Harold Titus's Blog, page 13
March 18, 2021
Crossing the River -- Chapter 10 -- Section 1
Adams, Samuel – Continental Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel patriots of Massachusetts
Barker, Lieutenant John – 4th Regiment. Highly critical of superiors
Cochrane, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Hancock, John – Rich Boston merchant. Continental Congress delegate
Hartwell, Ephraim – owner of a Lincoln tavern
Hartwell, Lucy – Mary and Samuel’s 5 month old daughter
Hartwell, Mary – Samuel’s wife
Hartwell, Sergeant Samuel – a leader of the Lincoln militia
Mitchell, Major Edward – 10th Regiment. In command of a body of officers assigned to intercept express riders prior to the raid upon Concord
Prescott, Dr. Samuel – traveling from his fiancee’s house near Lexington to Concord
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Smith, Captain William – captain of the Lincoln militiaman
Sukey – Ephraim Hartwell’s slave
Chapter 10, “My Name Is Revere,” Section 1
“Get off your horse!”
Revere dismounted. Standing on soft ground, he flexed his knees, arched his back.
An officer on foot approached. He stopped three feet away, looked Revere over. “Where did you come from?” he asked.
“Boston.”
The officer's eyebrows lifted. “What time did you leave?”
“10:30, I believe.”
The officer, approximately Revere’s age, turning his head, squinted at the closest mounted soldier. The soldier nodded some sort of acknowledgement.
“Are you an express rider, sir?” the officer asked.
“I am.”
He frowned. “Sir, I crave your name.”
“My name is Revere.”
“What?” The officer’s mouth stayed open. “You are Paul Revere?!”
“Yes.”
The man scowled, pivoted, stalked off to his tended horse. The others, high above Revere, glared.
“Damn rebel!”
“Villain! Bloody traitor!”
“We'll see you hung, you and Adams! And that flash bastard Hancock!”
“Major Mitchell will have you shot!”
Revere stared fiercely at his horse’s bridle. The officer on foot, hastily returning, said in a low voice, “You need not be afraid.”
Revere glared.
“No one will hurt you.”
“Gentlemen,” Revere said, addressing the horsemen that had cursed him. “You have missed your aim!”
They bristled. Barn cocks, he thought.
One of them said, officiously, “What of our aim?”
“Our aim is to arrest deserters,” the older officer said. “That is why we stopped you.”
Revere smiled at the man's duplicity. “I came out of Boston a half hour after your troops had come out of Boston to land at Lechmere's Point,” he said. “I have alarmed the country all the way up. We’ll have 500 men here soon. Your boats have catched aground.”
“You lie!”
“We have 1,500 coming!”
Revere grinned. “If I had not known that other people along the way had been sent out to alarm the country,” and he paused. “If I had not known I had time enough to ride fifty miles,” -- he faced the mounted officer nearest him -- “I would’ve ventured one shot from you before I would’ve suffered you to have stopped me!”
Curses rained upon him. Dismissing them, he watched the courteous officer pull taut his gloves. The officer mounted. He rode off across the pasture.
“Captain Cochrane’s getting the Major,” one of Revere's abusers declared, laughing.
“Bloody good entertainment t’be had, traitor!”
Two riders returned at a full gallop. Forty feet away, the taller rider, his horse yet in motion, dismounted. Drawing his pistol, he advanced. Revere saw he was the soldier that had threatened him on the road.
The officer pressed the end of his pistol against Revere's left ear. “You will give me truthful answers or I will blow your brains out!”
Neck muscles tight, Revere resisted the pressure. “I esteem myself a man of truth and I am not afraid of you!” Heat radiated from his face. “I demand you remove that pistol! By what right is a peaceable citizen detained on this highway?!”
“The truth, I say, or I’ll scatter your brains on this dirt!”
The officer applied additional pressure. Revere glowered at a distant tree.
“You are Paul Revere sent from Boston to alert the provincials. Am I correct?!”
“You are!”
“When did you leave Boston?”
“At 10:30!”
“And you saw His Majesty's troops leave Boston?” As mercurially as he had brandished it, Mitchell withdrew the pistol.
“Their boats catched aground.” Mitchell glared at him. “I have roused every minuteman from here to Lexington. Soon you’ll have 500 surrounding you.
”
For ten seconds the officer’s fierce eyes assaulted him. To the closest lieutenant, Mitchell declared, “Search him!”
Two officers did so. Satisfied that he was not armed, Mitchell ordered the express rider to mount. Drawing his right leg over the horse’s back and saddle, Revere seated himself.
Mitchell grabbed the bridle. “By God, sir, you do not ride with reins!” He seized them. “Grant, come here!” His face contorting, he whipped the reins into the officer’s reaching hands.
“If you let me have them, I’ll not attempt to run from you.”
“I will not! I don’t trust you!”
