Chapter Seventeen

Boston March 5, 1770

Colin approached the sentry standing guard outside the Custom House. "It is certainly a cold night, isn't it Private?"

"Private Hugh White, sir, and yes it is freezing sir, thank you, sir." The soldier stuttered from the cold.

"Keep an eye open Private White. I crossed in front of the tavern up the street, and the lot of them are in a foul, drunken mood. I heard a couple of them mention they were on their way here. They said something about a grudge about an unpaid bill for Captain Goldfinch's wig. Imagine that. I was with the captain when he paid for the wig."

Two men hurried down King Street, one carrying a stick. Sloshing through the snow, they came within a few yards of Private White and Colin. "Where is that son-of-a-bitch Goldfinch?"

Colin stepped forward, "Might I help you Mr...?"

"Edward Gerrish.” He pointed the stick at Colin. “Captain Goldfinch purchased a wig from us and refused to pay. You lobster bellied Redcoats are all a bunch of thieving bastards."

"I assure you that you were paid for your services. I was with the captain when he paid you." Colin stated, stepping in front of the angry man and his sentry.

"You lie like the rest of your kind." Gerrish swayed back and forth reeking of bourbon.

Private White pushed in front of Colin, striking Gerrish in the gut with the butt of his musket, "It would pay you to be more respectful to a British Officer."

Gerrish dropped to the ground clutching his stomach. His companion picked up a piece of ice and tossed it at the private, hitting him on the forehead. Colin stepped forward to intervene.

"Private, I think it might be prudent to seek refuge in the doorway." Colin noticed a small group of angry men had gathered.

Over fifty townspeople pelted White and Colin with snowballs, which had rocks and ice mashed in the middle. They taunted White to fire at them.  Henry Knox appealed to White. "If you fire, then you must die. Think before you act, private." He then turned to the mob and extolled them, “Enough! Return to your homes at once! This is not solving anything!”

"Bloody lobster-back," a voice came from the back followed by a volley of snowballs. The crowd grew in size and anger. The chimes of church bell rang out which usually signified fire. The church bells brought out more townspeople to the mob and a dozen well-armed soldiers from the 29th Regiment of Foot Soldiers under the leadership of Captain Preston. With bayonets fixed, the soldiers drove their way through the mob.

Upon seeing Captain Preston, Henry Knox, who was trying to relieve the tension said, "For God's sake, take care of your men, Captain. If they fire their guns, they must die."

"I know of that," the captain responded as he reached White and Colin. Preston shouted at the crowd which had ballooned to three hundred people, to disperse without success.

The crowd was in a foul mood. Years of pent-up anger finally found release, “Fire,” they kept yelling repeatedly.

A man carrying a cudgel that Colin knew as local innkeeper Richard Palmes asked the captain, “Are the weapons loaded?”

“I can assure you the weapons are loaded but will not be fired unless I give the orders.” He stood his ground with his hand resting on his saber. “I am unlikely to make such an order.”

A large object pelted the private to Preston’s right in the chest causing him to drop his musket. The private recovered his weapon, and shouted, “Damn you. Fire.”

The private discharged his weapon into the crowd. The innkeeper took a mighty swing of his cudgel at the private, hitting him in the arm. Then he took aim at Preston narrowly missing his head and hit the captain in the arm instead.

Colin’s face paled, his stomach turned.  He swallowed his vomit. An eerie pause followed the first shot. To Colin, the pause felt like an eternity, but it was only a matter of seconds. After the pause, soldiers fired into the crowd. It wasn’t a disciplined volley. Preston never gave orders to fire.

                                                                   

“The volley into the crowd was more or less a ragged series of shots.  Eleven men were struck by the shots. Three died instantly, rope maker Samuel Gray, Mariner James Caldwell and sailor Crispus Attucks. Two others died shortly afterward.”

“You remember the names of the victims after all this time?” asked Grant.

“I cannot forget those names, General. They are forever etched in my memory,” Colin said with his head held down. “The mob moved away from the Custom House but continued to mill around the area. Captain Preston called for the remainder of the 29th Regiment to patrol the area. The crowd finally dispersed when acting Governor Hutchison promised an honest inquiry into the shooting.”

“We were awoken from our beds a little after midnight. Justices Richard Dumia and John Tudar handed the sheriff a warrant for the arrest of Preston and me as we were the officers on duty during the shootings. We were taken to the Town House where the justices interrogated us for over an hour,” Colin poured himself a glass of water. “Bookseller Knox and Wigmaker's Apprentice Gerrish both testified that I had little to do with the shooting and I was released. The justices were not interested in the cause of the altercation, just the ending. They turned a deaf ear when I told them that Mr. Gerrish came looking for a fight. The justices found there was sufficient evidence to charge Captain Preston with murder along with eight other soldiers in his charge. He was escorted to the jail where he spent the next seven months awaiting his trial.”

