Men often died at sea and the captain of the Romney was apparently shorthanded. He had sent a ship’s officer and a party of armed men ashore with instructions to secure replacements. As the press gang came ashore, Drakov watched them form up on the wharf and march off toward the taverns on the waterfront. Curious, he followed them to a public house called The Bunch of Grapes.
The officer quickly scanned the tables in the tavern. The room had gone dead silent. Them was a suspicious dearth of able-bodied seamen.
“ You, there!” said the officer, pointing to a man slumped over in his chair, with his head down on his arms. The man did not respond. Two of the Navy men quickly made their way to him and dragged him to his feet. His head lolled and one of the men pulled it back up with a sharp yank on his hair
“I said, you!” the officer said curtly. frowning at the drunken man. “What is your name?”
“F-Furlong. sir.” the drunk stammered. and alarm showed in his face as he became aware of what was happening to him.
“You have the look of a seaman about you.” said the officer.
There was utter silence in the tavern. Drakov leaned against the bar and watched. He was quite safe. No British officer would ever dare impress a gentleman.
“I–I already have a ship,” said Furlong, looking around for help. None was forthcoming. “I–I serve aboard the Boston Packet.”
“The B oston Packet, is it?” said the officer, with a smile.
Drakov noticed a small group of older men seated at a table in the corner. One of them nodded to the others and his companions quietly got up and left the tavern.
“Y-yes. sir.” said the drunk, sobering rapidly as panic mounted. “Moored at Hancock’s Wharf, sir.”
“Hancock,” said the officer. “I know that name. A notorious smuggler.”
“I–I know nothing of smuggling, sir,” protested Furlong.
“I’ll warrant that you do.” the officer replied. “Well. Mr. Furlong, your smuggling days are over. You have been impressed into the service of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. We will conduct you to the Boston Packer and collect your gear.”
“You will do no such thing.” a soft voice said.
The officer spun around. “ Who said that?”
“I did.” said the man sitting at the table in the corner.
He was in his forties, of medium height and build, with bright blue eyes. a slight paunch, and receding brown hair. His dress. though somewhat sloppy, showed him to be a gentleman. but he had apparently gone out in public without his wig. A sign that he was either slovenly or absentminded. His red broadcloth suit was rumpled and his boots were unpolished. There were dark smudges of printer’s ink upon his cuffs.
The officer glared at him. “And who the devil might you be, sir, to speak in such an insolent manner to an officer of His Majesty, the King?”
“My name is Samuel Adams,” said the man. And looking past the officer, he added, “Take heart, Mr. Furlong. These men shall not take you anywhere against your will.”
“Are you aware. Mr. Adams,” said the officer, that it is treason to resist impressment or to counsel others to do so?”
And are you aware, sir.” Adams replied calmly. “that since the time of good Queen Anne, by act of Parliament. it has been illegal to impress sailors in American waters?”
“We are ashore sir,” said the officer.
Adams smiled. “I think the statute was intended to apply to those ashore, as well. You know that as well as I.”
“Well, in that case sir you may complain to Parliament,” the officer said, with a contemptuous sneer. He turned back to his men. “Take him.”
The panic-stricken Furlong turned to Adams.
“Never fear.” said Adams. “You have friends.”
With a snort, the officer beckoned to his men and they dragged Furlong outside. Adams made no move to get up from his chair. Curious, Drakov followed the press gang as they frog-marched their captive to the Boston Packet, moored at John Hancock’s wharf. An angry crowd was waiting for them there. The men of the press gang hesitated, looking to their leader.
“Go on.” the officer snapped at them. “They dare not interfere.”
He was dead wrong. A stone sailed out from the crowd. striking one of the sailors in the forehead. He cried out and brought his hands up to his face. Another followed and another and moments later. the press gang was rapidly retreating in a hail of rocks and bricks as the angry crowd pursued them to their longboat. Outnumbered as they were, the press gang knew better than to try to use their arms against the crowd. They piled into their longboat and quickly pulled away, their officer, blood streaming from his face, shaking his fist at them in fury. A cheer went up and the rescued Mr. Furlong was hoisted up onto their shoulders and carried to the tavern, where he happily celebrated his narrow escape. Drakov looked around, but there was no one at the table in the corner. Sam Adams had quietly disappeared.