Uh oh....

Pathos entered the parlour. He looked pale and he was struggling to breathe.  I glanced up from my reading as he thrust a piece of paper onto the table before me.

“What’s this then?”

“Sir, I think you’d better read this.”

I retrieved the piece of paper and began to read, calmly taking in what was before my eyes.

          I could scarce believe what I was reading.

          “Merciful heavens, Pathos, Fat Georgie is shutting up the Port of Boston.”

          “He’s also stopping the importation of arms and ammunition.”

          “This isn’t good. Worse things are coming.  I imagine the Sons of Liberty have heard about this?”

          “I don’t think so, Sir. This just came off the ship. There were three – one addressed to you, one to the governor of Massachusetts Bay, and one to the governor of New-Hampshire.”

          “Let us keep quiet about this. No need stirring up riots quite yet.”

          Pathos nodded and turned to leave, but paused at the door, and asked, almost apologetically;    

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering…” He was silent a moment.

“What?”

“This sort of thing happened in Scotland when you were a boy, didn’t it?”

             Memories.

“More or less. Then they marched in and killed everyone.”

“I see. You’re falling off that fence, aren’t you.”

“Seems I’m being pushed.”

“I see.”

Well… so I’m not allowed to teach Sunday school anymore…

          Since returning to Boston, Pathos et wife and I have attended several different versions of Sabbath Services.  Thus far we have found sundry interesting conceptions amongst the faithful, perhaps the least shocking that the Anglicans seem to be terrified of theology and embarrassed by it.

          One of the ministers of whom we are fond asked me to teach a lesson to the children of the parish this Sabbath past.  Apparently, it was not well received.  Here is the gist of what occurred:

As I read from 1^st Samuel…

Me: …Why camest thou down hither? and with whom hast thou left those few sheep in the wilderness? I know thy pride, and the naughtiness of thine heart; for thou art come down that thou mightest see the battle…

Little Girl: What is pride?

Me: Pride is a feeling of happiness with oneself.

Little Boy: Is pride good or bad?

Me: Well, there is a kind of pride that is good and a kind that is bad.

Little Boy: What do you mean?

Me: Bad pride would be when one man believes himself to be better than another, based solely on something as fleeting as birth or wealth or position.

Little Girl: My daddy is on the Governor’s Council. Does he have bad pride?

Me: Are his shirts made of linen or cotton?

Little Girl: Silk, actually.

Me: Well then, he’s definitely on the swift boat to the Hades.

Same Little Girl: What’s Hades?

Me: It's a suburb of Newark, New Jersey.

Little Boy: What about my daddy? Does he have bad pride?

Me: What does he do?

Little Boy: He is a merchant.

Me: What does he import?

Little Boy: Mostly tea and pewter.

Me: He should be fine for now, but I’d keep an eye on him, were I you.

Yet Another Little Boy: What about my daddy?

Me: What does he do?

The Little Boy Again: He’s a fisherman!

Me: Sounds like a good fellow.

The Little Boy Again: But my mommy is a lot younger than he.

Me: By how much?

The Little Boy Again: At least twenty years.

Me: Nothing wrong with that father of yours, at all. You can learn a lot from him, Jimmy.

The Little Boy Again: My name is Thomas.

Me: Like I care.

Little Girl: So what is good pride?

Me: Good pride. I saw it in action.  September, 1760, it was.  We had surrounded Montréal and the French governor had decided to surrender.  We demanded the French Army turn over their battle flags to us.  These are the flags they had carried thro’ five years of war, many victories, few defeats.  They were torn by musketballs and cannon shot, and covered thick in the blood of those brave Frogs who carried them. These men had seen their comrades blown to tiny pieces, impaled on British bayonets, shot apart by volley after volley of musket-fire, and still the fought on, thro’ the blood, thro’ the guts, thro’ it all. If you’ve ever seen a fellow lose his head to a cannonball, you know how nasty and bloody it can be for a soldier, wading thro’ the innards of your tent-mates, splattered all over the green grass. And do you know what those magnificent b-----s did? rather than surrender their proud flags to the enemy, they lit fires in the city and burned them, thread by blood-soaked thread.  Now that’s pride.  That’s beautiful pride.  It was a shame we had to kill so many of those bloody papist wine-swilling cheese-eaters.  So! Any questions?

          The children stared at me, horror-struck.  When I teach, I like to make the lesson stick.

Five Plots Come Together, And The End Begins...

