Patriots, who were making their way to the railing of the ship. I banged my elbow against something and piercing pain throbbed through it, while I hit the deck, taking the air from my lungs. I scrambled into a sitting position and looked down at my wound then searched for what I’d run into.

“Oooooh. No.” I’d broken the padlock on the chest. I investigated how bad the damage was.

“Looks like you need a replacement, uh, Tomas?” Mr. Adams enquired over me, his gaze on the broken lock.

I bit my lip.

“You okay, son?”

“Yes, sir.” I stood to my feet and glanced around. Hundreds of large cases of tea were now in the ocean.

“Come. Let’s clean up this mess.” Mr. Adams nodded at my boots covered in tea.

After the main decks were wiped clean and we released the British crews, Mr. Adams led us into attention on deck to shake any remaining tea from our boots before sweeping it into the harbor. Then we trooped away.

This was the beginning of my revolution.