“I remember reading about that trial,” Grant said. “The defendants were defended by John Adams.”

Colin nodded. “That’s correct. He had an office near the stairs at the Town Office. I remember the trial and the time as if it were yesterday…”

Colin sat alone at a table in the far corner of The Green Dragon Inn listening to the overly drunk men at the table. It’s not that he intended to eavesdrop on the conversation. He had no other choice the men were obnoxiously boisterous. Colin was not in uniform. The mood in the tavern was anti-British. He would pay the consequences for not wearing his uniform, but frankly, he couldn’t care less. He needed time to think about the incident which the papers already called “The Boston Massacre.” There were thoughts he needed to sort out. He knew very well that he could be in the jail with Captain Preston. The townspeople wanted blood. It didn’t matter if the captain was innocent. He never gave the order to fire into the crowd. They set the trial date for October 24th at the Queen Street Courthouse. The date, a little over seven months away was set so Bostonians could have enough time to lose their furor. In the meantime, the captain and the eight soldiers would remain in jail.

“It is beyond my comprehension why a good patriot like John Adams would defend lobster-backed asses,” a boisterous slur came from the next table.

“It is indeed a travesty. James Forest should have looked for a Tory attorney to defend the red-coated apes. Why he chose, Adams is beyond my comprehension. I hear the merchant even threw in some theatrics to convince Adams to take the case.” The drunken man lifted his tankard, signaling for more beer.

“Theatrics?”

He leaned closer to his friend, slurring every word. “Forest burst into Adam’s office, tears flowing down his cheeks and begged for his help.”

Looking into his empty tankard, the man slurred, “I, for one will never step foot into Forest’s establishment again. As for Adams, well I fear the trial will spell doom for his career. Pity, he seemed like a competent attorney.”

“I believe you to be dead-on. From all accounts, he had a bright future ahead of him. He has given up his career. Future Patriots will look upon the name of John Adams with contempt if they remember the name at all.” He took another long pull from his tankard.

“The trial took place from October 24th thru the 30th. The main issue was whether Captain Preston gave the order to fire, which he steadfastly denied.”

“What about the other soldiers? Did they deny the order also?” asked James.

“It had been decided that the soldiers be tried separately. That trial was much more interesting. As for the captain’s trial, the prosecution produced witnesses saying the captain did indeed order his men to fire into the crowd. While Adams produced, witnesses that testified the captain did not order his men to shoot. In the end, the sequestered twelve men of the jury took only two hours to acquit the captain. I overheard one member say that they were tired of biscuits, cheese, and spiritless liqueur provided for them by the court. Other jury members said Mr. Adams had presented enough evidence to provide a reasonable doubt. The trial for the eight soldiers took place eight weeks later. John Adams defended them also.”

“James Forest was a merchant and a Tory. That means he supported the Crown. He is the one to persuade John Adams to represent the soldiers charged with the deaths of those killed during the altercation.”

“You mean the Boston Massacre?” James asked.

“History might have called it a massacre, but I was there, and it was hardly a massacre. Was it a tragedy, yes? Was it unavoidable, possibly? Were my soldiers provoked, yes?” Colin took another drink of water.

Colin placed his empty glass on the side table.

The December day was a cold, gray, and drab. The courtroom was full to the brim. British officers sat on one side of the room while the townspeople sat on the other side. Prosecuting attorney Samuel Quincy paced the floor with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “Tell the court the conversation you overheard from Private Mathew Killroy. I do not need to remind you that the private has already been identified as the soldier that shot and killed Citizen John Gray.”

The witness, Samuel Hemmingway, stood before the judge and jury and cleared his throat. “I overheard the private tell another soldier that he would never miss an opportunity if he had one, to fire on the inhabitants and he had wanted to have the opportunity ever since he landed.”

“Thank you, Dr. Hemmingway. I have no further question. The witness is yours, Mr. Adams.” He tapped his fingers together.

Adams adjusted his coat and approached the witness. “Dr. Hemmingway, were you the same Dr. Hemmingway that was Patrick Carr’s surgeon?”

“I was.” Breaking the gaze, he bit his bottom lip.

“Would that be the very same Patrick Carr that died from wounds he sustained on the night of March 5th?” Adams gripped the edge of the desk and leaned toward him. “Tell me, Doctor, did Mr. Carr mention he was apprehensive of any danger on that night?”

The witness had rubbed his forehead before he continued. “He told me he was from Ireland and that he had frequently seen mobs and soldiers called to quell them. He said he had seen soldiers fire on the people of Ireland but had never seen them bear half so much abuse from the mob as on the night of March 5th before they fired into the crowd.”

“When had you the last conversation with him?” Mr. Adams moved closer to him. His face inches away from his.