Mitchell mounted. To the soldier that had surrendered the reins of Revere's horse, he ordered, “Bring them all out!” He nodded toward the wood.
The sergeant returned with yet another officer. Walking between them were four county men, each leading a horse. One of them was missing an arm. Ten yards away they were told to mount.
Mitchell said to Revere: “We will ride now toward your friends. If you attempt to run, or if we are insulted, I will scatter your brains!”
“You may do as you please!”
Through a pine wood and across two fields Samuel Prescott’s horse galloped. Having found the road, they stopped soon afterward at Ephraim Hartwell’s tavern. Prescott pounded on the old man’s door.
The sixty-six year old proprietor opened it.
“Go tell Captain Smith! Right now!” Ephraim ordered his slave girl, Sukey, after hearing the doctor’s short explanation. “Our militia captain’s house’s just down the road,” he told Prescott while the girl put on her coat. “Come in. Rest a spell.”
“I must decline,” Prescott answered. “Forgive me. I must ride to Concord!”
Hartwell watched Prescott mount. “Out with you!” he ordered the girl. “Tell Captain Smith the British army is coming! Out!”
Mary Hartwell was awakened by a persistent banging on her front door. Her five-month-old child, Lucy, lying in her crib, was crying. Mary rose. Holding her baby against her chest, she stepped apprehensively to the door.
“Who is it? What do you want?” Glancing behind her, she saw that Samuel had left their bed. He was taking his musket down off the wall.
“Sukey, ma'am. The British be comin'! Let me in!”
Her left hand upon the latch bolt, Mary caught her breath. Repositioning the baby against her left shoulder, she braced herself. She opened the door.
The slave girl edged through the narrow opening.
“British soldiers be on the road, t'Concord! Mr. Hartwell say I tell Captain Smith. I’m afraid!” She pressed her body against Samuel’s wall-hanging coat.
“I need t’muster the company,” Samuel said to Mary. “You go see William. Send Sukey back t'Father when you get back.”
Mary looked at her husband, looked at Sukey. Her baby, secure in the crook of her left arm -- When had she taken Lucy off her shoulder? -- was staring at her. “Sukey,” she said, “come here!”
The girl approached, warily.
“Tend her.” Mary handed the child over. “Care for her while I'm gone!”
Having taken her coat from its peg, drawing it about her shoulders, she stepped through the doorway. The baby cried.
Mary noticed immediately the bright moonlight. The eerie clarity frightened her. Clutching her coat close to her body, she hurried to the road.
John Barker had been wrong. Colonel Smith’s expeditionary force had dawdled in the marshland two hours, not one! They had moved a jaw-dropping distance of fifty feet!
His eminence had used much of the time changing the composition of his column. Light infantry companies were to lead; grenadier companies were to follow; within the two groupings regimental seniority determined the location of each company. Their shoes and gaiters soaked, the men of the 4th had stood, shivered, been moved, shivered, been moved again, stood, shivered, and cursed.
The column had waited a good portion of the second hour for provisions, a third crossing of the boats! Much better to have received the beef hardtack upon the completion of their mission when its delivery would actually have served its purpose! Its distribution now -- added weight soon to be discarded -- made no sense! But when had making sense factored in his superiors’ operations?
Barker, Lieutenant John – 4th Regiment. Highly critical of superiors
Cochrane, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Hancock, John – Rich Boston merchant. Continental Congress delegate
Hartwell, Ephraim – owner of a Lincoln tavern
Hartwell, Lucy – Mary and Samuel’s 5 month old daughter
Hartwell, Mary – Samuel’s wife
Hartwell, Sergeant Samuel – a leader of the Lincoln militia
Mitchell, Major Edward – 10th Regiment. In command of a body of officers assigned to intercept express riders prior to the raid upon Concord
Prescott, Dr. Samuel – traveling from his fiancee’s house near Lexington to Concord
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Smith, Captain William – captain of the Lincoln militiaman
Sukey – Ephraim Hartwell’s slave
Chapter 10, “My Name Is Revere,” Section 1
“Get off your horse!”
Revere dismounted. Standing on soft ground, he flexed his knees, arched his back.
An officer on foot approached. He stopped three feet away, looked Revere over. “Where did you come from?” he asked.
“Boston.”
The officer's eyebrows lifted. “What time did you leave?”
“10:30, I believe.”
The officer, approximately Revere’s age, turning his head, squinted at the closest mounted soldier. The soldier nodded some sort of acknowledgement.
“Are you an express rider, sir?” the officer asked.
“I am.”
He frowned. “Sir, I crave your name.”
“My name is Revere.”
“What?” The officer’s mouth stayed open. “You are Paul Revere?!”
“Yes.”
The man scowled, pivoted, stalked off to his tended horse. The others, high above Revere, glared.
“Damn rebel!”
“Villain! Bloody traitor!”
