1/20/12
Isaiah T. Silkwood
Writing Strands: Level # 7, Lesson # 6, Situation # 2
What Makes It What It Is:
The Makings of a Patriot
Hans Antonio stood breathless in the narrow alleyway between a two-story apartment building and one of the Boston Boston Boston Bosto
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Hans was not content to live under British rule. After all a country more that 3000 miles away had no right to control the lives and well-beings of the colonies’ people. Hans was against taxation without representation and expressed it in many ways. One of those ways could be clarified by the expensive painting that he had tucked away under his long coat. It wasn’t a large painting, being 21”x 16” inches plus a border, but it still wasn’t completely concealed by his large coat. He had taken it from the commander of the British garrison’s quarters and intended to sell it to an English merchant. This was by far the most brazen thing that he had done since participating in the Boston Tea Party.
Just ahead, in the road beyond the alley, proceeded one of the largest street markets in the colonies. Hans’ partner, Willis Harding, had promised to meet him at a fur vendor’s stall at the end of the street market; however, he had failed to mention which part of the market was the end.
Today’s weather consisted of a thick blanket of completely grey clouds with a cool breeze coming off of the water. Hans looked to the left and then to the right. The market was crowded. This was good and bad. On one hand there would be more bodies to hide behind. On the other there would be more people who would rat him out to the Regulars. Hans then turned left, leaving the alleyway, to head down the street market toward the docks. Hopefully Willis envisioned the docks as the end of the market. Today the weather matched Hans’ mood.
Hans knew the British regulars would be searching the city for him by now. A young boy darted out in front of him and he almost fell while avoiding the lad. Catching himself and gripping the painting tightly he heard the boy mutter a half hearted apology before running off. Hans watched him go while biting his tongue hard to keep from calling out a curse. Before turning around Hans’ eyes caught the red uniform of a British Regular just beyond the retreating child. Quickly he turned back toward the docks. “Of course the British would search the market first,” he thought bitterly, “That’s where any stupid thief would go to make a quick dollar.” The fact that Hans had only wanted to hide the painting until the heat of the search died down didn’t make him feel any less stupid. He pressed into the crowd to make himself less noticeable.
Hans began to search the booths for his drabby partner. On his left were several stalls containing clothing and textiles. The breeze shifted to come off of the nearby bay and several seagulls careened overhead. They swooped down to some of the fish booths and screeched raucously when the tenants shoed them away. His eyes also began to search for places to hide the painting. Perhaps he could find a hiding spot that would go unnoticed, even to the vendor. Or better still; find a vendor who had participated in the Boston Tea party. He knew they would help him. But the odds of finding one of his fellow conspirators were slim to none.
The cobblestone road flowed quickly past underfoot as a slight drizzle began to make its hazy way downward onto the market. It started to mute the normal sounds of the market: calling vendors, laughing children, and jovial gentlemen with their ladies. Up ahead, five booths down on the right Hans spotted three Regulars standing at attention as their officer questioned an elderly man who was trying to cover his pocket watches from the drizzle. Hans moved to the other side of the roadway behind the constantly dwindling flow of shoppers and browsers. He spat out the small amount of blood from the bite on his tongue in disgust. How could the Regular be so rude as to disregard the man’s livelihood by demanding his attention in the increasing rain? “If today was any other day,” Hans cut his thought short.
A small rivulet of water began to drop off the front of Hans’ tricorne hat. The rain had begun to come down in thicker torrents. The hat’s three curled up sides provided three corners for the water to pour out. The hat had been designed to keep the rain pouring onto his shoulders, when tipped back, as opposed to pouring into his face. Hans tipped his head forward in an attempt to keep the water off of his shoulders where it might find a way through his coat and onto the painting.
Glancing back at the questioning officer Hans noticed that there were three racks, full of furs, sitting adjacent to the watchmaker’s booth. There was a man inside. An uneasy suspicion crept into Hans mind. He came to a stop but didn’t turn to face the man in the fur booth. Through the corner of his eye he could see the man pulling nervously at his fingers as if he were trying to pop them. Hans was sure that it was Willis. Willis hadn’t moved to try and save his furs from getting rained on. Perhaps he hoped that by doing this the regulars would not see him. Hans trudged forward feeling as if he were on tenterhooks, waiting to see if the Regulars were going to question Willis. Unfortunately they did.
Hans stepped into a booth with a small roof on it, hoping that Willis would not chicken out. The vendor who stood inside was wearing a blacksmith’s apron and smoking a pipe. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail like the style Han’s wore and many other men of their day.
“Would you like some rum?” rumbled the man with a broad smile.
Hans noticed a twinkle in the other man’s eye that whispered of the fact that the man had ingested a little liquor himself. “No thank-you,” replied Hans quickly. He cast his gaze back over his shoulder. Around the wall, stacked with empty liquor bottles of varying sizes, he could see Willis’ nervous face. He couldn’t see how the officer was reacting to the conversation, for his back was turned, but he could see one of the soldiers casting his eye about skeptically.
