War Is Just Around the Corner
There was a great deal of excitement at last night’s meeting. The back room was even more crowded than usual because many patriots were in attendance from Concord, Lexington, and even as far away as Worcester.
They report that there is great agitation in the countryside, where the people are in a constant state of alarm. They are determined to defend their rights and thousands from all over New England are seeing to it that their arms are in good working order: oiling the locks of their muskets, gathering their powder horns and pouches, and melting lead for bullets.
They are prepared to march at a minute’s warning. Many want to attack now and drive the British out of Boston once and for all.
British soldiers have been spotted in various locations outside of town wearing ill-fitting civilian clothes. Presumably they are in disguise so that they might pass unnoticed in order to gather information. Two were seen sketching the roads, drawing maps, and noting the location of bridges. They seemed unaware of how conspicuous they were and that their every move is watched and reported on daily.
Mr. Monk thinks the British are preparing for something. The officers drill the men incessantly, parading them in rigid formations and putting them through endless inspections. Although the Committee knows they are preparing to march out of Boston, their exact destination is unknown.
“We are drawing closer to a conflict every day,” Mr. Armstrong added. “New England is a powder keg. One spark and it will explode.”
Mr. Cummings said that if the British make a move “they will be sorry they ever set foot on our sacred soil.”
Then there was quiet, and I could almost imagine everyone looking at Mr. Wilson to see if he had anything to say.
“War is just around the corner,” Mr. Wilson said.
More soldiers are arriving every day.
Sending a Boy to Do a Man’s Job
Mr. Wilson wants me to ride out to Roxbury tonight. He has received information that Mr. Palmer is secretly meeting an important British officer who has just arrived from England at Mr. Dudley’s house.
Mr. Dudley is a man of capital and property. He has a grand house in Roxbury, although I have never seen it myself.
I reminded Mr. Wilson that it was Tuesday and Mr. Palmer would be at the Committee meeting tonight. But Mr. Wilson said that Mr. Palmer has sent word that he was confined to bed with a bad case of the gout and would be unable to attend tonight’s meeting.
Mr. Wilson thinks that is precisely why Mr. Palmer’s meeting is taking place on a Tuesday. That way, Mr. Wilson says, Mr. Palmer will feel safe, knowing that everyone will be at the tavern and therefore unlikely to see him and his companions in their nefarious activities.
“Observe everything you can, Will,” Mr. Wilson said. “Who’s there, who sits where and talks to whom. What they look like, the clothes they wear. The smallest detail might tell us more than you can imagine. But be sure to remain out of sight.”
Mr. Monk had Blue all saddled up and ready to go. We set off at a smooth trot, slipping quietly past the sentries at the Neck. We encountered no difficulties, although the cold rain made the long ride uncomfortable. Thankfully there was no lightning.
It wasn’t hard to find Mr. Dudley’s house. It appeared right after I crossed the wobbly plank bridge, just as Mr. Wilson had said it would. I could see it even in the distance. There were so many candles lit, it looked like it was glowing in the forest. It was the grandest house I had ever seen.
I tied Blue to a tree and crouched down, content to just watch for a while before I moved closer.
When I was satisfied that it was safe, I moved closer to the house, thankful for the silence afforded by the muffling sound of the rain and the dampness of the ground. I stopped when I got to the carriage house, waiting a few minutes, and made my way to the gazebo before approaching the house. I could see everything through the big windows that everyone in town knows Mr. Dudley had specially made for him in England.
Mr. Palmer appeared to be already in his cups, talking excitedly to the British officer seated next to him. Mr. Palmer always likes to take two hours to tell you something that should take two minutes.
Mr. Dudley was dressed in fine fashion: red slippers, white silk stockings, black satin breeches and embroidered vest, and an orange velvet coat. His well-known gold-tipped walking stick was leaning on his chair.
He sat at the head of the table carving an enormous roast and listening intently to the conversation between Mr. Palmer and the British officer. Mr. Dudley cut his meat into little pieces with his knife, which he held in one hand while he speared the meat with the fork he held in the other. After each bite he carefully wiped his lips with a cloth. I have never seen anyone do that. Eat with a fork that way or use a cloth.
It was indeed an elegant dinner. Mr. Dudley’s Negro servants darted in and out of the room bearing tray upon tray of food and making certain that the wineglasses were filled to the brim.
After everyone had eaten bounteously and the desserts — jellies, trifles, and creams topped with almonds and raisins — had been served, Mr. Dudley ordered the servants out of the room with a wave of his hand.
He took a small gold snuffbox out from his vest pocket, opened the lid, and took a pinch, which he placed in each nostril. Satisfied, he stood up and raised his wineglass, proposing, it appeared, to make a toast to Mr. Palmer, who smiled sheepishly like he was being congratulated on a job well done.
It was just then I heard something.
I started to turn and look in the direction the sound was coming from, but I stopped myself and froze, hoping whoever it was hadn’t seen me and would pass by or, if I was lucky enough, it would turn out to be an animal sniffing around to see who the intruder was.
