First came the tolling of bells: the First Church of Boston, then the Second Church, then smaller ones joining in, the sound rolling through Boston like a summons. The streets cleared quickly, barefoot boys darting to claim the best vantage points. It was summer, and the air stank of old straw laid down to soak up urine and horse droppings, mixed with the sharp tang of fresh fish hauled in from the harbor that morning. Inside inns and taverns, conversations fell away as people shifted toward windows mysteriously clean for the first time in weeks.
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British officers and soldiers quieted. Something was happening, and they didn’t think they’d like it.
The mourners came first, riding black-plumed horses
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