The Seeds of Love and War: Still Shaggin' for a Shillin'

By William E. Johnson

The year is 1769 in Boston, as the Sons of Liberty, led by John Hancock and Samuel Adams, press for the departure of the unwanted redcoats from the colony. The Crown catches wind of patriot schemes for insurrection, thanks to the reports from Tory and trollop spies known as the Omega. The patriots find fertile soil to plant the seeds of rebellion among the dirty denizens of the Boston waterfront. Snug Harbor Tavern, a cozy den of ill-reputed located on the harbor near Hancock’s Wharf, provides a haven for the patriots. What happens at the Snug Harbor stays at the Snug Harbor. Tapping historically documented resources, Johnson reconstructs a panoramic chronicle of the events leading up to the Boston Massacre, fleshing out a story teeming with secretive meetings, political intrigue, hidden identities, renegades, and sex scandals.
It all begins with the celebrated departure of loyalist Gov. Bernard. Shortly after he flees for the safety of British soil, the conspiracy among the patriots intensifies. Hancock and Adams find themselves immersed in a daring scheme to recruit support for the Sons of Liberty among a scabrous group of commoners who buy their shaggin’ for a shillin’. The radical Boston Gazette and the loyalist’s Boston Chronicle duel for the allegiance of the people as they publicize the ploys and betrayals of both parties. Disquiet and suspicion pervade the town, and it’s only just begun. On a monumental day, March 5, 1770, tension finally snaps. In a brief yet bloody the assault, Crispus Attucks, a runaway slave, ends up a martyr in one of history’s most pivotal moments: the Boston Massacre.
Sit back in the Snug Harbor Tavern with a mug of rum and savor the sex, scandal, and heroics of our Founding Fathers as they struggle for liberty…theirs and ours.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728326382

William E. Johnson

William E. Johnson, with a commission in Naval Aviation, was stationed for a time in Boston, MA, where he became absorbed in the rich colonial history of the region. His interest was piqued when immersed himself in the role of John Hancock in the stage play “1776”. These events led him to write his first novel, Snug Harbor Tavern: Shaggin’ for a Shillin’, based on the first rebellious activities of colonial Boston patriots. This was followed by The Seeds of Love—and War, Tea and Tyranny: Still Shaggin’ in Boston, Tyranny and Defiance, and Uprising: “Let It Begin Here". The saga now continues with 1775: Crisis & Chaos. He lives in Latrobe, PA where he conducts seminars nationwide on safety, OSHA compliance, and leadership. In the persona of John Hancock, he speaks nationwide providing a living history of our nation’s founding. His website is www.history1776.com.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I t is remarkable that tragedies throughout history often provoke diverse reactions—some joyous, some distressed, and some ambivalent. As the sages would say, It depends on whose ox gets gored.

Such was the case in colonial Boston at a time when the notion of an independent United States of America was a mere figment of thought spinning in the mind of Sam Adams. He and John Hancock were dedicated to removing the British redcoat army from the streets of Boston. Little did they realize it would lead to what is commonly known as the BOSTON MASSACRE.

This is the story of a time when the doctrines of liberty and tyranny, superstition and enlightenment, wealth and poverty were clashing. Tories and patriots, cultured and crude, rich and poor—all perceived the events of the time in a different light. This is their story—and ours.

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CHAPTER 1

5 AM – August 1, 1769

Cambridge, Massachusetts Bay Colony

T he first hint of a rising sun glared in Michael Johnson’s eyes as he grasped Izzy’s hand tightly, dragging her into a copse of woods and out of sight. Come this way; we gotta get off the road for a spell.

Doing her best to impede his progress, the small black girl grumbled. What do you mean ‘get off the road’? We’ve been runnin’ all night and I guarantee there ain’t nobody from Framingham nearby to catch us.

Finding an apple orchard, Johnson collapsed under a tree, wiping the sweat from his brow. Listen to me, Izzy; I know what’s best. We gotta stay clear of the roads in daylight.

Though less than five feet tall, she stood glaring down at him, her tiny fists bunched on her hips. Stay clear? Why we gotta do that?

Michael pulled her down to his side, shaking his head. You’ve been livin’ in Framingham all your life and you don’t understand life in the big towns. As we get closer to Boston, the rules are different. They got newspapers with writin’ about runaway slaves and such.

