Tar and Feathers

Tar and Feathers

In a time of civil uproar, we sadly hear cries of “defund the police”. Imagine living in a town with no police force whatsoever. That was the unfortunate reality in colonial Boston. I invite you to visit the town in 1770 where the only authority was Sheriff Greenleaf and eight deputies, while the British army had no authority, unless the Royal Governor called for it. In this environment, the Sons of Liberty vented their anger on Tory merchants who ignored the Non-Importation Act in the most brutal fashion. The following is an actual account of the accepted punishment–Tar and Feathers, to be found in my second novel, The Seeds of Love…and War.

They marched past the British Coffee House and the Customs House, where they ignored a lone redcoat sentry who stood guard. William Molineux was standing on an old peddler’s cart near the whipping post, when Mackintosh and his crowd joined another five hundred already gathered. “Quiet! Quiet!” yelled Molineux, raising his hands for silence.

The din of the mob settled to a hush. “My friends, we are gathered here tonight to cleanse the soul and hear the confessions of an errant citizen. Let me present to you Mr. George Gailer.”

A loud cheer erupted as Gailer was hoisted onto the cart with his hands bound behind his back. “As is our custom, it is only proper for Mr. Gailer be properly dressed in order to have his soul properly cleansed. And you all know what that is.”

The chant was instantaneous. “Tar and feathers! Tar and feathers!”

“My trusty assistants will now assist Mr. Gailer in the removal of his tawdry clothing, so that he may be properly anointed with—” He then cupped his hand to his ear to listen.

“Tar and feathers! Tar and feathers!” chanted the mob.

As soon as he was untied, Gailer started kicking and flailing on the cart. Mackintosh and a few others, including Michael Johnson, immediately subdued him. “There is no sense in resisting, George. It will only cause you a bit of pain,” said Mac.

Someone from the crowd presented three pails of steaming tar. Mac said with a grin, “That should be enough to do the job, don’t you think, Mr. Gailer?”

As Gailer stood there naked, braced on either side by Mac and Michael, he shrieked, “You’ll pay for this. I promise you shall pay dearly.”

“Pay? Did you say ‘pay’?” queried Molineux. “We expect no pay whatsoever, Mr. Gailer. We do this out of the goodness of our hearts.” Pausing to let the laughter subside, Molineux poured the first pail of hot tar down his back. Immediately, his back muscles contracted, requiring Mac and Michael to intensify their grip. Gailer gritted his teeth, but his teary eyes were ablaze with hate. He seemed intent on not emitting the expected scream of pain.

“Your silence is noteworthy, Mr. Gailer. We shall now anoint your front,” said Molineux.

As he poured the second pail, Chris Seider, standing close to the cart yelled, “Be sure to pour it where it has the best effect—right on his—”

“Don’t worry, lad, I know what I’m doing. This isn’t the first,” said Molineux. As the hot tar coated his private parts, Gailer’s gurgling scream pierced the cool night air.

The mob cheered and Bessie Clump, sitting in her vacant quiet taproom at the Bunch of Grapes muttered, “They got him where it hurts the most, Rufus.” Her barman merely cringed.

“Now the last one to anoint your head, Mr. Gailer; I pray you have a good wig, because you will need it after this.”

By this time, Gailer’s strength had been sapped and he accepted the inevitable. The mob chanted, “Feathers! Feathers!” Their chant was answered with the delivery of a bushel of goose feathers, which clung to the tar immediately.

“A lantern; someone hand me a lantern,” ordered Molineux. Placing it in Gailer’s hand, he said quietly, “Now George, we are going to parade the city and you will hold this lantern high for all the citizens to see you in your glorious costume. If you lower this lantern, you shall be smitten with a rod. Do you understand?”

Gailer merely moaned as the tar began to cool. “I’ll take that as a note that you understand.” Gazing about the crowd, he eyed a young boy. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Seider—Christopher Seider.”

“We need your assistance, lad. Get up here on the cart and hold this rod. Now here’s what you do; if our honored guest lowers his lantern, you give him a good swat on the ass. If he complains, swat him again. And don’t worry about any harm to you. You have friends all about.”

