It is the evening of March the 5th, 1770, in Boston, Massachusetts.

The streets of the 140-year-old colonial town are piled with filthy snow and ice.

Private Hugh White, a British soldier of his Majesty's 29th Regiment of Foot,

stamps his frozen boots, huffs out a clouded breath, and checks his loaded musket.

He dusts a speck of snow of his red felt coat and tugs the front of his black tricon hat lower over his eyes.

Private White is 30 years old and has served in the British Army for 11 years.

Tonight he is the only century posted outside the customs house where British officials collect duties and he's not happy about it.

The noise from the taverns lining the street is merry, but he knows only too well just how quickly the mood can change.

Relations between the Bostonians, who the soldiers call Yankees and the Army, are at their lowest em.

White has become used to insults and colonists spitting at him in the street.

Alongside brutal treatment by superiors and terrible pay, his patience is wearing thin.

So tonight, when six youths emerge laughing for a tavern every muscle tenses.

They've spotted him. White's knuckles tighten on his rifle as the young men squat to scoop the filthy snow, sniggering and nudging each other.

He steals himself determined not to be humiliated by dodging.

The first snowball flies but misses, instead bursting against the wooden door behind him.

More missiles follow and White grits his teeth, bearing the demeaning thumps of snow across the red wool of his jacket in growing fury.

The youths yell insults between each throw.

So, they want to rise out of him, he'll give them one.

White steps back and thuds the butt of his rifle on the steps as if forcing down the lead shot.

It's a warning they instantly recognize.

But now that haven't doors swing open, suddenly there are more of them, men and women joining the fray, throwing snow and oyster shells from a midnight.

One of the boys advances, goaded by the growing mob and flings a wooden club.

...