The Rose of Boston.

Author's Note: Hey, all! :) It's been FOREVER since I last looked at this and it was a fixer-upper then, so I'm hoping to get some good reviews.The story is told from the perspective of Jeffrey, an African-American living in Boston in April of 1774 just after the infamous Intolerable Acts have been levied upon Boston by King George III. Don't worry, I'm keeping the facts to a minimum and the romance to a maximum. All historical holes will be filled in without too much pain. I tried to make this witty and humorous, as well as romantic, but like I said, help is needed haha. All reviews are greatly welcomed and appreciated!!! :P Enjoy! :D

DISCLAIMER: Yes, this does contain some of the racial nuances of the times, but I've researched this pretty thoroughly so it's all in good spirits!

*Open Curtains.*

I am pretty well-learned, they say, for my "circumstances." ,and it seems quite the anomaly to some men of the human condition that I am scarcely able to pen this tale. My somber eyes have seen many a prideful patriot and many a downtrodden lobster-back, the depths of their greatest fears and warmest memories clashing together within their final moments of the fragile state which men call life on this here Earth. I don't swallow what's given to me. It was often said that if the blue-black skies which I see through the melancholy window, and the gentle midnight breezes I hear be the starry Virginia sky, or the brisk Carolina breezes, that I would have been a dead man, by and by the way. Even so, every man has his vice. It is the thing that he holds closest to his heart, and the thing upon which he would gladly throw his very life onto to keep his dreams alive. In the case of old Mr. Adams and Fat King George, the vice lies within ideology. What ensues is an epic battle of Reason versus the Will to rule. These young United States of America have seen many a man with many a vice, but none as strong or as steadfast as the one burning and bolstering ever so brightly within the walls of my heart. Some men have sport, and some flock to the taverns, but this Old Negro has held the hand of a Lady; an angel doomed to walk amongst the mortals. The Rose of Boston, I call her, Rosanna Wainwright by birth.

Now, good Sirs and Madams, you are quite correct in gathering the notion that it must have been a wild set of affairs that produced such a "ghastly" and "unnatural" love. However so you may scorn me, or my dear Rosanna, it is as it is, and I nor She would have it any other way. For those of thinner blood, chomping at the bits with torches in hand, and rope in the other, please take note that we reside in the wonderful province of Massachusetts, a long fortnight's parting from the eerie Georgia tides. If such thoughts of anger and frustration persist, cease to look upon this account, and consult your darling old mother.

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It was the Spring of 1774, as I recall, and the streets of the city were ablaze with the tensions of furious discontent. Boston Harbor itself was a heated cesspool of hatred, ready to boil over and into the very lap of good old, King George. The colonial government had been revoked, the port of Boston closed to non-English ships, and the tax on tea raised. Men and women were forced to take Redcoat soldiers into their homes to feed and house the bastards. Nearer to my side of town, patriots walked with quiet curses of sworn vengeance upon the Redcoats who so dutifully patrolled the alleyways. As was often the case with the matters of that day and age, I had not the slightest inclination to either side of the spectrum. I was a free man, and had always been just that. Yet the chains which weighed so heavily upon my heard were tightly fastened to a single unfortunate event.

"Come out, o'there, Tory! We'll have your eyes on a stick!", shouted a defiant voice from the other side of the street. Those Tories were often the object of much hatred as the times were. I always held a softer view upon them, but they provided a great distraction for those eager to make good use of the color of my skin. Besides, loyalty to the king was a great blasphemy which plagued the cause of independence. " Your Lobster-backs aren't hear to save you! Nobody's leavin' til you show yourself! And bring your daughter out too!" By the time these words had been uttered, a full-blown mob of vigilante patriots had accumulated upon the front steps of the estate of a young John Wainwright, a local merchant infamous for his unscathed loyalty to Fat George. After what seemed an eternity, the short, stocky, red-haired man emerged from the bolt-locked door. I remember covering my ears to rid myself of the inglorious shrieks of the crowd. I was quite relieved to see that the mob had not hogtied the man by now, and so I gingerly made my way to the other side of the road. "People!", cried Wainwright, "Rest your peace! Take your selves and your qualms home! Do not lay so much as an arm upon my estate nor my family. Be gone with you!" His testimony went ignored.

"Why is it such," began the ring leader, "That such a proponent of human cruelties and oppression should fear those things which his very beliefs support?" This was Mr. Skelton, a fiery constituent of our late Samuel Adams. The crowd cheered in monotone agreement.

"My beliefs are out of the question. Now take your band of vigilante salesmen and get thee gone!" Mr. Wainwright's voice boomed with anger.

"Have you come out to tell all these good, hard-working folk that they have gathered here for nothing?"

