Brandon Herrera and the Siege of Boston
Winter 1775 gripped the Massachusetts countryside, the air sharp with frost and the promise of a long fight. The Continental Army, camped in a ragged arc around Boston, shivered in makeshift huts from Cambridge to Roxbury. Brandon Herrera, his breath fogging in the cold, crouched in a Roxbury barn, tinkering by candlelight. His latest obsession: the swarm launcher, a wooden tube fitted with a flintlock mechanism, designed to fire a half-dozen fist-sized bombs packed with gunpowder and lead shot. “Like a musket with a bad attitude,” he muttered, testing the trigger. “Gonna make those redcoats regret breakfast.”
Brandon had joined General John Thomas’s Roxbury detachment, tasked with harassing British outposts on Boston Neck, the narrow strip connecting the city to the mainland. The siege had settled into a grinding routine—skirmishes, cannonades, and endless waiting. British sentries patrolled the Neck, their campfires dotting the dark, while Patriot snipers took potshots. Brandon, never one for patience, saw opportunity in the stalemate. “We’re just starin’ at ‘em,” he griped to a fellow militiaman, a gap-toothed farmer named Amos. “Time to light a fire under Howe’s fancy breeches.”
His chance came in January 1776, when scouts reported a British supply depot on Boston Neck, stocked with flour, rum, and—crucially—gunpowder. The depot, lightly guarded, was a tempting target. General Thomas, a stern but pragmatic commander, summoned Brandon after hearing whispers of his Bunker Hill antics. “Herrera,” Thomas said, eyeing the wiry Patriot’s powder-stained hands, “I’m told you can make the devil himself jump. Can you hit that depot without burning half of Roxbury?”
Brandon grinned, hoisting his swarm launcher. “General, I’ll make those supplies vanish faster than a tax collector at a tea party. Just give me a few boys and some dark.” Thomas, skeptical but desperate, approved a night raid, assigning Brandon a squad of ten volunteers, including Amos, who clutched his musket like a lifeline.
The night of January 12 was moonless, the sky a blanket of stars. Brandon’s squad crept through Roxbury’s fields, their faces blackened with soot. He carried his swarm launcher, a satchel of clay-pot grenades, and a new batch of his buried powder kegs, rigged with pitch-soaked fuses. The plan was simple: sneak past the sentries, blow the depot, and scatter before the British could muster. “No heroics,” Brandon whispered to his men. “Just boom and vamoose.”
They reached the Neck’s edge, where British campfires flickered. Brandon scouted ahead, spotting the depot—a wooden shed ringed by barrels, guarded by a dozen redcoats. He signaled Amos. “Time for the welcome wagon.” Crawling through the grass, Brandon planted two powder kegs near the depot’s rear, their fuses hidden under dirt. He then rigged a tripwire using twine, a trick he’d perfected at Bunker Hill. “One wrong step,” he chuckled, “and it’s Independence Day early.”
With the kegs set, Brandon took position behind a low wall, his swarm launcher primed. He’d loaded it with “swarm bombs”—leather pouches of gunpowder and shot, designed to burst on impact. “Like a hornet’s nest with a grudge,” he’d told Amos earlier. The squad fanned out, muskets ready. Brandon struck flint to steel, lighting a slow fuse to the kegs. “Showtime,” he muttered.
A British sentry, pacing near the depot, snagged the tripwire. The kegs detonated with a deafening roar, flames swallowing the shed’s rear. Barrels of flour burst, clouding the air. The sentries scattered, shouting alarms. Brandon stood, aimed his swarm launcher, and fired. The weapon coughed, launching six swarm bombs in a tight arc. They exploded among the redcoats, showering sparks and lead. “That’s for the Intolerable Acts!” Brandon yelled, reloading with a grin. The blasts didn’t kill many, but the chaos was glorious—redcoats dove for cover, thinking they faced a full assault.
Amos and the squad opened fire, their muskets cracking. Two sentries fell; the rest fled toward Boston. Brandon lobbed a grenade for good measure, its blast toppling a rum barrel. “Cheers, King George!” he hollered as the barrel ignited, adding to the inferno. The depot was now a blazing wreck, its gunpowder stocks erupting in secondary explosions. British bugles sounded, but Brandon’s squad was already retreating, melting into the night.
By dawn, the Continental camp buzzed with the raid’s success. The depot’s destruction crippled British supplies, forcing Howe to ration flour and powder. Thomas, stunned by the outcome, summoned Brandon. “You’ve cost Howe a month’s provisions,” he said, a rare smile cracking his face. “How’d you do it?”
“Just a little American ingenuity, sir,” Brandon replied, twirling his swarm launcher. “And a whole lotta bang.” Thomas recommended Brandon for commendation, sending a report to Washington himself.
On March 4, 1776, as the siege neared its climax, Washington executed his masterstroke, fortifying Dorchester Heights with Ticonderoga’s cannon overnight. Howe, outmaneuvered and weakened by raids like Brandon’s, evacuated Boston days later. In the aftermath, Washington gathered his officers in Cambridge. Amid the victory speeches, he singled out Brandon, presenting him with a silver-hilted dagger, engraved with “For Valor at Boston.” The general’s voice carried over the crowd: “To Brandon Herrera, whose fire and cunning burned brighter than the enemy’s cannons.”
Brandon, uncharacteristically sheepish, accepted the dagger, muttering, “Just doin’ my part, sir.” But as the men cheered, he couldn’t resist a quip. “Guess the redcoats learned: don’t mess with a colonist who’s got powder and a plan!” The crowd roared, and Washington, ever stoic, allowed a faint smile.
As spring bloomed, Brandon vanished into the ranks, his swarm launcher slung over his shoulder, already scheming for the next fight. The Continental Army marched south, but the siege’s legend grew—tales of the “Roxbury Bomber” who turned a shed into a fireball and sent Howe packing. British officers, nursing their defeat, cursed the rebel who’d made their siege a misery, his quips as sharp as his explosions.
