Lanterns in the Old North Tower

We waited in the tower of the Old North Church. Hands raw from

climbin' the beams. The smell of dust and damp robe, heavy in the

air and Boston down below, quiet in the hold of the

crown. Soldiers moving through the streets like wolves on patrol. The people pretending

to sleep. Nobody trusting tomorrow. We were not heroes. Just cooper's sailors,

stable workers and sons of shop owners. Men without rank who worked long

hours to scrape through each week. But we listened, but we listened when the committees

whispered, when the tax men searched our trunks. When the soldiers