Governor Pownall’s actions, drastic but necessary, were poorly received by Boston's wealthy notables, particularly the members of the Council. However, they made it possible to gather the little food left in the city and redistribute it as fairly as possible.

Yet, given the overwhelming distress of the inhabitants and their sheer number, it did not take long for all the supplies to be consumed.

This only delayed the inevitable, giving the governor four days of respite. Alas, during that time, no aid arrived, whether by land or sea.

Like gangrene, famine and disease spread throughout the city, sparing no one. Despite all of Governor Pownall’s efforts, living conditions were deteriorating at an alarming rate.

The streets were overrun with the destitute, often entire families from surrounding villages and neighboring provinces. Their hollowed faces and eyes filled with despair were everywhere, becoming part of the city’s landscape in no time.

By the fifth day, the local authorities were under crushing pressure. The population demanded an end to the siege so they could leave.

For a growing number of colonists, negotiation was no longer an option. The disparity in strength was too great.

Their anger, more than being directed at the French, increasingly turned toward the governor himself, seen as responsible for their suffering due to his stubbornness.

Each day, Pownall received new reports of looting and violence. Every warehouse not destroyed by French cannon fire had long since been emptied, as had the bakeries.

In his office, Governor Pownall received a new report. Standing before him was a militia officer with white bandages wrapped around the top of his head.

“Sir, my militiamen are being attacked more and more, just like the regular army soldiers. The people… they’re desperate and think we’re hoarding food for ourselves. Since there’s nothing to eat anywhere, they’re taking revenge by beating us!”

“I know, and I understand their despair, but we must hold on for a few more days, Mr. Anderson. I… I’m certain reinforcements will arrive soon.”

“With all due respect, sir, we can’t hold out any longer. One of my men nearly died this morning. Even after he was on the ground, they kept hitting him! We’re not here for this!”

“What happened is truly regrettable. How is he doing?”

“He’ll live, but it’s uncertain if he’ll ever be able to use his hands as before. He’ll likely limp for the rest of his life, and his jaw was broken. This all happened right in the middle of the street, sir, not in some secluded corner. People are going mad with despair. They’ve lost faith in everything, especially in the idea of reinforcements. Our men are starving too, you know? They’re now demanding to be paid in food instead of money. I already have many deserters. Soon, I won’t have anyone left to command.”

“I understand. Just a few more days, just a few more.”

“Hmph, very well. But if nothing changes, don’t be surprised if you find no one patrolling the streets or protecting the wealthy neighborhoods. It’s the same with the regulars, make no mistake. Their stomachs are just as empty as ours, and their anger rivals that of the people they’re supposed to control.”

With these words, heavy with veiled threats, the militia captain left the room, leaving the governor alone, who could hardly blame him.

Pownall was perfectly aware of the situation and knew he was running out of options. His eyelids suddenly felt heavy, and a black veil fell over his eyes.

From sheer exhaustion, he collapsed onto his desk. Fortunately, it wasn’t serious. The governor simply needed rest.

***

As Governor Pownall and the city’s officers feared, the following days were marked by shocking violence. The colonists and refugees protested daily, even at the gates of the fort.

Samuel Adams walked down a narrow street lined with red brick buildings, nervous as though fleeing from the militia.

All his senses on high alert, he kept a close eye on his surroundings, convinced he could hear footsteps on the cobblestones behind him. Under his gray jacket, which he held tightly, was a bit of meat obtained in a less-than-honorable manner.

Sweat beaded heavily on his forehead, and his lips were pressed tightly together, making him look incredibly suspicious.

He quickly turned into another alley, narrower and darker, and took the opportunity to glance behind him to make sure no one was following. He saw no one, yet he couldn’t relax.

The city was in such a state that the smallest incident could escalate. If anyone discovered he had food, he would undoubtedly be killed.

A scream echoed from a nearby street, followed by the sounds of blows. Samuel quickened his pace, silently praying not to encounter anyone.

