Hellfire Rebellion

3

They clocked in at Reese Hunter’s Boston residence in Long Lane, a small rented two-story home just off Milk Street. Prior to leaving the 27th century. they had gone in for a refresher implant briefing and then drawn weapons and period clothing from Ordnance Section. Lucas. Finn, and Andre immediately started to search the house. Steiger had remained behind to coordinate the mission.

“What’s the matter, don’t you trust me?” Hunter said.

“No, not really.” said Delaney. holding up a laser pistol he’d just taken from a drawer in Hunter’s desk.

“There’s a. 45 semiauto under the pillow on my bed and a commando knife taped to the back of the headboard.” Hunter said. “You’ll find spare ammo and clips hidden in the breadbox in the kitchen and a brace of flintlock dueling pistols tucked under the cushion of the reading chair in the study.”

They quickly appropriated the weapons.

“Sure you don’t have a spare warp disc tucked away somewhere?” asked Andre.

“Even if I had, it still wouldn’t get me home, would it?” Hunter said. “You people are the only game in town. You know about all the confluence points we’ve used before and your people are patrolling them. If any new ones have been discovered, it’s happened since I got separated from my unit. Besides, if I knew of any others, do you really think I’d still be here?”

“You don’t mind if we look just the same?” said Lucas.

Hunter shrugged. “Help yourselves. Just try not to make a mess. The maid doesn’t come in until Tuesday.”

Delaney glanced at him.

“Just kidding, pilgrim,” Hunter said. “Nobody comes to these digs but me. While you’re tearing apart the house, I’ll go and make some tea. We still drink tea in Boston. For a while, anyway.”

He left the room and went into the kitchen.

“What do you think?” said Andre.

“I don’t know,” Delaney said. “He played straight with us before, when we went up against the Network in New York. Besides, like the man said, he’s been here for a while and he’s got connections. If he wanted to, he could’ve hidden ordnance all over Boston.”

“He probably has.” said Lucas. “Wouldn’t you? Remember our Reese Hunter?” he said, referring to Hunter’s twin from their own universe, who had deserted from the Temporal Corps to join the Underground and who’d been murdered by the Timekeepers in 17th-century France. “First time I met him in 12th-century England, he had an entire arsenal at his disposal, plus all the comforts of home, Sound system, classical recordings, books, microwave oven, generator… had himself a modem bachelor pad all set up in a cabin in the middle of Sherwood Forest. Genetically, this Reese Hunter is identical. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

“The question is, how far can we trust him?” said Delaney.

“About as far as his own self-interest is concerned,” said Lucas as they continued their search. “But he did turn himself in voluntarily. He didn’t have to. He could have chosen any time period he wished, set himself up comfortably, and retired. Or he could have gone underground and worked on his own to disrupt our history. Maybe he’s playing straight with us.”

“If he’s not bluffing about those subliminal triggers,” said Andre, “then he took an awful chance by coming in.”

“It could be a bluff.” admitted Lucas. “But on the other hand, put yourself in his place. If you were trapped in his universe, what would you do? Especially if you saw a chance to get back home and, at the same time, get even with an old enemy?”

“I might do the same.” said Andre. “But it’s an interesting coincidence that he happened to wind up in colonial Boston at the same time as Drakov did, assuming that Drakov’s really here.”

“Maybe it’s not a coincidence.” Delaney said. “You start getting into some serious temporal metaphysics when you try to figure out the Fate Factor. When Mensinger first formulated that theory, he was convinced that it was a sort of nebulous temporal principle, a Zen physics version of for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. But toward the end of his life, he started getting almost spiritual about it.”

“You mean he thought it was God?” said Andre.

“He never actually came out and said that,” Delaney replied. “He always skirted the issue, as if he was afraid of it. He probably was. But when I was studying his work in R.C. S.. I became convinced that toward the end. Mensinger developed a strong belief in predestination, although he never came out and actually called it that. He kept speaking of ‘an order to the universe,’ that sort of thing. The closest he ever came to admitting the possibility of a guiding intelligence was when he once quoted Einstein as saying that God didn’t play dice with the universe, that there was order to all things. Everyone always assumed that he was speaking metaphorically, but what if he was being literal?”

