WL's Prompts- Short Stories - 10. PT# 201: A Wig Boy’s Story

It’s hard to say exactly when it started—this sharp downward spiral and the unexpected purpose I found at the bottom of my life. Maybe it was the first pint on the night after Christopher’s death, the bitter ale sliding down like I could drown myself in it, wash his blood from my memory. But that was long ago, and I’ve drunk so much since then. I can hardly separate what I did out of anger from what was just the ache of losing him—the boy I would have loved openly if we’d lived in a world where such love wasn’t confined to shadows.

At twelve, I started a decent if unglamorous profession, working as an apprentice wigmaker at Piemont’s shop, a place with a steady stream of gentlemen clients, including Governor Thomas Hutchinson. Unlike most boys my age, I was drawn to clothing and accessories, easily matching items to suit the style of the day. Many, even in my own family, called me a dandy or a fop, but I didn’t mind—it was simply my taste. Unfortunately, I lacked the steady hands to be a tailor or jeweler, but I managed wig cleaning and powdering well enough. Recognizing my interest and ability, Mr. Piemont offered me an apprenticeship, where I handled wig maintenance and shop errands alongside other boys my age.

On one of these errands, I met Christopher, a tall, skinny boy who was lost and barely spoke the King’s English. He was German—Kraut, as some called it—and I took pity on him, helping him find his way home. His parents thanked me with a meal of pork and fermented vegetables, a taste I came to associate with their family. Christopher soon became my shadow, and I learned he was actually two years younger than me despite his size. Over the next year, I showed him around Boston, from Common Street down to Trimountaine’s three hill summits—Cotton Hill, Sentry Hill, and our favorite, Mount Whoredom. After an embrace and a kiss, I discovered we shared the same desire. Though few in Boston would accept our love, we found refuge in the backstreets of Mount Whoredom, where brothels and women of the night were a common sight. I promised Christopher that I’d ask Mr. Piemont to take him on as an apprentice when he turned twelve, as the British Army garrison’s presence in Boston was creating more demand for wigs. He was overjoyed, and in the English I’d been teaching him, he shared his dream: that we would save money, move west to the Ohio Valley, and live openly, free from prejudice.

On February 22, 1770, Christopher was, as usual, following me on an errand, familiarizing himself with the city’s routes for wig deliveries, including several stops near the Boston Custom House on King Street. The events that followed are now a blur. We were in front of the Custom House, watching a crowd gather, when I heard a crack—a sound like an iron pot hitting stone. I turned to see Christopher lying there, unmoving, with a strange, terrible stillness I didn’t understand at first. Then I saw the blood seeping from a hole in his chest. He was gone, killed like an animal for nothing more than standing near a crowd. The man who killed him, Ebenezer Richardson, was treated as if he were the victim. Governor Hutchinson deemed it 'self-defense,' but how can shooting an unarmed eleven-year-old boy be anything but murder? It was unjust and evil.

After Christopher’s death, I spent most nights since then in taverns, the stench of ale clinging to me, my cups emptying as quickly as my spirit. Work at Piemont’s lost its meaning after Christopher’s death. Nothing mattered anymore. I was just another face in the crowd at his funeral, lost among over a thousand people gathered at Granary Burying Ground. Mr. Samuel Adams took the opportunity to make grand statements, giving Christopher’s death more purpose than I ever could. I told myself it was better this way—that if Mr. Adams spread these noble lies, maybe people would understand my pain. But I knew it was cowardice. All I could think about was Ebenezer Richardson and how he walked free while Christopher lay cold beneath Boston’s ground.

I did nothing to avenge my fallen lover despite all the spirited words of Mr. Samuel Adams about virtue and righteous violence. That fact gnawed at me, left my soul stripped bare by my perceived cowardice and guilt. I could hardly muster the strength to work as a wigmaker’s apprentice. I’d slump over half-finished wigs, hands numb from the excessive drinking, and curse myself for being too weak to do what was needed. My wages dwindled as my spirit did, and it wasn’t long before I had to find other means to pay my drinking debts.

I never saw myself in that light, but shame is dull when blurred by enough ale. The men in the taverns of Mount Whoredom were just faces, shadows who gave me coins to keep me drinking. Then I met Captain John Goldfinch. How strange it was, seeing those ancient eyes and his polished red uniform. He must have seen something broken in me that mirrored something he craved but couldn’t admit. In a brothel room, we drowned ourselves in shared lust, and I let him hide his shame within me. But afterward, he fled without paying, leaving me to the wicked temper of the brothel keeper, who took his pleasure out of me in the worst ways without touching my body.

I spent the night on the streets, forced into the service of the brothel keeper to pay off my bill. I usually avoided the street, knowing most men didn’t share my proclivities and would only insult me for offering. That night, I was shamed openly, pitied even by the women who worked the same trade. I hated John Goldfinch for abandoning me to such a fate. For the first time since Christopher’s death, my mind felt clear, and I remembered his face—John Goldfinch. I swore he would pay for his cowardice and for my suffering.