She spat into the grass. I ain’t no runaway! I’m a servant girl and I’m free.

That may be—but I gotta be careful.

Careful? You told me you were a sailor and you promised to get me to the Indies where its warm all the time and we could settle.

He shook his head. That’s true; I am a sailor, but we gotta be clear on a few things. Nigh on nineteen years ago I ran off from Deacon Jones in Framingham and he put a ten-pound bounty out for my return as a runaway slave. I made it to Boston, and I’ve been sailin’ since that time. He grabbed her hand. But I promised someday I’d come back to Framingham and set you free from that toilin’; and now we did it. He smiled. It ain’t Christian-like, but I’m happy to learn the old deacon is dead.

She frowned and bit into an apple. We did it alright; I’m sittin’ here in the woods eatin’ fruit. It ain’t exactly the way I pictured things; that’s what I’m sayin’.

It just ain’t safe to be black and out roamin’ the roads, unless folks know you. Now when we get into Boston, it’s a different story. I know my way around the waterfront and once we get to the Snug Harbor Tavern, it will be smooth sailin’. After sunset, we’ll make it to the Snug, Izzy; I promise.

The Snug? What in hell is the Snug?

Michael chuckled. You might call it our last stop before we sail the Indies; the Snug Harbor Tavern is the last stop before most folks head home.

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Noon – August 1, 1769

Boston – Snug Harbor Tavern

T he two women sat at a table in the taproom of Snug Harbor Tavern, gazing in disgust at the Boston Gazette headlines they had clipped over the last few years, along with the most recent issue.

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No one had ever found out who killed the poor Emmet Glunt, or why. In fact, few people really gave a damn. His passing was the most current, and all of Boston was talking about the violent way the boy was killed. There was no way anyone could fall into a barrel of tallow.

Big Bessie Clump plopped into a chair and snatched her dirty mob cap to mop the sweat streaming into her flaccid cleavage. Now that Governor Bernard is gone, we might finally have a chance to solve these crimes.

Governor Francis Bernard was the most hated man in the colony of Massachusetts. His private letters to Parliament endorsing the abhorrent taxes and the use of redcoats for enforcement had managed to slip out in a recent issue of the Boston Gazette. The resulting rage of mob rule in the streets and fear for his life had hastened his exodus. At dawn he had boarded HMS Rippon to sail for England under the pretense of consulting with the Crown, but he hadn’t gotten far and now suffered mass jeering as his ship was afloat in Boston harbor with no wind to fill her sails.

No one was happier about his leaving than the two women sitting in the taproom of the Snug Harbor Tavern. Amanda Griffith, the tavern owner, was not a beautiful woman, but her trim figure and raven black hair cascading over melon-like breasts captivated the eyes of most men in Boston. Her large penetrating topaz-blue eyes, arguably her finest asset, gazed in amazement as Big Bessie slapped the newspapers down on the oak table and shook her fist. Some said Big Bessie could serve well as ballast for one of His Majesty’s frigates, while others described her as a flabby-necked, buxom, and bombastic strumpet. Red-faced with keen twinkling eyes, the bombastic side of her was amplified as she yelled to the barman, Amos, bring us another round of ale; a girl could die of thirst around here.

Amanda briefly scanned the editorial, then looked up from the faded paper. Have you lost your mind, Bessie? These are dated May of ’66 and October ’68. This top one is the latest issue and I already read it.

I have not lost my mind. If you look carefully, you will read about your own Charity found beaten to death in the harbor back in ’66 and my sweet Abby Stuff getting killed in ’68. This new issue is about little Emmet Glunt getting killed over in Zeke Teezle’s candle shoppe a few days ago. She took a gulp of the fresh mug of ale Amos had delivered. What do they all have in common, Amanda?

The two girls were trollops and they worked for us. As for Glunt; he was a nasty little bastard, who probably deserved what he got. She took a heavy draught of her ale and sat back in her chair. What are you getting at, Bessie?

The big doxy slammed her chubby hand on the table. Not one of these murders has been solved. No one’s been punished, as no one seems to give a damn about us small folk.

Amanda chuckled. What do you expect? Everyone knows Sheriff Greenleaf is useless.

I expect justice, Amanda. And now is our chance to demand it from Acting Governor Thomas Hutchinson. After all, he is also the Chief Justice of the Superior Court and he was born in Massachusetts.

