Mr. Souffard, My High School History Teacher,
Is Saying He Flunked Two Kids Last Year Because in the Final Written
Exam on the American Revolutionary War They Stopped Writing About History
and Started Writing Nasty Rumors About Him, Thinking He'd Never Read
Their Essays
(So We'd Better Be Careful, He's Warning Us)
Revolution by Mick
American History (in the making)
Mr. Souffard
One of the first incidents that sparked the massive international
dispute known today as the American Revolutionary War was what came
to be called "The Boston Massacre." On a cold, snow-driven
night (March 5, 1770), a group of one hundred or more angry Bostonians
stormed the Customs House, which was being guarded by a single British
soldier. Reports had been circulated earlier that the soldier had been
guilty of whacking a young Boston boy with the butt of his musket because
the boy had shouted slanderous remarks at the soldier. As a result of
this purported outrage, the Bostonians rallied to the Customs House,
bent on revenge. "Kill the soldier!" they shouted, flocking
nearer. "Kill the coward!" As they approached, they brandished
sticks and chunks of ice. Bewildered and frightened by the advancing
mob, the young redcoat backed into the doorway of the Customs House,
calling for help and dodging the jagged projectiles of ice and wood
the vengeful mob hurled at him from all directions. The crowd was angry,
but the sentry stood his ground.
Soon, seven soldiers, led by Captain Preston, rushed over from the
barracks across the square, but the bellicose throngs paid no attention.
They continued aw this is boring shouting threats and tossing ice chunks,
snowballs, and tree branches. Unable to quash the incipient riot, Captain
Preston gave his troops the order to prime and load their muskets. One
of Captain Preston's soldiers, hit by a sharp projectile, slipped and
fell on the ice. Above the mob's protesting, shouting, and derisive
laughter, aw this is boring the rest of the soldiers thought they heard
the order to "Fire!" And fire they did, blindly, into the
crowd. Too bad gun control hadn't been invented yet, but that's life,
I guess. The echoes of the rifle shots faded into the distance, and
the blue wisps of gunpowder smoke dissipated, revealing a small group
of Boston denizens lying motionless on the ground, their precious lifeblood
flowing out, running wide ribbons of guilty crimson into the pure white
moonlit snow. The square was silent, absolutely still. For a moment,
no one moved. Then, the ringing that the volley of gunfire had left
in everyone's ears gave way to the clatter of military hooves as Captain
Preston's handful of redcoats was reinforced by three companies, who,
upon arriving, were given the order to dismount, drop to one knee, and
assume the firing position. On both sides, there boring and irrelevant
was grim determination. Each side waited for the other to make the first
move.