But then there was another sound. A step. It was no animal, that was certain. It was too large, I could tell, and he was coming toward me.
I decided to run for it, and sure enough whoever it was immediately gave chase, at one point, before I pulled away, being only inches from my heels.
I ran through the woods as fast as I could, hoping to get back to Blue in time to make my escape. The low-hanging branches of the trees whipped my face, stinging me, and it got so bad I had to put up my arms to protect my face. The treacherously wet and slimy undergrowth concerned me so much that I didn’t see the big, half-hidden tree root and tripped, flying head over heels and landing dazed but unhurt.
I forced myself to get up quickly but there he was, standing over me, laughing just like all the lobsterbacks.
“Leave it to these colonists, sending a boy to do a man’s job,” he said. “They’re not a bunch of rebels, they’re just a bunch of rabble.” He liked his simple joke so much he started laughing all over again, and the more he thought about it, the funnier it got and the harder he laughed until he had to hold his big, fat stomach with both hands because he was afraid it was going to burst from all the merriment, and I thought I’d never have a better chance than this and so, in one swift motion, I pulled my knife out of my boot, and before the rascal realized what was happening to him, I slit his nostril nearly in two, straight up his nose, to his eyes, and half off his ugly British face.
The blood burst forth like an undammed river, gushing in such quantity that I thought for sure he would die right then and there, which would grieve me not one bit. He grabbed his face and screamed something at me that I was unable to decipher because his hands were clasped so firmly over his mouth, that alone making it hard to hear what he was saying. Also because there was so much blood spilling over his hands and seeping through his fingers, he sounded more like someone who was drowning than someone who was speaking.
You could see he was in a most distressed state.
I really wasn’t interested in what he was saying anyway, and by now he had dropped to the ground, emitting the most hideous howls and kicking around foolishly, as if that would do him any good.
I leaned down and looked him right in the eyes. He w
as staring back at me like a poisoned pig. I spit in his face and said, “That’s for Henry Moody,” even though I knew he was too busy with what was bothering him to listen to me and wouldn’t understand even if he weren’t.
Blue was waiting patiently, good animal that she was, and I grabbed a fistful of her mane, spurred her over a low stone wall and we galloped back to Boston, which she seemed as happy to return to as me.
When I arrived back at the tavern, Mr. Wilson, seeing the state I was in, became quite agitated. I did not realize it, but I was covered head to toe with the British soldier’s blood, which Mr. Wilson thought was mine, and therefore that I was severely injured.
I assured him that I was in no way hurt and he was greatly relieved.
But even then he insisted that I first get out of my cold, wet clothes and cover myself with a blanket, which I must say did provide much relief.
I then proceeded to tell him everything I saw and everything that happened, including my harrowing encounter and narrow escape.
Mr. Wilson seemed especially interested in the British officer at Mr. Dudley’s house. He wanted to know what he looked like and I told him: He was short, had a large head, flaming red hair, bushy eyebrows and big floppy ears, and listened more than he spoke.
This information seemed to please Mr. Wilson.
Chaos Reigns
There are reports that there has been fighting between the British and the patriot militia on Lexington Common.
They say the British went out in search of cannons and powder stores and got more than they bargained for in return.
There are also reports of skirmishes near Concord Bridge. The British have suffered grave casualties and have been forced to retreat back to Boston. They have become like wild beasts and are retaliating by killing every living thing they come across — chickens, hogs, cattle — and by setting fire to the houses in their path, murdering all those within — women and children included.
Every carriage, chaise, and coach is being used to carry the bloodied British soldiers back into town. It is a melancholy scene: The horrible sounds of their tortured screams are almost too much to bear. It has been like this for days. The town has been turned into a hospital as the wounded are tended to while the dead await burial.
All are agitated and eager for news, although wild tales are everywhere and rumors and inventions spread with alarming speed. The turmoil is unceasing.
Mr. Williams was arrested yesterday just for wiping his face with a handkerchief. The British say it was some kind of signal.
All talk is that war has come.
Those who can are leaving Boston to join the patriots, who control the countryside. They say it is no longer safe here now that British blood has been spilled.
Passes are being issued to anyone wishing to leave, although they must give up their firearms and weapons — knives included. They are to be deposited for safekeeping at Faneuil Hall with the owners’ names, so that they can be reclaimed at the proper time.
While all this is happening, the loyalists from the countryside are flocking into town, seeking the safety of the British soldiers and warships in the harbor. They fear they are no longer safe in their own communities and will be murdered in their beds by their patriot neighbors.
People are loading up wagons and leaving as soon as they can. They pile bundles onto wagons and their bewildered children string along behind.
Chaos reigns.
Mr. and Mrs. Paddock have already departed for Hingham and have taken Mrs. Dill with them. Mr. Monk and Mr. Davis have gone to join up with the militia. Molly is already gone, her papa’s knife sewn into the lining of her cloak. Mr. Davis sent her off with Dr. Endicott as soon as the wounded British troops began arriving back in town, returning from Lexington and Concord.
Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong and the boys are leaving tomorrow.