Amanda pushed herself up from the table and stepped to the doorway. She gazed over the harbor brimming with clients, both thirsty and horny. Ships bobbed on the dark waters, lining the massive wharves jutting out from the land. What I expect is a rousing celebration tonight. With Governor Bernard gone, this town is going to burst in jubilation. You should get your fat ass over to the Bunch of Grapes and roust your girls. Meanwhile, I’m headed upstairs to get my Faith, Hope, Purity, and Chastity ready for some heavy shaggin’.

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Noon – August 1, 1769

Boston Harbor – Aboard HMS Rippon

T hough it was noon, one would never know it with the heavy pall of bulging gun-metal gray clouds hanging over Boston harbor, promising an imminent downpour. The humidity seemed to stagnate over the town, creating an uneasy calm. The entire waterfront was focused on one ship, as it tried vainly to sail from the harbor.

In disgust, Governor Francis Bernard spat over the gunwale as he glared angrily at the town that had spurned him like a common wharf rat. At his side aboard HMS Rippon, Captain Dryden, resplendent in royal blue and gold, glanced overhead at sails resembling loads of dirty laundry. I haven’t been trapped like this since I was caught in the equatorial doldrums off the coast of Africa years ago.

I’m not sure I can stand it, Captain, Governor Bernard replied agitatedly. Those waterfront hooligans are still yelling insults from Hancock’s Wharf, and now the church bells have started their bombastic clanging. Normally, that would be the alarm for a fire, but we both know they are hailing my departure.

Aye; let us pray for a gust to fill those sails and push us into the open sea. As for the rabbling horde, I say hell with them. In five weeks, you will be in London, and King George will grant you a peerage as baronet.

Perhaps you’re right, Captain; but the real joy will be to submit my formal report to the King and Parliament. My recommendations on how to handle Sam Adams, Hancock, and their gaggle of brigands, known as the Sons of Liberty, will clap them in irons.

A wry smile filled Dryden’s face. As a captain in the Royal Navy, I have absolute authority at sea. Unfortunately, you landlocked servants of the Crown don’t have that privilege. So, it leaves me to wonder; what specifically do you recommend be done to these criminals?

Bernard spat again, realizing the Captain was a dictator of sorts aboard His Majesty’s ship. Actually, I am recommending what you would do, in the event of a mutiny.

And what do you suppose that would be, Governor?

I would expect you to put the leaders in chains until you reach port. At which time, the courts would give them a fair trial, find them guilty, and hang the bastards. Unfortunately, it’s not quite that simple. As I told Lt. Governor Hutchinson before our setting sail, the last thing we need is for Adams and Hancock to be martyred. Hence, this must be handled more delicately.

Delicately my ass! I would handle them the way we remove barnacles from this ship—scrape them off. Just let loose Lt. Col. Dalrymple and his redcoats, and they would be swept from the streets and locked up in a brig of His Majesty’s frigate, in chains.

Bernard smirked. I wish it was that simple. These men are sly and disavow any knowledge of the criminal deeds committed against the Crown. In fact, they proclaim total loyalty to the King. No, Captain, I won’t give them the satisfaction of armed reprisal. Hostile action would play into their hands. The Omega has a better way to bring them down, with no bloodshed whatsoever. Hutchinson should have them in the palm of his hand shortly.

What is the Omega, Governor?

Looking askance, Bernard smiled. Did I mention Omega? Well, never mind, Captain. I just pray Hutchinson can get this done properly. Adams and Hancock shall be properly gaoled—then hanged from a gallows or yardarm if you prefer.

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Noon – August 1, 1769

King Street, Boston, Massachusetts

C orporal William Wemms of the Twenty-ninth Regiment, standing sentry duty at the Main Guard on King Street, put his Brown Bess musket aside for a better look at the radical Boston Gazette headline:

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His face turned crimson with rage as he ripped a copy from the hands of thirteen-year-old Imp Smythe, a street urchin from Hancock’s Wharf, who was making deliveries. By God, this is treason. Give me that stack of papers you little wharf rat or I’ll ram a bayonet up your ass.

