1775: Crisis & Chaos

By William E. Johnson

With the crack of gunfire, a lead ball exploded into a redcoat sentry’s head on Boston Neck the morning of June 16, 1775. The next day more than three thousand men risked their lives on Bunker Hill. So begins William E. Johnson’s sixth in a series of seven historical novels about British subjects discovering they had become Americans. It is another mug of colonial intrigue brimming with sex, scandal, spies, and soldiers. Men were certain the battle on Breed’s Hill would end the brittle stalemate between more than ten thousand colonists and four thousand British redcoats in Boston. Little did they know General George Washington had been dispatched by John Hancock and the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia to settle the contest. Meanwhile, scheming and conspiracies among spies and assassins create crisis and chaos throughout the American colonies.
Once again, the heart of this saga lies in the bosom of the common man—candlemakers, printers, sailors, soldiers, silversmiths, trollops, bartenders, ropemakers, merchants, doctors, and drunks. The British Crown persists in stoking the fires of rebellion with endless tyrannical decrees. The disastrous impact is personal for every American colonist. This is their story…and ours.
Travel back in time as you once again settle back near the hearth in the Snug Harbor Tavern taproom with a mug of hot buttered rum or dark ale. You now witness the first staged bloody battle for American independence in the pages of 1775: Crisis & Chaos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665566087

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.

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© 2022 William E. Johnson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/01/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6609-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6607-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6608-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022913601

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

To Jeanne Johnson,

who endures my endless

wanderings into the eighteenth century.

I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge my orange tabby

Spike who, regardless of my writing priorities, brought

me back to reality whenever he felt like doing so.

"Associate yourself with men of good quality, if you esteem your

own reputation; for ’tis better to be alone than in bad company."

— George Washington

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 Gage and Orders for Dorchester; Prescott and Orders for Bunker Hill

Chapter 2 Washington Plans for Boston; Bunker Hill or Breed’s Hill?

Chapter 3 Prescott on Breed’s Hill; Lively Opens Fire

Chapter 4 British Generals Argue; Graves Enjoys a Cannonade

Chapter 5 Howe Meets Graves; Longboats are Loaded

Chapter 6 Stark on The Mystic Shore; Warren on Breed’s Hill

Chapter 7 Death on The Mystic Shore; Howe Meets The Rail Fence

Chapter 8 Charlestown on Fire; Howe Retreats

Chapter 9 A Second Attack; Clinton Sets Off

Chapter 10 A Third Attack; Gunpowder; A Marine is Lost; A Patriot is Lost

Chapter 11 The Deadly Cost of Victory; Another Trip to Philadelphia

Chapter 12 Dr. Church in Cambridge; Washington Leaves Philadelphia

Chapter 13 John Hancock Learns About Bunker Hill; General Washington Arrives in Cambridge

Chapter 14 Washington’s New Army; The Olive Branch ; A Lack of Gunpowder

Chapter 15 Church Meets Revere; Ruggles is Called; Washington and Whaleboats

Chapter 16 A New Director of Healthcare; Church Gets a Cyphered Letter; Gage Makes Plans

Chapter 17 The King Learns of Bunker Hill; The Cyphered Letter; Church is Promoted

Chapter 18 Wenwood in Newport; The King Makes Changes; Ruggles Meets Briggs

Chapter 19 Amanda Visits Philadelphia; Trouble at The City Tavern

Chapter 20 A Farewell to Hancock; The Cypher in Newport; Thomas Paine Makes Plans

Chapter 21 Hancock Proposes; Hancock in Watertown; Briggs Takes Boston

Chapter 22 Colonial Agents Struggle in London; Washington Meets Benedict Arnold

Chapter 23 Margaret Departs; The Rebellion Proclamation; The Wedding

Chapter 24 Virginians Head for Philadelphia; Washington Plans a Navy; Dixie – the Spy

Chapter 25 Dr. Church Resigns; Gage and a Change in Plans

Chapter 26 The Interrogation; The Isolation; The Navy Debate

Chapter 27 A Bayonet for Briggs; Two Gold Coins

Chapter 28 The King Sends a Message; General Gage Departs

Prologue

The Snug Harbor Tavern Saga continues with this sixth novel in the series. The year is 1775 and once again I invite you to sit back with a tankard of hot buttered rum or a pint of dark ale. You can join the candlemakers, cobblers, bartenders, soldiers, strumpets, and spies, as they connive, conspire, and plot against the Royal Governor and his nefarious schemes. While John Hancock, Sam Adams and others debate in the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia, the armed conflict in the colony of Massachusetts foments distrust and tenuous alliances. The patriot struggle for freedom against the tyranny of the British Crown has infected every home—rich or poor, loyalist or patriot, cultured or crude.

