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A Fallen Sparrow: A Novel of the American Revolution

By Lynne Basham Tagawa

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Yea, in the shadow of thy wings,
My refuge I have plac’d,
Until these sore calamities
Shall quite be over past.
—Psalm 57:1, The Bay Psalm Book, 1640
March 1770
Ruth Haynes scrambled for the first word, the first phrase, but first sentences were always the hardest to write.
She leaned back in the governor’s darkened carriage, the silk upholstery soft as a cloud. The middle of the essay was straightforward in her mind, and the ending obvious, but the beginning eluded her.
“I know that face. You’re writing.” The moonlight reflecting off the snow outside made Sarah Hutchinson’s complexion glow like a pearl.
“Thanks to you and your family, I have everything I need.” Including a list documenting every penny spent to repair the governor’s home. The people ought to know the cost of Samuel Adams’s intrigues.
Thinking of the list, Ruth thrust her hand in her pocket where it met with the soft bulge of stockings she’d knitted for one of the wharf boys. She quickly realized her mistake and laid a hand on her bodice, a tiny rustle assuring her that the piece of rag paper was secure.
“I worry about you,” Sarah said. “That night haunts me. The violence.”
Five years ago, the Stamp Act had stirred the colonies, and Ruth had agreed with the principal complaints. But debates in taverns were one thing. Mobs had spilled out into the streets of Boston and destroyed several homes, including Governor Hutchinson’s. Tensions had ebbed since, but now there were soldiers stationed here, and the town was strung as tight as the lines of a tops’l in a gale.
“Papa never writes anything offensive and always casts an eye over anything I contribute. We shall not be in danger.” Ruth rarely saw her friend nowadays and had enjoyed the chance to visit, even if it was for an article for the Observer. She looked beyond Sarah’s features to her own ghostly reflection in the carriage window. Dark eyes in a pale face. Beyond, night-shrouded Boston slid by, the snow brilliant under the light of a waxing moon, illuminating the buildings along the street. It was late. Hopefully Papa wouldn’t be worried.
She went back to her composing. The details of the damage would lead to her true message—rebellion against the king was wrong. Papa had given her permission to write such a commentary, but she needed a pen name. Honorius? Or Honoria? Should she present herself as a man, or—
Unexpectedly, the vehicle slowed and came to a creaking stop.
“Wait here, Sarah.” Before her friend could protest, Ruth slipped out of the carriage onto the running board. Her shoes were undoubtedly sturdier than whatever the governor’s daughter was wearing. Without waiting for the footman’s help, she stepped into the snow.
Under the yellow glow of the carriage lamps, the coachman was standing with one of the horses’ hooves on his knee and a hoofpick in his hands. He looked up at her. “Snowball.”
Another delay in getting home.
Ruth tugged her cloak close and scanned the street. Even her mild-mannered papa would scold her for this; no excuse would suffice for arriving home at nine, not with scalawags and soldiers about. It used to be that the only ones swarming the streets were young men who met in groups for friendly bouts of fisticuffs to burn off their energy.
No, the fisticuffs were serious now. Bitter stevedores and tradesmen arrayed themselves against the “lobsters,” as the red-coated soldiers were known. Only two days before, a serious fight had broken out at the rope maker’s.
The Boston of her childhood was gone, replaced by a town full of anger and suspicious looks.
Exchange Street was empty except for a single man, striding along, greatcoat flapping. Going home, she supposed. The coachman resumed his seat, and Ruth laid her hand on the polished carriage door latch.
Then she heard a sound, the murmur of voices. A boy’s shout.
Up ahead the man slowed and turned his head, listening, and she recognized him with a sigh of relief. It was her friend Henry Knox. He resumed his quick strides in the direction of the customhouse.
Sarah’s face was pale in the moonlight. “Is there a disturbance?”
Ruth’s pulse quickened. She needed to know the news. “Ask your driver to take us to King Street.” Where Henry was headed.
“Hop in, my father would want to know if there’s trouble.”
The coachman urged the horses, and over the crunch and squeak of their motion on the snow the sound of shouting grew louder. At the intersection the vehicle stopped, and Ruth opened the door. Cautiously, this time.
Dong …dong …dong. A church bell reverberated, an alarming sound at this time of night. A fire?
She stepped out of the carriage. Men and boys gathered before the red brick state house, which also served as the customhouse. A boy was taunting the red-coated sentry guarding the building. A few other boys joined in.
Ding …ding …ding. A second set of bells pealed a mad cacophony.
She drew nearer. Was there no fire?
Ice splattered the soldier’s uniform. The boy jeered and scooped up more snow.
“Ruth, come away. ’Tis dangerous.” Sarah’s voice was tight.
Ruth turned. “Stay there, Sarah. Henry Knox is here.”