“We'll see you hung, you and Adams! And that flash bastard Hancock!”
“Major Mitchell will have you shot!”
Revere stared fiercely at his horse’s bridle. The officer on foot, hastily returning, said in a low voice, “You need not be afraid.”
Revere glared.
“No one will hurt you.”
“Gentlemen,” Revere said, addressing the horsemen that had cursed him. “You have missed your aim!”
They bristled. Barn cocks, he thought.
One of them said, officiously, “What of our aim?”
“Our aim is to arrest deserters,” the older officer said. “That is why we stopped you.”
Revere smiled at the man's duplicity. “I came out of Boston a half hour after your troops had come out of Boston to land at Lechmere's Point,” he said. “I have alarmed the country all the way up. We’ll have 500 men here soon. Your boats have catched aground.”
“You lie!”
“We have 1,500 coming!”
Revere grinned. “If I had not known that other people along the way had been sent out to alarm the country,” and he paused. “If I had not known I had time enough to ride fifty miles,” -- he faced the mounted officer nearest him -- “I would’ve ventured one shot from you before I would’ve suffered you to have stopped me!”
Curses rained upon him. Dismissing them, he watched the courteous officer pull taut his gloves. The officer mounted. He rode off across the pasture.
“Captain Cochrane’s getting the Major,” one of Revere's abusers declared, laughing.
“Bloody good entertainment t’be had, traitor!”
Two riders returned at a full gallop. Forty feet away, the taller rider, his horse yet in motion, dismounted. Drawing his pistol, he advanced. Revere saw he was the soldier that had threatened him on the road.
The officer pressed the end of his pistol against Revere's left ear. “You will give me truthful answers or I will blow your brains out!”
Neck muscles tight, Revere resisted the pressure. “I esteem myself a man of truth and I am not afraid of you!” Heat radiated from his face. “I demand you remove that pistol! By what right is a peaceable citizen detained on this highway?!”
“The truth, I say, or I’ll scatter your brains on this dirt!”
The officer applied additional pressure. Revere glowered at a distant tree.
“You are Paul Revere sent from Boston to alert the provincials. Am I correct?!”
“You are!”
“When did you leave Boston?”
“At 10:30!”
“And you saw His Majesty's troops leave Boston?” As mercurially as he had brandished it, Mitchell withdrew the pistol.
“Their boats catched aground.” Mitchell glared at him. “I have roused every minuteman from here to Lexington. Soon you’ll have 500 surrounding you.
”
For ten seconds the officer’s fierce eyes assaulted him. To the closest lieutenant, Mitchell declared, “Search him!”
Two officers did so. Satisfied that he was not armed, Mitchell ordered the express rider to mount. Drawing his right leg over the horse’s back and saddle, Revere seated himself.
Mitchell grabbed the bridle. “By God, sir, you do not ride with reins!” He seized them. “Grant, come here!” His face contorting, he whipped the reins into the officer’s reaching hands.
“If you let me have them, I’ll not attempt to run from you.”
“I will not! I don’t trust you!”
Mitchell mounted. To the soldier that had surrendered the reins of Revere's horse, he ordered, “Bring them all out!” He nodded toward the wood.
The sergeant returned with yet another officer. Walking between them were four county men, each leading a horse. One of them was missing an arm. Ten yards away they were told to mount.
Mitchell said to Revere: “We will ride now toward your friends. If you attempt to run, or if we are insulted, I will scatter your brains!”
“You may do as you please!”
Through a pine wood and across two fields Samuel Prescott’s horse galloped. Having found the road, they stopped soon afterward at Ephraim Hartwell’s tavern. Prescott pounded on the old man’s door.
The sixty-six year old proprietor opened it.
“Go tell Captain Smith! Right now!” Ephraim ordered his slave girl, Sukey, after hearing the doctor’s short explanation. “Our militia captain’s house’s just down the road,” he told Prescott while the girl put on her coat. “Come in. Rest a spell.”
“I must decline,” Prescott answered. “Forgive me. I must ride to Concord!”
Hartwell watched Prescott mount. “Out with you!” he ordered the girl. “Tell Captain Smith the British army is coming! Out!”
Mary Hartwell was awakened by a persistent banging on her front door. Her five-month-old child, Lucy, lying in her crib, was crying. Mary rose. Holding her baby against her chest, she stepped apprehensively to the door.
“Who is it? What do you want?” Glancing behind her, she saw that Samuel had left their bed. He was taking his musket down off the wall.
“Sukey, ma'am. The British be comin'! Let me in!”
Her left hand upon the latch bolt, Mary caught her breath. Repositioning the baby against her left shoulder, she braced herself. She opened the door.
The slave girl edged through the narrow opening.
“British soldiers be on the road, t'Concord! Mr. Hartwell say I tell Captain Smith. I’m afraid!” She pressed her body against Samuel’s wall-hanging coat.