It has been fifty-eight days since the fighting began at Lexington and Concord. Apart from a few skirmishes with British redcoats and marines, the colonial militias find themselves wondering where to go and what to do. General Artemas Ward is in command of more than ten thousand men stagnating in camps of stench and squalor. Lack of heavy artillery has rendered his army inert. Ward doesn’t like it, but he is stuck.

Meanwhile, Lt. General Thomas Gage has command of four thousand British regulars, ostensibly trapped in Boston and unable to fight his way out. Most colonists would rather have a leper colony than his redcoats patrolling the streets. Gage doesn’t like it, but he too is stuck.

The military standoff is a volcano set to erupt. At last, the Provincial Congress has ordered General Ward to fortify Bunker Hill above Charlestown. The task is both a blessing and a curse. Taking the high ground is tactically clever but doing so could be disastrous. Both redcoats and patriots will ultimately rue the day.

It is 1775, a year of colonial crisis and chaos. This is their story…and ours.

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Chapter 1

Gage and Orders for Dorchester;

Prescott and Orders for Bunker Hill

Boston Neck, Massachusetts

10:50 AM – June 16, 1775

Redcoat Sergeant Matt Marsh wiped beads of sweat from his brow as he stepped from the guard shack on Boston Neck. What in hell is this? he shouted, finding his men half asleep on carriage boxes of the nearest cannon batteries. Placing his hand on a brass cannon barrel, he glared at his detail of ten sentries. Wake up, damn you! The Crown pays you to keep an eye on those rebels, and by God, I’ll see you do it.

South of the Neck, militia Sergeant Adam Crane, lying on his belly atop a grassy knoll, narrowed his gaze at the redcoat guards fifty yards away. He pressed his sweaty cheek firmly against the stock of his flintlock, taking deadly aim at one redcoat perched high on a carriage box. Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, he gently squeezed the trigger. With a blaring crack, a lead ball shrieked from the flaming muzzle.

Sgt. Marsh’s head snapped at the startling blast of musket fire. The rebel sergeant’s aim had been dead solid perfect, and redcoats flinched at the gory sight of blood splattering Marsh’s face. A second later Sgt. Crane’s entire twenty-man rebel squad fired a volley from the knoll, and every man swiftly crawled back through the grass in a hasty retreat.

What the hell! yelled Sgt. Marsh, wiping his bloody face with his sleeve. He craned his neck to peer southward at the colonial camp. A haze of white smoke told him where his enemy had fired. He glanced at his men now huddling behind cannon carriages. Who got hit?

As the redcoats rose from cover clutching their Brown Bess muskets, all eyes were riveted on one man crumpled on the ground. I think Melvin has had it, Sergeant; he ain’t movin’ and his head is bleedin’ somethin’ awful.

Take cover and load your muskets, commanded the sergeant, gazing southward. He knew reinforcements would soon arrive, responding to such gunfire.

Across the Neck, militia Brig. General John Thomas stood atop his palisade in Roxbury staring through a spyglass at both the British breastworks and his small patrol retreating for cover. Perfectly executed! he muttered. He had ordered his men to get no closer than fifty yards without being seen, fire one volley, and scurry back out of range before the redcoats could return fire.

Do you think they hit anyone at that range, General? asked an aide.

At fifty yards, it’s possible, but it really makes no difference. Our mission is to make General Gage suspect we are attacking the Neck and invading Boston from the south.

He didn’t bother to reveal the real intent of the feint. Gage was expected to reinforce his southern guard at the thirty-yard-wide spit of land leading to Boston. That would pull redcoats from the north of town and away from Charlestown.

General Ward’s briefing at Hastings House had been clear. By tomorrow morning the redcoats will find Bunker Hill well-fortified. And we can only guess what Gage will do.

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10:55 AM – June 16, 1775

Zeke Teezle had halted his horse-drawn cart just short of the Neck at the sound of musket fire. His gut reaction was to head back home but he had orders—from Omega. Near the guardhouse, he stopped again when redcoat sentries instantly surrounded him, bayonets glistening in the sun. Just where do you think you are going? demanded Sgt. Marsh.