"Indeed they have. I will be having none of your rebellious cacophony today!"

"So be it! Death to the monarchy!" With these undeterred words, Mr. Skelton had awakened the full vengeance of the mob gathered outside of the Wainwright home. I ran over to the scene to witness what fearful sight was about to come. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Wainwright being pulled into the mass of eagerly waiting hands. His last statement had been the final sounds I would ever hear him utter. Cheering Sons and Daughters of Liberty began to throw rocks, beer bottles, and crates of fresh produce towards the front Wainwright home.

Amidst the chaos, I looked all around for a nice crate to hide under, for these patriot mobs had a nasty habit of taking their war on loyalists and turning it into a war upon human order itself. I ran around toward the back of the home and sat down to catch my breath. As I began to reach for a place to hold onto, I felt a soft, warm hand clasp the top of my own. I was startled near to death upon seeing who this hand belonged too. There sat Rosanna Wainwright, upon the ground in front of me, crying. She was about twenty-two, I think, only two years my senior, but at that moment, she seemed to be a mere child.

"What's the matter, Miss?", I droned humbly. I now realize the stupidity of this inquiry, for I knew quite well what had dampened her spirits. Large, hot tears rolled swiftly down her pale cheeks.

"They took-", she sobbed, unable to complete her thought. I was taken aback by her humanity, for women of her color and station rarely expressed their woes to one such as myself. I had not the slightest idea how to respond, and responded in the only way I knew how.

"Ma'am?", I began nervously, "Most people I know says I've got good shoulders. Take a rest, if it suits you." Rosanna slowly wiped her puffy, red eyes and laid her head upon my shoulder. I had never thought, in all my years of living, that such a Lady as herself would even glance upon such a being as me. As I have said before, I was always very well learned, and knew how to talk to the "other people" around town, but these circumstances baffled even my intellect. What Ma' had always said was true, however. White women did smell like orange peels. As the minutes passed, we could hear the shattering of windows and the angry chants of "Death to Oppression!" coming from the street. Rosanna began to cry once again, much harder than before.

"Miss," I whispered, "You's a gonna have to stop with this here crying. If them Sons of Liberty hears ya, it's them gallows for the both of us." I knew the rules. We were never supposed to so much as exchange glances with one another. Besides, her father was a Tory. "Where's your mother, Miss Wainwright?" I didn't realize how base of a question this was until I had allowed it to slip so easily off of my tongue. Rosanna lifted her head, her scarlet locks and bright yellow dress reflecting the evening sunlight, and those emerald pools of light stared deeply into my soul.

"She's been a'gone bout three years now." was all she said. I swallowed a substantial lump in my throat before speaking again.

"Miss," I started, "We need to get out of here. I really don't want there to be a second Roundup Party today." My palms began to sweat and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up on end as I thought of a death at the hands of the mob out front. Rosanna looked at me with a quizzical frown, which soon softened into a gentle expression of desperate agreement.

"Indeed we must go.", she sighed, "For I have no family here. I have no father, no mother, no inheritance, nothing." As I looked into her eyes, I saw something I never would've expected to see. I saw myself. A lonely wanderer, with no one to call a relative or an acquaintance of any sort. I could see the pain she felt upon her reddened face, but I had also seen something else at that moment. I had seen something magical; something completely detached from the simple human world which men inhabit, and something whose state of life was not a matter of being dead or alive. Whatever I had seen in her face on that evening of her father's murder, I was fully determined to save her from a similar fate. I stood up before helping Rosanna to her feet as well, and we made our way, hand in hand, towards the pasture behind the Wainwright home. As soon as we had cleared the unrelenting noise of the mob, our careful gait became a full sprint towards the open wheat fields. I remember looking up into the sky to find that the sun had reached its final resting place within the heavens. The constellations provided our only guiding lights to the small grove of oak trees to rest under which Miss Wainwright and I would rest for the night. Where we were headed, neither of us knew, but going back to Boston so soon was out of the question. "What are you called?", she asked politely as we sat down upon the damp grasses. I had to catch my breath before I could muster any kind of a response.

"Thompson...Jeffrey Thompson.", I exhaled dutifully.

"Well I am-"

"I know who you are.", I exclaimed, "I only live across the alley." I felt guilty for having interrupted a lady who had been through so much today already. Looking back on it, I think it bothered me more than it bothered Rosanna.

"I am Rosanna Wainwright, poet extraordinaire." The events of the day were still fresh upon our countenances, and her light-hearted introduction was a pleasant surprise that shook me to my very core. I stared into her emerald irises as she stared back into my brown ones, and right then and there, we forged an unspoken agreement that neither of us would part from the other. Little did we know that this unspoken promise would be good for a very, very, long time.

*Close Curtains.*