“It would make the Fundamentalists ecstatic,” Andre said.

“Maybe that’s why he never came out and said it.” Delaney replied. “He didn’t want what he was saying to be reduced to some simplistic dogma for the reassurance of the ignorant. When Einstein made that statement, newspaper headlines all over the world blared ‘Einstein believes in God!’ Nobody ever really understood Einstein, either. It’s a funny thing. Every now and then, someone comes along who gets a brilliant insight into what might be the Ultimate Truth and people either misinterpret them or try to shut them up. Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake. Galileo was made to recant. By the time Einstein came around, they’d grown more clever. They simply made him into some sort of amiable genius, too complicated for anyone to understand, an stuck him in a university where he could do no harm. Mensinger made it simple for them. He committed suicide.”

“Tea’s on.” said Hunter, coming in from the kitchen. “You guys find the warp grenade I hid inside the chamberpot?”

“Very funny,” said Lucas.

“You know, the Lucas Priest I remember had a sense of humor,” Hunter said. “Maybe that was in my first life.” Lucas said.

“Better,” Hunter said. “But still not up to your old standard. Look, you guys have all my weapons, you’ve got my warp disc. I’m stuck here if I don’t play ball with you. And don’t forget, trust is a two-way street. I’ve also got to trust you to live up to your end of the deal when this is over.”

“And do you?” Andre said.

Hunter shrugged. “What have I got to lose?”

“Quite a lot, if we decide to call your bluff and put you through interrogation.” Lucas said. “You could wind up a vegetable.”

“Maybe,” Hunter said, nodding. And if it was up to your friend Steiger, perhaps that’s exactly what would happen. But it’s not his call, it’s Forester’s. And I think I can trust that man.”

“Why?” said Delaney, curious. “Because he looks a man right in the eyes and doesn’t make him want to look away. Because he tolerates a slob like you under his command. Because he’s out to break up the Network when he could just as easily go along with it and take his cut or simply sit back and do nothing, because the Network isn’t really endangering the timeline. They’re only out to make some dirty bucks. But mostly because I saw his face when you mentioned Drakov.”

Hunter paused a moment and they were all silent.

“There was a lot of pain there,” Hunter continued. ‘And a man who knows that kind of pain doesn’t go around inflicting it

Delaney gave him a long look. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“Just part of being a survivor, pilgrim.” Hunter said. ‘How do you take your tea?”

Just as The Bunch of Grapes was the favorite gathering place of the Sons of Liberty, so the Peacock Tavern was a Tory bar. Boston was becoming polarized. Its citizens preferred the company of like-minded thinkers and although no one was very happy with the actions of the ministry and Parliament, there were still many who considered themselves loyal Englishmen and sought a rapprochement with Britain. Among them were men who held offices as tax commissioners and customs officials, merchants who were alarmed over the increasing talk of a boycott of British goods, and citizens who were outraged by the actions of the mobs of rioters who roamed the streets and gathered in the Common and in the taverns on the waterfront.

“They speak of liberty and property.” said Thomas Brown. sarcastically. “The mob always shouts those words when they’re about to tear down a house. And they are allowed to do so with impunity. You know, the governor heard that Macintosh was the leader of the mob that wrecked Hutchinson’s home, so he sent Greenleaf out to bring him in. The sheriff arrested the blackguard, but the Sons of Liberty gave him an ultimatum. They sent a group of men to tell him that unless Macintosh was immediately released, not one man would volunteer to join the patrols the Town Meeting had voted to send out in order to prevent the rioting. I was at the council meeting when Greenleaf made his report to Hutchinson. The result? The man was released. And now he crows about it to anyone who’ll listen! I ask you, of what use are the patrols if the rioters can so easily intimidate them?”