Zeke winced, saying nary a word, as he handed a small transit note. Marsh handed it back and waved. Go on about your business; but I think you’re addled. You heard the rebel gunfire, didn’t you? You’ll be dead before you clear the Neck.

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The candlemaker shrugged. I gotta do what I gotta do.

He cleared the narrow strip of land with ease, but a squad of militiamen halted his advance just short of Roxbury. Just where in hell do you…oh, it’s you, Zeke. The man shook his head. I don’t know how you do it. After all that musket fire, how is it the redcoats let you pass?

Zeke’s mind went numb for a second. It then occurred to him the truth might work. As for gunfire, you folks are always takin’ shots at each other. We hear it every day. As for me gettin’ by—for some reason they think I’m spyin’ for the Crown. I just let’m think what they want. The truth is I have candles to deliver to Cambridge, and I figure Dr. Warren would like to know what the redcoats are doin’ in Boston.

The militiaman laughed. There ain’t no doubt of that; be on your way.

Slapping the reins, the bony-necked candlemaker pondered how he could avoid killing Dr. Warren and still collect another gold sovereign when he returned.

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Cambridge, Massachusetts

11:30 AM – June 16, 1775

How do I send men to do something when I feel it’s the wrong thing to do? That was the question swimming in General Artemas Ward’s mind, as he gazed at the latest provincial resolution. I don’t like it one damned bit, William, but those men in Watertown got a bug up their asses that we should do something—even if it makes no sense. So, what if we put a few men on that hill. Charlestown has been abandoned and we don’t have cannon with enough range to even reach Copp’s Hill. Here—you can read the orders yourself.

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Ward then huddled over a map with Colonel William Prescott. Revere made this chart for me, and it shows our position well. I figure you can build breastworks on this highest hill to the west of Charlestown. Bunker Hill will give you a commanding view of the British fleet on the Charles River and the redcoats on Copp’s Hill in Boston.

Ward clapped Prescott on the shoulder. You will be in command, William. The way I see it, this will place you distant enough and high enough to elude bombardment from Admiral Graves’s fleet and the batteries at Copp’s Hill. It might, however, lure the redcoats from the safe confines of Boston. If so, you can rain fire and brimstone on any assault coming up that hill. Meanwhile, Charlestown Neck provides easy escape for your men back here to Cambridge.

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I’ll need at least a thousand men, replied Prescott.

I thought about that. You can take Colonel Frye’s and Colonel Bridge’s Massachusetts regiments along with Tom Knowlton’s Connecticut regiment. I suggest you get them rested this afternoon and muster just this side of Charlestown Neck at sunset. I’ll send Colonel Richard Gridley, our chief engineer, to plot your breastworks and artillery placement.

Prescott folded his arms. He had faced similar situations alongside redcoat forces before in both King George’s War of 1745 and later facing the French in Canada. I’ll see to the powder and muskets, but I’ll need every spade and pick you can provide, General.

Leave that to me, replied Ward. I needn’t remind you to keep your men quiet in their march up to Bunker Hill and in their digging. If we do this right, General Gage will find a thousand militiamen sitting atop the Charlestown peninsula. I’ve ordered General Thomas to make a feint at Boston Neck. That should pull redcoats to the south, while you dig in. For the next half hour, they discussed possible cannon placement, redoubt size, and possible deployment of men. There was a small disturbance at the front door, but they ignored it.

Prescott glanced about the parlor. I was hoping to have a word with Dr. Warren. Should we expect him to join us?

Ward shook his head slowly. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. The doctor was up late with Israel Putnam and me when the resolution arrived from the Congress. His recurring headache forced him to retreat to an upstairs bedroom, leaving this planning to us. Incidentally, the Congress promoted him to Major General in our provincial army.

A doctor and a general to be found in one man? asked Prescott, rhetorically. I didn’t know Dr. Warren had army experience.

He doesn’t, snickered Ward, and he readily admits it. As president of the Congress, it gives him a little more authority, but he has elected to defer to us. Let us pray his headache clears before trouble really starts.

Prescott, standing 6’ 3, grabbed his tricorn and calico surtout coat. I’ll speak with Frye, Bridges, and Knowlton. Please don’t forget those tools we’ll need for digging. I’ll keep you advised as the situation develops."

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Cambridge, Massachusetts

11:55 PM – June 16, 1775

As he approached the Great Bridge over the Charles River on the outskirts of Cambridge, Zeke Teezle tugged the reins, again halting his small wagon. He craned his bony neck in wonderment at the turmoil ahead.