Then he heard hurried footsteps in the adjacent street and loud shouting. It seemed the cries of pain had drawn the attention of a group of militiamen.

“Good grief! What madness!”

Samuel’s muffled voice was barely audible as he moved quickly through the streets.

Absentmindedly, while checking for the thousandth time that no one was following him, he stepped into a large, deep puddle, soaking him nearly to the knee.

“Damn it!”

The sensation of wet fabric was highly unpleasant, but he continued on without slowing, unwilling to remain outside any longer than necessary. He had already taken enormous risks.

At last, the man arrived at his home.

As soon as he opened the door, he was greeted by a child with wide, bright eyes.

“Papa!”

“Hey, sweetheart! I’m home!”

The man, thirty-seven years old, immediately placed the precious, carefully wrapped package on the small piece of furniture near the entrance and lifted his nearly three-year-old daughter into his arms.

She was wearing a pale yellow dress that suited her perfectly and a small blue ribbon in her dark hair.

Hannah was his princess, the last gift from his late wife, who had tragically passed away in July 1757 shortly after giving birth to a boy. Sadly, the child had not survived.

A young boy, tall and slender, then appeared in the doorway of the living room, holding his stomach with his left hand.

Samuel smiled warmly at him as soon as he saw him. The boy resembled him greatly, though he was much thinner. Eventually, he would surpass him in height, as he was already taller than most children his age. His mother had also been tall and slender.

“Father, you’re finally here. Were you able to buy food?”

“It wasn’t easy,” replied the father, setting his feather-light daughter back on the floor. “But I managed to get a little.”

The boy, with messy black hair and who appeared to be around eight years old, nodded.

Life had not been easy for them, even before the French arrived. Part of these difficulties could be attributed to Samuel Adams senior, Samuel’s father, who had died ten years earlier, but Samuel bore a greater share of the responsibility.

He was not a great businessman like his father had been and lacked ambition. He was terrible with money and uninterested in building wealth through hard work.

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He worked only because it was necessary to survive, but he much preferred engaging in politics, criticizing the British Parliament, which he believed was responsible for many of the colonies’ problems. He even ran a weekly newspaper called The Independent Advertiser.

Now that Boston was under siege, he barely had any energy left for this fight, which he still considered noble and necessary, as he had to devote it all to surviving with his children.

“What’s that?” asked young Hannah, standing on tiptoes to get a closer look at the mysterious package.

“Tonight’s dinner, my angel,” Samuel replied with a smile, placing a loving hand on his daughter’s head.

Carefully, he took the package in his hands and held it out to the young girl.

“Look,” he said proudly.

Slowly, he untied the small knot that held the package closed with a cord. He then unfolded the paper to reveal a small piece of red meat, not particularly fresh, weighing at most 300 grams.

It was little, but under the current circumstances, it was a lot.

The little girl salivated at the sight, already imagining the precious food in her stomach. Young Samuel, however, looked at his father as if to ask if that was all he could get. Unlike little Hannah, he knew what that piece of meat had cost: a gold trinket that had belonged to his mother, Elizabeth Adams.

Because Samuel had squandered the family fortune, largely to fund his newspaper, which he treated as his second treasure after his children, there was no valuable item left in their home.

The very young Adams understood that selling the trinket was necessary for their survival, but he couldn’t help resenting his father for resorting to such measures to obtain food. To him, anything that had belonged to his mother was sacred.

Of course, his father shared that opinion. If he could have avoided it, he would have.

Once divided, the small piece of meat indeed seemed very small. Naturally, as a father trying his best, Samuel Adams went without so that his children could eat enough.

A sad smile formed on his lips as he watched them devour the little he had brought home. He would never say how he had obtained it or what kind of meat it was.

***

It didn’t take a month for Boston to completely change its face. The entire city, once prosperous thanks to its trade, had become a vast den of thieves where hunger and mistrust turned the inhabitants into wild animals.