“I heard that Governor Bernard has offered a reward of three hundred pounds to any man who will identify the leader of the rioters,” said Hewitt. “Needless to say, it isn’t Macintosh they’re after. They realize the cobbler is nothing but a tool. Bernard and Hutchinson both know that Adams is behind it all, yet not one man can be found to come forward and give evidence against him, not even for three hundred pounds!”

“Having seen what they did to Hutchinson, not to mention Oliver. Hallowell, and Story, would you come forward to give evidence?” said Moffat. “To be sure, three hundred pounds is quite a large sum to the average man, but what good are three hundred pounds when they come to tear your house down in the middle of the night?”

“There is no law in Boston anymore,” said Brown, bitterly. “The mobs grow bolder by the day.”

“I must admit that appears true,” said Drakov. “Why, the very day that I arrived, I saw them put a party of Royal Navy men to flight with rocks and bricks.”

“A press gang,” said Hewitt, sourly. “I can feel little sympathy for such its they. Nor can any here, I’ll warrant.”

“I will not dispute the point,” said Drakov. “I was merely commenting upon the boldness of the mob, to go up against armed men of the King’s Navy. And it took but a nod from Samuel Adams.”

“You mean you actually heard Adams give the order?” Hewitt said.

“Well, not in so many words.” said Drakov. “I was present in the tavern when that man, Furlong, was impressed. Adams was them, too, with a group of his companions. I saw him give a nod to them and they quietly left the tavern. Moments later, a mob had been assembled upon Hancock’s Wharf to rescue the man who’d been impressed. I was impressed myself, so to speak that it could have all been done so quickly.”

Brown smiled. “No surprise there, Mr. Dark.” he said. “Sam Adams has many friends among those who work the docks. He plays to their sympathies and plys them with drink, no great matter for one who owns a brewery, and if a man be hard-pressed, why, a job can always be found for him on one of King Hancock’s vessels or in one of Avery’s warehouses. Grant them that, they take cam of their own.”

“What do they say in London about events here?” Hewitt asked Drakov.

“They call the colonists ‘rebellious children.’” Drakov said. “All good citizens of England must pay taxes. They don’t see why the colonists should be exempt.”

“Yes, quite.” said Brown. “But try to tell that to the Sons of Liberty!”

“Sons of Liberty, indeed!” snorted Moffat. “They respect only the liberties of those who feel the way they do! Let any man speak out against them and he will soon find out what liberties he has! He’ll enjoy the liberty of having a paving stone heaved through his window. Try to tell them that you have the right to disagree with them and they will demonstrate their right to break your head for you! You cannot hope to reason with such men.”

“That’s true enough,” said Brown. “You’ll not convince the Sons of Liberty with logic.”

“Perhaps they can be convinced in other ways,” said Drakov.

“What do you mean?” asked Hewitt.

“I was thinking of the headless horseman,” Drakov said.

“What?” said Brown. “A headless horseman, did you say?”

“Yes, haven’t you heard?” said Drakov. “Moffat here was telling me about it just this morning.”

“What’s this about a headless horseman, Moffat?”

“Then you haven’t heard’?” said Moffat. “It’s been the talk of all the taverns on the waterfront. A tale of a ghost rider, gentleman, a specter with no head who rides the streets of Boston after dark.”

“What manner of nonsense is this?” said Brown.

“I report only what I hear, gentlemen.” said Moffat. “It seems that the other night. Ebenezer Macintosh and some of his fellow so-called Sons of Liberty received what one might call a visitation Macintosh, so the word goes, was raving drunkenly when a jack-o-lantern came crashing through the tavern window and knocked him from his chair.”

“No, really?” Hewitt said, grinning.

“The broken window was real enough,” said Moffat. “I saw them fixing it myself.”

“Go on,” said Brown. “What happened then?”

“Well,” said Moffat, “it seems that Macintosh and his friends ran out into the street to see who’d done it. They were ready to break heads, I gather, but instead, so the story goes, they all got the fright of their lives. The street appeared deserted, with no sign of whoever had thrown the pumpkin through the window. They looked all around, but there was simply no one there.”

