RPAGF Chapter 52: The Mad Dog Enters the Game, Turning a Good Show into a Farce
Chapter 52: The Mad Dog Enters the Game, Turning a Good Show into a Farce
As night deepened, the outline of Boston Harbor was swallowed up.
Levy's latest instructions, delivered through Finn's fast horse and Seamus's layers of messages, spread like ripples through the shadows of Boston.
The "rats" responsible for creating the "accidents" received a simple and clear order.
Closing down.
At the entrance of the small tavern on North Street, two burly men who had just been fighting tooth and nail over a dancer stopped abruptly when they saw a small, thin child run past and make a subtle gesture towards them.
One of the burly men, who had been choking the other man, released his grip and brushed the dust off his clothes.
"Well done, Joey, that punch almost broke my nose."
"You're not bad either, Tom. But next time, I won't bet with you for a penny."
They put their arms around each other's shoulders, picked up a half-empty bottle of liquor from the ground, took a swig from each other, and then disappeared into the alley next door, leaving behind only a mess and a group of onlookers who were still not satisfied.
At the corner of Boat Street, the coachman whose axle had "unfortunately" broken was cursing and spitting as he spoke to the tavern owner.
A fellow Seamus, posing as a helpful passerby, pulled out a hammer and some nails from his pocket and quickly hammered a spare wooden wedge into the broken part of the axle.
"Just make do for now, buddy! God bless you!"
The driver loudly complained about his bad luck, then reluctantly climbed into the carriage.
With a flick of the whip, the carriage that had blocked most of the street started moving again, and the beer barrels that had rolled over were quickly rolled to the side of the road by several "kind-hearted people".
The city's transportation arteries, under the precise and tacit manipulation of these unsung heroes, have resumed their flow.
Like the receding tide, they vanished silently from the streets, returning to being drunkards in taverns, laborers on the docks, and gamblers in alleyways.
The road leading to the third pier was instantly cleared.
At this moment, the second warehouse of the third dock, like an iron coffin stranded on the shore, quietly awaits the arrival of various forces.
The air was filled with the smells of salty seawater, rotting wood, tar, and a faint stench of blood.
Inside the bell tower of the old North Church, the bell ringer Abel clutched a heavy money bag in his hand, the ten shillings inside seeming to weigh a ton.
He looked out the window toward the dock, his cloudy eyes filled with struggle.
The clock, which should have struck at eight o'clock, never rang; every second of silence felt like a torment to his conscience. In the end, the instinct for survival and his granddaughter's pale face overwhelmed everything.
Ding ding... Ding...
The dull chimes finally rang at 8:10, later than usual, and weaker than usual.
This belated bell, originally intended as a safety net in Li Wei's plan, has now become a death knell.
In the shadows of the warehouse, Samuel gestured to his companions behind him.
Silas, the blacksmith beside him, was like a bull ready to charge, his muscles taut. They, a dozen or so men, were the bravest warriors in the "Sons of Liberty," and they made their way silently to the side door of the warehouse.
Samuel's heart was pounding.
He had already mentally rehearsed the next scenario countless times, envisioning yet another great victory for the Sons of Liberty:
A greedy officer's deputy, accompanied by a few cowardly smugglers, nervously awaited buyers. They rushed in, disarmed the smugglers by force, and then disappeared into the night with the shipment of new smoothbore muskets.
Silas skillfully inserted a crowbar into the gap of the lock. With a forceful pull, he broke the lock with a soft "click."
"Action!" Samuel whispered.
Silas kicked open the door, and everyone filed in.
Upon entering, everyone was immediately struck by the strong stench of blood and sweat that permeated the warehouse, making their throats tighten.
The sight before him made Samuel's stomach churn, and all the prepared words got stuck in his throat.
There were no tense smugglers here, only more than thirty burly men, shirtless and covered in ferocious tattoos. In their hands were not smuggling tools, but gleaming axes, rusty iron hooks, and loaded pistols.
In the center of the warehouse, a man with a burly, bear-like build was strangling a man dressed in a British military uniform to death with a thick iron chain.
The deceased's legs twitched helplessly in the air, and his face turned purplish-red.
The bear-like man's face wore a pure, sadistic ecstasy; he seemed to relish the process of his prey suffocating in his hands.
"Damn! It's 'Strongman' Jenny's men!" Silas cursed under his breath, recognizing the most notorious thugs outside the city.
Almost at the same time Silas spoke to his companions, Jenny's thugs had already reacted.
Without any tactics or slogans, they pounced on us like a pack of startled wild dogs, howling as they went.
A scorching lead bullet grazed Samuel's cheek, the heat sending shivers down his spine. For the first time, he smelled death so clearly.
All the lofty words about freedom that filled his mind were instantly swept away by the fear of survival.
"Form a defensive line!" Silas brandished his specially made blacksmith's hammer, smashing the brains of an onrushing thug into the air with a single blow. He tried to organize an effective resistance, but the Sons of Liberty militia were completely thrown into disarray.
They were used to exchanging fire with British troops in neat rows in open fields, used to obeying orders to load, aim, and fire, and had never experienced such a brutal melee.
Just as a militiaman raised his hunting rifle, he was struck in the chest by a flying axe and fell to the ground screaming in agony.
The other was pinned to the ground by two thugs and stabbed in the abdomen with a dagger.
Jenny released the lifeless corpse from his grasp, noticed Silas rampaging through the crowd, and grinned cruelly.
"I recognize you, blacksmith. You fucking refused to forge knives for my brothers."
He grabbed a gleaming ship's rope hook and brandished it like a wild beast locking onto its prey, charging straight toward Silas.
"Today, I'm going to hang you up like a tuna!"
Silas, his eyes bloodshot, roared as he charged forward, the hammer and the cable hook colliding heavily, sending sparks flying.
Just as the Sons of Liberty's defenses were about to collapse completely, a flurry of footsteps and officers' shouts suddenly came from outside the warehouse.
"Bang!"
The warehouse's main door was kicked open.
A twelve-man British patrol appeared at the door, led by Lieutenant Hank, an old acquaintance of Levi's.
Their orders were to deal with potential smuggling activities at the third dock, but what they saw was an outright massacre.
Blood flowed like a river inside the warehouse as two groups fought fiercely to a standstill.
"Drop your weapons! You're under arrest!" The lieutenant instinctively raised his flintlock pistol and shouted the order.
His answer was a gunshot fired by one of Jenny's men.