Sexton Newman, I won’t beat around the briar—the British are coming. Thankfully, your belfry is lousy with lanterns. If you follow my simple instructions, our noble actions shall inspire a portrait, a poem, and a Beastie Boys song. Here’s what we’re going to do. . . .

If the British invade by land, light one lantern.

If they invade by sea, light two lanterns.

If the British want a truce, light two lanterns and make them kiss.

Light three lanterns if the British cancel at the eleventh hour because they are “fatigued” and need a night to “recharge.” O.K., though it’s not like I can obtain a refund for the horse I rented, which cost extra because of the late hour.

If you see my nephew riding on the horse with me, light four lanterns and conjure shadow puppets. And don’t mail it in! Alexander loves those things.

Light five lanterns if the British are coming by sea and look like they’ve been working out. Be careful not to stack all five lanterns on top of each other, forming a lowercase “l,” which I will assume means land.

In the same vein, do not stack three lanterns and then place two perpendicularly next to them, forming a capital “L,” which I will also assume means land.

You know what, if the British are coming by sea and look like they’ve been working out, light six lanterns.

Scream and drop a lantern if your steeple reveals itself to be haunted. But try not to startle Alexander—he’s been a nervous wreck ever since he learned about the concept of the Holy Spirit.

Light seven lanterns if, in lieu of an invasion, there is another smallpox outbreak.

Light eight lanterns if the British are invading by land, but running late. Don’t let the wind blow one out, or I will assume it’s smallpox, and throw out all my blankets.

Are we sure this is the best way to communicate?

Light nine lanterns if the British are invading by sea, but running late. Don’t let the wind blow a few out, or I will assume they’re on time, and that they’ve been working out.

Eight if they’re late, nine if maritime! That’s a handy mnemonic device I just came up with. (I noticed you’ve been hitting the Communion wine pretty hard of late.)

If the British are catapulting themselves over the Charles River, light ten lanterns, and I will replace all the town’s hay piles with big piles of manure.

If the British are coming by, not to attack, just for tea and a chat, I wish they would send a letter first. Oh, light eleven lanterns.

Light twelve lanterns and give yourself a mop-top haircut if it seems like more of a cultural invasion.

I am not a superstitious man, but if you light thirteen lanterns, scores of devils will rain hellfire upon this infant nation. Devils who’ve been working out.

Alexander has never cared for the numbers fourteen through twenty-four. If you light anywhere between fourteen and twenty-four lanterns, he will assume that you don’t like him, and I shall abort the mission to tend to his emotional wounds.

Twenty-five lanterns seems a bit much.

If you have any good book recommendations, light twenty-six lanterns (one for each letter of the alphabet) and spell the title out. I am partial to erotic fiction, such as, “The Tricorn Tryst.”

However many lanterns you light, please toll the bell in the belfry the corresponding number of times. I don’t see very well at night, and I hate the way I look in my riding glasses.

Immortality awaits! ♦