“The fellow ran off,” said Hewitt.

“Be quiet. John.” said Brown. “Let Moffat tell it.”

“As I said, the street appeared deserted.” Moffat continued, “when suddenly. they all heard the sound of hoofbeats and a rider came galloping at them from out of nowhere. A rider dressed all in black, on a black horse. A rider, gentlemen, who had no head. ”

“No head, you say’?” said Hewitt, frowning. “Balderdash!” “Macintosh does not think that it was balderdash.” said Moffat.

“The man was obviously drunk.” said Hewitt. “He was seeing things.”

“Then all who were with him shared the same delusion.” Moffat said. “They all swore that it was true.”

A crowd had guthered around their table to listen as Moffat went on with the story.

“The rider came galloping straight at them, so they said, as if to run them down. They scattered and the rider galloped past, then reined in and turned his horse and came at them again. Jeb Stiles wasn’t quick enough to get out of the way. he was struck solid by the rider’s horse. I hear it broke his ribs.”

“That’s true!” said someone in the crowd. “His wife told me he couldn’t finish mending my chair because his ribs were broken! She said he’d been struck down in the street by a horseman!”

“Go on, go on!” said someone else. “What happened then?”

“The headless horseman reined in once again and his black stallion reared up.” said Moffat, playing to the crowd. “They heard him laugh. A wild, screeching laughter that echoed through the night! Ransome Howard drew his knife and threw it at the rider. And all who were there said they saw it pass right through him, as if he wasn’t there!”

“He simply missed.” said Hewitt, skeptically. though he too had become caught up in the story.

“Howard never misses!” someone in the crowd said “He’s deadly with that knife of his. I’ve seen him pin a squirrel right to a tree!”

Others who’d seen Howard throw his knife attested to his skill with it.

“So then what happened’?” someone in the crowd said.

“Well,” said Moffat, “they say the headless rider screeched like a soul being torn apart in Hell and came galloping straight at them once again. And an instant before he was upon them, both horse and rider vanished into thin air right before their eyes!”

“Vanished, did you say!”

“Disappeared like smoke.” said Moffat. “A ghost!” said someone in the crowd.

“Since when do ghosts break people’s ribs?” asked Hewitt.

“No, that’s true enough, they don’t,” said Drakov. “And I, for one, do not believe in ghosts.”

“Nor I,” said Hewitt. “It all sounds like some silly schoolboy’s tale to me.”

“Perhaps.” said Drakov. “But then Moffat here said they swore it was all true.”

“And so they did.” said Moffat. “Ben tits said he’d swear it on the Bible.”

“Then how do you account for it?” said Hewitt. “Well, it’s true enough they had been drinking,” Moffat said with a shrug. And think on it, would a manas proud of his knife-throwing as Ransome Howard admit it if he’d missed?”

The people in the crowd around them nodded and murmured among themselves. “But you said they saw the horseman vanish like a ghost!” said someone in the crowd.

“So they said.” admitted Moffat. “For my own part. I cannot attest to the truth or falsity of that, since I was not there myself.”

“Then how do you explain it?” someone said.

“Yes.” said someone else, “one drunken man can have his eyes play tricks on him, but you say they all saw the same thing.”

“Well, so they say,” said Drakov. “But then, gentlemen, consider the alternative.”

“What do you mean?” asked Brown.

You all tell me what a bold and swaggering lot the ruffians who call themselves the Sons of Liberty have become,” said Drakov. “And how many of them were there that night, five, six, more? And doubtless, there were those present in the tavern who were not among their number, and who prudently chose to remain inside rather than risk being caught up in a brawl out in the street. Yet they saw that someone had thrown that pumpkin through the window, knocking Macintosh down to the floor. And they doubtless heard the commotion in the street, and then saw Stiles being carried back inside with his ribs all busted up. What were the gallant Sons of Liberty to say, that six or more of them were bested by one man? That one man put them all to flight?”

The crowd murmured its agreement.

“Even so, Dark,” said Hewitt, “why should they concoct such an outrageous story? Why not simply claim they were outnumbered?”