The road to Hastings House where Dr. Joseph Warren resided was blocked by militiamen, each man burning to use his musket. He licked his lips nervously exposing his five yellowed teeth. His orders had been explicit, and he shuddered at the prospect of failure…and getting killed. Unconsciously his fingers patted the satchel containing his flintlock pistol and powder horn. His mind was muddled about the note from Omega.

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He didn’t like it, but he was now alone, with no way around it. His loyalty to patriot friends pounded in his mind. Conversely, he cherished the gold sovereigns the Crown paid so well. Feeling hostile gazes at his idling in the middle of the road, he slapped the reins.

On the Cambridge side of the bridge, his advance was halted by a sentry. Just where do you think you’re headed?

Opting for a bit of exaggeration, the candlemaker boasted, I have a load of candles, specially ordered by Dr. Warren for Hastings House. Besides that, I have important news about the redcoats in Boston.

The sentry spat into the road. Boston? Redcoats? What could you know that I don’t?

Zeke pounded his puny chest. For your information, I just left there. Now do I make my delivery, or do you tell Dr. Warren to get his own candles in Boston?

An abrupt sharp volley of musket and cannon fire caused every head to pivot to the southeast. What was that? yammered Zeke.

That was gunfire and maybe a cannon, replied the sentry. It was more than the sniping we hear all the time. Maybe the redcoats are fightin’ their way out of Boston Neck. He shook his head and waved. Be on your way! As he watched the candlemaker’s wagon rumble down the road, he scratched his head. How in hell did he get by redcoat sentries?

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Boston Neck

12:05 – June 16, 1775

What was that gunfire all about? queried the lieutenant, peering over small wooden rails atop the earthworks.

I don’t rightly know, Sir, replied Sgt. Marsh. For a second, they appeared over that knoll firin’ a volley at us, no more than fifty yards away. We returned fire with one cannon shot for effect, but they ducked out of sight. I hate to say it, but we lost one man.

The redcoat officer grimaced. I want everyone we have on these ramparts and load those cannon. Prepare for a rebel attack. He then mounted his horse. As for me, I’m headed for Province House. This could be the invasion we’ve been waiting for; we’ll need more men.

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Cambridge

12:20 PM – June 16, 1775

Zeke Teezle had stopped just short of Hastings House. After terse verbal combat with a squad of sentries, he found himself alone, peering into the parlor. He heard the familiar voice of General Ward muttering something about orders from the Provincial Congress and a hill. More significantly, he heard that Dr. Warren was ill.

Go with God, replied Ward, escorting William Prescott to the door, and passing Teezle in the process.

Having heard the exchange and finding the place so well guarded, Zeke audibly sighed in relief. His dismal task regarding Warren was now out of the question.

What can I do for you, Sir? queried Ward, glaring down at the candlemaker.

The candlemaker shuffled his feet uneasily. The name is Teezle, Zeke Teezle. I have a wagonload of candles for Dr. Warren and a…

Candles? Did you say candles? I was hoping you would have kegs of gunpowder. Ward scratched his head. Teezle? Teezle? I remember you. You’re the man who has passage into Boston.

Suddenly feeling puffed, Zeke stood more erect. The word in Boston is the redcoats are ready to take Dorchester Heights. In fact, I just heard gunfire at…

Ward waved his hand in dismissal. Dorchester? They will have to get by Roxbury to do that. General Thomas can withstand anything they do. What you heard was probably his men exercising their muskets.

Zeke shrugged. That may be so, but I heard dragoons might be movin’ to the Neck.

Is that a fact? Ward abruptly stepped to his map of the area. Thank you for the news, Mr. Teezle. As for your candles, the sentries will help you unload them. He then snapped his fingers. Now that I think on it, I have a small mission for you…and your wagon,

The general scrawled a short note. Take this note to the militia leader in Watertown. After that, take the same note to Menotomy. It gives you authority to gather every spade, shovel, and digging tool they can spare. Your orders are to deliver them to Colonel Prescott. He’s the tall man who just left. You will find him just this side of Charlestown Neck at sunset. After that, bring your wagon back here to Hastings House.

Zeke pursed his lips, as his mind weighed his options. A small voice was telling him to advise Joseph Warren about the plans to have him killed. But I can’t tell him about Omega. If he knew about a British spy ring, he could... I don’t suppose I could see Dr. Warren for a moment.