“I need t’muster the company,” Samuel said to Mary. “You go see William. Send Sukey back t'Father when you get back.”
Mary looked at her husband, looked at Sukey. Her baby, secure in the crook of her left arm -- When had she taken Lucy off her shoulder? -- was staring at her. “Sukey,” she said, “come here!”
The girl approached, warily.
“Tend her.” Mary handed the child over. “Care for her while I'm gone!”
Having taken her coat from its peg, drawing it about her shoulders, she stepped through the doorway. The baby cried.
Mary noticed immediately the bright moonlight. The eerie clarity frightened her. Clutching her coat close to her body, she hurried to the road.
John Barker had been wrong. Colonel Smith’s expeditionary force had dawdled in the marshland two hours, not one! They had moved a jaw-dropping distance of fifty feet!
His eminence had used much of the time changing the composition of his column. Light infantry companies were to lead; grenadier companies were to follow; within the two groupings regimental seniority determined the location of each company. Their shoes and gaiters soaked, the men of the 4th had stood, shivered, been moved, shivered, been moved again, stood, shivered, and cursed.
The column had waited a good portion of the second hour for provisions, a third crossing of the boats! Much better to have received the beef hardtack upon the completion of their mission when its delivery would actually have served its purpose! Its distribution now -- added weight soon to be discarded -- made no sense! But when had making sense factored in his superiors’ operations?
March 14, 2021
Crossing the River -- Chapter 9, Section 3
Characters Mentioned
Adams, Samuel – Continental Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel patriots of Massachusetts
Buttrick, Major John – second in command of the Concord militia
Clarke, Reverend Jonas – Lexington minister and influential political leader
Dawes, William – express rider
Hancock, John – Rich Boston merchant. Continental Congress delegate
Prescott, Dr. Samuel – traveling from his fiancee’s house near Lexington to Concord
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Warren, Dr. Joseph – second to Sam Adams in the Sons of Liberty leadership
Chapter 9, “Flawed Expectation,” Section 3
Anticipating better fare at Wright Tavern than Reverend Clarke’s bread and cheese, Revere and Dawes proceeded along the Old Concord road.
“You or me?” Dawes asked, his close-set eyes, long nose, and grinning mouth presenting a comical look, the rooftop of the house they now approached visible beyond a copse of trees.
“You.”
Revere watched Billy Dawes rap on the front door; he heard Dawes shout the alarm to a person at an upstairs window. Much better to share this work, he thought. It made the night seem less perilous. Definitely less lonely. His esteemed friend in Boston would be worrying about them. Here they were, working well together, each beforehand having worked well separately.
“How far d'you think the redcoats have gotten?” Dawes asked, having returned to the road.
“What time is it?”
Dawes removed his watch from his coat pocket. He studied the hands in the moonlight. “'Bout 1:15 a.m.”
“I would say, … Menotomy.”
They resumed riding.
The stillness of the night played upon Revere’s sensibilities. He thought, A blessed tranquility swaddles the land. Weary toiler, rest your head, all is safe. He and Dawes violated that dictum.
As did another. Dawes heard first the cantering horse.
“The patrol?”
“It’s one horse. But be ready.”
Horse and rider appeared in the bright moonlight. Seeing Revere and Dawes hunched in their saddles, the rider slowed his horse to a walk. He stopped ten feet away.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he declared, “or should I say good morning, for it is surely that.”
Revere nodded. The man was cordial.
“I’m Doctor Samuel Prescott. On my way home from my fiancée’s house. Which explains my presence at this hour.” The young man beamed. “And you, gentlemen, if I may be permitted to ask?”
Grinning, Dawes gave his name.
Transferring his smile, the doctor regarded Revere.
The silversmith answered. Prescott’s quick change of expression amused him.
“I am honored, sir! Indeed, … fortunate! I too am a son of liberty! Though admittedly not … Concord is astir because of you! Of the message you so recently delivered.” Prescott leaned forward. “That I should speak to the man who …” Grinning still, he shook his head. “My betrothed, when she hears me speak, will deem me a prevaricator. Would that I have you hiding behind the door!”
They laughed. The young doctor was engaging, likable.
“I’m on my way to Concord, sir,” Doctor Prescott stated. “Are you traveling in that direction?”
“We’re carrying another message, doctor.” Revere paused. Prescott’s responsive face sobered. Revere lengthened the pause. “The regulars are out.”
“They might be an hour behind us,” Dawes added quickly. The cordwainer repositioned his large, flapped hat.
Prescott stared. They watched him swallow, grimace. “I wonder why I’m surprised at this.”
Wanting the conversation to end but exercising patience, Revere stared at the dark tops of two pines.
“Then may I accompany you, actually assist you? I’m well known here, as a doctor and a patriot.” Prescott looked down the road, looked back at Revere. “I believe that my words would bring special emphasis to your message.”
