Young Americans: Save The Colonies

Prologue:

A Call To Arms

A Call to Arms

THWACK!

A baton crashed down across the back of a British Guard’s neck and skull. He fell into the shadows, slamming down onto a dock post before thudding onto the foot of Hutchinson Street.

Watch yer step, boys. A gruff voice croaked, moving past the guard’s unconscious heap up onto Griffin’s Wharf. The man had been talking for hours. Now, the time for talking had passed.

He pointed his baton right at a ship docked boat a few feet ahead, That’s the vessel, we want right there… The Dartmouth. He held up his hand and waved them forward, Keep yer eyes peeled. There’s likely to be more where that came from and they can’t all be that easy.

Bodies moved on the docks. Figures pulsed - acting in unison. The moon hung high over the harbor and minus a few thin clouds the sky was clear and there was enough pale blue light to see the difference between land and sea, with soggy wooden board and snow covered ropes bridging the gaps between.

Y’alright? A cockney voice hollered from the deck of the ship just off the docks. There was a pause. The bodies of men that were approaching stopped in their tracks. For a moment the dead air sat heavy on the waters that lapped up under their feet. Then, as if a call and response they pushed on. Footsteps that tracked along slushy wet cobblestone, slapping and spraying as they did – left, then right – one after the other.

Oi? Up on the deck of the ship that voiced bellowed again. A thin pasty figure shuffled his red and beige canvas uniform figure through the shadows beneath the sails, hobbling over to the rail on a sturdier version of sea legs. He leaned at the waist, bending over and peering out.

Edmunds? He heard the sounds of footsteps. A chill ran up his spine. The spindly pale ghost of a British sentry turned at the sound of the footsteps leaving the gangplank and stepping onto the ship’s deck. Edmunds, is that you?

’Fraid not. The gruff voice rumbled.

Hell.

CRACK! A butt of a rifle broke the sentry’s nose, splaying him out, his arms and legs spreading out wide and landing with a heavy wet slap. The man with the gun lowered his weapon and smirked. His face was painted with mud and red. His shirt was open down the center and feathers hung from his neck and arms. He turned back around to the plank from whence he came.

Take the ship!

A surge of energy rolled up the plank as a platoon of men whooped and hollered. What sounded like a band of Mohawk Indians on the rampage quickly came into light on the deck to reveal that rather than the savage attackers they were portraying, these pirates were simply poorly disguised colonists. They were all half-painted on the face. Loosely tied cloth-headbands dangled from their hairline.

Destroy it all!

The hollering and whooping grew as the men stormed forward. In the moonlight there were glints of steel swiping through ropes and steal. A hatchet found its way onto a lock and sparks flew.

Open the hull! A man shouted, pointing down to the hatch in front of his feet. Without pause a bear of a man thundered forth, reaching down and tearing the grated door off its hinges and throwing it off the side of the ship.

After you, Mr. Adams.

Thanks. Adams lowered himself into the hole, navigating down a mountain of crates, And call me Sam.

The top of the ship was alive with stomping and shouting. Down below Sam Adams lit a lantern, illuminating the caverns of a tea-carrying vessel.

My god. He muttered to himself. There was more tea than he’d ever seen. His jaw clenched. He smirked as he put the lantern down and shouted, Come get it boys!

BLAM!

A gunshot rang out from another ship nearby.

Voices roared. Adams climbed back on deck amidst the excitement against the grain, ushering his platoon down into the hull. Through the hollers and whoops of haphazard incognito colonists turned to rabid fervor Adams raised his pistol and shot into the air himself.

BLAM!

We will not be held prisoners in our own land! his voice echoed.

Here, here! the men shouted in agreement.

We are the Sons of Liberty!

From the shore the shadows railed against the mist and star-specked sky. The three large ships that were docked in Griffin’s Wharf rocked with loud slams and the sound of cracking wood. Boxes and crates were smashed. Shards of broken wood and splintered boards flew from the portholes and over the rails into the water below, splashing over and over again.

For hours the fray continued. Colonists waging war - assaulting their harbor with crates of tea until the last of it was gone. Tea flowed into the sea like blood on a battlefield. The bay turned blacker than the night sky. The browns and blacks surged. The waves lurched like mud.