“About four o’clock in the afternoon, proceeding the night on which he died. He mainly said he forgave the man, whoever he was. That shot him.” Dr. Hemmingway met his gaze. “He was satisfied he had no malice but had fired in self-defense.”

“Thank you. You may be seated doctor; the defense would like to call James Bailey.”

A well-dressed man stepped into the witness stand.

“You were there, but did not take part on that fateful night, correct Mr. Bailey?”

“Correct.”

Adams peered at the witness with his hand grasping his chin. “Could you tell the court how you perceived the crowd that night?”

Bailey faced the judge. “The crowd was an out-of-control gang of drunken hooligans looking for a fight.”

Adams paced the floor. “Did you observe the actions of this gang of hooligans, as you put it?”

Bailey scratched his ear and meekly said, “They pelted the soldiers with large chunks of ice and other objects.

“Anything else Mr. Bailey?” asked Adams.

Bailey squirmed in the chair. “I saw Crispus Attucks knock down Private Montgomery with a large stick.”

“Crispus Attucks,” Adams pointed to a soldier sitting at the defense table. “The victim struck Private Montgomery, the defendant, with a stick?”

“Yes, sir.”

Adams removed his glasses and cleaned them with his frilly handkerchief as he turned to face the jury. “Consider whether it had been a prudent resolution for them,” he pointed at the defendants, “or anybody in their situation to have stood still, to see if the mob would knock their brains out or not.” Returning to his desk, he said, “The defense rests. I will proceed to closing arguments if it so pleases the prosecution.”

“By all means, Mr. Adams, do continue.” Prosecuting Quincy stood and bowed.

“I will enlarge no more on the evidence, but submit it to you.-Facts—are stubborn things. And whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passions. They cannot alter the state of facts and evidence. Nor is the law less stable than the fact. If an assault was made to endanger their lives, the law is clear. They had a right to kill in their defense. If it was not so severe as to endanger their lives, yet if they were assaulted at all, struck and abused by blows of any sort, by snowballs, oyster-shells, cinders, clubs, or sticks of any kind in consideration of those passions in our nature, which cannot be eradicated. To your candor and justice, I submit the prisoners and their cause.” Adams finished with a curt nod and returned to his seat.

After the closing arguments from the prosecution, Judge Trowbridge addressed the jury, “Malice is the grand criterion that distinguishes murder from all homicides, be clear of intent.”

Justice Oliver glanced at the papers before him, “I must bring up Patrick Carr’s dying statement. This Carr was not upon oath. It is true, but you will determine whether a man just stepping into eternity is not to be believed, especially in favor of a set of men to whom he lost his life.”

“It took the jury less than three hours to acquit six of the eight soldiers of all charges. The jury convicted Private Montgomery and Private Killroy of manslaughter. A few days later the courtroom was full once again.” Colin stood and stared out the window.

Justice Oliver glanced at the verdict. “Hugh Montgomery and Matthew Killroy you have been found guilty of manslaughter, is there any reason why the sentence of death should not be passed?”

“We invoke the benefit of clergy,” Adams said, knowing the plea would shift their punishment from prison to that of thumb branding.

“Very well, judgment shall be thumb branding,” Justice Oliver turned to the two soldiers, “From this day forth you will be branded as cowards and murderers. Mr. Adams, you must look at the punishment as the sheriff carries out the order. Prepare your clients to present their thumbs to Sherriff Greenleaf for the brand.” Justice Oliver banged his gavel. “Case is closed.”

“You met former President John Adams?” Sally asked with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Yes Sally, however, he had not yet been the president. There wasn’t the United States, and Mr. Adams’ extraordinary congress was still months from becoming history.”

“You amaze me, Colin,” Sally’s mother smiled. “My husband was an attorney before the war began, I wish he were here. He would have liked to listen to what you remember of that particular trial.”

“I never could understand why a man like Adams could defend British soldiers. His politics were well-known at the time,” James said.

Colin clapped his hands together. “I asked him the same thing when I met him in Philadelphia a few years later.”

“My good man,” John Adams said to the Colin sitting at the tavern’s table. “You ask why I did not hesitate to defend those soldiers back in ’70. I knew at the time that I would be open to criticism, jeopardize my legal career, or worse. I got anonymous threats on my life and the safety of my family. I have a sincere belief that every man deserves a decent defense. I had no other choice.” Adams stared at Colin. “You were there, in the uniform of a British officer? Were you not?”

“You are mistaken,” Colin replied. “The trial was years ago. Congress is in Philadelphia and has the responsibility for a far more formidable task than reminiscing over a trial.”

Adams raised an eyebrow. “Sir, I am seldom mistaken. I have noticed you have gained the ear of Doctor Franklin. There have been rumors that Ben has asked you to be his second for the upcoming Congress. These are trying times. We must proceed with level heads and tongues that do not wag. I, for one, will not stand for a liar amongst our ranks. Our necks will soon be targets for the Crown’s noose. A British spy will not be taken kindly.” Adams stood before Colin’s table clutching the sides, his face turning red.