The man set his pipe down on a large barrel. “You look like you could use a little warming up,” he released the tap on a small keg with a twist of his fingers.
“What?” Hans moved deeper in. One of the Regulars had noticed him peeking around the corner.
The brewer filled a shot glass, “Warm your throat with this friend.”
“I really don’t have the money for it.”
“That’s a mighty fine oil work you have there,” said the man through his thick beard.
Hans head whipped around and his arms instinctively tried to conceal the painting further within his coat. He found himself staring into the face of a man who looked vaguely familiar.
“You’re an Injun aren’t ya?” continued the man.
Hans’ eyes squinted suspiciously, “Injun?” he thought, “A Tea Party Indian?” Hans pictured the man clean-shaven, with a few feathers sticking out of his hair, and some red war paint covering his face. His eyes widened and he took the shot glass offered by the man.
“I’d be willin’ to keep it under a stack of barrels for ya,” the brewer took a large towel off of the top of an empty barrel. “Till the storm passes anyway.” The man smiled.
Hans couldn’t be sure truly who this man was. None of the Tea Party Indians had facial hair. Yet immediately after the demonstration party Hans himself had let his side burns grow out.
“I’ll be here every week. It’s not like I can find another port as good as this to sell ale in.” The man raised his eyebrows appealingly.
Hans glanced back down the road once more. He could see Willis looking guiltily in his direction but could not tell where the Regulars had gone, “You certainly make quite an offer on your rum sir,” he said in a clear voice. He pulled the painting out from under his coat and laid it in the unfolded towel that the man had offered. The man smoothly folded the towel over it and slipped it into the empty barrel. Hans selected a small flask from the shelf and began to fill it from the tap while the man delicately put a lid on the barrel and hoisted another full barrel onto the top of it. Hans slapped a few coins from his pocket on another barrel and turned to go.
“Don’t forget a cork Mr. Smith,” the man called from inside. He tossed one to Hans with a broad smile still showing on his face.
Hans almost didn’t catch the cork, “Thank-you.” He spun around and exited the booth to his left hoping to avoid the regulars. As he stepped out into the drizzle he bumped into none other than the British officer.
Both the officer and Hans spouted off instantly, “Watch where you’re going.” It was common that the British would receive insults from the Boston
Hans replied directly without flinching, “I am Jean Smith. Why?”
The officer eyed him suspiciously, “That man, Willis Harding,” he pointed to Willis’ stall, “Claims that a Hans Antonio tried to sell him an oil painting. We are searching for a painting of the same like lifted from the quarters of this garrison’s commander. He also said that Hans just entered this stall.”
Hans spoke loudly, playing well the impatient, “Well good for Hans. A man pushed me down on his hasty way through that stall and he slipped out the back.”
“Was he carrying a painting?” demanded the officer.
“Well aren’t paintings rather large?” retorted Hans angrily, “He had something under his coat but it wasn’t nearly big enough to be a painting.”
This was enough information for the officer. He turned toward his men and nodded toward the inside of the liquor booth. The three soldiers marched smartly off. The officer eyed Hans’ bemuddled face for a moment more and then fell in step behind his regulars.
Hans turned up the collar on his coat and walked slowly on toward the docks. He had no idea whether the brewer would be able to keep the painting hidden. He didn’t know if the man would sell it in the next couple of weeks before Hans returned to pick it up. But he did know that the market was a much nicer place now that the hustle of the crowd had subsided. Everywhere gentlemen were escorting their ladies, with umbrellas held high, to the nearest form of shelter. The running children had vanished and some of the vendors had begun to pack up. He also knew that he would circle around, one street over, and meet up with Willis. And if Willis knew what was good for him, he wouldn’t be there waiting.
Dear Reader,
Hello. This is situation two of the three situation lesson. The point of this lesson was to show that authors can make a reader feel differently about a place by the circumstances that the characters find themselves in. In the next two blogs you will find different characters in the same street market setting. Hopefully you will get a different feel about the market from each story. If you did. I did my job well. If not then I didn't do so well. :) One of the main reasons that I post these blogs is to get feedback on my written work. I hope that you enjoyed this project. If not that is okay to. If you seen something that you didn't like or did like please let me know by commenting in the provided area. I would like to know where you see faults or strengths. That way I can try to improve my writing.
As always I am thankful that you read this and hope that you do comment.
Sicerely,
Isaiah T. Silkwood
P.S. If you liked my stories let a friend know. Maybe they would enjoy it to. :)
P.P.S. I only researched a little bit for this paper. My timeline should be accurate (to my knowledge the British occupation was occuring during the Boston Tea Party), but the way I envisioned how the markets lay and what types of booths present were created through imagnation and help from GOD.
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