Impossible! asserted Ward, wincing in pain from abdominal spasms he’d had for more than a year. The doctor has been working twenty hours a day. He needs his rest and I intend to see he gets it.

That said, Zeke rushed out to the wagon, gazing heavenward and silently giving thanks he hadn’t been ordered to join the ranks headed for a hill.

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Taunton, Massachusetts

1 PM – June 16, 1775

The six militiamen had been with him ever since June 10 when they left Philadelphia and the Second Continental Congress. Having finished a light lunch with his mother, Dr. Benjamin Church stepped onto the veranda for a moment of peace in the small town of less than three thousand. Apart from the noisy iron works, it could be considered a bucolic setting. His upper lip lifted in a subtle sneer as the militiamen continued their dining. If they only knew how much I detest their mere existence.

Days earlier he had stopped in Fairfield, Connecticut to deliver letters from John Hancock to his fiancée Dorothy Quincy, his Aunt Lydia, and their host Thaddeus Burr. That night he had surreptitiously visited a known loyalist to the Crown. It had taken him two hours with a quill in the light of a lone candle to encode a report to General Gage. He had paid the man a golden sovereign to stress the urgency of the task; it had to be delivered aboard a Royal schooner out of Plymouth headed for Boston that morning. Once he arrived in Cambridge, he knew it would be nigh impossible to get messages into Boston.

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Province House, The Governor’s Mansion

1:30 PM – June 16, 1775

Sgt. Major Hubert Slank closed the door behind the departing lieutenant and resumed his sentry duty in the small conference room in the governor’s mansion. He listened intently as General Gage, along with Maj. Generals Howe, Clinton, and Burgoyne reacted to the news of rebel gunfire at Boston Neck.

You all heard the report, stated Gage. What do you think of it? Is it simply another ruse, or are those renegades probing our Neck fortifications for an attack?

Burgoyne made room for a small map. We discussed our options last night at the British Coffee House using this chart Ensign De Berniere drew for us. Our plans are perfect; the only thing this small skirmish has changed is the timing. We shall swarm and dominate the Dorchester Peninsula, followed by destruction of the encampment at Roxbury. The rebels would have a choice to either retreat or die. General Howe shall land transports at Dorchester point, with Clinton assailing the center, while I cannonade enemy positions from Boston Neck.

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After taking Roxbury, we can attack rebel forces at Cambridge and Watertown. Of course, we should secure Dorchester with a strong redoubt, added Howe, with a note of authority.

Gage nodded. And following that, we simply use our remaining forces to commandeer those heights above Charlestown, thereby controlling everything in and around Boston.

Clinton slapped the table. By God that settles it! When do we commence the invasion, General? My men can be ready for a dawn assault. That moves our plans up by one day.

So be it! declared Gage, as he glanced at Burgoyne. As a precaution, I want you to shift a few batteries of cannon from Copp’s Hill to reinforce the Neck, along with another regiment. If they dare attack from the south tonight, they can spend their time counting dead bodies in the morning.

Consider it done, General. I had already dispatched a cadre of dragoons to the Neck earlier this morning, anticipating our next move, replied Burgoyne.

Henry Clinton clapped his hands. I’ve been waiting for this moment since my arrival. These peasants will soon be groveling for forgiveness. With rebel leaders hanged and peace restored, I figure the three of us will be enjoying a tankard at the Olde Cheshire Cheese in London before the snow flies.

William Howe rose to his feet. Let us get to it! We can leave General Gage to write his letter to the Crown telling them of our victory tomorrow morning.

As he watched the three generals depart, Gage tapped his lips with a finger as he glanced at Slank. I trust you sent those orders to the candlemaker.

That I did, Sir. I figure the little assassin is on his way to Cambridge by now; Dr. Warren will soon be little more than a memory.

Gage savored a cup of tea while scanning the latest dispatches. He was surprised to find one coded message, marked urgent from Plymouth. After deciphering the text, he realized the importance of the action he had just planned with his generals.

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The general knew it was from Ben Church; it lacked a signature, as was his custom. He slouched back in his chair twirling his quill in thought. The idea of kidnapping those dear to John Hancock is intriguing. But who could be trusted to complete such a dastardly deed without getting caught? I can’t use a squad of redcoats, as it lacks any sense of common decency. Once this little uprising is ended and these colonials come to their senses, my redcoats must be admired if I expect to govern these people.