Three express riders, to do the job of one. Amused, Revere thought again of his doctor friend. Joseph would want to know everything about this fine young man. “By all means, doctor,” he said, knowing Prescott’s request wanted immediate acceptance. “We welcome your company. But I must warn you. Our work entails risk.” He paused, to elicit a more intense reaction. “Somewhere ahead of us we may yet encounter a British patrol. You accompany us … at your peril.”
Irises centered, Prescott nodded.
A half-hour’s riding brought them two miles closer to Concord. Revere had decided he would return to the Clarke house immediately after he had alerted Major Buttrick. He wanted to know what Adams and Hancock had done to protect themselves. After that, … events, not preconceived intentions, determined more often than not his actions.
The young doctor and Billy Dawes had stopped at the door of another farmhouse. Revere rode contentedly ahead. The stillness, crispness, and clarity of the night braced him. He thought, A city man would do well to take a moonlit ride on such a star-bright, spring night.
Moon-crafted shadows lay upon the road. High above, tiny beads of light glittered. Revere heard a screech and the flapping of wings. The stillness that ensued seemed otherworldly. He heard faintly the passage of water over rocks.
Such moments renewed his belief in the Almighty Creator. In six days the Lord had made the world. On the seventh He had rested.
Man, God’s greatest creation, defiled it. Along this peaceful, illuminated roadway many soldiers would march. Tranquility lost. But not yet. There were moments, he thought, when a man, quite alone, did feel God’s purpose.
He had stopped his horse at the top of a gentle rise to enjoy the night’s serenity. When he heard the sound of his companions’ horses, he urged his own forward. Having ridden ten rods to a turn in the road, he spied two soldiers on horseback, waiting in the darkness of a large maple.
This time he was not outnumbered!
“Dawes! Prescott! Come up! British officers!”
Mounted soldiers, brandishing pistols, burst forth from shadows behind him!
Kicking his horse’s sides, shouting, Revere propelled his mount forward.
“God damn you, stop! If you go an inch farther you are a dead man!” Flanking him, a long-bodied, snarling officer rotated the end of his pistol.
Revere looked over his right shoulder. Prescott, his whip handle turned about, was rapidly advancing.
Where was Dawes?
Seconds later Prescott was abreast of him. Cursing officers, waving swords, accosted them.
“Into that pasture! Through that space into that pasture!” one of them shouted.
“Into that pasture now or we will blow your brains out!”
Revere and Prescott veered through the opening in the rail fence.
Revere strained to see what lay ahead. Two riders sat motionless under a solitary tree. Beyond appeared to be a dark wood.
“Put on!” Prescott shouted. The doctor yanked his horse off course.
Too late to follow, Revere spurred his horse into a full gallop. If he could but reach the wood! Turning his head, he saw Prescott’s horse leap an obstruction. Prescott’s two pursuers halted.
The two that had been under the tree were now leading Revere’s chasers. He heard their labored pursuit.
Just ahead! He searched for an opening where, once within, he would pull up, dismount, and escape on foot. To his dismay out of several openings exited more soldiers! Almost immediately they were about him! He veered away but one, reaching dangerously, seized his horse's bridle. They surrounded him. Stopping him, they aimed their pistols at his breast.
Placing his hands on his horse’s neck, shutting his eyes, Revere aspirated.
At least Prescott had escaped.
Adams, Samuel – Continental Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel patriots of Massachusetts
Buttrick, Major John – second in command of the Concord militia
Clarke, Reverend Jonas – Lexington minister and influential political leader
Dawes, William – express rider
Hancock, John – Rich Boston merchant. Continental Congress delegate
Prescott, Dr. Samuel – traveling from his fiancee’s house near Lexington to Concord
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Warren, Dr. Joseph – second to Sam Adams in the Sons of Liberty leadership
Chapter 9, “Flawed Expectation,” Section 3
Anticipating better fare at Wright Tavern than Reverend Clarke’s bread and cheese, Revere and Dawes proceeded along the Old Concord road.
“You or me?” Dawes asked, his close-set eyes, long nose, and grinning mouth presenting a comical look, the rooftop of the house they now approached visible beyond a copse of trees.
“You.”
Revere watched Billy Dawes rap on the front door; he heard Dawes shout the alarm to a person at an upstairs window. Much better to share this work, he thought. It made the night seem less perilous. Definitely less lonely. His esteemed friend in Boston would be worrying about them. Here they were, working well together, each beforehand having worked well separately.
“How far d'you think the redcoats have gotten?” Dawes asked, having returned to the road.
“What time is it?”
Dawes removed his watch from his coat pocket. He studied the hands in the moonlight. “'Bout 1:15 a.m.”
“I would say, … Menotomy.”
They resumed riding.