Despite the eradication of rats by empty stomachs, the Bostonians still found the energy to beat to death those they considered enemies: militiamen, British soldiers, and sometimes even neighbors suspected of being profiteers or war opportunists.

The breaking point came on the eighteenth day of the siege.

Four men, driven beyond human limits, had killed and eaten an unfortunate soul. The news spread like wildfire, striking the inhabitants like a thunderclap.

Already weakened by deprivation, they sank into alarming despair.

It was this tragedy, coupled with immense pressure from the Council, that pushed Governor Pownall to raise the white flag over the city.

As in Halifax, Marshal de Richelieu personally met with his adversary.

The two men were opposites. While the marshal, despite his advanced age, seemed full of energy, Governor Pownall swam in his clothes after losing numerous kilograms and appeared on the verge of collapse. His complexion was equally alarming, and he could barely stand during the negotiations.

Thus, without a single shot fired, the great city of Boston fell.

Adam stood at the roadside, a kilometer from the ruined ramparts. Around him, his men gripped their muskets tightly, closely watching the endless line of civilians leaving the city.

This was among the requests—or rather the demands—of the Marshal: everyone, without exception, had to leave, abandoning their weapons and all their valuables. They were allowed to take everything else, but only what they could carry.

In no time, an impressive pile of weapons had formed at the city’s entrance, at the feet of the Marshal-Duke.

It hadn’t taken long for the most determined militia members and soldiers to agree to lay down their arms.

Adam, outwardly impassive, observed this strange procession. Yet, inwardly, he couldn’t help but feel a peculiar pain as he watched so many downtrodden souls pass by. The children, in particular, moved him deeply.

Some of them looked like ghosts. Their eyes seemed dead after so many trials.

Despite their terrifying condition, they would have to walk to the next town while carrying their meager possessions in their arms.

Forcing them to leave was certainly cruel, but it was necessary since the Marshal had no intention of holding onto this city. France simply didn’t have enough settlers to populate it or the resources to keep it.

Just as the old Marshal-Duke had managed to take it, he had no doubt the British would eventually retake it. They could blockade it as he had done and relentlessly bombard it from the nearby heights.

Boston was too vulnerable yet too important to leave as it was, so he had decided to raze it completely by setting it on fire.

Unknowingly, Adam saw several key figures in American history pass before him. Of course, he recognized none of them. He knew little to nothing about the events that would soon shake the colonies in the coming decades.

At best, he was vaguely familiar with the phrase “Boston Tea Party” thanks to the video game Assassin’s Creed III, but that was all.

The evacuation took several hours but occurred without notable incidents.

Once the last colonist had left Boston, the French army entered. French soldiers quickly spread through the deserted streets, surging like a great wave, and invaded the houses and shops one by one.

“Sir,” said Lieutenant Marais, “the other companies have started looting. Where should we go?”

“We’ll follow the main road. Perhaps the nicer neighborhoods are farther up.”

“So, we follow the Marshal, sir?”

“That’s right. Move out!”

Adam and his company proceeded along the main street, which changed names several times. Orange Street, for example, became Newbury Street at one point, then Marlborough Street.

The streets, much to the shock of Adam’s men—whether they were from New France or elsewhere—were remarkably well made. They were paved and wide enough, at least from what they had seen, that they didn’t feel claustrophobic moving between the houses.

However, the streets were dirty, and many buildings had shattered windows or showed signs of having been burned.

If it hadn’t rained so much in recent days, they would have also seen dried bloodstains in some places.

Even without that, Boston looked like a city that had survived the apocalypse. Everything was so silent that one might have thought the place was haunted. Only the crows, those omens of doom, remained to give a hint of life to this ghost town.

To avoid being disturbed by other companies during their looting, they separated from the unit accompanying the Marshal and headed down King Street. There were no other white uniforms there.

“Gentlemen, you may loot these houses. All I ask is that you don’t argue over the spoils, so I want one soldier per house. No one leaves the street. If you hear a long whistle, stop immediately and regroup here. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain!” replied all the men in unison.

