Dulwich, Massachusetts
May 15^th, 1775

My dear Fruition —

Earlier this Week, a Day of Marching in the Rain hath brought us to Dulwich, where we is encamped upon the Green.

Along the Road, we had a Prospect of Boston Town across the River Charles, which Warren of Unfortunates shewed no Activity — being mere Roofs & Steeples & Quays & the Masts of Warships in the Bay. This blank Scene regarded, productive of no Intelligence, we marched onward.

We do not know what transpires within the Town, but there is much Word among the assembled Regiments that it is become a Prison & only those who obtains Passes from Gen. Gage may leave. Many are the Women and Children held therein by the King’s Army, & they is held hostage so we will not bomb. I tremble for them.

Our Tents are pitched, 5 for 21 of us. Would that we were encamped like unto the Israelites, according to our own Tribes, every Man by his own Camp, & every Man by his own Standard, throughout our Hosts. But we are in close Quarters, there being 4 in my Tent — Shem, John, the Negro, & me. The Others, they call us The Wags for our Raillery though the Negro is hardly a Wag, him never speaking. We may the rest of us be Wags, but I am no Rascal, which John & your Beau Shem is, & they weary me. They are always teazing the Negro on his Silence, in hopes of drawing him out, saying, “The Negro stares at a Tree. Han’t he seen a Tree before?” & “The Negro stares at a House,” & “Now the Negro stares at Cattle,” & “Now he gapes at his Feet. This the first time you seen your Own Feet?” They mean it in Jest, but I told them still to mum up or we shall all Beat them silly.

Our Tent is pitched beneath a spreading Oak, for Shem & John held that the Green of Leaves cooled their bleeding Stumps. I am not well pleased by the Arrangement since we is in some kind Culvert & I am in continual Fears of us all being washed away by Floods. I have told the Negro that I would sleep by the Flap because he is ill and the Water will come in & wet him. ’Twas a fine Piece of Chivalry when I spake it, but now it is but a few Moments until we sleep & I have little Relish for the Swamp which I shall cuddle to me Tonight.

Capt. Draper hath asked me to watch this Negro Fiddler & acquaint the Boy with the Ways of our Company. He is a curious Baggage, the Fiddler — odd — unspeaking, & there is a Jest that Capt. Draper hath asked me to be the Acquainter owing to me talking for 2 Men & he talking for None.

Your Heart would melt if you could see this Wretched, Silent Boy. When I waked at Night, I seen that he does not sleep, but sits staring at the Walls. Even when he curls beneath his Blanket, his Eyes are open. I can see them by the Candle before I snuff it — the Eyes peering.

His Name, he tells me, is Prince.

           Your bro., your Prince —

                      Priv. Evidence Goring