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hurriedly dispatched orders to Day and Parsons: rendezvous with him before the arsenal in the waning sunlight at 4:00 P.M. on Thursday, January 25.
    The clock was ticking. Seize the arsenal before Benjamin Lincoln arrived to reinforce Shepard’s militia or do not seize it at all.
    Zenas Parsons’ Tavern
    Springfield, Massachusetts
    January 24, 1787
    The atmosphere in the normally sleepy town of Springfield was electric. From the snow-covered streets to the handful of businesses that dotted its commercial area, a sense of excitement and dread filled the town. Nowhere was this sense of foreboding greater than at Zenas Parsons’ Tavern.
    While some towns had flocked to the Regulators’ cause, Springfield was not counted among them. Its citizenry had stubbornly held loyal to their elected government. They had no appetite for seizing courthouses or marching on arsenals.
    They also, like most people across the states, carefully scrutinized strangers stopping at the local taverns, especially in times of rebellion and sedition like the one they found themselves in now.
    â€œWho’s the bumpkin that just sauntered in?” whispered a man attired in brown. It was a cold night and he was wisely sitting near the blazing fireplace.
    â€œCan’t say I know,” came the answer from a bearded man in blue. “But I do reckon that he came into town on the West Springfield road.”
    His companion nodded wisely. Zenas Parsons’ newest customer wasn’t from these parts, and West Springfield was where Luke Day’s “troops” were quartered. One didn’t need to be Ben Franklin to figure out what that might mean.
    The man in brown sauntered over to the tavern keeper to refresh his drink. While waiting, he engaged the curly-haired stranger in conversation. “Terrible day to be out,” he said.
    â€œThat’s why I’m in here. A little grog never hurt anyone in this weather—nor in any other sort of weather!” the stranger laughed.
    â€œNo, not at all,” said the man in blue, who was now standing on the stranger’s other side. “Hope you don’t have much further to go. Otherwise, you’ll need two glasses of grog!”
    â€œNo, not far. Just over to Wilbraham.”
    Wilbraham was where Shays was encamped.
    â€œSay,” said the man in blue, “it looks like the wind’s picking up out there. I wouldn’t head outside until it lets up. Maybe another ration of grog will do the trick—on me! We like to treat strangers proper here in Springfield.”
    Several grogs later, the stranger was . . . groggy. A few more and he slumped over unconscious.
    Quickly, the locals pawed through his coat. There, inside his pocket, was an envelope sealed securely with red wax.
    A peek inside might very well be worth the price of a few glasses of grog.
    Boston Post Road
    Five miles from Springfield
    January 25, 1787
    â€œThere’s a rider coming forward, sir . . . I think . . .”
    â€œYes, I think so, too,” answered Daniel Shays, though the descending snow made seeing anything a winter’s guessing game.
    â€œDo you measure him as friend or foe, sir?”
    Shays, at the head of his column of men, pulled his spyglass up to his eye. “Both.”
    â€œBoth, sir? How may that be?”
    â€œFriend once. But now, I doubt it. It’s Captain Samuel Buffington. I served with him in the Massachusetts Line. I rather doubt he is here to discuss old times.”
    Under cover of a gust-driven white flag of truce, Buffington advanced steadily toward his erstwhile comrade. Before reaching Shays, however, another Regulator intercepted him. “You want to see General Shays, I suppose.” Buffington indicated he certainly did.
    â€œBe my guest,” came the reply. “Just know that if the matter isn’t settled by sunset, New England will see such a day as she never has