          In order to begin to understand the events to led directly to the death of the author of the diaries of the Average Swordsman, as well as the beginning of the war of revolution that he directly started in 1775, we must first pay close attention to the relationship of the following five plotlines that slammed hard together in February of 1774:

1.    In London, a chicken dressed in the robes of a Peer of the Realm broke the news to a furious King George III (over a game of cards) that the Boston colonists had dumped thousands of Pounds Sterling worth of tea into the harbor, and then he advised the King on how he should deal with the situation (let’s also keep in mind that this is the same chicken, Lord Albert le Poulet, who advised Lord Townsend on how best to tax the colonies a decade earlier);

2.    In New York, a young man whom we have seen stalking our Protagonist since 1765 met secretly in a tavern with an elderly French aristocrat, who happened to be our Protagonist’s biggest enemy;

3.    In Boston, a lone British army officer entered the town, disguised, and under cover of darkness, and began asking for the whereabouts of our Protagonist;

4.    In the Massachusetts Bay Colony, small towns began to hold meetings, discussing the removal of town officials and militia officers known to be loyal to the king;

5.    In Boston, our Protagonist got wicked-bored, resulting in the following three events occurring:

A.  He decided to donate his nine pairs of bright red socks to the local Rounders team;

B.   He entered a theological debate society and befriended a minister named Calvin Arminius Pope, who happened to be a Baptist;

C.   He decided to take a solid week and ingest nothing but pure maple syrup, in an attempt to reach Nirvana.

So, here we are.  Let the fun begin!

Back in Court...

There I was…

          Standing behind the bar awaiting my turn to be examined by the Justices of the Superior Court of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.  Let the fun begin.

The chambre was filled to capacity by ne’er-do-wells and other pillars of Boston society, all either appearing before the bar today, or just curious about the proceedings.  Some interesting lads were appearing today, including the first witch to appear before a Massachusetts court in eighty years.

I nudged Pathos as the accused man was led before the Justices.  I heard a soft crunch next to me, and then chewing.  I looked at Pathos.

“Where did you get that cookie?”

“Tree outside.”

“Oh.  Wait, what?”

But I stopped speaking, as the Justices were addressing the accused witch.

“Andrew MacNair, you stand before this court, lawfully convened, accused of the crime of witchcraft. How do you plead?”

He was a tall, thin man, early-thirties in age, with a nappy, scraggly beard that fell limply over his heavy black cloak.  I watched as he let a small, glass sphere drop from his sleeve into his hand, and he glared at the Justices with a look of triumph.

“I asked you,” repeated the elderly justice in the centre, “How do you plead?”

MacNair laughed out loud, raised his hand (still clutching the small glass ball) above his head, and exclaimed, “This is how I plead, foolish mortals!”

With a flourish, he shouted DISAPPEARO!!! and hurled the small glass ball to the floor, where it shattered.  A tiny plume of white powdery smoke rose about two inches off the floor, then dissipated in the cold breeze blowing into the room from under the door. 

MacNair seemed genuinely surprised that he was still standing in the centre of the room. Defeated, he slouched sadly.

The head Justice twisted his face at the pathetic man, and bellowed, “Not guilty. Get him out of here.”

There were a few giggles in the courtroom, and MacNair did not move.

“Mr. MacNair,” began the lead Justice, after a moment’s silence, “You are free to go home.”

“I cannot,” whined MacNair.

“Why the deuce not?”

“My mother locked me out.”

Pathos finished his cookie as the bailiff lead out MacNair.

My turn.  I rose and approached the bar.  There were more giggles… undoubtedly at my socks.

The Justices were silent as they eyed me.  The room fell completely quiet, aside from the assorted chortles and giggles.

After a long, awkward silence, the lead Justice cleared his throat and said, “Er… yes, um, if I may, Mr…”

“If it’s about my socks, I can explain.”

See, when packing for our trip from Portsmouth to Boston a few weeks ago, Pathos neglected to pack any of my socks, so I had to purchase some en route.  The issue was that there was a shortage of wool for winter stockings, and the only merchant we found who had sufficient quantities on hand had them only in red – bright, gaudy, obnoxious, blinding red.  And we had to buy nine pair.  Everyone stared everywhere I went.  There were sniggers, and chortles, and giggles, and sometimes even the hearty guffaw. 

Sigh.

Mercifully, I was expecting a delivery of normal socks any day.

The Justices heard the tale, never taking their eyes off my socks.  When I had finished, they did not speak.

