The Jeremiah Daisy
Chain Letters

Part 1 (Jump to part 2 • part 3 • part 4)

By “Jeremiah Daisy”

Originally published in Tangents 1.6
March 1966 • Pages 19–21

The Jeremiah Daisy CHAIN LETTERS date from the American Revolution. Their authenticity is being researched. Due to their homophile overtones, Tangents is the first periodical outside research journals given permission to print them.

It is believed that there was no organization in the sense we know it today, but that through mutual acquaintanceship a correspondence was carried on. Many of the letters bear initials of the different correspondents indicating that the papers were passed from one to another.

Tangents expects to print one of these curious heirlooms each issue for the next few months. The letters will be reproduced in their original form with no attempt to correct spelling or update phrasing.

The letters have come to be known by the name of Jeremiah Daisy because they appear to have been collected by him and handed down through his heirs.

The Editors

Boston

19 April 1775

My Dear Companions,

The post leaves tomorrow for Philadelphia, thus I am writing in haste to warn you not to come to my beloved and bedeviled town.

Up to last night all seemed well. General Gage’s fellows colour our streets with their elegant scarlet and whites (many are SO fetching—and they CAN be fetched as I have reported afore), but SOMETHING, I know not what, is afoot today.

I came upon confusion last night in, of all places, our precious tower of assignation, the North Church steeple. As it is our wont to inform dear companions as to which way our wind is blowing in the several colonies, I humbly favour with the following tale:

Last evening, my master ( I have almost succeeded my silver apprenticeship) mysteriously closed shop early, and I (taking advantage of this pile of benevolence) donned my new maroon jacket, my castor hat (a handsome thing I had saved for, all the winter months) and my silver buckles (by my own hand) and made my way for some high fun at Moll Clinker’s Tavern.

After several glasses of right stiff grog, true old stingo, I was about to order another, but upon feeling in my pockets found not a farthing to bless myself with. Not wanting my poverty known to those about me, I took to the street to find affluent companionship.

Retrieving a short oaken cudgel I had hidden in the bushes, I made my way toward the nearest royal post. As bad luck would have it, I fell in with a watchman who carried no lanthorns, so that he suddenly boarded me in the dark, and at the first shock carried away most of the hooks of my jacket and knocked my treasured hat into the gutter. I battered his skull a couple whacks and made up a story about being on an errand for my master. Being somewhat shattered, he accepted my tale and left me to rescue my castor and pursue my course without further molestation.

Bad luck changed to good when I discovered a British lad following close upon me. He gave a low whistle, hurried to my side and praised my prowess in the recent encounter. He was rather shy for one from across the way so it was near midnight before we had walked and talked ourselves together to North Church.

Here I beg leave to remark that feeling is high in Boston and though I profess to be a patriot, secretly I am waiting in the middle of the bridge (there is nothing like these clean British boys of good character and sober conversation). Not being safe to take them to our lodgings, we climb the stairs to the church tower to insure privacy while learning the ways of our foreign visitors.

The rivers of friendship were about to be opened when, on a sudden, footsteps in haste echoed deafeningly from the stairs below.

“Pho!” panted my partner. “Ten thousand rascally rebels are upon us.”

“Fud!” I bawled under my breathe. “It’s one of your damned lobster-backs come to bash my skull in.”

In fright did we spring to our feet, arrange ourselves as best we could in the blackness and press our bodies together under the great silent bells of the church tower. Light from a lantern made flickering shadows as the intruder came nearer, hurry-skurry, mumbling to himself about a stupid sexton forgetting to hang lanthorns.

Peering from our hiding place I observed that he carried two lanthorns of which only one was lighted. 1 could not make out his features, but from his riding boots, woolen surtout and tricorn hat, knew him to be a fellow townsman. As he fumbled to light the candle in the other lanthorn, he muttered something about Bill Somebody making it to Lexington and Concord.

Terrour struck forthwith when he held the lights shoulder high and began waving them to and fro before one of the tower openings. Recognition of my master threw me into such damnable pickaroon that my shaking forced me to clutch my conspirator just as he threw his arms about me and knocked off my hat which rolled traitorously toward the feet of my master. One of the bells went “pong.”

“In the name of the Sons of Liberty,” my master yelled, “who’s there?” Without letting go the swinging lanthorns he turned his head and we found ourselves woefully about to pay the reckoning. Dislodging ourselves from our hideway, I picked up my hat and lowered my eyes in shame and horror.

“Such a view of the lights in the harbour,” I stuttered at random as my companion raced down the stairs as if George III were barking at his heels.

My master continued to throw the lanthorns about and turn his head back and forth toward me so freakishly that I expected at any moment to see his tricorn fly out the window.

“You escort of Satan!” he blasted. “I’ll put you on bread and water for a week.” He then proceeded to shout me to the Devil, baptize me in Fire and turn me into the son of a Whore.

In  feeble voice I begged forgiveness for my offence and offered to swing on one of his lanthorns. This manoeuvre only enraged him more. He lowered the lights and started pushing me down the steps questioning me as to whether I had a horse. As I did not, he appeared to be in an even greater hurry and urged me on by kicking my behind.

When we reached the bottom of the stairs I ran out, untied his horse and threw the reins to him as he mounted and yelled, “The British are coming!” As he dashed off into the darkness, I smiled ruefully to myself and cursed.

“Almost, almost!”

Now, my dear companions, I must off to post this letter, go to the Common for the latest rumours and warn our local friends to BEWARE of the North Church steeple.

Your Frustrated Correspondent,

Jeremiah Daisy

©1966, 2016 by The Tangent Group. All rights reserved.