Molineux now yelled, “Let the parade begin; on to the Liberty Tree. Be certain that every citizen lights up their windows so they may bear witness to the cleansing and confession of this fine man.”

The procession passed the Old State House and turned left onto Marlboro Street, heading toward Boston Neck. As they passed the offices of the Boston Chronicle and John Mein’s house next door, Mackintosh stopped. “I need thirty men to check on Mr. Mein. There are no lights on, but that rascal could be hiding.”

He rapped on the door with no answer and his is reaction was instantaneous—he kicked the door in. The sudden discharge of a musket shot forced him to retreat for a moment. Then he barged back inside to find a lone apprentice cowering in a corner, clutching a musket and babbling, “It wasn’t loaded. I promise; it wasn’t loaded.”

Mackintosh snatched the musket from his hands and knocked him to the floor. “Don’t move,” he growled, “and you might survive this night. Is there anyone else in this place?”

The apprentice simply shook his head, while his teeth chattered in fear. While Mac and a few others searched the house, some threw rocks, breaking every window. After a few minutes, he emerged from the front door. “That’s enough, lads. I must say I have never seen such a messy home. Mr. Mein has books, papers and furniture strewn all about the place. I took the liberty of confiscating two muskets, in case someone should accidentally shoot themselves.”

Everyone laughed as they proceeded to the Liberty Tree, where they found Gailer standing on the cart repeating the oration dictated by Molineux. “I repent of all my past sins as an informer to the Crown. I vow to support the agreements which bind our colonies together against the tyranny of the Crown. I shall not sin again.”

At the edge of the crowd, Revere peered at Sam Adams. “Am I expected to believe those are his original words, Sam—or did ‘Vindex’ compose those lines for him?”

“I feel they are worthy of a papist confessional, Paul,” said Adams, grinning. “This should send a message to the governor, the Crown and any Tory in Boston.”

“What message could that be, besides the obvious?”

“Look about you, Paul. Do you see any redcoats?”

He glanced about. “You’re right, Sam—not one soldier in sight.”

“And you will not see one,” spouted Adams with pride leaking from every syllable. “The message tonight is the Crown has lost its grip on this town. If the redcoats choose to start trouble, they will have their hands full. Now let’s get back to the Gazette. There is much to write about for the next issue.”

At the base of the Liberty Tree, Molineux commanded, “On with the procession, men. Let us make our way to the north end—we can pass Mr. Hutchinson’s home, so he can understand and witness what justice is all about.”

As they marched through the streets, they paused occasionally so little Chris Seider could administer corporal punishment. “Up with that lantern,” he ordered in his squeaky voice. “Higher!” Each word was delivered with a swat to Gailer’s backside, much to the amusement of the mob.

Soon they passed through Dock Square near Fanueil Hall, heading back to the Old State House. Nearing the Custom House, the cart stopped before the sentry. “Huzzah! Huzzah!” they shouted. Someone yelled, “Why don’t we take this little twit and put him on the cart?”

The sentry commanded, “Stand back. You have no business here.”

“We got business everywhere tonight, you damned lobster back,” yelled Molineux. “Have no fear, lads. These redcoats wouldn’t dare use a musket—not without proper orders.”

With that said, the mob pushed closer. In fear of his life, the redcoat immediately loaded his Brown Bess. “I’ll use this, I tell you.”

“Like hell you will,” said Mackintosh as another knocked him to the ground. “Maybe we should hoist you on this cart and give you a little coating of tar.”

Molineux jumped on the cart and raised his hands. “That’s enough, lads. Our business tonight is with Mr. Gailer.” He gazed at his captive. “Are you truly repentant of all your sins?”

Gailer, holding the lantern higher muttered, “I’m truly sorry and I repent.”

“Are you truly thankful your life has been spared by the leniency of your fellow God-fearing citizens?”

“I’m truly thankful you ain’t killed me tonight,” sobbed Gailer.

“Give the bastard back his clothes. Our business is finished this night.”

Mackintosh hoisted Chris Seider on his shoulder and said to the others, “Let’s get back to the Snug Harbor Tavern, lads. This tarrin’ and featherin’ is hard work.”