Colin cleared his throat, “Please forgive me, Mr. Adams.  I attended the trial, and yes, I was a British officer. I have changed my allegiance. I am now behind your cause.”

“My cause?” asked Adams surprised.

“Independence, sir.”

Adams looked as if Colin had slapped him with a brick. He released the table, turned away, and then turned to face Colin again. In a hushed voice, he said, “I do intend to ask the upcoming Congress to press for independence, but this is not the place or time to discuss such a thing. The Crown has ears, even in Philadelphia. I would like to stay and discuss your change of heart, but I am already late for a meeting with Mr. Hancock,” Adams said as he stood to leave. “By the by, Captain, you look as I remember. I agree with Franklin. Your story might be worth the time. Goodnight, Captain.” 

Chapter Fifteen

London, England March 26, 1765

Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in London was far less crowded than usual. Colin sat at a table near the crackling fireplace, a table reserved for the elite of the city, a title Colin now possessed ever since he became a confidant of the young Theresa, the Baroness of Boringdon. The Baroness, barely twenty, had sighted Colin at Orange Square when he attended a recital given by eight-year-old Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Wolfgang was the new talk of the town and regularly gave public concerts. The Baroness approached Colin innocently enough. “I cannot understand why young Wolfgang would choose to give a recital in this disgusting Square.”

“I suppose you’re talking about the grazing sheep and donkeys,” Colin said mainly to be polite.

“Of course,” she said daintily and extended her hand to Colin so he could help her sidestep a pile of donkey dung. “Thank you, mister…”

“Colin Harcourt, my lady,” Colin said, again to be polite.

“I am Baroness of Boringdon,” she said flashing her eyes. “You know we are both from Vienna?”

“Pardon?” Colin questioned.

“Young Wolfgang and I are from Vienna.” The Baroness smiled at Colin. That was all it took. Colin did not particularly like his new arrangement, but he could not deny the benefits afforded him. A warm table by the fireside in one of London’s finest taverns on this frigid January night in 1765 directly resulted from his liaison with the twenty-year-old Baroness.

Colin spent much of his afternoons in taverns of this kind. He was content to sit and read the dailies or sift through his past life experiences and drink a pint or two. Today he read the dailies. A full-page advertisement caught his eye; he turned the page several times but kept returning to the ad.

Two men sat at the table to Colin’s left. He recognized them both. The short fat man was a well-known merchant who spent more time in taverns or brothels than tending to his merchandise. The tall, thin man with beady eyes and a thin hawk-like nose was the Frenchman, Count Tuate. The Frenchman turned up in London soon after Colin. He had no visible means of support. Some said he had killed a lover in France. Some said he had made a vast fortune selling ammunitions to both sides in the recent Seven Year War in Europe. Colin remembered the war as the French and Indian War. Colin thought the Frenchman was more likely a thief preying on London widows of a station and not a Count at all.

The duo’s conversation became boisterous and carried through the tavern. Colin had no choice but listen to the rant.

“I tell you that those damn colonists have no right to expect His Majesty to pay for their little war. If it weren't for The Crown, those bastards would be Frenchmen now.”

“My dear friend it was not the intention of the French to make your Colonists French,” the Count said.

“It doesn’t matter. The fact is the French caused the war. They should pay for the war and leave us out.” The other man slammed his fist on the table. One glass of ale sloshed onto the table.

“You are wrong as usual Monsieur. The British started the war when they commissioned that upstart Washington to attack a French fort in the Ohio Valley.” The Frenchman forked a sausage and bit off the end.

“Let’s just agree to disagree. I maintain that we loyal subjects to the Crown should not be taxed to pay for a war we did not start.” The merchant took a drink of ale.

“I agree. The loyal subjects of England should not have to pay for costs incurred in the Americas,” he said in between mouthfuls of sausage. “However, the Crown should pay most the expenses incurred on the Continent.”

The merchant took another big gulp of ale and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, “It might not matter. I hear Parliament is debating a law right this moment. They are calling it the Stamp Act.”

“The colonists seem to snub their noses at laws passed by your Parliament. Don’t you remember your Sugar Act from last year? The act passed to increase taxes on the colonist’s maple and sugar, was it not? The colonists avoided paying the increased taxes.”

“That might well be, but this time Parliament means business. They are also debating a law that would force the colonists to quarter our soldiers already stationed in the Americas. The law will also free up enough cash to send over additional soldiers to keep those damned colonists in line.” The merchant punctuated his statement with his spoon.

“Maybe, this time, it will work,” the Frenchman said as he slapped his tankard on the table and stood up to leave. “I only hope William Pitt will not prevent Parliament from taking prompt action against the colonists.”