Imp scampered down King Street and turned left on Royal Exchange Lane at the Customs House—a red brick faced building with three steps leading to the arched white door. He had been delivering the Gazette the last four years and knew every street and alley in town. Having been orphaned to the care of Amanda Griffith, owner of Snug Harbor Tavern near Hancock’s Wharf, he had been raised by a fine medley of bartenders, strumpets, sailors, merchants, and tradesmen. He reached in his pocket for a red feather, which he placed in his tricorn signaling he was on official business for the Sons of Liberty. He was confident that they would confront any redcoat or Tory who dared to interfere with his deliveries.

Back at the Main Guard, Corporal Wemms shared the Gazette with Captain Thomas Preston, who tore it in two and tossed it to the ground. It’s merely a rag, Corporal. These rascals can waste their time writing this drivel, but they will never be brave enough to face us.

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12:30 AM – August 2, 1769

Snug Harbor Tavern

T he matched team of black stallions was lathered with sweat in the oppressive heat as the blue carriage with the emblazoned gold gilt H, symbolizing the seal of the House of Hancock, lurched forward, away from the Green Dragon Tavern. Inside the carriage, Sam Adams straightened his wig and grumbled, This is ridiculous, John; there is no reason we should be wandering from tavern to tavern tonight. It’s too hot and there is so much to do tomorrow.

The two patriots couldn’t be more different, either in philosophy or appearance. John Hancock, polishing the gold knob of his mahogany walking stick, was meticulously attired in a crimson silk brocade coat with matching breeches, accented with a gold silk waistcoat and the finest of lace cravat at his throat. Even his shoe buckles were the finest tooled silver Paul Revere could create. Conversely, Sam Adams had little concern for his own threadbare faded red suit of colonial wool and frayed cotton jabot.

Hancock gazed at his friend and smiled. Sam, will you just sit back, and enjoy the ride?

As they turned onto King Street and passed the Old State House with its contrasting white bell tower, Hancock noticed the silhouette of a man standing in a second-floor window.

What are you gazing at? asked Sam.

Just look out my window here. The upstairs office of the Old State House is lit up tonight; it seems Hutchinson is working overtime. I wonder what he’s up to.

He’d better be up to getting the King’s troops packing for England aboard all those frigates in the harbor. Otherwise, we will send him packing too, said Adams, his palsied hand shaking.

Horse hooves clattered along as the duo passed taverns spilling their patrons into the streets where the public continued the festivities. The difference was stark, however, between the Bunch of Grapes, where joy was obvious, and the British Coffee House, a redcoat refuge smoldering in uncertainty.

Adams eyed the Coffee House grimacing. They can all burn in hell, for all I care. He clutched the strap near the door as the carriage jostled over the heavy cobblestones once used as ballasts for whaling ships. It just occurred to me as to why those poor wretches in the street are so happy, John. You have donated half the rum and ale for all this merriment; it cost them nothing to get drunk. Sadly, tomorrow morning these poor souls will all be hung over. Meanwhile, the redcoats will still have their boots at our throats.

What you need, Sam, is another tankard of ale to change your mood.

The team came to a stop at the Snug Harbor Tavern, and they stepped carefully from the carriage onto the slippery rounded cobblestones of Fish Street.

Hancock shook his head in wonderment. It seems to me all you do these days is complain, Sam. Let me remind you again that we are here to celebrate. Listen to the church bells and look at the bonfire up there on Fort Hill. Meanwhile, Governor Bernard is out there aboard a royal frigate trying to make headway in the harbor, with no wind to aid his departure. He must be suffering out there, and I’m sure the Christian in you is ready to shed a tear at his misery. Now let’s have a last drink and bid him farewell.

‘Bid farewell’ my ass; it’s good riddance to Bernard and you know it, John. Adams gazed ahead with a sneer. The distastefully familiar red sign awaited them up ahead. "Are you sure our men will be there? It’s mighty late and I should be home writing for the Gazette. And another thing—are you sure no one from the church will see me in this sinful place?"

From above, Chastity, wearing a pink shift with her ample bosom exposed, sat in an open second story window with her bare legs dangling, as she crooned, Don’t you be laggin’; we want you for shaggin’—for a shillin’.

