His teeth chattering, every limb trembling, Matthew sat upright in darkness on the hard wooden bench of a two-horse wagon, jolting along toward a rendezvous with death. He tugged the blanket that wrapped him tighter, dug in his pockets for a green onion to nibble on and, perhaps, sharpen his senses—if not his aim. But his pockets were empty: wrong season, wrong century. There would be no green anything for another four months, and even then that most likely would be grass pushing up over his grave.
He'd had no breakfast, gulping a bowl of a bitter hot brew they called coffee as he'd waited in the frozen mud for the wagon. There'd been no crowd to see him off, either; the gang of tavern hearties, the Sons of Liberty, all of the ones who'd called him a hero and drunk his health last night, were now snoring in their own beds. His fate would be decided before they woke up. Yeah, they sure know how to treat a hero in Beantown, he thought.