The moon retreated behind a thick murky cloud that rivaled the waters below Sam Adams sat on the edge of the Dartmouth, watching his brothers in arms deboard the hollow shells of ships that they had just ransacked.

We did it, Sir. A sweaty young man said. His voice was hoarse from excitement.

Aye. Adams nodded, But I’m afraid this is only the beginning.

CHAPTER 1

Spring 1776

George Washington stepped inside Dogooder’s Pub already drunk and with a plan to kill anyone he might encounter.

Give me a beer, Ben. He was brash and young. No more than twenty-two but with the voice and stance of a full-grown soldier. He cracked his knuckles and his nose flared, glaring through the establishment. He was looking for a fight, but no one looked back. As he strode through Dogooder’s, his shoulders loosened and George decided instead to have another drink. He saddled up to the maple top bar, Take your time. I have nothing better to do. Getting comfortable, he turned his attention to the two young ladies to his right. A blonde and a brunette, both pretty with warm red cheeks.

What about you two? You ladies care to share a drink or two? The blonde closer to him went flush and her eyelashes fluttered. George’s presence was overwhelming despite his reputation. Her eyes glanced from his belt buckle up his strapping frame all the way past his strong jawline.

You must be seven feet tall. She could no sooner get the words out of her mouth before the brunette slapped her arm. I mean, yes sir. We would hate for you to drink alone.

Everything is better in threes, George smiled back. Two more ciders for the ladies, Ben. The barkeep nodded, pulling glasses from the rack behind the bar and thrusting them under a separate cask and pulling the tap. George leaned back towards the girls.

I’m sorry for my cousin, sir. She is new to Philadelphia and has apparently not been graced with this city’s tact and charm. The brunette smiled.

No worries. I have been called far worse than seven feet tall, by much worse company than you ladies.

And frequently for that matter. The bartender pushed a beer stein and two ciders across the bar and towards the conversation.

Hey --

If you gals knew what you were getting yourself into, perhaps you would want to walk away now. The older man winked.

Needing no more of an introduction, George stepped back, removed his tricorne hat and bowed. With random sandy brown tresses escaping from behind his ears, he looked up to the girls with a mischievous glint in his piercing blue eyes, George. He smirked, Just George..

Emma Sterling, said the blonde, offering her hand to George. My cousin here is called Sally. George nodded. I apologize if I came off as too forward, but I assure you it was meant as a compliment.

Duly noted, Miss Sterling. George took a swig from his beer. "Are you new to the colonies, or simply to Philadelphia?’

The brunette stepped in. She is just new to Pennsylvania, Sir. She previously resided in Boston, but has been complaining for months about the state of affairs in the Commonwealth, so I invited her to come down here.

State of affairs? George cocked his head, You mean the uprisings?

There are just too many brash men with heads full of ideals and complaints. They would rather argue than court a lady. As the blonde said this, her fingers grazed the top of his strong hands. You know the type.

Just then, the doors to Dogooder’s Pub swung open, making a scratching sound as they heavily dragged sand across the wood floors. Oh, I think I know exactly the type.

George carefully removed his hand from under the blonde’s. A table full of farmers in the corner were saying something in Flemish, but went hush with the sound of the door and the loud conversation of those entering, already arguing at a fever pitch.

Believe me, I desperately want to understand what you’re saying, Alex.

Then why don’t you? Is it that difficult for a Virginian like yourself to understand? The younger friend offered.

And you think that colonists know the difference between paying taxes to one government far away and paying taxes to another government at home? Tom smiled at his friend Alex. As much as he enjoyed the art of argument this was one about which they strongly disagreed.

Blah, blah, blah. Alex rolled his eyes.

Great point.

I just think that an informed public can make informed decisions.

Have you met people, Alex?

Not everyone, no. But I do know that everyone wants their freedom and liberties protected and that’s what a strong central government will do. Alex appeared unshaven, but for either his young age or his ancestry there was little stubble to show for it. His hair was black and wild, failing in front of and away from his eyes. Alex stood in stark contrast to his friend—sometimes rival—Tom, a Virginian nineteen year old whose uniform was always clean and crisp, and hung taught on his shoulders.