Shaking his head, he shoved his cup of tea aside and filled a crystal glass with Madeira. The next few days will be difficult. Regardless, these colonials must be brought to their knees. I can’t let supplies and reinforcements from other colonies reach the rebel lines.

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Snug Harbor Tavern

4 PM – June 16, 1775

The Snug Harbor Tavern taproom was stifling, and streams of sweat trickled down Amos’ face. He didn’t seem to notice as the bar towel in his hand rubbed the bar pointlessly in one spot. The 6’ 4" black barman had one eye on the multitude of redcoats sipping their dark ale and rum in the taproom. His other eye rested on Imp leaning on a swab behind the bar. It was clear, the seventeen-year-old lad had resolved to rush out the rear door at his first opportunity.

Don’t even think about it, Imp, muttered the big man, pulling the lad closer by his ear. There ain’t no way you can make it to Cambridge to alert those folks without gettin’ a redcoat bayonet jabbed in your skinny ass. I’ve watched you grow up in this brothel and I don’t intend to dig your grave.

The tavern owner’s harangue still echoed in his ears. Amanda Griffith had howled, Hell no! There is no way you are goin’ anywhere, especially with those damned dragoons gallopin’ around town. Ever since Lexington and Concord, redcoats have made life miserable; now it’s gettin’ worse.

Imp leaned on his mop, glaring at the redcoats sitting about. That’s just it, Amos. I saw a whole regiment marchin’ to the Neck. All those men in Roxbury are sure to be killed. Dr. Warren is relyin’ on me; he said so himself, usin’ those exact words in Cambridge.

You ain’t gonna be one of them to be killed, and that’s final. Now just get on with it and push that swab like you should. If the time comes to do somethin’, I’ll be with you…always.

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Bunch of Grapes Tavern, Boston

6 PM – June 16, 1775

Big Bessie Clump sat at the end of the bar slowly nursing a mug of ale, while straining her ears to listen in on the debate at a nearby table filled with redcoats. Regardless of who would prevail, she was certain her world would change, and it wouldn’t be good. She trusted her trollops could learn details after a bit of shagging in the cribs on the second deck. For now, all she could discern was battling in either Dorchester or Charlestown.

Major Stauter moved our entire battery of cannon from the heights on Copp’s Hill to the south on Boston Neck, asserted a sergeant. And I say it’s about time. There’s no way those colonials could invade us from Charlestown. The Royal Navy would sink every boat they put in the Charles River to get to us.

I don’t know about that, sergeant, replied a corporal, shaking his head. If they place twelve-pounders on those hills above the town, they could rain hell on us. They wouldn’t need boats.

That’s the point; there ain’t nobody on those hills and they ain’t got no twelve-pounders. Charlestown has been deserted and useless since Lexington. I tell you the action will be at the Neck, and I want to be there when it happens.

Bessie’s thoughts were suddenly disrupted when Amanda Griffith appeared at the door and sashayed across the taproom. Minutes later the two owners of the busiest bordellos in town had isolated themselves at a remote table over mugs of rum. Clump gazed warily at the tables filled with redcoats. Whatever you have to say, Amanda, we had best keep it out of their pryin’ ears. As you are dressed in your scullery clothes and mob cap, I figure you ain’t out on the town for any shaggin’. What’s on your mind?

Amanda nodded at the other tables. Them! It’s that simple. Down on the waterfront we are gettin’ hints about dragoons and more redcoats headed for the Neck. I figure you might know more, as you are closer to the Old State House and the main guard.

Bessie shrugged. I heard the same news and it ain’t good. If General Gage breaks out of Boston, he will no doubt burn a few towns, especially Cambridge. And I dread to think how many patriots, the men who filled our taprooms for years, will be killed.

Bessie leaned closer, her pendulous breasts sliding across the table. There’s no good in this, the way I see it. If the redcoats win, our old patrons will be dead, and the redcoats will all sail back to England. If redcoats lose, a good number of our old patrons will be dead, and the redcoats will still sail back to England—after the Royal Navy cannonades our town into a heap of ashes.

Amanda sat back in her chair, sipping her rum. We lose, no matter how you slice it—unless—

Unless what?

It’s simple. We gotta find a way to make the redcoats sit idle here in Boston. That way they continue shaggin’ for a shillin’ and our men stay safe in farm country.

Bessie upended her drink and laughed. Maybe I should grab a quill and write some orders for General Gage to keep his redcoat ass seated in Province House—until we say otherwise.

Maybe that’s what’s needed; at least until our Provincial Army can persuade him to abandon our town for good.

