However, as day began to break outside the tavern, he heard a cart drive up, and voices laughing and talking about how much better use this would be for tar and feathers than caulking the bottom of boats and making featherbeds. It wasn’t long before rough hands grabbed him and dragged him outside, and supported him until he was able to stand erect. On the cart he saw a large iron pot of wood tar with a blackened broom handle sticking out of it. Alongside was a hemp bag tied at the top with ends of feathers protruding through the rough interwoven strands of the fabric.

Bostick was there, still in charge, and asked, “How hot is the tar?”

“Hot enough to flow, but not so it will kill him.”

“Mr. Brown, are you ready to confess, and pledge your support for the freedom of all colonists from oppression?”

Still half hoping that this was a local farce and that the ridiculous sentence would not be executed, Brown shook his head. He was deathly afraid and would have cried out for mercy if there was any hope of succeeding. He looked around him, his senses now as alert as ever in his life. He attempted to memorize each face. He tried to speak but was unable to think of what to say.

“Then untie his hands, strip off all his clothes, and proceed with the sentence. Let him keep his boots.”

The lieutenant was soon naked, and some of the men hooted and made ribald comments about his shriveled privates and his almost snow-white skin. Then one of them took the dripping broom out of the kettle and began to cover his body with the almost scalding pitch, beginning at his neck and working downward. The pain was excruciating, as was the torment of his frustrated anger and shame. The men surrounding him seemed to enjoy the spectacle, with those who had previously been silent becoming caught up in the enthusiasm of the mob. Only a thin coating of the hot tar adhered to the vertical parts of his body, but it puddled on top of his shoulders and in his boots around his feet, where the heat did not dissipate and the pain intensified.

He groaned as quietly as he could, barely restraining himself from crying out in anguish. Carrying out Bostick’s order, the other men opened the bag, picked up handfuls of the feathers and threw them on Brown, and then turned the bag upside down over his head and body.

“Now we want everyone in Augusta to see this frizzled chicken!” Bostick shouted, and his audience laughed. He secured a rope loosely around Brown’s neck and tied the other end to the back of the cart. “Let’s take him for a tour of the town.”