Ah. I thought I didn’t understand what you were saying but it turns out what you were saying is actually quite simple, Tom replied.

Simple?

Simple meaning stupid. He laughed.

Tom, do you want to fight?

No! I want to laugh, Alex. He shoved Alex’s shoulder, rattling the smaller rogue. You think that colonists from the Carolinas to New Hampshire will risk their lives to reject a strong British government only to accept a strong American government?

That logic is close-minded.

You think colonists are close-minded?

I wasn’t talking about colonists anymore. I was talking about you.

I am the opposite of close-minded. I talk to the people that read our pamphlets—I talk to everyone!

Tom, when you say ‘everyone’ you don’t mean ‘colonists.’

No, look…

You mean ‘people who can read.’ Unlike an aristocrat such as yourself, when I say ‘everyone’ I really mean everyone. Everyone wants freedom. He thought for a second as they looked at each other, Even if they don’t know they want it, they deserve it. Alex’s eyes searched Tom’s face for the reassurance that his words were not lost, You know I’m right, Tom. The least you can do is respect me.

Respect you!?

Knock it off. The voice came from behind them and the two were met with a gloved hand on each of their shoulders. The man was taller than both of them, but still shorter than George, and wore a half-authentic Lieutenant’s uniform from the King’s Army – the kind that many colonists owned from second hand merchants.

He smiled at the two of them, hooking his palms around his friends as he spoke, We have enough to argue about, so let us try to be on our best behavior while in public, right? The half-authenticated rebel soldier turned to the barkeep. Hope we aren’t too late, Ben.

Hardly, Crenshaw. But then again, I doubt it would be a meeting without you lot and Martha now, would it?

Martha’s still not here?

The bartender smiled and removed his bifocals to sweep aside his straw-thin wisp of white hair, plastering it back over his bald spot and into the back of his head. The pub was over half-full and the air was beginning to get warm with all the activity.

Just a bunch of civilians here, Lt. Crenshaw, Ben gestured towards George who was back to flirting with the two girls, each halfway through their second ciders.

George! Shoving Tom out of the way, Alex made his way past both Sally and Emma Sterling and grabbed on to George’s shoulder – which was about at his own full height.

Sadly for you girls the type of men that ran you out of Boston are not only in the Commonwealth. There are plenty of rabble-rousers here in Philadelphia as well, said George.

Oh, because I have an opinion on some important matters, I’m a rabble-rouser? asked Alex.

No, you are a rabble-rouser because of how much you rabble, Tom followed his friend Alex, and winked towards the girls while shaking George’s hand.

Eat sod, rich boy, Alex replied.

George smiled at the girls. All of this rabble is not particularly arousing, is it? Emma and Sally Sterling, these two are good friends of mine. The rabble-rouser to my right here goes by Alex Hamilton and the sod-eating rich boy is Tom Jefferson.

Only mildly embarrassed by their introduction, Alex and Tom managed a moment’s break in their endless argument, bowed and took off their hats.

Many apologies, ladies – Alex here has not been taught the finer points of decorum when in the presence of females.

Well, I am not going to stand here and be slandered in front of these lovely ladies, Alex said. He leaned toward George, quietly addressing him alone. Are you coming to the meeting with us?

You mean one of your scintillating meetings about taxation, economics, state boundaries and, of course, novel and well argued complaints about the King? He smiled, I think I’ll pass.

We could use someone like you on our side. Alex grabbed George’s beer, taking a swig, Come on, it will be fun.

Pulling back the beer stein, George shook his head, You have a warped sense of ‘fun.’ I think I’ll take my chances out here with these young ladies. He slugged back the rest of his beer and slapped it on the bar. Another beer, Ben.

So that’s a no?

That’s a no.

Right. Ben grabbed a stein, pulled back the tap on the cask and began pouring. Over his shoulder he spoke to Crenshaw as if commanding an army, Head on back you three, I’ll send Martha in when she arrives.

George, you better stay out here and take care of this very important business, Crenshaw said mockingly to Alex and Tom rather than George; he couldn’t help but despise George Washington for the ease at which he took nothing seriously. Since politics fail to register as important, we need not waste his time or ours.

