đź“ś By Quill & Candlelight: The Dispatches of Colonel Shufflebottom on the Matter of Colonial Nonsense
🗓️ September 16th, 1775 — Regrettably clandestine, a dusty hayloft somewhere in New England
“Espionage,” they say, with the breathless excitement of schoolboys who’ve found father’s brandy and mother’s bloomers.
Word in the pig offal encrusted streets are that informal spy networks have begun forming, especially around Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. These include tavern gossip collectors, letter interceptors, and the occasional courier with suspiciously poetic handwriting (mostly in the form of limericks about bar maids with huge tracks of “land”).
Therefore today, I find myself engaged in what the local militia call “a secret operation,” which – in practice – amounts to loitering behind ale barrels and pretending not to hear conversations shouted across taverns. I am assured this is “discreet.”
I’ve taken to frequenting a ramshackle establishment known as The Gilded Otter, where one can hear every rebel whisper if one simply feigns drunkenness and listens near the hearth. (The hearth is where they all lean when conspiring; I suspect it is sacred.)
My own role as His Majesty’s discreet observer involves the consumption of endless porridge, the concealment of a wig under a bonnet (“to blend in”), and the writing of coded notes on scraps of ham paper. I am pleased to inform London that the rebels’ greatest security measure is poor handwriting.
Of particular intelligence value today: One Samuel P. of Concord appears to believe himself the leader of an underground movement involving the strategic relocation of buttons. His network is comprised of three cousins, a cow, and one man who simply stands near windows.
I remain embedded, as it were, though the only thing truly embedded is a splinter from the floor of this loft. I shall endure. Britain demands it. I do wonder, however, how much longer we must rely upon colonial methods of secrecy, which seem to involve a heavy emphasis on yelling, drinking, and the occasional “secret passphrase,” which yesterday was “more ale.”
At this rate, I shall become the most informed man in New England by virtue of having ears and patience.
Ever encamped, occasionally enraged,
Colonel Archibald Shufflebottom, 47th Regiment of Foot
Defender of Empire, Critic of Colonial Espionage & Tavern Intelligence
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