The big trollop yelled for Rufus the barman to refill their mugs. In case you ain’t noticed, Dearie, there are fresh regiments arrivin’ every week from England. Ever since Lexington and Concord, I figure the Crown ain’t in the mood for makin’ peace with those farmers out there.

Amanda leaned closer to whisper. I don’t know a damned thing about what they call tactics, but I heard they are hell-bent on takin’ Dorchester. What would happen if their attention was switched to Charlestown? Gage would have to wait for more men to fight at both the north and south ends of town.

And just how do you expect that to happen?

It’s Imp’s idea. He’s been sneakin’ across the Charles River to deliver news to Dr. Warren in Cambridge for the last few weeks.

What? That young bastard could get himself killed.

Not really! The Royal Navy let’s small fishin’ boats come and go. He just makes a point of fishin’ at night. He figures he should tell Doc Warren about what’s happening at the Neck. Then he could maybe move a few men into Charlestown to change Gage’s thinkin’.

Bessie shook her head, making her jowls shiver. I don’t like it one damned bit. That’s too dangerous for such a small lad?

Amanda shrugged. I feel the same way and said no at first; but on second thought it might work. Imp is small for his age. Even if he gets caught, the Royal Navy will figure him a triflin’ nobody fishin’ at night.

Bessie’s lips crinkled in a sly grin. If there’s trouble, Imp can always hide at my place. Maybe it’s worth a shot if he can make it.

He said he’s done it before and plans to get across the river after sunset. I should head back to the Snug Harbor. Things should seem normal for our redcoat friends who ain’t standin’ sentry duty at the Neck. Besides, I expect a tumble with a certain redcoat major later tonight.

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Chapter 2

Washington Plans for Boston;

Bunker Hill or Breed’s Hill?

City Tavern – Philadelphia, Colony of Pennsylvania

8 PM – June 16, 1775

General George Washington sat with the delegates for the colony of Virginia, most of whom were close friends from the House of Burgesses. Thomas Jefferson stared from across the table sipping his Claret. He found it curious that Charles Lee, not a fellow delegate, took the liberty of sitting next to the recently appointed commanding general of the new Continental Army. There was something about Lee that didn’t sit well in his disciplined mind.

Jefferson, like Washington and others of the Virginia tidewater aristocracy, took pride in setting an example of good breeding, meticulous attire, and articulate expression of ideas. Even in the event of disagreement, the elite elected the use of polite insulting banter in their battle of wits. It was understood a formal duel between gentlemen was a possibility, but that was considered a last resort.

Charles Lee, on the other hand, was a fine example of a social outcast, exhibiting vocal vulgarity, sloven attire, and unmerited pomposity. The Virginia consensus was that their newest resident made even the crude, outspoken New Englanders appear dignified. Just look at the clod, he mused. His unkempt uniform, combined with vulgarities dripping incessantly from his mouth, make Philadelphia street urchins seem noble.

The scowl on Lee’s face said it all. Slouching in contemptable posture made his unwarranted indignation obvious. "I simply don’t understand why you waste your time with these blathering pontificators, George. Not one of these men has tasted the danger of battle; I doubt even one would know which end of a sword to hold. The only weapon they understand is a sharp tongue.

Why in hell do you waste your time sitting in their company? You and I should leave immediately for Boston. With twenty thousand Massachusetts militiamen, we could instantly capture General Gage, leaving his redcoats begging for mercy within a week. He spat on the floor, both expecting and savoring the sneers of contempt from those nearby.

Washington placed a belaying hand on Lee’s shoulder. May I suggest you temper your words, my friend. It is true we won’t find them at our side in any skirmish, but these men will provide the cannon, gunpowder, and supplies needed to do what you so brazenly boast we can accomplish. Furthermore, I suggest you curb your judgment of Tom Gage in Boston. After losing General Braddock years ago, he was in command of artillery during our retreat. His bravery is beyond question. Taking a sip of his Claret, his mind drifted back to the woods near Fort Pitt fighting the French and Indians. In fact, I wish he was on our side in this conflict. He was a cautious but effective leader of men.

Lee pointed in the direction of the southern delegations and those at the Pennsylvania table. I wonder how these men would respond if you invited them to join us in attacking Boston. From what I hear, many are determined to surrender to the Crown at the first opportunity.