On March 5, 1770, I was staggering down King Street, heading half-heartedly to the Boston Custom House on a delivery after a pint of ale, when I saw him again. The scene was surreal, everything painted in the cold blue light of late winter. My boots crunched over the snow, crusted with dirt and slush, as I stumbled forward, half-mad with grief, Christopher’s last moments flashing in my mind. And there he was, Goldfinch, his red uniform, a bright stain against the snow, standing near the spot where Christopher had been gunned down. Rage surged through me. I remembered being abandoned by him, left to whore myself to pay off a debt he owed. Before I knew it, I was upon him, hurling insults, screaming some words I can’t even remember. I wanted him to suffer, to feel even a fraction of my pain.

He just stood there, frozen like marble, with fear in his eyes. He knew he owed me.
“You’ll pay me, you coward!” I spat, grabbing at his coat in a wild, uninhibited rage.

The snow was thick, and I stumbled, cursing. I bent, scooped a handful, and hurled it at his chest, half-laughing, half-crying. I didn’t know what I wanted—compensation, or just to feel less alone in my agony. Then Private Hugh White appeared, leaving his post at the Custom House to confront me, standing like a sentinel. He glared at the scene, his red face twisted in contempt.

“What are you doing, you little wastrel? Show some respect for your superiors!” White snapped.

Looking at the two of them—one paralyzed by fear and the other aggressively defensive—I thought of Christopher and myself. In my disoriented state, I imagined they were lovers, just as we had been.

“Buggering Goldfinch, aren’t you?” I taunted, reckless. “Isn’t that what you bloody Lobsters do in your fancy quarters? You bugger each other and sip your fancy tea like fine gentlemen…” And then White was in front of me, musket in hand, his face inches from mine.

He struck me with the butt of the musket, splitting my lip and filling my mouth with the hot, metallic taste of blood. I staggered back but kept laughing, unhinged, as he struck me again. And then it came out of me, a scream I hadn’t known was there: “Christopher Selder! Murderers! All of you!” I shouted his name, as if it might somehow bring him back, as if my voice alone could raise the dead. My blood dripped onto the snow, bright red against the white, strangely beautiful.

I didn’t realize that others had begun to gather, drawn by the sound of White’s musket slamming against me. Bartholomew Broaders, a fellow apprentice at Piemont’s shop, came to my aid. Though we’d never been close, he shouted Christopher’s name and called the soldiers butchers, drawing a crowd. Faces lit by the firelight of the Custom House, people’s anger swelled with each passing second. Among them was a freed Black man who began hurling insults at the soldiers, comparing their cruelty to that of slave masters. His words inflamed the crowd, and people began to shout, women too, their voices rising in a furious crescendo. The crowd surged, a sea of anger swelling against those stiff-backed soldiers.

More British soldiers arrived, forming a protective line around the Custom House. They shouted for the crowd to disperse, their hands shaking as they pointed their guns at us. And then came the shot.

I didn’t see who fired first—I was on my back by then, too weak from blood loss and the pain of my injuries to stand. But I heard the shot, a crack that pierced the night, followed by more gunfire. The thick smoke choked the cold air, and the crowd pressed around me. People cried out, in pain or rage or both. Bartholomew grabbed my hand, pulling me up, and in the chaos, he and his older lover dragged me away, fleeing with the others from the bloody scene I had somehow set in motion.

I don’t know how far or how long we ran. At some point, we reached a certain house, and a doctor tended to my injuries. I later learned the name of the doctor was Joseph Warren. He was a generous and kind man, who offered me food and a bed for the night. But I didn’t sleep that night. I sat shivering, knees to my chest, trying to make sense of what I’d done. I knew Christopher would have looked at me in horror, seeing the violence I had invoked in his name. And yet, on this day, at the end of my life, I feel in a twisted way that he was avenged. His death sparked a revolution that might finally deliver justice, justice greater than any court could offer. The British soldiers and the kingdom that killed Christopher will not hold us down.

When the time came, I took up arms with those roused to action by that day in Boston. I joined forces with Dr. Warren, though I never put my name on a militia roll. The men of Massachusetts fought against the redcoats who had killed my Christopher, even if many of us barely understood the cause. But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t fighting for independence, liberty, or any of the high ideals the others spoke of. I was fighting because this cause had become my reason to live. I needed to give Christopher’s death meaning.

At Breed’s Hill, as I lay bleeding in the redoubt beside Dr. Warren, musket balls whizzing overhead, I felt my strength leaving me, the cold creeping in just as it had that night on King’s Street when I watched Christopher die. My vision dimmed, and in that darkness, I thought I saw him—Christopher, his angelic face so real I could almost touch it. He was smiling, reaching out a hand to me, and I knew my end was near.

I reached for him, my fingers grasping at empty air, and a strange peace settled over me. I didn’t need to fight anymore. The war would rage on without me. But my battle, my war, was over.