BY RICHARD TUCKER

The following is an excerpt from the American Revolution novel “In the City of My Enemy.” 

***

It did not take a Bostonian to know that the dockyards and wharfs of Boston were full of the poor, and socially rejected. Since the implementation of the Boston Port Act, living conditions in the city had deteriorated. Dock laborers were out of jobs, merchants and artisans were finding it harder to conduct business, and those that managed by supplying the British garrison were at risk of having their businesses or warehouses burned. As the unemployment and tensions in the city grew, many townspeople began leaving for the countryside.

The displaced workers and struggling business owners who chose to stay blamed the British, not the Sons of Liberty for their change in fortunes. Rebel propaganda made the occupying crown forces easy targets for the anguish of the people of Boston, blaming them for the closure of Boston Harbor, the quartering of soldiers in town buildings, and the increased taxes. Rebel leaders like Samuel Adams took advantage of the situation, and illiteracy of Boston’s struggling lower sort, to gather supporters to their cause.

James Hooke, a private soldier serving in the Grenadier Company of His Majesty’s 47th Regiment of Foot, walked past an old man sitting on the cobblestone. His face was thin and worn, he was missing more than a few teeth, but as Hooke passed him the man spat, the saliva landing on his painted half gaiter. Hooke looked at the man for a moment, but kept walking. The effort that it would take to get the old man on his feet would have likely killed him. This sort of behavior from the Bostonian population towards the British troops was not unusual. 

Hooke walked towards a small building with a sign hanging above the door that read “The Golden Siren.” The Siren was a dock yard tavern, so it was not surprising that the laughter, and drunken rowdiness could be heard outside. He cracked a small, amused smile as he opened the door and walked in, the sounds almost deafening him as the various conversations bombarded him from all directions.  It was just another night in Boston of civilians, sailors drinking away their problems, and soldiers enjoying a night that they were not on duty.

“Ahhh there he is!” a loud voice bellowed, in broken English, from a table by the window. It was a deep Irish voice that Hooke immediately recognized as Padraig O’Callahan.

Hooke made his way through the crowds to the table that the large Irishman had summoned him to. It was clear that O’Callahan had been enjoying his libations that afternoon by the loud, overly enthusiastic welcome Hooke received, and by the slight sway of the Irishman’s body as he stood. A fresh tankard of ale sat before him on the rough wooden table. The round table had a number of chairs, each occupied by one of the members of Hooke’s mess. It was common for the soldiers to go out in their five or six man mess squads. His mates were in various sorts of undress. Most of them had their coats unclasped, and their waistcoats partially or completely unbuttoned. None of them were wearing their black horsehair neck stocks that were mandatory for wear on duty, instead opting for their black silk scarves rolled into neck cloths. It was obvious that these men were here for relaxation, and not in any official capacity. 

“Mary, a pint for my friend,” Thomas Barley called out to the young brunette barmaid. 

“And a plate of food,” Hooke added, as he unhooked his coat and sat down in an empty chair. Hooke unbuttoned two or three buttons of his waistcoat, taking off his neck stock and tucking it in the pocket of his waistcoat. 

“How were your lessons with the officers? Are you a scholar yet?” O’Callahan asked in his native Gaelic. 

Hooke looked at another Irishman across the table for a translation. This Irishman was much thinner than O’Callahan, and had curly brown hair and cold green eyes. He leaned back in his chair with his coat and waistcoat unbuttoned, displaying the blue and white checked shirt that many soldiers wore when off duty. “He asked if you were a scholar yet,” Private Bryan Mullony translated. 

O’Callahan’s limited ability to speak English was always a struggle when he started drinking, or got excited about something. He often switched back to his native Gaelic, and then only a few members of the company could understand him. Thankfully Mullony spoke both and could translate for the rest of their mess mates. There the similarities stopped. While O’Callahan was loud, jolly, and always looking for a good time, Mullony was quiet, subtle and some would say, shifty. O’Callahan was a product of a southern county, while Mullony was from the north. Mullony was often annoyed by O’Callahan’s antics, but always tried to keep his fellow Irishman out of too much trouble. 

Hooke laughed, shaking his head. “Not yet. Shakespeare is a bugger. I have never even heard of some of those words.” He pulled out a penny and handed it to the barmaid who brought him a plate of beef with rice, and a pewter mug of ale. “Thank you, lass.” Hooke took a bite of his food while the rest of his mates continued talking and drinking. 

“Did you all see Hookie breaking rank to go help some girl?” James McGee laughed, before taking a sip of his liquor. He had joined their mess just before the regiment had left New Jersey, and was the youngest member of Hooke’s mess. Instantly likable, McGee’s youthful innocence had endeared him to most of his mates. 