The stillness of the night played upon Revere’s sensibilities. He thought, A blessed tranquility swaddles the land. Weary toiler, rest your head, all is safe. He and Dawes violated that dictum.
As did another. Dawes heard first the cantering horse.
“The patrol?”
“It’s one horse. But be ready.”
Horse and rider appeared in the bright moonlight. Seeing Revere and Dawes hunched in their saddles, the rider slowed his horse to a walk. He stopped ten feet away.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he declared, “or should I say good morning, for it is surely that.”
Revere nodded. The man was cordial.
“I’m Doctor Samuel Prescott. On my way home from my fiancée’s house. Which explains my presence at this hour.” The young man beamed. “And you, gentlemen, if I may be permitted to ask?”
Grinning, Dawes gave his name.
Transferring his smile, the doctor regarded Revere.
The silversmith answered. Prescott’s quick change of expression amused him.
“I am honored, sir! Indeed, … fortunate! I too am a son of liberty! Though admittedly not … Concord is astir because of you! Of the message you so recently delivered.” Prescott leaned forward. “That I should speak to the man who …” Grinning still, he shook his head. “My betrothed, when she hears me speak, will deem me a prevaricator. Would that I have you hiding behind the door!”
They laughed. The young doctor was engaging, likable.
“I’m on my way to Concord, sir,” Doctor Prescott stated. “Are you traveling in that direction?”
“We’re carrying another message, doctor.” Revere paused. Prescott’s responsive face sobered. Revere lengthened the pause. “The regulars are out.”
“They might be an hour behind us,” Dawes added quickly. The cordwainer repositioned his large, flapped hat.
Prescott stared. They watched him swallow, grimace. “I wonder why I’m surprised at this.”
Wanting the conversation to end but exercising patience, Revere stared at the dark tops of two pines.
“Then may I accompany you, actually assist you? I’m well known here, as a doctor and a patriot.” Prescott looked down the road, looked back at Revere. “I believe that my words would bring special emphasis to your message.”
Three express riders, to do the job of one. Amused, Revere thought again of his doctor friend. Joseph would want to know everything about this fine young man. “By all means, doctor,” he said, knowing Prescott’s request wanted immediate acceptance. “We welcome your company. But I must warn you. Our work entails risk.” He paused, to elicit a more intense reaction. “Somewhere ahead of us we may yet encounter a British patrol. You accompany us … at your peril.”
Irises centered, Prescott nodded.
A half-hour’s riding brought them two miles closer to Concord. Revere had decided he would return to the Clarke house immediately after he had alerted Major Buttrick. He wanted to know what Adams and Hancock had done to protect themselves. After that, … events, not preconceived intentions, determined more often than not his actions.
The young doctor and Billy Dawes had stopped at the door of another farmhouse. Revere rode contentedly ahead. The stillness, crispness, and clarity of the night braced him. He thought, A city man would do well to take a moonlit ride on such a star-bright, spring night.
Moon-crafted shadows lay upon the road. High above, tiny beads of light glittered. Revere heard a screech and the flapping of wings. The stillness that ensued seemed otherworldly. He heard faintly the passage of water over rocks.
Such moments renewed his belief in the Almighty Creator. In six days the Lord had made the world. On the seventh He had rested.
Man, God’s greatest creation, defiled it. Along this peaceful, illuminated roadway many soldiers would march. Tranquility lost. But not yet. There were moments, he thought, when a man, quite alone, did feel God’s purpose.
He had stopped his horse at the top of a gentle rise to enjoy the night’s serenity. When he heard the sound of his companions’ horses, he urged his own forward. Having ridden ten rods to a turn in the road, he spied two soldiers on horseback, waiting in the darkness of a large maple.
This time he was not outnumbered!
“Dawes! Prescott! Come up! British officers!”
Mounted soldiers, brandishing pistols, burst forth from shadows behind him!
Kicking his horse’s sides, shouting, Revere propelled his mount forward.
“God damn you, stop! If you go an inch farther you are a dead man!” Flanking him, a long-bodied, snarling officer rotated the end of his pistol.
Revere looked over his right shoulder. Prescott, his whip handle turned about, was rapidly advancing.
Where was Dawes?
Seconds later Prescott was abreast of him. Cursing officers, waving swords, accosted them.
“Into that pasture! Through that space into that pasture!” one of them shouted.
“Into that pasture now or we will blow your brains out!”
Revere and Prescott veered through the opening in the rail fence.
Revere strained to see what lay ahead. Two riders sat motionless under a solitary tree. Beyond appeared to be a dark wood.
“Put on!” Prescott shouted. The doctor yanked his horse off course.
Too late to follow, Revere spurred his horse into a full gallop. If he could but reach the wood! Turning his head, he saw Prescott’s horse leap an obstruction. Prescott’s two pursuers halted.
The two that had been under the tree were now leading Revere’s chasers. He heard their labored pursuit.