The beleaguered sentry backed up onto the customhouse steps. Henry appeared to be speaking to him. Henry was only nineteen, but he was a sturdy young man, both physically and otherwise. Surely he’d be able to defuse the situation. What had started it Ruth couldn’t imagine. The sentry was only doing his job.
More people entered the square, pouring in from the surrounding streets. Some were respectable townspeople, like Patrick Carr, an indentured leatherworker. Many of these carried leather fire buckets, probably summoned by the church bells, looking for a fire.
Others were of the rougher sort. Young boys threw snowballs as they mocked the sentry. Older lads brandished sticks and clubs. A few sailors and dock workers peppered the crowd, joining in the harassment.
With jerky movements the sentry loaded and primed his musket, sending a shock wave through the crowd that even Ruth could feel.
“The lobster is going to fire!” shouted a boy.
No, Lord, surely…
Henry continued to speak to the soldier, probably trying to calm him, but she couldn’t make out the words.
The mob surged forward, sticks visible. Ruth stepped back, her pulse thundering in her ears.
There was no way to stop a mob.
Sweat glinting on his forehead, the sentry lowered his weapon, bayonet glinting in the moonlight. “If they touch me I’ll fire!”
Someone was going to be killed.
Ruth retreated to the carriage. Behind her the sentry shouted for reinforcements.
“We need to leave!” Sarah urged.
“Go tell your father. Mr. Knox will escort me home, I’m sure.” She needed the story for the Observer. Her father struggled to stay solvent.
“Jem!” Sarah’s voice was shrill. “Stay here with Miss Haynes. I’ll return with my father!”
The footman joined Ruth, and the Hutchinsons’ carriage pulled away.
The cold was numbing Ruth’s fingers even through her gloves, and she pulled her cloak closer. More soldiers arrived and formed a defensive line before the sentry, their ghostly reflections in the large windows behind them seeming to double their number.
Townspeople filled the streets as far as she could see. Henry strode up to a soldier in a crimson coat brighter than the others’, a metal device glittering below his stock. An officer.
Fearful but curious, she drew nearer, careful to stay out of the line of fire.
“Take your men back again.” Henry laid hold of the officer’s lapels. “If they fire, your life must answer for the consequences.”
“I know what I am about,” spat the officer, twisting away.
The new soldiers loaded their muskets as taunts flew thick from the crowd.
“Lay aside your guns, and we are ready for you,” shouted one. “Come on, you rascals, you bloody backs, you lobster scoundrels, fire, if you dare. We know you dare not.”
The British officer clenched his jaw. “Disperse!”
The mob pressed forward, and the scene descended into chaos. A soldier slipped on the ice and fell.
A shot was fired. Pop!
Another soldier went down, and more shots were fired.
Henry!
Ruth retreated against the customhouse wall, heart hammering. She finally spotted Henry, standing a little apart from the soldiers. He looked as horrified as she felt.
Then she saw the blood on the snow. And the bodies. Heedless, she rushed forward—were they dead, or wounded?
Patrick Carr. No, no, no. The Irish indenture was lying on his back in the snow, blood on the front of his coat. Was he still alive?
She knelt, the cold seeping through her skirt. “Mr. Carr?”
He blinked up at her. “What happened?”
She yanked her kerchief from her bodice, disregarding the paper—the list of expenses—that fluttered to the snow, and folded the length of cloth. She loosened Mr. Carr’s coat and placed the makeshift bandage over his hip. She pressed gently and the man winced.
The footman squatted nearby.
“Jem,” she said, “he needs a physician. Go to his master’s house.” She gave him directions.
“I should stay with you.”
Henry hurried to join her, his face sweaty despite the cold. “Ruth—Miss Haynes—” he turned to the footman. “I’ll escort her home.”
Jem left, and Henry knelt. He folded his scarf and placed it under Mr. Carr’s head. Folks milled about, helping the injured, sending messages.
The red-coated soldiers retreated, their expressions horrified or confused.
Shaking, Ruth stood, willing herself not to look at the others lying on the snow. This was all the Boston Gazette’s fault. Ever since the Stamp Act, irresponsible men had sought to inflame the town against their God-given government.
Henry rose and took her trembling hands in his. “’Tis the shock.” He guided her away.
“The musket ball didn’t strike his head or his heart. Perhaps Mr. Carr will recover.”
He shook his head, his normally jovial face shadowed.
In her mind’s eye Ruth saw the stack of books Henry read when the book shop lacked customers. Military books, all. He probably knew more about armaments and military protocol than the officer he’d been arguing with.
And he probably knew more about injuries. “Is there any hope?”
“Perhaps.”
Not much. Her eyes filled with tears. This was all Samuel Adams’ fault. “Henry, what is happening to Boston?”
His jaw worked as his gaze took in the square. “I’ll see you home.”
Her article … she needed to write about this.
But all she could think of was the blood on the snow.

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