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,” warned Mac in a soothing tone. Someone from the crowd presented three pails of steaming tar. Mac uttered 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,” added 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 my first blessing of the tar and feathers,” answered 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 covered her ears. “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 commanded 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.”