Editor’s note:

In the style and spirit of Silence Dogood and in acknowledgement of the upcoming United States Semiquincentennial, we share this first missive by our own Dustin R. Strong, who looks at history through the eyes of the fictional Albert Louder and others.

April 12, 1775

Sir,

It is with great trepidation that I feel compelled to sound a warning to our citizenry, and by doing so, put my fortune, and not least, my very neck, at risk to the Crown’s petty whims.

It has been nearly 12 years since the French have been driven from our shores and their native cohorts subdued in some measure as to allow for the King’s colonies to expand westward upon this great continent.

Yet we are not allowed to do so.

Instead, we are forced to waylay along the Atlantic shore, foregoing the fortunes the verdant forests beyond may possess, and are called upon by the King’s taxman to pay our share of our defense during the latest French incursions, never-minding the fact that we have already paid the Ferryman’s toll with our blood, from New Englander to Southerner alike.

Now the King wants our silver too.

And to collect it, he has imposed upon his loyal American subjects, countless taxes and burdens to force us to heal like the obedient hound he believes and wishes us to be.

To impose a tax on tea brought to our ports from across the Empire is a slap to the face of all loyal men. To require a tax stamp on all paper goods, from stationary to newsprint, is an assault upon our very freedoms. 

Then to impose compliance, His Majesty has quartered his Regulars amongst the civil population and has shut down the port of Boston.

Many a loyal Patriot has stood against these injustices. In the course of these protests, many a taxman, bearing a striking resemblance to a plucked chicken, has been driven out of towns and villages across the colonies and have disposed of that favored beverage in such a way that I suspect our fisheries will bear the smell of tea for years to come.

But all has not been joyous. The King’s Regulars, in a murderous mood, shot down poor Mr. Attucks and four other unarmed Boston men in a merciless act of cowardice and ruthlessness. They are the first to be martyred upon the altar of Mars.

It is time for us to act.

We have been stockpiling arms and munitions for months, secreting them away from prying Royalist eyes. Patrols of red-jacketed soldiers crisscross the countryside attempting to confiscate our stores. But try as he might, General Gage cannot seem to locate them in sufficient time before they are carried away by better angels.

I recount these events for a simple reason. Open rebellion is in the air and, I fear, war is coming. Gage is planning another incursion soon and, although I do not fancy myself a prognosticator, I fear blood will be shed within a week’s time.

Your obedient servant,

Alby Louder