Chapter 6: The Soldier Upon the Parapet

VI

The Soldier upon the Parapet

            Far upon the wall of Fort George stood a marine named Thomas O’Brian. Once but a coastal fisherman, he was now a landsman in His Majesty’s Royal Navy and stood adorned in the crimson attire of his office. He had been conscribed by the press gang off Selsey Bill near Portsmouth, and had sailed at once from the English Channel, only stopping off the coast of Finisterre in Brittany, before landing in the colonies. Now he stood, shivering in the cold November air, the zephyrous currents whistling overhead from New York Harbor, protecting an act that he himself deplored, his life having turned out very different from what he had expected it to be. Governor Colden had been upon the parapet himself, anxiously watching the advance of the crowd, but had retreated deep within the mansion which sat safe within its bosom. At the present moment orders were given to withhold fire upon the crowd, yet as Thomas observed them below, humming with anger like a nest of honey-crazed bees, he feared at what cost the night’s demonstrations might take place.

            Isaac Sears stood in the center of the Bowling Green and yelled to those stationed on the wall:

            “Governor Colden, we stand here united in the humble duty of beseeching you to relinquish the stamps entrusted to your care. The government and people of this colony stand louder and stronger together than the people can alone without your royal approbation. Together we can resume business in this city without the detested stamps, and alongside the remonstrations of the Congress held here this October past, and the mighty resolves from out the Virginia House of Burgesses, we can stand as a shining example to His Majesty, who will indeed in the course of things see the rectitude of our actions. Therefore, the people here assembled in the great legislature of nature demand that you remand the stamps into our care!” The blood in Thomas’ veins grew cold as ice, as indeed he knew it would, for the crowd huzza’d thrice and then fell silent, waiting for a response that would never come.

            After a moment, the man below, realizing that no relief would (or could) come from the fort that night, signaled to a group of boys, and they ran to the far left of the Fort, towards the coach house that stood separate on the pointed corner. The boys stood unopposed, as the sentry box nearby lay vacant now, and to his horror and amazement, they easily stole into the house and dragged a fine coach belonging to the governor out onto the green. It was a carriage so large and elaborate that indeed, it must have been a sprawling coach and six; the polished oak shining Tyrian purple in the lamp light, was embroidered golden on the edges, and with a glorious yellow paint upon the wheels. The great seal of the colonial government was emblazoned on the doors, etched with the industrious yet humble windmill of New York Province. As the crowd tore apart the elegant chassis, the wheels first, smashing them into the ground, wood splinters flying everywhere, building the spokes into a pile, Sears said, “I see that legal recourse is unavailing. You leave us no choice,” and he calmly yet determinedly added, “Shoot us if you dare,” whilst igniting the rotary kindling into a fire upon the center of the Bowling Green.             These incendiary words charged a latent fury burrowed deep within the mob, and unleashed at once a riotous frenzy, as many in the crowd took part in the destruction of the governor’s coach. Thomas the sentry was unsure of what to do until at last the brigade captain came upon the battlement, a worried look upon his brow, and cautioned to the men stationed, “Hold steady lads! Do not fire! On order of the governor, stow your arms!” He then watched helplessly as the inferno grew larger as the mob added each part of the elaborate coach, until finally, having added the effigy of the governor itself to roast in the flames, which sickened Thomas to the core, the man silenced the mob, and said, holding up a broadside of parchment, “Here is our solemn promise, Colden. The Stamp Act will perish upon the pyre of liberty, parliament be damned, as you are our witness,” and with symbolic gusto he threw the Stamp Act broadside into the flaming bonfire which now grew so large as to punish those who would go near on account of its radiant heat.

            The crowd dispersed onto further mischief, which inter alia, decoding the insidious babal of those below, some were stalking to the city manor named Vauxhall, inhabited by Major James of the King’s army, no doubt their minds intent upon debauchery. No matter their destination, the anarchic rabble and destruction was apparent enough in the garbage littered upon the lawn of the Bowling Green, and the monstrous fire bellowing black smoke into the sky, and…who, thought Thomas, who is that man? For below on the green stood a single man, a solitary point of stability in a sea of erratic motion, dressed in a cinnamon-colored coat, a black cocked hat, and off-white breeches. His dress, indicative of a semi-gentrified stature further set him apart from the rabble, for many men of the middling sort had abandoned the crowd in the first moments of destruction. No, this man was standing still and looking straight at him, his face awash with pain and confusion, aye he bore a haunted look of one whose conscious was in the throes of tormented meditation.

            After staring into the eyes of this mysterious fellow, he noticed two men equally gentrified, one in a coat of midnight-blue, another dressed in deep maroon, grasp the fellow, and, saying something inaudible so far upon the battlement, they soon ran after the crowd, no doubt with a naive hope of stopping the anarchy which had begun.

Chapter 5

Chapter 7

Chapter Directory

Warning: The Yellow Cardinal contains adult themes that may not be suitable for all audiences under the age of 18. Some chapters may contain descriptions of graphic scenarios including but not limited to: suggestive materials, violence, 18th century racism and slavery, sexism, etc.  Read with caution and/or parental permission.

Festivities in Windsor Castle by Paul Sandby, c. 1776