Just ahead! He searched for an opening where, once within, he would pull up, dismount, and escape on foot. To his dismay out of several openings exited more soldiers! Almost immediately they were about him! He veered away but one, reaching dangerously, seized his horse's bridle. They surrounded him. Stopping him, they aimed their pistols at his breast.
Placing his hands on his horse’s neck, shutting his eyes, Revere aspirated.
At least Prescott had escaped.
March 11, 2021
Crossing the River -- Chapter 9, Section 2
Characters Mentioned
Adams, Samuel – Continental Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel patriots of Massachusetts
Browner, Solomon – 18 year old Lexington youth returning from a trip to Boston
Buckman, John – owner of the Buckman Tavern
Church, Dr. Benjamin – Provincial Congress delegate
Clarke, Reverend Jonas – Lexington minister and influential political leader
Dawes, William – express rider
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of British forces stationed in Boston
Gerry, Elbridge – Provincial Congress delegate
Hancock, John – rich Boston merchant. Continental Congress delegate
Hancock, Lydia – John Hancock’s aunt
Loring, Jonathan – One of three Lexington men captured by Major Mitchell’s advance party
Lowell, John – John Hancock’s clerk
Munroe, Sergeant William – Lexington tavern owner and militia sergeant
Otis, James – outspoken member of the Provincial Assembly and the Sons of Liberty
Parker, Captain John – Lexington militia captain
Patterson, Elijah – Lexington cabinet maker. One of a party to three captured by Major Mitchell’s advance party
Quincy, Dorothy (‘Dolly”) – John Hancock’s future wife
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Warren, Dr. Joseph – Second to Sam Adams in the Sons of Liberty leadership
Traveling toward the center of Lexington, a visitor might stop first at Munroe Tavern, approximately 2 miles outside the center of the town on the left side of the road. Or he might choose instead to spend the night at Buckman Tavern, at the apex of where the highway separates into two roads. If he chooses instead to visit Reverend Jonas Clarke, he would take the right-branching road and travel a short distance to come upon his house on the left side.
The Hancock-Clarke House had been the home of the Reverend John Hancock and, afterward, the Reverend Jonas Clarke - two ministers who served the spiritual and secular needs of Lexington for 105 years. Soon after coming to Lexington in 1698 the Reverend Mr. Hancock built a small parsonage on this site and in 1738 his son Thomas, a wealthy Boston merchant, enlarged his parents' home. The Reverend Hancock's grandson John, a frequent visitor to this house, was the first signer of the Declaration of Independence and the first Governor of Massachusetts.
Succeeding Hancock as minister in 1752, the Reverend Jonas Clarke, who reared twelve children in this parsonage, was an eloquent supporter of the colonial cause. The Reverend Clarke's fervent sermons were a source of inspiration to the citizens of Lexington during the crisis with Britain.
Chapter 9, “Flawed Expectation,” Section 2
William Munroe was in a foul mood. Told by Solomon Browner that British officers were patrolling the Menotomy/Lexington road, their purpose confirmed by Elbridge Gerry’s messenger, Monroe had posted outside Reverend Jonas Clarke’s house seven militiamen, late evening idlers he had found in John Buckman’s taproom. It was obvious now that Reverend Clarke’s guests, Sam Adams and John Hancock, were entirely safe. Those being made to suffer were the seven and himself. “If there was trouble t’be had, we’d’ve already had it,” Munroe had complained to the militiaman standing closest to him, directing blame not upon himself but flawed expectation.
What good were they doing? he had asked himself. They, and he, were permitting the gentlemen and the ladies in the house to sleep. Nothing else. Protecting them from harm was one thing. This wasn’t. He and his militiamen were nobody’s servants! By God, he was the father of three children, Captain Parker’s sergeant, proprietor of a popular tavern, which was where he wanted to be, there or at Buckman’s, drinking flip!
If Reverend Clarke didn’t notice the service he was performing, didn’t thank him for it, he’d be saying a few choice words right to the minister’s face!
For the umpteenth time Munroe looked at his watch. The hour hand had moved past midnight. Much earlier Mr. Hancock had told him he and the others were “retiring.” Munroe was not to “permit anything to disturb” their rest. This, he had concluded, was because of the women: Hancock's aunt and that young lady that had accompanied her. From Boston. Two weeks ago. High-born women they were, displaying all their airs, demanding special treatment!
Solomon Browner had started the trouble. The group of officers he had seen was probably half way back to Boston. And no one, not Browner, not Patterson, not Loring, had had the courtesy to tell him! They were on the road doing something! He was standing under a tall maple, getting angrier, looking too many times at his damn watch!
He pulled inwardly the lapels of his coat.
The militiaman nearest him straightened, raised his musket. “A horse is comin'.”
Munroe heard it, too, the unmistakable sound of shod hooves striking road.
“Comin' from the Common,” the militiaman said.