“I would not worry too much about Pitt. Yes, he is a staunch supporter of the colonists, and yes, that infernal meddler Franklin has Pitt’s ear. However, Pitt is only one man. Franklin will have to return home with his tail between his legs.” He stood, wiping his jowls with the soiled napkin. “I have it on good authority that the Crown wishes to force his wayward subjects across the ocean into submission.”

The two men left the tavern and Colin went back to staring at the advertisement. Seeking military minded personnel. Objective: Defense of His Majesty’s laws and sovereignty in the Colonies. Military experience is helpful in undertaking his Majesties quest.  Colin threw the advertisement into the fire, chugged his remaining ale, and stalked out of the tavern in no particular direction. He was determined not to let the Scarab get him into this fight.

“I bet I know how that went,” Grant said pouring another glass of wine. “The scarab never loses, according to what I have heard so far.”

Colin had asked for another glass of wine before he spoke. “The argument was closer than you might expect. I was winning the fight and feeling damn proud. I was ahead until my six-hundred and ninety-ninth birthday that is. The Quartering Act passed by Parliament four days after my birthday March 24th, and the Stamp Act passed two days before that. London was abuzz with the news. They finally had a law that would silence the colonists. The Baroness and I decided a late celebration was in order. We could not celebrate on my actual birthday, so we celebrated on the twenty-sixth instead. I will admit, the Baroness was celebrating for the new laws and not the fact it was my birthday. It was my thirty-second birthday as far as she knew.”

“You didn’t tell her your real age?” asked Sally.

“No, she would not have believed me.” Colin mused.

“I believe you,” Sally hugged him.

“We had planned a pleasant stroll in Ranelagh Pleasure Gardens. For a small admission fee, Londoners could walk along the gorgeous lake or look at the Chinese Pavilion. We had just left the pavilion and were on our way to the Rotunda. The Rotunda was centered in the gardens and larger than the Coliseum in Rome. Musicians of the time often played there on sunny days. We had picnicked and listen to the music when I was approached by a man I had met once in Philadelphia…”

“What a pleasant surprise. It is you Lieutenant Harcourt?”

“Yes, Dr. Franklin. Imagine meeting you in England,” Colin said, shocked to see the famous American in the Gardens although he read he was in England.

“I am afraid my current reason to be in England failed miserably. Where are my manners? Colin, it is my extreme privilege to introduce William Pitt, first Earl of Chatham and champion of our Colonial rights.” Ben pointed to the well-dressed older man on his right.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Harcourt. However, I also feel I failed your cause.” Colin stuck out his hand. “The Stamp Act was passed by our Parliament despite my ardent objection.”

“I know too well how the colonists will react to the new taxes.” Ben frowned. The frown quickly turned into a smile. “And who is that pretty damsel on your arm, Colin?”

“My apologies, Dr. Franklin, may I take the honor of presenting Theresa the Baroness of Boringdon.” 

Theresa extended her dainty hand. “Charmed Dr. Franklin, I have read so much about you.” She then turned to Pitt and said, “It is a pleasure to see you again, William, I hope all is well with you.”

“All is well Baroness.” Pitt kissed the young Baroness’ hand with a quick bow.

“We were about to a picnic, please join us,” Colin waved toward the ground.

“I fear we would only be an intrusion. Besides, we are on our way to meet with others loyal to our cause.” Franklin bowed. “Colin if I might have a word with you.” 

Surprised, Colin nodded. “I will be brief. I promise Baroness. He will return before the harpsichordist finishes Bach’s Concerto.” Franklin kissed the back of her hand.

Pitt, Franklin, and Colin took a few steps from the baroness who stood to fan herself.

“Colin, are you still employed by His Majesty’s Army?” asked Franklin.

“I am retired, but still hold my commission. Why do you ask?” Colin smiled at Theresa standing patiently a few feet away, her hands folded in front.

Franklin cautiously scanned the area before he spoke. “Forgive our candor, Colin, but I fear significant repercussions with the latest law. Parliament went out of its way to provoke the colonists.”

“I have already stood clear of any troubles over there,” Colin said as he returned to the Baroness.

“A moment more, Colin,” Franklin pleaded. “Allow me the chance to rearrange your resolve.”

“My mind is made up. But, I am curious. Speak your thoughts.”

“After George…”

Colin interrupted Ben. “King George?”

Franklin laughed, “Hardly my dear lad, hardly. After George Washington had been relieved of his command in the last war, I received a glowing report about an individual British lieutenant. The report gave this lieutenant high mark in his ability to remain calm during battle and maintain a level-head in uncertain times.” Franklin stopped and stared at Colin. “Permit me to say. You have not changed one iota. You look the same as you did ten years ago.”