“Perhaps,” said Drakov, “because there was a witness or two who were not among their number, not members of the Sons of Liberty, that is to say, who were outside with them and could assert that they were only up against one man. And. gentlemen, let us ask ourselves, if what they saw was not, in fact, a spirit of some sort, then what must they have seen? A man dressed all in black, on horseback, perhaps with his cloak pulled up so that they could not see his face? Is it not possible that rather than vanish, he merely galloped quickly down some convenient alleyway when they scattered before his horse, so that he only seemed to disappear?”

“That sounds much more plausible to me than the idea of some ghost.” said Hewitt. “In which case, bravo to that man! Let us drink a toast to him!”

“Hear, hear!” said a few people in the crowd.

“Yes, by all means, let us applaud that man, whoever he may be.” Drakov concurred. “But, gentlemen, before we drink our toast, let us consider that we might well profit from that unknown man’s example.

“Indeed?” said Brown. “How so?”

“Consider the Sons of Liberty, gentlemen,” said Drakov. “Who are they? What are they? Men much like ourselves, no more, no less. And yet, day by day, it appears that more and more, the city falls under their grip. And why, I ask you? Because they arc better men than we?”

“No, by God!” said Brown.

“Indeed, no, they are not,” said Drakov. “And yet what makes them so different from ourselves that they seem to have such power? What. precisely, is their power, gentlemen? That, with the exception of a very few, their members are not known.”

“But we all know who they are,” protested Brown.

“Do we?” Drakov asked. “How many of them can you name? Six? Eight? Ten, perhaps? Fifteen or twenty. at best? Yet when they stage their demonstrations, how many of them are there? Forty, fifty, sixty or more? When they come to threaten people in the night, are not many of them masked, or their faces blackened with burnt cork?”

“Yes, that’s true enough.” one of the tax commissioners said. “I can readily attest to that.”

“Their power. Then,” said Drakov. “seems to lie in the fact that they accomplish much of what they do by stealth. By being unknown, by heaving stones through windows in the night and such. And now, it seems, a loyal subject of King George has given them a taste of their own medicine, paid them back in their own coin.” He raised his eyebrows and looked around at them. “Can we not learn from his example, gentlemen?”

John Hewitt smiled. “A wise man can always profit by the good example of another.” he said. “I wonder who our ‘headless horseman’ is. And I wonder if he will ride again soon?”

“I should not be in the least surprised.” said Moffat.

“In the meantime,” Drakov said, “perhaps his fellow loyal subjects of King George should discuss how best to give the horseman our support?”

“What do you propose, Nicholas?” said Brown.

“Gentlemen,” said Drakov, picking up his glass of wine, “the Sons of Liberty are bent upon visiting their deviltry upon us. They give us deviltry, 1 say we rebel against it and pay them back with hellfire!”

“Hear, hear!”

“Well said! Well said!”

“Gentlemen,” said Drakov, rising to his feet with upraised glass. “I give you the headless horseman! And all those with the courage to ride along beside him!”

“I’ll drink to that!”

“And so will I. by God!”

“Me, too!”

“Your glasses, gentlemen! Raise up your glasses!”

“To the headless horseman!” Moffat said. “Hellfire to the Sons of Liberty!”

They all joined in the toast and drank.

“To the headless horseman! Hellfire to the Sons of Liberty!”

“I wonder.” Moffat said, as if musing to himself, “does anyone among us stable a black stallion?”

They all started glancing at one another.

“John, don’t you have a black stallion in your stable?” Moffat asked.

“What, me? The headless horseman?” Hewitt said, with a snort. “Not I. It’s true. I have a black horse in my stable, but it is an old mare. A walking country horse. Hardly the sort of mount for clattering about the streets of Boston in the middle of the night!”

“Stoddard has a black horse!” someone cried. “And it’s a stallion, too!”

“No, no, my stallion is a bay!” Stoddard protested.

“Perhaps it was a bay they saw that night!”

“No. it was black, they said, like jet.”

