The Revolution

1|The Proclamation

Boston, Massachusetts

June 1, 1774

My breath was tight in my throat as I cautiously slipped my fingers in between the heavy draperies of my upstairs bedroom, parting them just enough to see the dark cobbled street below. It was empty. There was a silence in the air, so heavy I could feel it in the stifling heat of early June.

A dog barks.

The water of the harbor could be heard lapping against the wooden hulls of boats and ships. A breeze blows by, rustling the curtains and causing the flame of the candle on my nightstand to quiver. I hold my breath.

I watch.

I wait.

Voices. Coming down the street, I squint in the lurid, inky darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of a silhouette. Firelight flickers around a corner, and by the time my eyes catch it, it is gone.

A passing sentry?

No.

My grip on the draperies tighten, the fabric deeply entwined with my raw, ink smeared knuckles. I draw a shuddering breath, the tension in the air leaving me with a feeling of anxious dread in the pit of my stomach. The city was a powder keg about to explode.

I was about to explode.

My breath catches as I catch sight of white silk, whirling around a corner.

It was time.

Blowing out the candle and making my footsteps inaudible, I tip-toed down the stairs. Slipping past the worn kitchen table, I made my way to the door.

I fumbled for the latch, eventually sliding it out and stepping out into the street, the dark night swallowing me whole.

It seemed as if a blanket of stillness had befallen the city at sundown, as it's normally bustling, boisterous streets sat in an uneasy cacophony of silence. 

It took me longer than it would normally to reach my destination- as the streets were riddled with British sentries on duty. But before long I was nearing the southern shore of the Charles River, the river in which I was to meet my contact.

There was not a soul along the shore. The only sound being the crickets and the sound of water lapping against a wooden fisherman's port and the small rowboat tied to it.

I held my breath, not daring to move.

There he was. Almost as silent and invisible as a ghost. He walked swiftly towards the rowboat, his boots completely inaudible against the sand of the shore. The collar of his coat was pulled up to his ears, and his tricorn hat sat low on his head.

It looked mighty strange for a warm spring night.

Confirming to myself that it was him, I stepped out from the tree line, walking as swiftly as I could toward him.

He hardly spared me a glance as he began to untie the boat from the port.

"Do you have the letters?" He asked gruffly, and I nodded, glancing around before reaching into my stays, pulling out a bundle of letters bound together by a red ribbon. He straightened, taking the letters and turning them over in his hands. "And Mr. Otis is sure that this will convince the entire colony of Pennsylvania?"

"I am merely the messenger. I do as I'm told."

He scoffed, "Of course ye are."

I ignored his rough remark and continued on, "If there is nothing else you'll be needing, I best be on my way."