“Then go! Help yourselves!”

Adam released his men, who rushed like rabid dogs into the nearby buildings.

Of course, the young captain didn’t plan to stand idly by and wait for his men to finish. He knew this was a golden opportunity to enrich himself, so he entered a fine brick house with two large ground-floor windows located at the street corner.

The owner had locked the door before leaving, likely hoping to find his home intact later.

It only took Adam a solid shoulder strike to force his way in.

The house was eerily silent, so much so that every noise Adam made as he moved across the rustic floorboards seemed deafening.

Immediately, he began searching everywhere.

The locals hadn’t been able to take their valuables, so he hoped to find gold, silver, or perhaps some jewelry.

“Nothing here,” Adam muttered. “Let’s see what’s in these cupboards. Tsk, nothing of value.”

There were items, of course, but Adam couldn’t be bothered with small dishes.

“Oh! Silverware!”

His eyes lit up as they landed on the set. It must have been a gift for a special occasion, like a wedding or a baptism.

He quickly grabbed everything and tossed the precious utensils into a large canvas bag he held firmly in his left hand.

He also noticed a decorated teapot and a lovely mirror, but those were the only things that caught his eye in this room.

“The people in this house clearly weren’t very wealthy,” Adam said aloud. “Shame. Hmm, an account book—don’t care. Clothes? Meh, they’re not bad, but what use are they to me?”

After a quick tour of the various rooms, Adam left the house and entered another one architecturally similar to the first.

The ground floor appeared to house a business, but it had suffered greatly during the siege. There was nothing worth looting there, so he went upstairs with little hope of finding anything valuable.

As expected, there was nothing extraordinary. Fortunately, there were plenty of houses to visit.

While rummaging through a large dresser, he noticed something odd about the bottom of a drawer. The wood didn’t match the rest of the furniture.

A wide grin spread across the young captain’s face.

“Well, what do we have here? A false bottom?”

He searched for a way to lift the hidden panel and quickly found a trick. Using a small rod, he pried the false bottom up from below. Immediately, the contents were revealed.

“Huh? Letters?”

Adam raised an eyebrow and grabbed the first one before pulling out a visibly well-read piece of correspondence.

“Tsk, a love letter. Looks like the lady had a lover.”

The lover in question had a talent for poetry. Adam immediately understood why all these letters had been kept.

Without a second thought, he tossed the love letters over his shoulder.

“Damn it! Is there really nothing in this house?!”

Frustrated, Adam went back downstairs and quickly checked the counter. There was a small chest, but it was empty.

He moved to the next house, unaware that a small treasure had been carefully hidden in the chimney of the one he had just left.

The looting continued for hours, but thanks to the large number of soldiers, every house was visited at least once. Finally, a little after 5 p.m., the Marshal gave the order to set the city ablaze, starting from the tip of the peninsula.

Adam handed each of his men an improvised torch, and together they began setting fire to all the buildings on Salem Street, including Christ Church, a beautiful church made mostly of solid brick built in 1723.

Despite its heat-resistant materials, the church’s interior contained flammable materials like wood. Like the other buildings in the area, it didn’t take long for the fire to reach the roof and spread to the tall steeple.

Within an hour, Christ Church became a massive blaze before collapsing with a deafening roar.

Other churches were not spared, nor were schools, the governor’s house, or the fort, already heavily damaged by the devastating cannonballs fired by French ships anchored in the harbor.

The city burned throughout the night, and by the time British reinforcements finally arrived, it was far too late: Boston no longer existed, and the French had vanished aboard their ships, heavily burdened by their impressive war spoils.

Adam, standing on the deck of a ship cutting through the Atlantic waters, gazed at the horizon. Behind him, a towering black column rose into the sky like a sturdy pillar.

It was visible for miles around, leaving no doubt that everyone in America, even in the farthest reaches of the Spanish colonies, would soon hear of the city’s destruction.