Abigail looked at the paper as she moved to put it in the pocket of her skirt.

It wasn’t a poem.

It was a list of names. Her eye picked out John’s, close to the top. Above it was that of John Hancock, one of the wealthiest merchants in Boston and known throughout the colony as the man to go to if you wanted good quality tea without the added expense of British excise tax. Her good friend—and John’s—Paul Revere the silversmith, and young Dr. Warren, Rob Newman who was sexton of the Old North Church, Billy Dawes the cobbler . . .

Names Abigail knew.

She knew the handwriting on the list, too, and felt a chill start behind her breastbone, spreading to her hands and feet.

The handwriting was that of John’s wily cousin Sam: Sam who was the head of the secret society dedicated to organizing all who wished for the overthrow of the King’s government in the colonies. The Sons of Liberty.

It was a list of the names of about twenty of the Sons.

All of whom would, if the list fell into the government’s hands, beyond the shadow of a doubt be hanged.