The Tory Widow Read Online Free Page B

chest, the man’s head was at least two sizes too small for the rest of him. In a vain attempt to conceal a balding pate, sparse brown hair thick with pomade was plastered into a slick sheet curving over the top of his head. The wind reached under to lift the greasy flap of hair and it slapped up and down like some sort of macabre hinged lid.
    Just as with the first man, this one was allowed to keep his shirt. Captain Sears mounted the packing crate. Poised with a pitch bucket in his hand, he called the crowd to order.
    â€œThis man is also a slave of the monarchy and a betrayer of his country. William Cunningham, you are charged as an obnoxious and blatant Royalist. Redeem yourself in the sight of your neighbors by damning the tyrant George and swearing your loyalty and your life to the cause of liberty.”
    Cunningham squawked, “I will not forswear my King.”
    â€œTar the Tory!” shouted the old whore, starting up a chant.
    â€œTar the Tory!”
    â€œTar the Tory!”
    Two burly sailors wrenched Cunningham by the arms, forcing him to his knees. The chanting continued, the drumming began and the captain tipped the pail.
    The pitch—having cooled to a thick mass—would not pour. The mob began to hoot and jeer. Jack Hampton, along with a few of the other Liberty Boys, did little to hide his disdain and threw up his arms at the lack of planning and order. Sears tossed the bucket aside and leapt from the crate to salvage his spectacle. “Damn the tyrant, sir!” he demanded.
    From his twisted position, Cunningham responded by hawking a wad of sputum onto the captain’s chest. This defiance earned him a cudgel to the head and a sharp kick to the ribs. Sears grabbed the man by his shock of greasy hair and bent his head back.
    â€œDamn the King, I say!”
    Dazed and coughing, Cunningham blinked at the blood trickling into his eye. “I say . . .” he panted, “. . . I say God bless King George . . . God bless good King George, ye bunch o’ bung-buggered, cock-sucking rebel bastard boys . . .”
    The sailors let loose with clubs and boots, unleashing a violent beating. Cunningham curled into a ball as vicious blows rained down upon him from every direction. The crowd surged forward with a roar.
    Pistol fire. The dockworkers kicked and tore the packing crate apart and people crowded around to wrest a club from the debris. Throttled into the midst of this instant riot, Anne struggled to escape the press. Stretching on tiptoes, she craned her neck, searching for Jack Hampton. Her package squirted from her arms. She dropped to her knees to save the vicar’s sermons from being ground into the green. Someone grabbed Anne hard by the upper arm and yanked her to her feet.
    â€œC’mon . . . away from here!”
    The young prostitute shoved Anne along, plowing a path through the incensed mob to where the pie peddler sat on his fat hind end. He’d slit the ticking on the remaining sack of feathers and with mad glee tossed chubby armfuls up into the darkening sky.
    The whore took Anne by the hand and they ran—cutting across the Commons, through the Presbyterian churchyard, down a narrow alleyway—skittering to a stop on Williams Street, leaning back against a rough stone wall to catch a breath. A group of boys went dashing past, flinging a lit string of squibs to fizzle and pop at their feet. Startled, the two women clutched at each other, then giggled in relief.
    â€œThe world has gone mad for sure.” The prostitute laughed, plucking feathers from her hair. “It looks as if we’re the ones what were tarred and feathered!”
    Anne brushed at her skirt, thick with chicken feathers. “It’s getting dark . . .”
    â€œIf you need me to, miss, if it would make you feel safer, I can walk along with you—or behind, if you like.”
    Anne stopped grooming and held out a hand. “I’m Anne Merrick . . . Your