Crenshaw gestured for Alex and Tom to follow him towards the back of the bar. It was darker away from the door, as there were fewer windows and the lanterns were still not fully lit. There was a tapestry and a rug with a big wooden door. Daniel Crenshaw knocked three times—once hard and twice lighter—before the door creaked and opened slightly. Crenshaw leaned in and said something out of earshot, turned back to the bar, waved over the men and walked in.

You going to be here for a bit? Alex turned back toward the bar but only made it two steps before Tom grabbed him by the shoulder and began pulling him to the door.

Ben slid a beer stein over to George who picked it up and raised it, As long as Old Mr. Franklin has the beer, I’ll be here. He toasted his stein over his shoulder to Tom and Alex.

George sipped as the two made their way past the Flemish-speaking farmers and to the door to the backroom, knocking thrice as Crenshaw had done before and being let in, after whispering through the cracked entrance.

You certainly do have an intriguing group of acquaintances, George. Emma’s eyelashes fluttered as she spoke. Her body, while not being more than average in size, looked petite next to George, she sipped from her cider.

Intriguing people are much like magnets, aren’t they? He thought for a moment. They can either be so alike that they push away from each other, even when they have similar goals and aspirations, like Tom and Alex back there, or they can attract to one another, he leaned towards Emma with glassy eyes and raised eyebrows, in a way that… George was unable to finish as the door to the pub scratched open.

The setting sun cast a bright red light into the room, silhouetting the person in the doorway. George sat back in his seat and as his eyes regained focus he realized the figure entering was a lady of eighteen or so years old, just a few years younger than him.

And she happened to be the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Her eyes were wide and intelligent, her skin porcelain and lips full but pointed in a direct and intelligently questioning way. She wore a hooped petticoat that showed beneath her cream and lavender hooded cloak that danced around her ankles as she walked in and spoke to Ben at the very far end of the bar, right next to the entrance.

As he stared, Emma began touching his hand again, What kind of way?

Sorry? George was still in awe.

You were saying something about magnets, how there is sometimes an attraction…

Right, and it can not be stopped. He put his beer down. Excuse me, ladies. He tipped his cap, stepped around a few stools and walked over to this newcomer to the pub, who spoke in hushed tones.

Ben, this is from France, so you can’t resell it or anything. She reached into her cloak and removed a bottle with a murky green color to it and handed it over the bar to Ben.

Why on earth would I ever think about selling, never mind sharing such a thing? He smiled from ear to ear, ducked down beneath the bar, opened a latched box, shifted its contents and reached inside. He pulled out an empty bottle of the exact same shape, replaced it with the new bottle of murky green fluid, latched the box back up and handed over the empty back to the young lady.

What do you have there? As George said it, both Ben and the girl jumped, the empty bottle fumbling out of her hands and into the air. Almost as if he’d planned it, George’s hand shot out and grabbed the bottle right out of thin air. He held it up, admiring it. It looks interesting.

It looks like it’s not yours, she said, swiping it away from him. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late.

Hold on for a moment there. George stepped in her way. Her delicate shape looked all the daintier while next to him. I didn’t mean to intrude, I simply could not avoid talking to you once I saw you. Her efforts to look away were met at all angles with George.

George, this is Martha Dandridge. Martha, George Washington. Ben offered, easing tensions. George took off his tricorne hat and nodded to Martha.

Charmed, M’lady. She nodded in return and he took her hand.

Nice to meet you, Mr. Washington. Martha’s hand in his, she finally looked into his eyes for the first time, and in that moment, George held his breath. His mouth went dry. As if the room had momentarily disappeared, George could only see her.

Ben made his way up the bar, clearing off two empty glasses before turning back to the newly introduced young Americans. Martha, I believe Lt. Crenshaw is waiting for you in the back, and not to dissuade you from introductions and etiquette but I told him that I would direct you to him as soon as you arrived.

Oh. Martha’s eyes broke from George’s, immediately realizing that the two of them weren’t alone and that not only was Ben looking at her, with one hand still in George’s, but there were two girls down the bar, shooting daggers at her with their eyes. She felt hot in the face and a stinging in the back of her throat. Thank you, Mr. Franklin. Removing her hand from George’s she bowed lightly, "Nice to meet you Mr. Washington. But now it appears that I actually