Snug Harbor Tavern – The Beginning

The Snug Harbor Tavern series of novels began with a short, bony-necked candle-maker making his way to a Boston harbor tavern. Heretofore, he had steered clear at night because half the taverns also served as bordellos. The town was mired in battling factions about the British Crown’s Stamp Act. Tories and Patriots were at each other’s throats. Sit back with a mug of rum or dark ale and witness the beginning of “Snug Harbor Tavern: Shaggin’ for a Shillin’.

Boston, Massachusetts

May 15, 1766

            Zeke Teezle tucked his bony neck deep into his collar against the wind-driven rain. Creeping along the dark of the Boston waterfront and trying to maintain his balance on the slippery rounded cobblestones, his eyes adjusted to the blackness that enveloped him. The wind whistling through the rigging and the jutting bowsprits presented an alien environment for him. He was much more accustomed to the cozy confines of his small candle shop farther from the waterfront on Milk Street. It was three hours past sunset, and in the darkness, he was very careful to keep to the shadows of the alleyways to conceal his passage.

            He hadn’t told anyone what had happened. Based on the mere information he was given, there really wasn’t much to tell at the present time. But this evening, he hoped to find answers to the questions that tormented him throughout the day. For, earlier that afternoon, his typical routine was interrupted by a torn piece of paper. The mysterious note he found on the counter of his candle shop read simply,

15 May 1766

Teezle. Urgent!

Snug Harbor Tavern. Three hours after sunset. Ask for Charity.

The enclosed shilling is for the one behind the bar.

Tell no one about this. Your life is in the balance. Be there!

Ω          

  Teezle, sweating profusely at the collar, glanced furtively up and down Fish Street for signs of being followed. Assured he was alone, he rushed across the muddy street to the candlelit windows of the Snug Harbor Tavern. As he entered, he found the taproom filled with sailors, tradesmen, and merchants exchanging gossip and arguing over their pints of rum or ale while the doxies of the waterfront plied their trade. Pipe smoke wafted to the ceiling while the candlelight and fireplace created friendly shadows dancing throughout the warm glow of the tavern. The mixed odors of pine tar, clam chowder, cheap perfume, sweat, spilled rum, and ale assaulted his nostrils.

            In the corner, an off-key chorus of bawdy song pounded his ears:

The groom was a man named Loren

Who found that his bride was borin’;

She went to sleep,

And he made a leap,

To the Snug Harbor for whorin’.

            The laughter and gaiety was contagious in the Snug Harbor Tavern. The strumpets made certain the patrons enjoyed themselves—for a shilling.

He needled his skinny frame through the crowd to the bar, which was chest high for a man of his stature. Everyone knew that you couldn’t order a drink in the taproom unless you could see over the bar; this kept youngsters from drinking before their time. Carved into the ceiling beam behind the bar, he read,

IT’S YOUR LIFE: LIVE IT; LOVE IT; CRITICS BE DAMNED!

Amos the barman, a massive hulk of a black man with a barrel chest and well-muscled arms asked, “Would you care for a pint, sir?”

            Teezle leaned closer and, nearly spitting through his five yellow-stained teeth, said quietly, “Actually, I’m looking for Charity.” Amos gave a hearty baritone laugh. “Now ain’t we all? You won’t find any Charity here,” he responded for the enjoyment of anyone within earshot.

            “But I have the shilling,” whispered Teezle, with urgency in his voice and holding the coin tightly pinched between his boney fingers, as he glanced around fearing the attention the barman had attracted.

Suddenly, Amos received a jab in the ribs. He looked down to find Amanda Griffith glaring at him. “You didn’t have to hammer me ribs, Ms. Amanda,” he said, grimacing.

Her stern topaz blue eyes suddenly softened, as she smiled. “I’ll take care of this, Amos,” she said, pushing his heavy body aside. She now turned her twisted smiling curiosity in Teezle’s direction.

            Amanda Griffith was not a beautiful woman, but nature had endowed her with an ample bosom and a keen sense for business. Her seafaring husband had gone to sea and never returned. As a widow with no children, she initially sublet a few rooms of her rented harbor side home to boarders in order to survive. Her reputation for serving the finest New England clam chowder and fresh bread brought more sailors to the dinner table. One winter evening, an old salt, just in from the Indies, noted that it was good to berth in a snug harbor again. That evening, the Snug Harbor Tavern was born, as rum, punch, beer, and ale were added to the menu.

            Amanda, ensuring that her cleavage jutted well above her bodice, accenting her narrow waist, gazed into Teezle’s eyes, as if she could see his soul. “What was it you were asking for, luv,” she asked. “And what was that about a shillin’?”

            Teezle, taking off his tricorn hat, was uneasy in this company and, using all the bravado he could muster, said in his all-too-squeaky voice, “I was told to ask for Charity and give this shilling for you behind the bar.”

Amanda gave him a knowing look and, snapping the shilling from his trembling hand, said in her husky voice, “We have many girls on the slate this evening, but I haven’t seen Charity. But you just might find her in her room on the second floor; that’s room D. Leaning closer, she added, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a pint of rum and perhaps a little tumble?”

Shaking his head nervously, Teezle hastily rushed to the back of the taproom. He paused to read what was painted in red above the stairway:

SHAGGIN’ FOR A SHILLIN’

Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he retreated up the creaky stairs to the appointed rendezvous. From a distant corner table, one of the girls observed the passing of the coin and nervously shifted her gaze to the stairway.

            As Teezle ascended the stairs, Amanda looked at Amos. “I wonder what that little runt is up to. He doesn’t really fit the rigging of our normal drunk and horny sailor, does he, Amos?”

            Looking at the stairs as he poured a tankard of ale Amos said, “It don’t take a genius to spot a goat in a flock of sheep. Now he might not be a goat, but I’ve learned to judge white folks by their eyes, and those little beady eyes of that fella spells trouble to me, Ms. Amanda.”