“Thank you sir, but what does the report have to do with me?” Beads of sweat rolled down Colin’s brow. Either the temperature had increased in the last few minutes, or his friend was about to talk him into a situation he had sworn to avoid.

“Colin, you are that lieutenant. I need you to go back to America and help instill some semblance of calm. With the passage of the Quartering Act, Parliament has unknowingly given us the perfect vehicle to instill peace, if that is possible. William here has the authority to commission you to the office of captain.” Ben pointed at William. “If you accept, the proper papers could be ready by this time tomorrow.”

Colin swatted a fly. “I cannot see how your plan would work. I will remain loyal to my country and king. Any action performed by colonists against His Majesty’s law would be considered an act of treason.”

“I am not asking you to betray your country. We are all Englishmen. All I am saying is we need high-ranking friends that will keep a level head when others around them are losing theirs. Besides, if you remember, you promised me a story.”

Colin could feel his heart beat in his chest. He told Franklin that one day he would tell him about his curse. How could he remember that? The scarab weighed heavily on his neck. He had little choice. Of course, he would need to accept the offer. “I can see why you are considered a great persuader.” Colin glanced at Theresa, lowering his voice. “When will the proper papers be ready?”

Ben reached into the satchel he carried. “Here is one ticket for America, leaving Dover in four days and one ticket for the coach to Dover. Your papers are ready, signed. Your uniform will wait for you in Boston, Captain Harcourt.”

“It seems you did a lot of planning for this accidental meeting.”

Ben laughed, “I like to be prepared. I knew where you would be today. This was no accident.”

“And how did you know where I would be?” Colin asked looking at the Baroness.

“No, it was not her. I am in tune with my spirituality and nature. All I can say is maybe a tiny bug told me.” Benjamin stepped back and studied Colin’s face. “I have often said an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Colin, you have certainly had your share of apples. I am most interested in your story. One other thing before you leave, I have secured housing for you in Boston. You remember Isaiah Page?”

“I had been set up by Dr. Franklin. I said my goodbyes to the baroness who promised to wait for my return. She married four years later, apparently tired of waiting. She contracted pneumonia and passed away in 1775 at the age of thirty-one.”

“Did you ever go home to her?” Sally asked.

“No, I was too involved with business on this side of the Atlantic.” Colin folded his hands in his lap.

“Did you ever tell your story to Benjamin Franklin?” asked Grant puffing on another cigar.

“You will have to be patient, General. Franklin did not return from England until 1775. I am still in England, it’s my birthday, and it’s still 1765,” Colin said with a smile.

“The coach ride from Dover was uneventful but jogged my memory. Harcourt’s Inn had changed its name. I did not have the time to go inside the inn. The coach’s wheel came loose at almost the exact spot King William Rufus had caught me bathing in the Royal stream. Before I knew it, I was sailing to America. The date was March 30th, 1765. The scarab had won again.” Colin sighed, feeling a release with every moment he recounted his life.

Chapter Sixteen

Boston 1765-1770

The major sat behind his desk. All papers were in orderly stacks to his right, and his quill and ink sat, precisely placed to his left. His saber hung neatly on a peg behind him, and not a strand of hair stood out of place. “Where are your papers?” he asked Colin without looking up. Colin handed the major his papers. “It is highly irregular for Mr. Pitt to assign field officers. I would think he would be too busy codling, Dr. Franklin, to have the spare time,” the major said, finally looking up. His steel-blue eyes made Colin feel uneasy. “You are out of uniform captain…” he glared at the papers to get the name “Captain Harcourt.”

“Yes sir, I am newly arrived. I was told my uniform would be provided.”

“Newly arrived? The report states you fought valiantly against the French in the last war,” the major said coldly.

“I wouldn’t say I fought any more valiant than the next soldier.” Colin’s legs began to waiver. He had not stood at attention for so long.

“So, you’re telling me this report was fabricated?” He slammed his hand on the report.

Colin blinked several times. “No sir, I say that others fought valiantly. I was an aide to General Braddock. I then became assigned to Lieutenant Washington after the general died in action.”

“I have read about Washington. It seems as if he was more of a coward than a leader, always retreating.” He cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on Colin. “I expect more out of my officers, Captain. Am I clear on that subject?”

He wanted to tell the officer that he was tired of his foolish arrogance, but instead, he saluted crisply. “Yes, sir.”

He picked up his tea and sipped, re-reading Colin's orders. “I see you have already been quartered with a Mr. Paige. I know nothing of the man.”

“We fought side by side. He also helped Washington, and I escort General Braddock from the field of battle.”

“Would you consider him a friend?” the major said icily.

Colin thought the question was odd and none of the major’s concern. “I would not go that far, sir. We fought together. That was all.”