“Gentlemen. gentlemen!’” said Drakov. raising his arms to get their attention. He waited till they’d settled down. “What does it profit us to speculate upon who this man might he?”

“Do you happen to own a black stallion. Mr. Dark?” said someone in the crowd.

“As it happens. I do not own any horses whatsoever,” Drakov said. “And these gentlemen can tell you. I had not yet arrived in Boston when the headless horseman first made his appearance. so I think that we can all safely assume I am not he.”

“Yes, that’s quite true,” said Hewitt. “Nicholas has only just arrived in the colonies. He does not even have a place to call his own yet.”

“Quite so, gentlemen,” said Drakov. “But my point is simply this. Our mysterious horseman may be among us even now, for all we know, or he might be dining at this very moment in some other part of town, altogether unaware of our interest in him. In either event, what difference does it make? He serves all our interests best by being unknown. Remember that if we cannot discern his true identity, then neither can the Sons of Liberty.

“Your point is well taken. Dark.” said Brown. “But then how may we let him know that there are those among us ready and willing to lend him our support?”

“Well, our horseman is clearly a Tory, that much we know,” said Drakov. “And we all know who our fellow Tories are, do we not? I say we spread the word among all of our friends. That way, whoever he may be, the word must surely reach him. Let it be known that there are those among us who stand ready to oppose the lawlessness of Samuel Adams and his mob. And if the horseman wants our help, then surely a man of his resources must find a way to tell us.”

“You think he will respond?” said Hewitt.

“We can only wait and sec.” said Drakov. “But if our headless horseman is the man of action he appears to be. then I think we may be hearing from him soon.”

Benjamin Hallowell was not the sort of man who was easily intimidated and he had very little sympathy for the grievances of Boston’s radicals, especially after the Sons of Liberty attacked his home. He did not care for Boston. He much preferred the civility of London, but the new regulations had required him to personally assume his post as a collector of customs duties in the colonies.

In the past, it had been the practice for men appointed to his office to remain in England and appoint people in the colonies to act in their place, as their deputies, but the ministry had put a stop to that. The colonists were all too often sympathetic to the smugglers and the colonial deputies had often looked the other way, accepting bribes from merchants and their captains to ignore the smuggled goods. Hallowell was an ambitious man and he did not intend to settle down in Massachusetts. He meant to impress his superiors in England with the efficient way that he performed his duties and to use his post in Boston as a step up the ladder to further his career in government service.

For a long time, he had been waiting for the opportunity to make an example of one man in particular, a man who was notorious for his flagrant disregard of the Acts of Trade and Navigation, and now, thanks to the recent arrival in port of the Romney and the Lawrence, it seemed the moment had arrived to teach the haughty John Hancock a lesson that was a long time overdue. Hallowell listened grim-faced as his chief collector, Joseph Harrison, made his report.

“From the moment that I saw the Liberty pull into the wharf,” said Harrison, “I suspected that her holds were loaded full of smuggled goods. She rode low in the water, far too low to account for what was on her manifest.” Harrison snorted. “When I boarded her for my inspection, the captain claimed that the ship’s entire cargo consisted of twenty-live pipes of Madeira. And yet any fool could see the ship was loaded to capacity!”

“So you insisted on making a personal inspection, of course,” said Hallowell.

“Yes, and no sooner had I done so than they offered me a bribe!” said Harrison. He drew himself up stiffly. “I refused, of course.”

“Of course,” said Hallowell. “What happened then?”

“They bullied me,” said Harrison, his tone almost that of a small boy who had been picked on by his elders. “The ship’s crew gathered around and threatened me, tried to make me take the bribe, but when I still refused, they seized me-actually seized me! — and dragged me down below decks, where they locked me up in one of the cabins! I pounded on the door, hut they only laughed at me and said that I should cool my heels for a while and think things over. For three hours or more they left me there, heedless of my protests, until the sun went down! And then I heard the ship being unloaded. And they unloaded than more than twenty-five pipes of wine, I can tell you that, sir! Afterward, when they were done with the unloading, they let me out and made out as if it had all been some mistake! They even had the barefaced effrontery to suggest that I had locked myself inside the cabin! The brass! The very brass of them! And now, even as we speak, they’re loading up the ship again and making ready to leave port, doubtless with more contraband bound for the Indies, and of what use is it to demand to see the contents of their hold? They will do the same thing once again, or worse!”

