If you will believe it, there were, at the close of the year 1774, eleven regiments of British soldiers in Boston, to say nothing of all the artillery, and yet more were coming. Five hundred marines were landed from the Asia Man-of-War, and thousands of lobster backs were voyaging from the Jerseys, New York, and Quebec! Was it any wonder that we of Boston were the same as eaten out of our homes? These men wearing red-coats were not suffered to lack for the best of food; but it mattered little what we colonists had, and yet there were those among us, born and bred in Boston town, who claimed that General Gage was acting the part of an honest man! At the beginning of the year 1775 no less than an hundred and fifty soldiers were on duty at the Neck night and day, and yet our people were able to send past them secretly such of weapons and ammunition as were to provide us, at a later date, with what might be needed to uphold our rights. Even the youngest among us understood that the day was not far distant when we must stand face to face with the lobster backs in battle array, if we would preserve our own rights, and every article which might be used in the coming struggle was smuggled under the noses of the guards. Our fathers sent out muskets in loads of manure, cartridges in candle boxes, pistols and swords in the baskets of such market women as were permitted to enter the town that they might bring provisions for the king's soldiers, and the loyal men of Boston had collected at Cambridge quite a store of what would be needed when the time came that blood must be shed. Then, suddenly, the thick-headed lobster backs discovered what was being done, and scores upon scores of firearms were captured by them. Many of our people had fled the town by this time; but a large number yet remained. My father, Samuel Wright, had lately gone to Cambridge on business. We were then living on Lyn street, close by the old ship-yard near Hudson's point, and not far away, that is to say, on Hull street opposite the burying place, was the home of Archie Hemming, the lad who sits near me at this moment watching every motion of mine lest I falter in the task he has set me. Silas Brownrigg lived on Salem street nearby the corner of Charter, and we three were close friends in those dark days when the king's men swaggered through the town, cuffing or kicking any of us lads who chanced to be in their high and mighty way. Now it was on a certain evening near the middle of June that we three lads chanced to come upon Amos Nelson near the city dock. He, like all his father's brood, was that miserable thing known as a Tory, and we had no idea of bandying words with him, believing it beneath us to talk with such scum; but he was minded to pick a quarrel, believing that General Gage would soon drive us, who claimed to be true to the colony, from our homes.