“Good, we are here to maintain His Majesty’s laws, not fraternize with the people. They are a bunch of ungrateful bastards. If I had my way, I would hang the lot of them for treason. I will show no mercy. I have sworn my oath to the Crown to enforce the laws, and by God, I will enforce the laws passed by Parliament—by force if I must. It now falls on you to enforce this new Stamp Act, regardless of how unpopular it makes you. You are to arrest anyone foolish enough to stand in your way. That includes the Adams. They’re a couple of hotheads. I fear they might stir the pot. Poke around and see if you can hit a nerve.” He stood and walked over to Colin with a wry smile. “Do not disappoint me.”

“Yes, sir.” Colin nodded.

“Good. Now go to the quartermaster, your uniform waits. Return tomorrow. I have an assignment for you. There is a problem in Virginia’s House of Burgesses you need to alleviate. A certain Patrick…” he picked up a paper from his desk before continuing, “Yes, here we have it. A certain Patrick Henry addressed the House on May 29th that would have been three days ago. He denounced the Stamp Act and had the nerve to say, and I quote, ‘If this be treason, make the most of it.’ End of quote. Captain, this is treason and England must make an example of Mr. Henry. Good-day sir dismissed.”

Colin exited the command building wearing his new uniform. Isaiah Paige stood leaning on a lamppost across the street. Isaiah was well dressed in a brown vest, white ruffled shirt, blue breeches, and white hose. The buckles on his shoes were scuffed and in need of shining. Isaiah smiled as Colin approached. “It's nice to see you.” They walked on Commercial Street and the waterfront. People glared at Colin with contempt and moved over to the side to let him pass. 

“I am not so sure that you will feel the same after a week or two.” Colin hugged his friend, again. “I have been ordered not to fraternize with the likes of you.”

“Tis all right, old Sam Adams has told us not to take kindly to you Lobster-Backs either. I am happy you are not in a uniform friend. Many people would not think it right for a Son of Liberty to associate with a British Officer.” Isaiah grinned.

“What is a Son of Liberty?” Colin stopped and readjusted his bundle. “And the major just warned me of your friend Adams.”

“The less you know, the better off you will be for right now, but I can say, we’re not alone.” He removed a letter from his pocket. “I have a good friend in North Carolina. We correspond regularly, and in this letter, he tells me about the oppression in North Carolina from Governor Tryon. He tells of how England taxes them unmercifully. The English lords seize property and livestock unlawfully. They are even charging fifteen pounds for a marriage license. He tells me that they are forming their association called the Regulators and they are having some success in alleviating some abuses. My friend is thinking of joining them. The amazing thing is that they have heard of the Sons of Liberty. We could be the inspiration for all the colonies to fight for their rights,” Isaiah shouted, his right fist pounded at the air above his head. Realizing he was speaking with a British Officer and out in the open, he lowered his voice and scanned the area for any witnesses. Satisfied no one was watching, he draped his arm around Colin’s shoulder. “I know I can trust you, Colin. I am risking my family taking you as a border. That Quartering Act gave me a little choice if I am ordered to board an English bastard, and then I am happy you are the bastard. I have told my neighbors, the ones that are still there that the king forced me to house you. I hope you understand.”

Colin grinned. “Your neighbors don’t realize that the Quartering Act will not go into effect for a few years?”

Isaiah jabbed Colin in the arm. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Shall we go? The family is excited to meet you.”

“How many neighbors moved?” Colin looked at Isaiah, rubbed his arm, and ruffled Isaiah’s hair.

“Most all of them except for the person next door to me, but she died. That’s Cobb’s Hill Burying Ground to your right. Up ahead you can see the steeple of The Old North Church where the family and I worship.” Isaiah pointed to buildings along the way, but Colin paid little attention. “You know you haven’t changed in the last ten years. Look at me. I went and got older.” Isaiah swayed slowly from side to side.

“I’ve changed my dear friend. It is just not noticeable.” Colin glanced at Isaiah’s wrinkles and thought of all of his years of life. They had not added lines and wrinkles to his skin, but each year had marked his soul. Colin halted to offer a young girl a piece of candy. Her mother jerked her away and knocked the candy from her hand, dragging the child up the street.

“It is none of my business, forget I brought it up. We’re here,” Isaiah, pointed at a simple three-story white house with yellow clapboards. There were a neatly trimmed yard and shrubs. The house shared a courtyard with another home, which was almost identical, except gray clapboards.

The door flew open wide, and a little girl ran into her father’s embrace. “This is the apple of my eye, Jacqueline; she turned three April 10th.”

“Daddy, he doesn’t look like a damned lobster.” She burrowed her head on her father's shoulder.

“Is Remus and Romulus inside?” Isaiah asked his daughter.

“Yeah Daddy, they don't wanna come see lobsters.” Jacqueline stuck her tongue out at Colin and resumed hiding behind her father’s shoulder.