“Ahh give over will you,” Mullony said, coming to Hooke’s rescue. “It is perfectly obvious that Hookie fancies the lass. A little above your station, though?” 

Hooke said nothing at first. The mere mention of the woman from earlier that morning brought her right back into his mind. Her soft face filled his memory again, pushing out thoughts of anything else. He said nothing before looking at the two men who were teasing him. “She was a woman, and she needed help,” Hooke replied dismissively. “It is what we are here for, isn’t it?” 

“There were a lot of women out there,” McGee responded, “and that was the one you broke your position in line to help?” He tilted his head, smirking, as he studied his friend. “Why might that be, huh?” 

“The ale has gone to your head boyo,” Hooke replied before taking a drink of his own. “Just doing me duty.” 

“I do not blame ya, lad,” Corporal William Holbert finally commented from his seat in the corner. “She was a fine looking lass, but I fear Mullony’s right; she is too good for you.” He chuckled, and took a drink. 

Hooke found himself unable to reply. Holbert’s comment about her being merely fine could not begin to describe how beautiful she was in Hooke’s eyes. The majority of the incident that morning was a blur, but one thing that had stuck in his mind like a fly in molasses was the way her hazel eyes looked up at him in the all-too brief moment they had been close. It had kept him distracted most of the day, and he found himself more than a little embarrassed when Lieutenant Hilliard had noticed during their lessons. 

Hooke sat there for a moment looking across the table, past his rowdy mess mates, lost in thought. His mind yearned for more details about the woman he had saved, but he could not recall them. It was difficult to comprehend that a chance meeting, as short as theirs, could leave such an impression on him; and yet it had occupied his mind all day! Regardless of what he was doing, no matter who he was with, the memory of this woman pushed its way to the front of his mind.

Hooke was so lost in thought that the commotion a few tables away took a moment to catch his attention. He blinked once, then twice as he heard voices raise, and his blue eyes fixated on the altercation between two soldiers and a few drunken civilians. The soldiers had just sat down to their meal when the civilians had approached their table and tried pushing them out of their chairs. 

“No one wants you here!” one of the civilians said. “All you do is harass us and supplant our rights!” 

The two soldiers, who appeared to be members of the Tenth Regiment’s Light Infantry company, sat quietly trying to ignore the men in the hopes they went away. They wore shorter coats than the battalion soldiers and grenadiers, and their squared off red waistcoats were adorned with the same regimental lace that marked the buttonholes of their coats. They were covered in dust, which told Hooke that they had likely just returned from a conditioning hike. Officers would take their soldiers into the countryside from time to time so they did not sit idly in the city and cause trouble. 

“Do not serve them!” the other man announced and got in between Mary, the barmaid, and the soldiers she was attempting to serve. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Mary tried to move by him. “Let me by!” 

“I said do not serve these bloodybacks!” the man said, firmly pushing Mary away. 

“I will thank you to keep your hands off the lady,” one soldier said, standing up. 

“Oh! Acting the big hero!” The man who had first started berating them turned and squared up to the soldier. “But I would wager you would rape her if you had the chance! Is that not what you bloodybacks are known for?” 

“We have every right to eat here as you do,” the soldier said, as calmly as he could. 

“Rights?!” the man who had pushed Mary said, incredulously. “You want to talk about rights? What about our port? What about our way of life, or having a say in our own governing? All the rights we are guaranteed, as Englishmen!” His words were slurred, and his breath smelled of stale beer, but it was the age-old argument of the radicals. “Who is truly losing our rights here?” 

“I do not have to listen to this treasonous talk from an ungrateful colonist,” the soldier answered, sitting down. 

The man who had pushed Mary staggered forward, and pushed the chair of the soldier, knocking him over. “OHH! Now what? Huh?” the man asked, setting his tankard down. “Are you going to fight me? Are you going to haul me down to the prison? Or tar and feather me like you did to that poor man this morning, you bastards!” 

The soldier stood quickly. Fury blazed in his eyes, but his companion, who looked so much like the first soldier that it was obvious they were brothers, said, “They are not worth it, Isaac.” He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We shall find somewhere else to eat.” 

The soldier in front stood, his lips tight across his teeth as the anger burned in his eyes, but his brother was right. “Aye, we do not need this.” He picked up his wool forage cap. “Come on, Jonah.” 

“You shall not find another place that will serve you buggers,” the first man said, coming up beside his friend. “The Sons of Liberty will ensure that no bloodyback gets a meal in this city, save his rations!” 

