“What’s the matter, my boy?” Robert asked.
Amid his sobs it was learned that the boy’s father sent him on an errand; that while peacefully walking the street, a soldier rushed upon him swearing, aiming a blow, felling him to the ground with his sword.
“I’ll kill every Yankee whelp in Boston,” said the redcoat.
Again there was a commotion—soldiers rushing towards Dock Square.
“Where are the blackguards? let’s kill ’em,” they shouted.
“Come on, you dirty cowards; we are ready for ye,” the answering shout.
Robert could hear oaths and vile words, and then the whacking of clubs, and saw the soldiers fleeing towards their barracks followed by the people. A man with a stout club came along the street.
“What’s going on?” Robert asked.
“We are giving it to the poltroons. We’ll drive ’em off Long Wharf. They rushed out upon us just now, with shovels, tongs, swords, and baggernets, and called us cowards. We whacked ’em with our clubs and drove the ruffians—blast their picters.”
The commotion was increasing. Robert walked towards the barracks to learn the meaning of it. Reaching an alley, he saw a crowd of soldiers, and that the officers were trying to get them within the barrack gates. Towards Dock Square was a group of young men flourishing cudgels, and daring the lobsters to come on.