They came to a halt below the red sign extending over the street and above the front door bearing the image of a strumpet and a tankard of ale. Hancock gazed inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim candlelight and the few whale oil lamps resting on cluttered tables. The dancing shadows on the walls of the taproom seemed to have a life of their own. He smiled as he heard the giggling and singing of the tavern trollops who made sure that no man could complain of loneliness—for a price. The sign carved into the oak beam above the bar read simply:

IT’S YOUR LIFE, YOU LIVE IT, YOU LOVE IT—CRITICS BE DAMNED

The beam over the stairway winding up to the bedrooms and cribs reminded patrons of the price for a taste of heaven:

SHAGGIN’ FOR A SHILLIN’

"D on’t worry, Sam; it’s so dark in here I doubt anyone could see you anyway. I hear Mackintosh and the others singing off-key over by the hearth."

The windows and front door were wide open to admit the cool salty air, though it did little to offer reprieve for those behind the bar, such as Angel Black, who scurried to fill another tankard of ale. She gave a sideward glance at Amanda sitting at the end of the bar. How long do you think they can keep this up? They’ve been drinking like this since four o’clock.

Amanda toyed with a sailor’s kerchief, then dabbed at a puddle of ale on the counter. Let Mackintosh and his gang drink till they collapse. Amos can carry them out, if need be. After all, it’s been quite some time since they’ve had a real reason to celebrate like this.

Amos the black barman, his broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms glistening with sweat under the burden of two kegs of rum, shuffled out from the back storeroom. If we can only get rid of those rotten redcoats, things would be just fine around here, Miss Amanda.

Amanda sipped her ale slowly. Amos, I could actually use some redcoat money. It’s too bad their commander has ordered the Snug Harbor off limits to them. On the other hand, if they did show up, we would likely have a brawl here in the taproom. She peered at the door and a broad smile creased her face as a familiar face greeted her. Would you look at this, Angel? It’s been a while since you last saw Mr. Adams, isn’t it?

Straining to see through the dense pipe smoke, Angel’s mouth dropped open. It had been nearly three years ago, upon her arrival to the colony on one of Hancock’s ships, when Sam Adams had aided her in changing her name to protect her identity from Doctor Church. Isn’t that Mr. Hancock with him?

Amanda unconsciously patted her hair, pressed the pleats of her blue silk dress, and punched up her midriff to accent her décolletage. I do believe it is.

Lingering beneath the doorway, Sam Adams straightened the yellowed jabot at his neck. The aroma of fresh bread, clam chowder, spilled ale, and pipe smoke burned his nostrils. Hancock tugged at his lace cuffs and urged him to check on Mackintosh. I have a bit of business at the bar.

Without a word, Adams meandered through the dense crowd to a cluster of tables, where a total lack of sobriety was accentuated with Amanda’s doxies—Faith, Hope, and Purity—perched on the laps of the revelers. This was Sam Adam’s chosen arena for working with the Sons of Liberty and these were his people; furthermore, everyone knew it. Despite his education at Harvard, probably the sole kinship he had with Hancock, Sam bit back his impulse to demonstrate his intellect or impose his Puritan ethic on these people. He reflected momentarily that it was he who united the north and south-side gangs, putting them under the direction of south-end cobbler Ebenezer Mackintosh. Wincing at the sleazy behavior around him, he placed his hand on Mackintosh’s shoulder.

Gazing up at him through murky eyes, Mac slurred, Mr. Adams! Well I’ll be … you made it. You gotta join us in a song. The burly man arose abruptly before crashing back into his seat. Okay. Okay. Now we gotta sing our song of the evenin’ for our good friend Sam Adams, who chased the mean old governor out of the colony. Mac began to sway his arms, as though conducting the London Symphony Orchestra, and the entire room broke into song:

The rum and the ale ain’t too filling,

The strumpets here are most willing,

Just undo my corset,

You won’t have to force it,

Our shaggin’ will still cost a shilling.

While the laughter continued near the hearth, Hancock had bellied up to the bar. Without being asked, Amos reached under the bar for a bottle of his private stock of Madeira wine, passing a tumbler to the squire. Amanda’s eyes feasted on him, as she came closer and placed the palm of her hand on his lace cravat. Mr. Hancock, to what do we owe the honor of your presence this fine evening? You seldom use the front door so brazenly.

John nodded over his shoulder at Adams; he grinned.

I see, she taunted coyly. You brought your protector with you?

Do I need protection around here, Mrs. Griffith? He sipped his wine. I think not. Actually, I just wanted to be sure you had been paid adequately for the festivities this evening.

