Resolves, authored in the House of Burgesses by the brilliant young lawyer, Patrick Henry. The Resolves asserted that Americans had the same rights as Englishmen to be taxed only by their representatives. But Henry went still further, maintaining that only a colony's legislature, and not Parliament, could tax its citizens.
The next few years would mark an important turning point in history. The people of the thirteen colonies were not yet ready to accept the idea of independence, but the actions of Sam Adams and the Sons of Liberty would soon provoke a series of events that would work to change their minds. Only what would happen. Drakov thought, if someone were to stop them?
He stepped off the ship onto Boston's Long Wharf, which jutted out two thousand feet into the harbor, so that even the largest vessels could come in to its south side at low tide On the north side of Long Wharf stood warehouses, shops. and counting houses. It was a small spit of the city running out into the bay. Drakov found a dock porter to see to the unloading of his trunks, then hired a carter to deliver them to the home of Jared Moffat on Newbury Street. No sooner had the caner loaded up and started off than the dock began to clear. A moment later. Drakov saw the reason why. A longboat with armed sailors from the
Romney
was pulling in. The word was quickly passed among the workers on the dock.
"
Press gang! Press gang!"
Men often died at sea and the captain of the Romney was apparently shorthanded. He had sent a ship's officer and a party of armed men ashore with instructions to secure replacements. As the press gang came ashore, Drakov watched them form up on the wharf and march off toward the taverns on the waterfront.
Curious, he followed them to a public house called The Bunch of Grapes.
The officer quickly scanned the tables in the tavern. The room had gone dead silent. Them was a suspicious dearth of able-bodied seamen.
"
Y
ou, there!"
said the officer, pointing to a man slumped over in his chair, with his head down on his arms. The man did not respond. Two of the Navy men quickly made their way to him and dragged him to his feet. His head lolled and one of the men pulled it back up with a sharp yank on his hair
"I said,
you
!" the officer said curtly. frowning at the drunken man. "What is your name?”
"F-Furlong. sir." the drunk stammered. and alarm showed in his face as he became aware of what was happening to him.
"You have the look of a seaman about you." said the officer.
There was utter silence in the tavern. Drakov leaned against the bar and watched. He was quite safe. No British officer would ever dare impress a gentleman.
"I—I already have a ship," said Furlong, looking around for help. None was forthcoming. "I—I serve aboard the
Boston Packet
."
"The
B
oston Packet
, is it?” said the officer, with a smile.
Drakov noticed a small group of older men seated at a table in the corner.
One of them nodded to the others and his companions quietly got up and left the tavern.
"Y-yes. sir." said the drunk, sobering rapidly as panic mounted. "Moored at Hancock's Wharf, sir."
"Hancock," said the officer. "I know that name. A notorious smuggler."
"I—I know nothing of smuggling, sir," protested Furlong.
"I'll warrant that you do." the officer replied. "Well. Mr. Furlong, your smuggling days are over. You have been impressed into the service of His Majesty's Royal Navy. We will conduct you to the Boston Packer and collect your gear."
"You will do no such thing." a soft voice said.
The officer spun around. "
Who said that
?"
"I did." said the man sitting at the table in the corner.
He was in his forties, of medium height and build, with bright blue eyes. a slight paunch, and receding brown hair. His dress. though somewhat sloppy, showed him to be a gentleman. but he had apparently gone out in public without his wig. A sign that he was either slovenly or absentminded. His red broadcloth suit was rumpled and his boots
The next few years would mark an important turning point in history. The people of the thirteen colonies were not yet ready to accept the idea of independence, but the actions of Sam Adams and the Sons of Liberty would soon provoke a series of events that would work to change their minds. Only what would happen. Drakov thought, if someone were to stop them?
He stepped off the ship onto Boston's Long Wharf, which jutted out two thousand feet into the harbor, so that even the largest vessels could come in to its south side at low tide On the north side of Long Wharf stood warehouses, shops. and counting houses. It was a small spit of the city running out into the bay. Drakov found a dock porter to see to the unloading of his trunks, then hired a carter to deliver them to the home of Jared Moffat on Newbury Street. No sooner had the caner loaded up and started off than the dock began to clear. A moment later. Drakov saw the reason why. A longboat with armed sailors from the
Romney
was pulling in. The word was quickly passed among the workers on the dock.
"
Press gang! Press gang!"
Men often died at sea and the captain of the Romney was apparently shorthanded. He had sent a ship's officer and a party of armed men ashore with instructions to secure replacements. As the press gang came ashore, Drakov watched them form up on the wharf and march off toward the taverns on the waterfront.
Curious, he followed them to a public house called The Bunch of Grapes.
The officer quickly scanned the tables in the tavern. The room had gone dead silent. Them was a suspicious dearth of able-bodied seamen.
"
Y
ou, there!"
said the officer, pointing to a man slumped over in his chair, with his head down on his arms. The man did not respond. Two of the Navy men quickly made their way to him and dragged him to his feet. His head lolled and one of the men pulled it back up with a sharp yank on his hair
"I said,
you
!" the officer said curtly. frowning at the drunken man. "What is your name?”
"F-Furlong. sir." the drunk stammered. and alarm showed in his face as he became aware of what was happening to him.
"You have the look of a seaman about you." said the officer.
There was utter silence in the tavern. Drakov leaned against the bar and watched. He was quite safe. No British officer would ever dare impress a gentleman.
"I—I already have a ship," said Furlong, looking around for help. None was forthcoming. "I—I serve aboard the
Boston Packet
."
"The
B
oston Packet
, is it?” said the officer, with a smile.
Drakov noticed a small group of older men seated at a table in the corner.
One of them nodded to the others and his companions quietly got up and left the tavern.
"Y-yes. sir." said the drunk, sobering rapidly as panic mounted. "Moored at Hancock's Wharf, sir."
"Hancock," said the officer. "I know that name. A notorious smuggler."
"I—I know nothing of smuggling, sir," protested Furlong.
"I'll warrant that you do." the officer replied. "Well. Mr. Furlong, your smuggling days are over. You have been impressed into the service of His Majesty's Royal Navy. We will conduct you to the Boston Packer and collect your gear."
"You will do no such thing." a soft voice said.
The officer spun around. "
Who said that
?"
"I did." said the man sitting at the table in the corner.
He was in his forties, of medium height and build, with bright blue eyes. a slight paunch, and receding brown hair. His dress. though somewhat sloppy, showed him to be a gentleman. but he had apparently gone out in public without his wig. A sign that he was either slovenly or absentminded. His red broadcloth suit was rumpled and his boots
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