Touching upon our movements, I should relate other news, as painful as it is interesting. While we idled the months away, exerting our efforts to watch over a city of embers and stones, Boston is fallen to the rebels. My dear town is fallen; the city upon a hill. This I must record.
Report relates that the slave-driver General and his rebel army fortified Dorchester Heights, across the harbor from Boston, in but one March night; and once thus positioned, they commenced shelling the town. His Excellency General Howe arranged for an assault upon the Heights in boats and transports, which was to be a victory as costly as that upon Bunker Hill; but the wind came up so strong they could not sail, and the cause was lost. The rebels remained entrenched and victorious.
The Army have removed themselves — one hundred and seventy ships fleeing from the harbor — and the King’s power there is no more. The rebels have swept in through the empty streets, the abandoned barracks.
For more than a month, my town was lost, and I knew it not.
They flee as we flee; and everywhere, order is vanquished.
I wonder at the fate there of Mr. Turner, whether he is fled; and whether Sip of the orchestra was removed with the Army and the Tories. The frugal Mrs. Platt, if she still inhabits her sallow rooms, will not be displeased. It will mean meat assured and resumption of commerce.
I think on the Collegians, returned to their gaunt house, which hath, I suppose, been barbarously used lately by His Majesty’s troops, and is like to be in no excellent state of repair. I see Mr. Gitney step into his dim habitation, head inclined to take in the broken staircase, the slitting of the Claudian pastoral hung upon the landing, nymphs on the green now darkling and sprawled near gashed fissures and abysses.
The last time thou stoodst there, sir, I stood by thy side; and my mother was with us, and alive. She ran to fetch her mantilla.
’Tis more than a year since then. Mr. Sharpe, Mr. Gitney — stand there upon that threshold. Meditate upon what you have done. Look you well into that brown gloom.
We all flee, in hopes of finding some ground of security.