Amanda’s brow furrowed. Mackintosh handed me a stack of coins earlier, but I am waiting for a final tally. Why do you ask? She leaned closer, half exposing her pendulous breasts and asked in her huskiest voice, And while I’m asking questions—where did Mac get his money? He’s always broke.

I just want to be certain everyone is treasuring the moment. He reached into his waistcoat to retrieve a small pouch and pressed a few gold coins into the palm of her hand. This should cover any added cost for our friends. Don’t tell them where you got the money. Nodding to Amos, he lifted his tumbler in salute. Thanks for the Madeira, my friend. You’d better give me a small tankard of ale for Sam; he obviously needs something to get in the proper frame of mind. He winked at Amanda and turned to join the table, where the singing brazenly continued.

Her gaze followed him as he weaved his way through the crowd. With her tongue slowly crossing her lips, even the casual observer could guess her intentions with Mr. Hancock.

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CHAPTER 2

1:00 AM - August 2, 1769

Green Dragon Tavern

T he image on the sign was unmistakable—a green dragon clutching a white pearl in its front claw. The Green Dragon Tavern, owned by the St. Andrews Lodge of Freemasons, was oft frequented by both the King’s troops and the radical patriots. On this hot August night, however, it was a destination of desperation for two troubled souls.

A heavy mist from the harbor, promising more rain, crept along the streets in the darkness, smothering the town with its damp blanket. Isabelle Dupre blundered through the strange streets in the darkness, straining to support the heavy black man nearly twice her size. She crept slowly among the shadows of buildings and huddled in the depths of every alley, praying not to be noticed—especially by a redcoat patrol. I don’t know how much farther I can go, Michael. Can’t you help yourself just a little? she pleaded, though the sight of his tattered blood-splattered shirt suggested otherwise.

Michael Johnson, his face twisted in pain, squinted through puffy eyes into the darkness to discern exactly where he was heading. He whispered through his bloodied swollen lips, Yeah, this is it. See that sign? It’s the Green Dragon Tavern. Let’s get me to the back of the building and off the streets, Izzy.

Slogging through a maze of mud puddles, Izzy finally dropped her burden behind the privy at the rear of the tavern, disturbing a flock of geese nesting in the nearby marshes of Mill Pond. Michael sat back against the rear wall, with his legs splayed before him. I’m sorry things ain’t turned out so good, Izzy. I know I promised—

Not so good? Izzy cut in. Michael, this is a real mess. You said you were settled here in Boston. Now just look at your messed-up self. Izzy scolded him with tiny fists on her hips. It was a mess she didn’t know how to undo. Back home in Framingham she at least had a small bed and food in the comfort of the servant’s quarters. But tonight, she wandered the streets carrying a man twice her size, with a torn dress to boot. What had she gotten into? It wasn’t safe for a black servant girl to be sneaking about, up to her ankles in mud and squatting behind an old privy. Peeking around the corner of the building, she whispered, And what if someone comes out to use this stinkin’ shack?

Michael winced in pain. Izzy please! Stop your yappin’; you’re givin’ me a headache. Like I don’t already have one, for God’s sake!

To hell with your headache, Michael. Look at your leg; it’s bleedin’ somethin’ awful. What we gonna do about that? Maybe I could go in this tavern and get some help.

Michael put both hands up haltingly. Come closer, he blurted urgently. Izzy squatted and pushed her face close to his. You can’t go in there, Izzy. The last thing we need is redcoats finding you in the Green Dragon. Pausing a moment to grip his throbbing wounded leg, he blubbered, Now listen closely. You got to get to the Snug Harbor Tavern.

She grabbed his shoulders and, with spittle spraying from her lips in anger, she hissed, Are you out of your mind? Let me remind you. I ain’t never been to Boston before. Now you expect me to find a tavern I ain’t never heard of. And as I think on it, I ain’t never seen so many taverns in one place. How do you expect me to find a Snug—what was it?

Stop your jabberin’. I need you to settle down. Once we get out of this fix, I promise things will— Suddenly, the rear door of the Green Dragon crashed open. Izzy looked wide-eyed at Michael, who placed his finger to his swollen lips.

The privy’s right here in the back, Sergeant. Here, I’ll hold your musket. And please hurry up; I have to go too. It was the voice of Private Colin James, clutching his own Brown Bess musket.