The one brother pulled on the other, and soon the two were headed for the door. Hooke was impressed by their display of restraint. He had seen many altercations like that turn violent in just the few months he had been in Boston. He sat up and prepared to go back to his food when the drunken man got on the table, proclaiming that the British were monsters who should all be banned from Bostonian establishments. Hooke sighed in annoyance and took another drink of his ale.

“And know that not a man among us with courage in his heart shall stand to be ruled by a tyrannical government a moment longer!” the man declared, much to the chagrin of the British soldiers who were there trying to enjoy their meal. “The Sons of Liberty shall hang the lot of them from the Liberty Tree!” 

“Not if we hang Sam Adams and John Hancock first!” McGee stood up and announced to the cheers of some of the other British soldiers. 

“McGee, sit down, lad,” Holbert cautioned the young soldier, but the man was too far into his liquor to be stopped now. 

“We shall find these traitors to the Crown and return your town to law and order under His Majesty’s rule!” McGee responded. He was just drunk enough to have not realized Holbert had spoken to him.

The man on the table turned to look at McGee standing by his table, and the two locked eyes. “His Majesty’s rule is what started all this! Him and his bloody Parliament! And what do we get, huh?” the man asked the other Bostonian citizens in the room. “We get to pay for his war! He bleeds us dry with his taxes!” A few others cheered in agreement. “And when we try to peacefully protest, he sends in his army and soldiers to kick us out of our homes and force his taxes upon us! We do not get a say!” he continued to try and stir the crowd up. “Nor have we a representative in Parliament to speak on our behalf.” 

“Sir, I am afraid you are misinformed,” a Serjeant of the Fifth Regiment of Foot said, standing up from another table, turning to face the man on the table. “I assure you we are simply here to keep the peace and to seek out those who would disrupt law, order and due process.” 

“Law and due process he says!” the drunken man responded, “Law and due process after dissolving our courts, and our elected legislatures and putting a general to rule us! Law and order! Lies I say!” he bellowed. “Bloodyback lies!” 

“You should be grateful His Majesty has been so benevolent to you!” McGee shouted. “God Save the King!” 

Hooke leaned over, grabbed a fist full of McGee’s white waistcoat and jerked him down into his chair. “Sit down, you damned fool!” He intervened too late. Several other colonists had stood and started throwing their food and drink at the soldiers, including a pewter tankard striking the wall next to the table where Hooke sat with his mess mates. 

“Down with the Parliament!” someone shouted. 

“Get the Bloodybacks out of our city!” a woman shouted next. 

All the soldiers stood from their tables as the Serjeants and Corporals started to herd them out of the tavern. This was going to turn even more violent, very quickly, despite the one serjeant of the Fifth Regiment that had tried to calm the situation. Even some of the sailors and marines had decided it was time to leave, despite having little to do with the whole altercation. This was the environment of Boston, and unfortunately situations like these were not uncommon for the soldiers to endure, no matter what their intentions were.

“You damned bastards! Go home!” a man shouted and spat on one of the British sailors that had been eating at a corner table with a few of his mates and a pair of marines. 

The sailor, who had been trying to stay out of the whole situation, took a step forward and punched the civilian in the face. From there, the situation deteriorated into pure violent chaos. Soldiers, and sailors went toe to toe with the civilians. Tables and chairs were broken, blood was even spilled, and while no one was killed, there would be a lot of hurt people in the morning. 

Hooke stood and helped Holbert get the men of his mess out of the tavern as quickly as possible. It was a challenge from their spot in the corner, but with Holbert breaking the crowd in front and Hooke in the back continuing to usher the men towards the door, they would get out safely. O’Callahan wanted to join in the brawl. Typical Irishman that could never pass up a good bar fight, but Mullony helped to keep him on the path out of the tavern. 

The night air was crisp, the smell of fish and the unwashed population of the city of Boston polluted the air and assaulted the noses of the soldiers of the Forty-Seventh Grenadier company as they started their way back towards Faneuil Hall. The sound of the fight inside The Golden Siren and the continued flood of soldiers out of the tavern’s door told Hooke everything he needed to know about what was happening. They had been involved in enough altercations with the local public that day. The only good thing to come from the tarring and feathering of Thomas Ditson was that it had brought him in line with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. A woman that even twelve hours later, he still could not stop thinking about. Whose name he did not even know, and likely never would, but he did not care as long as he never forgot the look of those beautiful eyes, and her gentle smile. The rest of Boston could tear itself apart for all he cared, as long as this woman was safe that night.