“Remus and Romulus are my twin boys. Please excuse my daughter’s umm…”

“It is quite all right; I would not want to see lobsters either. Unless they were boiled and served with warm butter.” Colin peered around his friend at the little girl gazing up at him.

“I had just met my future mother-in-law, and just didn’t know it at the time. After all, she was only three-years-old,” Colin paced the room.

James took the last doughnut from the tray. He tore it in half and offered the other half to Sally.

“Not exactly, Jacqueline turned out to be the mother of my wife.” Colin pointed at the necklace. “The scarab has an ironic sense of humor.”

“I’m curious, Colin, did you ever arrest Patrick Henry?” asked Grant.

“Yes and no. I arrested him. Somehow, he escaped. Major Dunehirst was more than displeased with my report.”

“Major Dunehirst? Which one was that?” asked Grant.

“He was the major who ordered me to arrest Mr. Henry. He is the major that ordered me not to fraternize with Isaiah.” Colin shrugged. “Isaiah and I became best of friends despite Dunehirst’s orders and although I was a British Officer and he was a member of The Sons of Liberty, an illegal organization under British law.”

“I suppose that would make for some very noteworthy dinner conversations,” Sally’s mother said as she sipped her tea.

“That would put it lightly. One day Romulus stormed to the table and shook the latest newspaper in his tightened fist.” Colin smiled as his mind traipsed back to that moment so long before.

“This is an outrage.” He pushed the paper into Isaiah’s hands.

“What is an outrage, Son? I see nothing outrageous here. Well, nothing out of the ordinary. This damned Stamp Act is still outrageous, and we will deal with the act. Forget you heard that, Colin.”

Colin, playing a game of Nine Man's Morrice with Jacqueline said, “Consider it forgotten,” losing a turn in the process.

“Here Papa,” Romulus said pointing to a poem.

“It is a poem. What is outrageous about a simple poem?” Isaiah asked as he read the poem.

“The poem was written by a darkie. This Phillis Wheatley is the twelve-year-old slave of a very prominent Boston businessman. He should know better and should keep his niggers in line.” Romulus said, despite the icy stare of his father. “Your cause could be in jeopardy.”

“You are out of order.” Isaiah raised his voice, his brow furrowed at his son. “Apologize to Colin at once for your behavior. Moreover, we won’t speak of causes at this time. Am I clear?”

“I apologize, Colin, please forgive me for my outburst.” He glared at his father, to Colin, and then back to his father.  “Father, I have lost my appetite, may I be excused?”

“What’s wrong with a twelve-year-old slave writing a poem?” asked Sally. “Didn’t we fight a big war so that she could write her poem?”

“Yes Sally, we fought a war so future twelve-year-old girls of any race can write poetry.” Colin smiled at her innocence. “However, it’s not that easy. They thought a poem by a black child would make a difference in any political thoughts back then. They were right.”

“I want to write when I grow up. Maybe I can be the next Harriet Beecher Stowe,” Sally said popping the last morsel of doughnut into her mouth.

“I will be the first to read your book,” Colin said.

“Romulus soon forgot the poem. Life went back to normal. Children and adults continued to call me names, and the occasional threw rotten fruit in my direction. The Adams’ still held their clandestine meetings, and Isaiah attended most of them.”

“The summer of 1765 turned hot, and I am not talking about the weather. On August 14th, I was forced to act against my friend Isaiah and The Sons of Liberty when they made their first act of civil disobedience against the Stamp Act. They gathered around the Liberty Tree and hung Andrew Oliver in effigy. Mr. Oliver was a public official charged with enforcing the Stamp Act. The alcohol-fueled angry mob soon turned riotous. Thousands paraded through the streets of Boston dragging the beheaded effigy of Oliver behind them.”  Colin swallowed hard, clearing his throat. “The mob marched to the Oliver house, tore down the fence, and destroyed the house and its furnishings. The ironic part of this was that Mr. Oliver was also adamantly against the Stamp Act. He was just an easy target.”

“Mobs cannot be reasoned with,” Grant said.

“I had too few men to do anything to turn the tide, so we sat in the distance and watched the carnage.”

I could no longer prudently stay in his home although I had every legal right to force him to board me. I moved to a small room overlooking the Charles the first of September. Everything went status-quo for the next four and a half years. Parliament passed new tax laws. Colonists found new ways to resist. Isaiah got a new neighbor in 1770. A silversmith named Paul Revere bought the ninety-year-old house next to Isaiah. Paul became a friend.” Colin’s eyes filled with tears. He took a sip of his coffee and rubbed his temples. “Some events happen that define an era. The defining moment occurred on a cold, windless day March 5th, 1770. A small layer of snow lay on the ground and the windows iced over. Yes, it was quite cold and dreary that day. A day I shall never forget.” Colin lowered his head.