“No, they most certainly will not.” said Hallowell, grimly. “Hancock has gone too far this time. I will not have my customs collectors bullied about, no, sir! John Hancock might well be the richest man in Boston, but that does not put him above the law!”

“But what can we do?” asked Harrison.

“We can hit him where it hurts him most, Joseph. In his pocketbook. I intend to seize his ship.”

“His crew will never stand for that, sir! They are a rough lot, indeed. I tell you, it would be as much as worth my life to serve seizure papers on them, sir. I have a family to think of…”

“Calm yourself, Joseph.” Hallowell said. “I would not send you alone to risk such treatment once again. I will request Capt. Corner of the His Majesty’s Ship Romney to provide us with an armed escort. After that incident with the press gang, I’ll warrant those men are itching to get back some of their own. We will wait until the ship is fully loaded and then, my friend, we shall seize her, complete with all her cargo, and have her towed under the Romney’s guns, least they should try to board the ship at night and sail it away. I will teach Hancock’s ruffians to harass one of my men, by God! I’ll not suffer their insolence one moment longer! Here, have this message delivered to the Romney’s captain. And here are your seizure papers. As of this moment, the Liberty and all her cargo are the property of His Majesty, the King!”

The Liberty lay fully loaded at the dock and awaiting the next tide when the longboats from the Romney pulled up to the wharf. The same officer who had led the press gang was in command and this time, he moved quickly, before the crowd had time to gather. In the company of Ben Hallowell, Thomas Irving, the inspector of imports, Joseph Harrison and his eldest son, Richard, who was a customs clerk, the officer marched his men up on the liberty’s deck and served the ship’s captain with the seizure papers.

“Sir, you are charged with violation of the Acts of Trade and Navigation and henceforth, this ship and all her cargo are forfeit to His Majesty, the King,” said Hallowell.

“The hell it is.” the captain said.

At a signal from the officer, one of the Romney’s men knocked him to the deck with the butt end of his musket. Several of the crew started forward angrily. but stopped when they found themselves staring down the barrels of muskets loaded with grape shot. “All right, you scurvy, smuggling lot.” the officer said firmly. “Face right about and down the gangplank with you, every man jack of you! Move sharply, now! First man who hesitates, I’ll have his guts for garters! Move!”

Sullenly, the Liberty’s crew marched down the gangplank. The word had already been spread along the docks and an angry crowd was quickly forming The men from the Romney wasted no time in running lines out to the longboats for the Liberty to be towed out into the harbor, close beneath the Romney’s guns.

“Well done, sir.” said Hallowell to the ship’s officer. “My compliments to Capt. Corner.”

“I will convey them, sir,” the officer said. “And now, with your permission, we’d best get on about our business. That crowd yonder on the dock has an ugly look about it. I would not linger overlong if I were you.”

“No need to worry.” Hallowell said smugly. “They may stand there and jeer till dawn for all the good it does them, damn their eyes for their impudence! Come, gentlemen. we’ve done our duty.”

No sooner had they stepped off the gangplank than the first stone came sailing out from the crowd. The Romney’s men made haste to pull the gangplank in and the rowers hurriedly bent to their task. Slowly, ponderously, the sloop began to move as the men in the longboats strained at their oars to tow the ship out into the harbor. The men still aboard the Liberty took shelter as they were pelted with a rain of rocks and bricks from the angry crowd. Ben Hallowell watched smugly as the Liberty was slowly towed away from the dock.

“Take that. John bloody Hancock!” he said. “Ben,” said Irving, pulling at his sleeve. They turned and found their way blocked by the crowd. The crew of the Liberty were among them. Some of the men were holding clubs. Hallowell looked around nervously, but time was nowhere for them to go.