Mr. Wilson must leave soon, too. If he delays, the British will send him to England to stand trial or worse. He says he knows a place where we all can stay.
Mrs. Thompson refuses to leave.
She says she was born in Boston and has every intention of dying in Boston. “I can’t pick up and leave, forsaking everything and heading for who knows where.”
The tavern is all she has in the world and she says she can’t just let the British do with it what they want.
She and Becca and Queen George can get on very well on their own and we should all leave while we can, she said. There are rumors that the British are going to stop giving out the passes and then it will be too late to leave.
“I can take care of myself,” she said.
Mr. Wilson turned to me. Although not one word passed between us, he knew.
I have decided to stay here with Mrs. Thompson.
Molly Davis and Colonel Matthew Chaney were married in February 1783, the year the Revolutionary War ended. Chaney served with distinction throughout, helping train the newly formed Continental Army. He never returned to his native England.
Molly became well known for her colorful paintings, which decorated tin trays, teapots, clock faces, and boxes. They had six children, all boys.
Mr. Armstrong, side by side with Mr. Davis, was killed by British soldiers during their assault on Breed’s Hill in June 1775. Both men had run out of ammunition. This bloody encounter has since become known to history as the Battle of Bunker Hill.
Mrs. Armstrong and her sons returned to Boston after the war, where the two boys reestablished their father’s printing and bookselling businesses, expanding both into successful financial enterprises.
Dr. Endicott served as a surgeon during the war. Mr. Monk was captured and died aboard a British prison ship. Mrs. Dill died in the fall of 1775 when a dysentery epidemic struck New England. Mrs. Paddock choked to death while eating her dinner one night. She died without being able to get up from her seat.
Will and Mrs. Thompson were forced, like many in Boston during the year-long occupation of that city, to rent rooms to British soldiers.
After the war Will’s hard work and economic watchfulness, combined with Mrs. Thompson’s gracious personality, resulted in the tavern’s thriving and becoming a popular “watering hole.” It became a particular favorite of Boston politicians.
Mrs. Thompson lived long enough to see Will marry her eighteen-year-old daughter Becca, who turned out to be an intelligent and independent girl. She became a teacher and taught for many years at School Street, accompanied by her dog, Queen George II.
Will and Becca had two children, one named Henry and the other Ben, after Mr. Wilson.
Mr. Wilson mysteriously disappeared after leaving Boston in the spring of 1775. Some say he went west, ending up in San Francisco. Others say he traveled down to New York City, where he found work writing for a small newspaper in Brooklyn. They point to the articles in the Brooklyn paper — mostly humorous sketches about local eccentrics that they say are unmistakably Wilson’s writing. There is, however, no concrete evidence of his whereabouts.
After Mrs. Thompson died, Will discovered a letter that revealed how she and Mr. Wilson had come to know each other. The letter, apparently written the night before Mr. Wilson left Boston, thanked her for everything she had done for him. Mr. Wilson, it seems, had been married to Mrs. Thompson’s older sister. When she died, along with the baby, in childbirth, the grief-stricken Mr. Wilson came to live at the Seven Stars Tavern.
Mrs. Thompson steadfastly refused to allow any soldier to stay in Mr. Wilson’s room during the British occupation and miraculously, no one questioned her wishes.
There is no record of the Negro sweep’s existence other than in Will’s notes.
Mr. Palmer also remained in Boston — his traitorous activities known only to a handful. However, in the summer of 1778 he went for a ride and, it is believed, someone placed glass shards under his saddle. As a result he was thrown by his horse and seriously injured. He never recovered and died, painfully bedridden, a year later.
Many people assume that the American
Revolution began in 1776 when the Declaration of Independence was signed, but the truth is much more complicated than that. In fact, it took many years for the Thirteen Colonies to decide to unite as one and seek their independence from England.
From the very beginning when the Pilgrims first landed at Plymouth Rock, the colonies had been under British rule. England enforced many regulations on property, imports, and exports. The colonists cooperated because they needed to be able to sell their crops to other countries, and to buy supplies not produced in America like sugar, rice, and tea.
In 1760, King George III took the British throne and became the ruler of the entire British Empire. With the assistance of the powerful British Parliament (which is similar to our Congress), King George III proclaimed new taxes and passed new laws that affected the colonies badly.
England and France were also bitter enemies. The two countries fought repeatedly for control of the ever-growing territory of what is now the United States and Canada. As the American colonies grew in population, they inevitably expanded geographically. As a result, the Native American peoples were pushed out of the land where they had lived for many generations, and England and France fought over everything else.
Finally, after what is known as the French and Indian War, a peace agreement called the Treaty of Paris was signed in 1763. This treaty gave England full control of Canada and the American colonies.
Those long years of war had been very expensive, and England wanted the colonists to pay for the privilege of having British troops defend them. England felt that a permanent force of British troops should be stationed in America, and that would cost a great deal of money. So King George III and Parliament promptly began imposing even more taxes. Because the colonists had no direct representation in Parliament, this was taxation without representation.
A True Patriot Page 7