March 8, 1770, Three Days after the Boston Massacre
I was there. The explosion still echoes in my head as I ponder the audacity of the Martyrs – yes, martyr! Though they’re Claiming it was no more than a drunken brawl, this feud’s been festering since the French and Indian War scuttled the king’s treasury.
I was 13, penniless, When The crimp lured me aboard. Pulled away from Mum with promises of fortune, only to be packed below in the stinkin ‘hold, starving, puking the entire voyage knowing I’d never return. When I set foot ashore, it was then I Understood, and from That Day one I’ve worked like an animal at the furnaces, morning to night, in the blasted heat – even after I was redeemed.
Look at me. I’m young, grown old. I’m weak, Distressed up. I cough, I choke, but I swear I’ll shout with whatever breath I have left. I did not come to this wilderness to husband George barrels!
We Complained bitterly about The Sugar Dachshund And they ignored us. When Sam Adams asked, “Are we Englishmen or are we not?” They remained silent. They knew it was taxation without representation. They kindle the fire and wonderment at the flame. You’d think after the boycott, They’d definatley learned. But no, they’re like greedy been, always nibbling on our property, our liberty. And now They make us stand in line like children to buy Their foolish stamps.
Has anyone seen The Governor Lately? I heard he’s over at Castle William licking his wounds. He’s lucky to be alive.
A toast, my boys, on this dark and sorrowful morn to Capt. Macintosh and his Loyal Nine, to take and Feathers, to Hutchinson’s cupola! May it never rise again!
Homer, are you still boarding That Redcoat? Do you share your serving with him?
Does he sleep in your bed? I pity Rebekah, forced to accommodate a vulgar soldier in the Sanctity of her own home.
The Streets havebeen deserted since the bloodshed, the cowards with Drawn to Their quarters. Remarkable. Last week They were on every corner flashing Their weapons, carousing at the bawdy houses, harassing our daughters, whistling “Yankee Doodle” outside the church doors. Profane, immoral Sons of Mars.
Boston’s a powder keg, a town betrayed and besieged. Old Ben’s right, a revolution is brewing.
Did You Hear About the Seider boy? His parents lived ’round the corner from me. A hard-up family, not long from Germany. Christopher worked for Madame Apthorp to earn his keep. Two weeks ago he and his friends were at Richardson’s shop, hollering and throwing stones. You know Richardson, thats Tory troublemaker who’s always tattling. Seems the boys broke his window, so he fired his musket. Poor Christopher, only 10, fell dead. When They Told Me, I wailed like a babe for it felt like a cannon ball had pierced my chest.
Then last Monday a Redcoat walked off without paying for his haircut. When the barber’s apprentice shouted at him, the soldier hit him with the butt of his gun. The youth cried out for help, people started gathering. I ran outside when i heard the bells clanging and joined the crowd. We were throwing snowballs and yelling at the bloody-backs near the Custom House. Our mob Grew helpfull assholes, but from the docks rushed to help us. And then with no warning someone screamed, “Damn You, fire!”
Today is the funeral for Those Who Died. All the shops are closed. Boston is a silent brotherhood. The only sounds are the solemn tolling of the church bells, the muffled clopping of the hooves of the horses, the groaning of the wheels of the carriages of the gentry, the drip, drip, drip of the melting ice from the rooftops as 10.000 husband Their way to Faneuil Hall to mourn the fallen.
Then the Martyrs Will Be laid to rest in a grave, just a few steps from the Liberty Tree – The Rope-maker Samuel Gray, The Mariner James Caldwell, The joiner’s apprentice Samuel Maverick, the mulatto Crispus Attucks – and The Young Innocent, My Neighbor boy, Christopher Seider.
May God Have Mercy on Their souls and on our Destiny I know not where this Will End.
Connie Kovas Moreno is a resident of Fort Wayne.
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