“Let us pass.” said Hallowell.

Nobody moved.

Hallowell swallowed nervously.

“Let us pass. I said!”

“Get the bloody bastard!” someone shouted.

The crowd surged forward. Irving tried to draw his sword, but it was snatched from him and broken. He went down beneath a flurry of swinging fists. A club snuck Hallowell’s head and he crumpled to the ground, blood streaming from his forehead.

“Run. Dick!” Harrison shouted to his son.

In an instant, the mob was upon them and Harrison cried out as a club glanced off his shoulder, he lashed out wildly and felt his fist connect with someone’s face. He felt hands clutching at his coat and another club struck him in the hack. Someone punched him in the face and blood spurted from his nose. He heard his son cry out behind him. They had knocked him down and several men were kicking him, then they grabbed him by his hair and dragged him screaming through the street. As more blows rained down upon him, something in Harrison broke and with a keening sound, like some wild animal, he thrashed and shoved his way through the press of men as hands and clubs struck out at him. He stumbled, but regained his balance, and then, miraculously, he was in the clear and running down the street as fast as his legs could carry him.

He heard them running in pursuit and blind panic surged through him as he bolted down a narrow alleyway, tripped, fell, scrambled to his feet again and kept on running, not even knowing where he was running to, just fleeing in abject terror. He didn’t stop until he was blocks away, completely out of breath. He collapsed against a pile of wooden crates stacked in an alley and cowered there, trembling, his breath rasping in his throat, tears streaming from his eyes and mingling with the blood. He drew his legs up to his chest, put his head down in his arms, and sat there, weeping in the dark.

Back at the docks, the mob hauled Ben Hallowell’s pleasure skiff out of the water, tied ropes to it, and dragged it through the streets to the Common, where it was set on fire. One group broke off to go running across the open grass to Hallowell’s house, where they pelted the windows with rocks and bricks. Another group stoned Harrison’s windows white his wife cowered inside, hysterical with fear. Eventually, the mob broke up, to proceed in small groups to the taverns on the waterfront, where they toasted one another’s courage and patriotic ardor before stumbling to their homes.

Boston had no street Lights yet, so at night, the streets were as dark as country roads. Zeke Chilton, Johnny Long, Dick Tillotsen, and Edward Crenshaw were staggering and weaving down Fish Street, their arms around one another’s shoulders and their voices raised in drunken song when they were hailed by the watchman.

“Who goes there?”

“Freedom lovin’ Sonsh’a Librty, God damn yer eyes!” roared Chilton. He was the one whose club had felled Ben Hallowell, as he had proudly boasted no fewer than two dozen times that night to anyone who’d listen.

“You’re drunk.” the watchman said.

Chilton heaved a bottle at him and it shattered on the street. Mumbling curses to himself, the watchman beat a hasty retreat.

“That’ll show’im,” Chilton slurred, “God damn ’is eyes!”

“Liberty an’ prop’ity!” shouted Johnny Long.

“God damn their eyes!” said Chilton, staggering against him.

From behind them came the sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching.

“Liberty an’ prop’ity!” yelled Tillotsen, turning around to face the rider, but he froze when he saw the horseman bearing down on them, his long black cloak billowing out behind him. “S’truth!” he said. “It’s ’im!”

The horseman’s wild laughter echoed through the night.

A whip cracked. Tillotsen screamed with pain and dropped down to his knees, clutching at his face. Eyes rolling, the black horse reared up before them and the whip cracked once again. It snaked around Chilton’s throat and pulled him to the ground. Crenshaw turned to run, but suddenly a dark figure was before him. A club flashed and Crenshaw fell, unconscious. Drakov swung the club again and Johnny Long crumpled to the street. A moment later, Chilton joined him, and then Tillotsen was struck down

The next morning. all four men were discovered hanging from the stout boughs of the Liberty Tree in Boston Common. Pinned to the chest of each corpse was a placard reading. “Hellfire to the Sons of Liberty!”