Don’t rush me, Colin. Just keep watch, so I ain’t disturbed, commanded Sergeant Irving Murtha. The door to the privy creaked shut.

Izzy gave Michael a toothy giggle at the sounds of bodily relief. He put his hand to his mouth to stifle his own laughter, irritating his swollen lips. Ouch! he winced involuntarily.

What was that? yelled the sergeant suddenly from inside the privy.

What was what, Sergeant?

Didn’t you hear it? There must be someone in the back. I know I heard something. Murtha stepped from the privy and grabbed his musket.

Michael and Izzy’s eyes locked in fear. Groping anxiously in the mud, Michael found a small pebble. With quick thinking, he tossed the stone toward the flock of geese. The squawking and flapping of wings immediately shattered the tranquility of Mill Pond.

Colin laughed. It seems we found your noise makers, Sergeant. And we have a gaggle of geese that should be shot for disturbing the peace. Do you think we should check back there anyway?

Thinking for a moment, the sergeant spat on the ground. Colin, it’s too muddy back here. Besides, who would ever linger in this muck? Just look at my boots. Let’s get back to the street and finish this patrol. We just might find the black bastard the regiment is looking for.

Colin pointed at the privy. But I gotta’ …

I don’t care what you gotta’. Hold it till we get back to Brattle Street and Murray’s barracks. The door crashed again as they reentered the tavern.

Izzy let out an audible sigh. That was too close. Michael, we best get away from here.

Michael pointed at his lacerated leg. Face it, Izzy! You can’t carry me and I’ve been lucky to make it this far. Again, a grimace of pain shattered his face for a moment. Get your little ass to the Snug Harbor Tavern. I told you about it before. Go into the taproom and ask for Amos; he tends the bar. You understand?

Just how am I supposed to find this Snug place?

It’s easy; all you do is head to where we saw all those masts of the King’s ships. It looks like a forest in the harbor. When you get to the waterfront, just ask anyone where the Snug Harbor Tavern is, and they’ll direct you. And be certain you tell only Amos—no one else—where I am and that I need his help.

Where are we again? asked Izzy, again peering around the privy, holding her nose.

He groaned in frustration. Behind the Green Dragon Tavern; can you remember all this?

Green Dragon. Snug Harbor. Amos. Got it, said Izzy, counting on her fingers.

Oh! One other thing; you tell him Crispus needs his help.

Who in hell is Crispus?

That’s me, replied Michael, jabbing his chest with his thumb.

Wait a minute. You told me your name was Michael Johnson. Now you say it’s Crispus? Did that blow to your head make you addled?

It’s a long story. It was a story he’d kept a secret until now. When he had first escaped from the Deacon, he’d gone by the name of Crispus Attucks—the name Amos knew him by, as they had sailed together years ago. But when his former master put out notices looking for him, he realized he’d need a new identity. Thus, he went by Michael Johnson, because there wasn’t anyone looking for a Michael Johnson. You just tell Amos both names, and he’ll know, as we sailed together in the Indies. Now get going before I bleed to death behind this stinkin’ privy.

A moment later Izzy disappeared into the darkness in search of the only person who could help them now.

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Early morning - August 2, 1769

Boston, Massachusetts – Copp’s Hill Burial Ground

E mmet Glunt was dead as the barrel of tallow he drowned in, but no one seemed to give a damn. Gerty Teezle clutched her husband Zeke’s arm as they huddled together in the early morning drizzle, while the pine box containing Emmet’s small body was lowered into the muddy hole on Copp’s Hill Burial Ground, just up the street from the Old North Church. It’s a cryin’ shame, it is! she mumbled, tears spilling from her eyes. Just look around us, Zeke. We are the only mourners, with the exception of these men who dug his grave.

The gravediggers grinned at the scene. Zeke Teezle, age forty-five, was nearly five feet two inches tall, weighing barely one hundred pounds. A sinister look accompanied his hawkish eyes and his five yellowed teeth resembled fangs. Gerty, as tall as she was wide, wore common homespun, making the gravediggers wonder how Teezle had brazenly paid with a gold sovereign.

Zeke, unconsciously scraping the wax from his candle-making hands, shook his bowed head. He’d never tell where the money came from, although many speculated I had something to do with the boy’s murder.

