đź“ś By Quill & Candlelight: The Dispatches of Colonel Shufflebottom on the Matter of Colonial Nonsense
🗓️ October 10th, 1775 — Of Plots, Poetry, and Pelvic Discomfort
Currently in deep cover somewhere in New England
After several months of attending secret Loyalist gatherings I find myself compelled, nay obligated, to record the matters of import before my memory is further eroded by the deep trauma of substandard tea and colonial upholstery.
The principal plotters of these gatherings included William Franklin (a son of Benjamin, though clearly not of his temperament), Lord Dunmore of Virginia (whose powdered wig was as stiff as his politics and twice as flammable), and Thomas Hutchinson, formerly of Massachusetts and presently of poor judgment, poor company, and poorer snacks.
Meetings were held in a rotating selection of venues, each more regrettable than the last: shabby wharf-side homes smelling of damp orphanages, and Quaker churches whose benches were so impeccably crafted they could double as medieval interrogation devices. I sat upon one for three hours and emerged with a new understanding of theological suffering.
Topics of discussion included the initial drafts of a “Declaration of Dependence”, strategies for avoidance of taking public loyalty oaths, as well as a demonstration lecture on the removal of hardened tar and feathers, which I found both practical and deeply distressing.
Potential escape plans were also discussed should the plot unravel. Escape locations considerations included Canada, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Britain, or the Caribbean—anywhere with proper tea and fewer pitchforks. Poetry was also read aloud. I shall not speak of it.
The attire of these Loyalists was a visual assault—one that left me emotionally bruised and sartorially offended. There was an abundance of garish waistcoats, breeches that appeared to have lost a duel with geometry, and powdered wigs worn with the confidence of a man who’s never met a mirror. Even their boots seemed to be in open rebellion against symmetry, and possibly against feet.
Refreshments were provided, though I use the term loosely. They were, predictably, a culinary insult! Improperly steeped tea (lukewarm and thus morally questionable), cucumber and radish sandwiches (with crusts intact, barbarism!), and what I can only describe as dried seaweed paired with overripe eels… it defied both logic and digestion.
Alas, the plot has unraveled—the details are vague, but here is my working theory: A message meant for Lord Dunmore was tied to a pigeon’s leg. Unfortunately, the pigeon had strong anti-monarchist leanings and delivered the note directly to a Patriot tavern, frequented by one of most annoying Militia Captains I’ve ever had the pleasure of despising. The bird was clearly a radical. Possibly French.
I now find myself in the awkward position of being disguised as a colonial librarian (fortunately colonials rarely read). This sculking about is denying me my daily comforts. No more gentlemanly morning constitutionals amidst the aristocrats of Boston. No more fancy dance parties with questionable punch. Only a growing sense of colonial dread and the looming possibility of facial hair disguises.
Ever Encamped, Occasionally Enraged,
Colonel Archibald Shufflebottom, 47th Regiment of Foot,
Defender of Empire, Critic of Quaker Seating and Treasonous French Couriers