It's not only the fact that King George has sent his soldiers to occupy a city that is full of his citizens. It's that they're cruel and boorish. They bring their whores into my tavern, they don't pay their tab, they threaten my other patrons.

It was during the lull right before dinner. There were a handful of people eating and quietly talking when the door opened, a blast of cold air bringing in a man I'd never seen before. I stayed where I was behind the bar counter, cleaning a few of the mugs. He was out of breath like he'd been running, his tricorn hat slightly askew.

His dark brown hair was tied in a short tail at the nape of his neck and his waistcoat and breeches were neat but well-worn. Snow was trapped in a few of the creases of his greatcoat and the tip of his nose was bright-red with the bite of winter.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, he moved swiftly to the bar to stand right in front of me, keeping his head down so his face was mostly hidden by his hat and collar. A few of the other customers were watching him, but turned back to their meals and conversations when he plunged his hand into a pocket.

"An ale," he whispered, voice made hoarse by the bitter cold he'd just come in from.

I looked down in surprise at the four shillings resting on the gleaming wood of the bar. "Just one?" I asked uncertainly, looking down at the money. What he'd put down was far more than I ever charged for a drink. More than I charged for a full meal.

He swallowed hard and nodded, batting the snow from his coat. "Perhaps a bowl of chowder?" he asked, turning his head to look at the door behind him.

I nudged three of the coins back toward him, but his hand came down on my own, stopping me. His skin was frigid. Startled, I looked up to find a tense expression on his face. "Keep it," he said. "Just hurry with the chowder." He swallowed, licking his lips as he seemed to consider something. Then he reached once more into a pocket and extracted a crumpled letter.

"I'm told you're a friend." Once more, his gaze flicked to the door like he was waiting for someone. Or... Suddenly, realization clicked into place. Someone had been chasing him.

I snatched the letter from his hand and stuffed it into the pocket of my apron. After sweeping the coins into the tiller, I fetched an ale before bustling into the kitchen. No sooner had I set the steaming chowder in front of him than the door burst open to admit three British soldiers with their muskets in hand.

The man met my gaze and I gaped for a moment at a pair of familiar green eyes. 

He blinked once, brow furrowing before he glanced over his shoulder. A look of displeasure passed over his features, the remains of which stayed etched on his face as he turned back to the meal in front of him. The expression was mirrored by many of the other patrons, who didn't say anything, but were very obviously hostile.

Two of the soldiers stayed at the door, preventing anyone from leaving while the third began to swagger through the room, peering into peoples' faces. I picked up an empty mug with shaking hands and began to wipe at it with the rag, the letter burning a hole in my pocket.

"You there," the soldier drawled when he stopped behind the man at the bar. I looked up, keeping my face neutral, but the man didn't turn. A mulish light had come into his familiar eyes.

"How long have you been in here?" the soldier tried again. "Only we're lookin' for someone, and you seem abou' right."

Daniel took another bite of chowder, looking disinclined to reply. The soldier's face was slowly flushing red, a scowl curling his mouth. He clamped a hand down on the man's shoulder.

"He's been here for near an hour," I cried, shocked when the words simply tumbled out of me.

The soldier blinked, gaping at me. I swallowed against my suddenly dry mouth and carefully set the tankard I'd been polishing on a shelf beneath the bar. I met the familiar eyes of the man and said, "He comes in every day for supper. I've just set up a new batch of chowder, can I serve some up for you fine gentlemen?"

None of them seemed to know quite what to say.

"What's your name, then?" the soldier finally demanded.

"His name is Daniel." Some small, internal part of me was screaming to shut up, to quit drawing their attention, but I couldn't stop myself. Tensions and tempers had been boiling just beneath the surface in Boston for too long. We all knew how quickly this could turn ugly.

No one looked more shocked than the man in question himself.

But then he seemed to regain himself and heaved a sigh before turning around. "Daniel Greene. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"Turn out your pockets."

Daniel Greene stiffened. "Sorry?"

"Turn out your pockets, or we'll do it for you," the soldier growled. His comrades began inching forward, eyes lighting at the prospect of a little excitement. 

"You have no right!" Daniel objected, beginning to bristle.

A muffled squeal burst out of me when the soldier drove his fist into Daniel's mouth, spinning him sideways. Daniel snarled and lunged toward the soldier, but the other redcoats seized him by the arms and threw him up against the bar. He fell still when the dirty blade of a knife was pressed under his jaw.

I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from saying anything more. It was always impossible to tell what might set one of the bloodybacks off. The protests of the past month had left them antsy and ill-tempered.

The first soldier tore through Daniel's coat before he used his knife to shear the buttons off his black waistcoat. They rattled to the ground as the soldier continued patting Daniel down.

All the other customers had gotten to their feet, many looking murderous.

I don't think I drew breath.

Finally the soldier gave him an ugly smile, his teeth crooked and stained. "His Majesty thanks you for your cooperation." Then he struck Daniel twice more, leaving him with a bloody lip and what would probably be a nasty bruise around his left eye.

The other two let him go, leaving him to slump against the bar. We all watched silently as the soldiers, guffawing and slapping one another on the shoulders, left the tavern. It wasn't until I could no longer hear them walking down the street that I ran around the bar.

"I'm quite all right," Daniel said, his voice muffled by his rapidly swelling lip. Then he glanced meaningfully at the pocket concealing his letter. "You've done your country a service, Miss...?"

"Pryce," I whispered with a smile, fishing the letter from my pocket. "Abigail Pryce."

"Thank you, Miss Pryce." He took the letter, fingers brushing mine. "Sam Adams owes you his thanks as well."

My lips parted in surprise and he grinned, wincing when blood trickled from his lip. He straightened up, looking ruefully down at his ruined waistcoat. With a sigh, he fastened the buttons of his greatcoat and tipped his tricorn at me.

"You are always welcome, Mister Greene," I said softly. "We're sympathetic to the cause of liberty here."

"As we all should be," he replied. "A more worthy cause, there is none."

And with that, he once more tipped his hat before disappearing into the snowy night.

I couldn't resist the name drop :) Sam Adams is my favorite Founding Father XD For those who like a little history with their fiction, the Boston Massacre occurred just a few months later in March.

Thank you all so much for reading!