Peering through the downpour, Gerty’s eye caught a small grave marker near the street.

SARAH RULE

Aged 9 years

died

July ye 5 1690

She returned her mournful gaze to the hole in the ground, now being filled with sticky clods of mud. Maybe we should get a stone made for him; it would be only fittin’, wouldn’t it, Zeke?

Zeke shook his head as the words of another nearby marker sent a shiver up his spine.

Remember me as you pass by

As you are now so once was I

As I am now so you will be

Prepare for death and follow me.

What do you suggest for the wordin’, Gerty? ‘HERE LIES EMMET GLUNT. KILLED BY HIS CANDLE-MAKING MASTER, ZEKE TEEZLE’? His biting sarcasm silenced his wife. This is best forgotten. Besides, I have other plans for the gold coins we have left.

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Evening - August 2, 1769

The Old State House, Boston

T he rain had ceased, leaving a muggy residue in the air and the streets mired in mud. John Mein paced the massive office in the Old State House, glancing occasionally out the second story window at the length of King Street and Boston harbor beyond. The burly man had emigrated from Scotland a few years ago with gold sovereigns in his purse and a line of credit in London. He was a dedicated supporter of the Crown and publisher of Tory-leaning Boston Chronicle . For God’s sake, where is that man? he grumbled, glaring at Hubert Slank, the governor’s secretary standing as a sentinel near a massive door that led into the lush office. Upon entering, he found the governor’s gold-inlaid oak desk facing the length of the room and his throne-like cushioned chair, its back to the windows facing King Street. Along the far wall was a sideboard stocked with decanters of Claret and Madeira. At the far end, opposite the desk, was a long oak table for meetings and in between several cushioned chairs and settees for visitors.

Hanging his head and assuming the demeanor of a mere lackey, Slank, tall and rail-thin, rubbed his hook nose and bit his lower lip to conceal an insistent grin. I’m certain his lordship will be here momentarily. It is unlike him to miss an appointment—and certainly not one so very important as one with you, Mr. Mein.

The broad-shouldered Scot tugged the lace at his cuffs at the compliment and fingered the gold buttons of his dark blue brocade coat. Well, I certainly hope not. After all, I have a …

The door suddenly burst open and Thomas Hutchinson entered smiling broadly. Glad you are here, John, and sorry for the delay. Affairs of the office, you know. I’m sure you understand. He rushed to his desk. Slank, please pour me a tumbler of Claret. He looked up from a sheaf of papers, noting the stone silence and mendacious glare on Mein’s face. Perhaps you should also fill a tumbler for Mr. Mein. He seems to be a bit … thirsty.

Slank could not miss the look of disdain as Mein grabbed the tumbler dismissively from his proffered hand. He bowed in a servile manner and exited to the hallway. Mein grumbled, Mr. Hutchinson, I really don’t have much time this evening. I…

Hutchinson raised his hand, stopping him short. There is no doubt in my mind you will find this meeting worth your time, John. It is the first time you have been invited into our inner circle and you should feel privileged. Trust me on this!

A moment later Lt. Col. William Dalrymple marched in ahead of a group of men. Mein watched curiously, sipping his Claret, as two officers in scarlet and gold were joined by a Royal Navy Commodore, in blue and gold, helping themselves to the governor’s supply of Madeira and Claret at the sideboard, engaged in boisterous conversation. He failed to notice, or even consider worthy of his attention, the arrival of Sheriff Greenleaf and Andrew Oliver. A fat man entered and eased his way to the back of the room, where Slank quietly joined him.

Finally satisfied all were present, Hutchinson arose and faced his listeners. Gentlemen, thank you for joining us.

John Mein arose immediately. Mr. Hutchinson, I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I ask how this hostile and totally intolerable situation in Boston is going to change, now that Governor Bernard has sailed for England.

Hutchinson made it clear that Bernard had merely taken leave to brief the King and would return as soon as possible. Meanwhile, it was the task of those in this chamber to maintain peace.

There is no peace, retorted John Mein. Sam Adams and his henchmen are becoming more brazen, day by day. It’s just a matter of time before…

Hutchinson raised his hand. "Please, John! Governor Bernard and I agree with you. Furthermore, his departure has removed the greatest complaint those rascals had. They wanted him gone, especially when his letters to London were