Unfortunately, that is true, Charles. That is why we must recruit the right men to join us in this enterprise. Before we leave, I expect to nominate you as a major general on my staff. More importantly, I plan to recruit a cadre of brigadiers who are closely related to the men sitting here. If familial blood is on the line, which it is, these men will assuredly provide the guns, powder, and men needed to end this quickly. I intend to spend Christmas sitting at the hearth in Mt. Vernon with Martha, knowing we have been victorious.

If you can trust this rabble to give you a capable staff of officers, you are more trusting that me. It is no wonder they selected you to be the commanding officer. He wagged his finger. You should watch your back with these men, George.

I learned that myself while speaking with President Hancock. Can you believe he wanted this job? This will take political maneuvering and I will need surrogates in this town to get things done. Hence, I need you on your best behavior. Bear in mind that once we leave Philadelphia, the men of New England and Virginia are the only men we can really trust. They will have to do the arm-twisting for us.

Lee chuckled. My best behavior? That’s asking quite a bit, George. You know I prefer the company of my dogs.

The new commander-in-chief shook his head in silence. Ironically, he had the same thought.

Across the room, Dixie Shannon placed her hand on Edward Rutledge’s chest as she gazed demurely into his eyes. Now y’all must promise to visit at the Naughty Nymphs on Race Street. Afterall, it’s me and Hope who got Mr. Washington picked to be a general.

Rutledge, an attorney, the youngest delegate in Congress, and a distinguished part of the South Carolina aristocracy, stared at the buxom trollop quizzically. He didn’t know whether to be curious, dismissive, or condescending at the blatant bluster. He had first known her in the biblical sense years ago in Charles Town. As a serving wench in Muldoon’s Tavern, she was simply another tumble to slake his carnal thirst. His youthful ardor and infatuation fomented such a scandal in high society that his family deemed Dixie an anchor to his ambitions. Hence, she had been given a choice: she could endure a long stay in a southern prison on a trumped-up charge or gain passage on the next ship sailing to anywhere. She had opted for the latter, finding freedom in Boston at a place called the Snug Harbor Tavern.

Now in Philadelphia, Rutledge found himself once again charmed by her womanly allure. How she ended up at the Naughty Nymphs wasn’t clear, but she now had his attention. The young barrister exercised his legal training. Please tell me, how is it that y’all had any influence in getting that tall Virginian selected to such a high military station?

Dixie tugged at his jabot, pulling him closer. It was y’all’s idea. Y’all told me in my crib at the Nymphs all about it. The only way y’all fine gentlemen of the deep south could think of supportin’ that northern army is if a man of the south was in command. She nodded at Hope seated with Hancock and Adams at the Massachusetts table. As y’all can see, my friend is now busy snugglin’ up close with those Puritan folks. Mr. Adams and Hancock listen to her, as she knew them well in Boston.

Rutledge chuckled at learning his Puritan adversaries enjoyed a tumble with a trollop now and then. His mind drifted. That could prove useful in our private debates, and perhaps weaken their arguments. They wouldn’t dare risk exposure of their lascivious escapades and ruin of their gospel reputations. He abruptly braced Dixie at arm’s length, his hands on her shoulders, forcing a broad grin. I cannot press it now, as y’all can see, but I shall visit the Naughty Nymphs tomorrow evening. For now, be off with you.

She patted his cheek, gently guiding his right hand to caress her cleavage. We shall be awaiting your gentlemanly embrace. That said, she pivoted, nodded to Hope, and headed to the bar.

Frank Davidson, the barman, grinned. It looks like your ladies have finished marketing their talents for the Nymph, Harry.

Barrel-chested Harry Benchwick rested his back against the bar as he sipped his mug of ale. He elbowed his partner in crime, John Italiano, who was the shorter of the two, but meaner and well-muscled. I told you they’d be quick about it. Moments later, the four ambled to the door. Dixie grabbed John’s arm while Hope nuzzled Harry’s neck.

As he watched the foursome depart, Skip Lind shoved his empty glass across the bar along with a few pence. If you would be so kind, Frank, I could use another dash of rum.

While he waited, he mused about how he got here and how he could move on. As a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, he had been ordered to escort Angel Wexford, a beautiful spy for the Crown, from Boston to Philadelphia. Acting as her paramour in civilian dress, he understood the mission was to learn what they could about the rebel Congress. Soon after our arrival, Angel made it clear I was little more than ballast in a ship’s hold and disposable. Her real mission had been to kill John Hancock after luring him into her crib. He took a gulp of his rum. It’s a shame Wexford got herself shot in the head at