Total. Bloody. Silence.

Finally, there was a creaking of the chairs, and the lead Justice asked me, “Er… why did we call you to the bar, again?”

“Something about tea, I believe.”

“The tea in the harbour?”

“Aye, that’s the lot.”

“Ah.”  The Justice stroked his chin, still glaring confusedly at my socks. “Well… um, did you do it?”

“I did not.”

“Right. Off you go, then.”

I turned to leave the courtroom, and stomped out, Pathos in tow, brushing mysterious cookie crumbs off the front of his waistcoat.

          These are the sorts of days I’ve been having.

Back in Boston....

The front room of the Boston residence of Mr. John Adams, Esq.

          Mr. Adams read my lettre from King George very carefully. 

          He lowered the page and glared at me.

          Then he read it again.  And again.  And again.

          Then he sat down, slowly, folded the page, then handed it back to me. 

          “Is this real? Is he serious?”

          I nodded.

          “King George wants to hand complete control of this colony to you?”

          I nodded.

          John sighed deeply, and stared at the floor.  “I suppose it’s come to this. I hope you’ll do a better job than the previous governors.”

          “Well, I will not be so much a governor as I’ll be a…”  I stopped talking.  John’s face turned gray as his eyes met mine.

          “A dictator,” he said.

          I nodded.

          “King George is asking you to become a dictator over this colony. He’s offering you complete authority to abrogate our Charter, imprison and execute anyone you suspect of disturbing the peace, and free-reign to create what laws you wish, whether they are consistent with English common law or not.”

          He signed deeply again.

          “Well,” he continued, “The people may be in an uproar over this, but I, at least, trust you and shall give you my full support.”

          “I’m not going to do it, John.”

          He looked surprised.  “And why not? You’ve been wanting for the past decade to restore peace and law to Boston, and now here is your chance?”

          “Because, John, to do so I’d have to hang your cousin and Mr. Hancock.”

          John grew even more silent, mulling over his thoughts.  It was a minute or so before he spoke again.

          “So who shall receive the post if you decline?”

          “General Gage, but he will not have the powers offered to me – yet.”

          “That sounds like a threat, man.”

          “It is, John. News of this tea dumping shall reach London any day, and Fat Georgie will not lightly countenance being affronted thus. He’ll take this as a personal insult. He’ll push Parliament to recall the civil authority and hand Gage all the authority he needs to turn Massachusetts into one enormous army camp. Your cousin will not be able to bully him the way he did Hutchinson. Gage will not restrained behind a weak civilian government.”

          John nodded silent assent.  After a moment, I rose to leave.

          “There will be bloodshed,” he said as I pulled on my gloves.

          “There’s already been bloodshed. For years Boston has been controlled by the lawless, self-appointed defenders of the public liberty, who have lied, bullied, and assaulted their way to power. Whatever moral high-ground they had vanished the instant that they poured scalding tar on other human beings, and denied others their rights while singing loudly for their own. These men do not have the fear of God before their eyes. I smelled the burning flesh of their victims, John. I felt it tear off their bodies in my hands. If I hanged Sam Adams and John Hancock, they’d get the just reward for their crimes, but their cronies and foot-soldiers would rise up and start a war. I won’t have that on my hands. But neither can I accept the position the King offered without hanging those two. Hypocrisy by my hand in government is not what I want.”

          “So what do you want?”

          I paused at the door. “Well, I loathe the Sons of Liberty, and I despise the English government. I suppose I’m stuck.”

          John smiled. “You could become a third-party candidate.”

          “Not in such a tightly controlled two-party system in which both sides strangle out the voices of reason and truth in order to promote their own self-interested claims to rule and power.”

          “Merciful heavens, man, do you ever shut off?”

          So I left Mr. Adams, and stepped out into the streets of Boston.  The streets were crowded, and the fish in the harbour were still strung-out on the ton of caffeine dropped onto them by the colonists last month.

          Pathos found me.

          “Afternoon, Sir. Where we off to?”

          “I don’t know, Pathos.  It’s hard to get around these crowded streets. What are your thoughts?”

          “Well, we could dig tunnels under the streets and transport people that way, perhaps on some sort of self-propelled ox cart?”

          I glared hard.

          “No, Pathos, I meant what are your thoughts on where we should go?”

          “Ah.  Well, not Faneuil Hall. The government is still after you about that little matter of the tea in the harbour.”

          “All their mamas. Let’s go get cannoli.”

And go get cannoli we did.