“Could be from Captain Parker,” a man farther away said. “Maybe them redcoats are lookin' for trouble after all.”
“Hide yourselves!” Munroe ordered. Crouched behind the maple tree’s thick trunk, Munroe blinked rapidly at the road.
He saw the single horseman. The large-sized man directed his mount into the very yard! Leveling his musket, Munroe stepped forth.
Seeing Munroe, the rider swung decisively out of the saddle. “Put that firearm away!” he shouted.
“Keep your voice down.”
“I will speak with Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock at once!” The stranger gave Munroe a smoldering look.
“No, by God, you will not!” The impertinence! He would be deciding what happened here!
“Let me pass!” The intruder glowered. “Their lives are in danger!”
“We know that!”
It occurred to Munroe that the rider, a servant or hostler, had been sent by another member of the Congress. With old news. He would now have to suffer the man’s explanation, before sending him off. But, first, Munroe would have this puffed up messenger know who issued the orders here!
“I won't let you in! The family has retired! Say what you've t'say t’me. And keep your voice down. They don't want t'be disturbed by any noise.”
The rider's teeth glinted in the moonlight. “Noise! You'll have noise enough! The regulars are coming out! Here, tend this!” He handed the militiaman standing next to Munroe his reins. Taking long strides, he reached the front door. He pounded on it.
Munroe grabbed the intruder’s right shoulder. “I said not t'disturb them!”
A window opened. Reverend Clarke’s large head protruded. “What’s happening out there?!” the minister demanded.
“I must see John Hancock at once! Let me in!”
The clergyman stared at the messenger. “I don't know you,” he said. “I will not admit strangers to this house at this time of night without knowing who they are and what they want!”
Another window opened. John Hancock’s hostile expression vanished. “Do come in, Revere,” the rich merchant declared, almost laughing. “We’re not afraid of you.”
Will Munroe’s face burned. A tingling sensation sped across his shoulder blades, coursed up his neck bone. He had argued with Paul Revere! As important a patriot, nearly, as the two at the windows. And Mr. Adams, inside. Worse, he had embarrassed himself! In front of his own guard! He'd be the butt of jokes, in his own tavern, for weeks!
Well, he’d have to live with it, wouldn’t he? For awhile. Even though everybody knew he didn’t suffer any man’s ridicule! Few tried! This, however -- damned humilitating, cursed unfair -- he’d have to bear!
It wouldn’t matter that he had had every reason for behaving the way he had. He had not been at fault! Revere hadn’t identified himself! The trouble had been Revere's doing. A name. All he had needed from Revere was his name!
It occurred to him what Revere’s appearance meant. The officers that Solomon Browner had seen had been a reconnaissance patrol. Gage’s regulars were marching! Whatever Paul Revere was about to say he should be hearing! All of which he would be needing to tell Captain Parker. Something definite would then be done, with nobody thinking to have fun at his expense!
Uninvited, he passed through the front entrance, following after the man that had made too much noise.
“John, you must not do this,” Sam Adams declared, his thin mouth and thick jaw sternly set.
“I shall, sir, join my comrades. We shall stand shoulder to shoulder against the invader!”
Seated comfortably in a high-backed upholstered chair, Paul Revere smiled. The richest man of New England, wearing a silk night coat and Moroccan slippers, was expressing egalitarian sentiment.
“John! Be sensible! Attend what I am about to say! You wish to risk your life. In a just cause. I commend you. But consider. If you should die, any townsman owning a musket could replace you on that Common! Anybody! Who could replace you at Philadelphia?!”
Right arm bent, left knee flexed, Hancock contemplated.
Sam Adams’s pulpy face darkened. Palsy! His voice had again betrayed him! Ear drums thumping, he jabbed his elbows against the armrests of his chair.
Those not acquainted with him that first day in Philadelphia might have judged him two steps from the coffin. His body was a vexing impediment! Not so his mind! No man, no accident, no force of nature had the power to alter his will! Like boats commanded by a surging tide men like Otis, Hancock, Warren, and Church adhered!
Excepting Otis, who had gone quite mad, they were whole men. John Hancock was as healthy as a four-year-old colt!
But Hancock lacked intellectual capacity, reasoned judgment. To control him Adams had gratified his appetite for admiration. The recipient of flattery, of meaningless political titles, Hancock reveled in glory. It was because of Hancock’s largess, not just his belief that to prosper the colonies had to be independent of England, that Adams indulged him.
“My leadership, Sam, is required as much this day upon the village common!” Stiffly disposed -- a peacock amid fowl -- Hancock challenged him.
Her nightclothes showing an inch below her cloak, Lydia Hancock entered. “Are you going to keep us up all night, John?” she accused.
“I am! I shall be joining my comrades! We are to stand against tyranny!” He looked through the entryway, beyond which extended the staircase. “Where is Lowell? I must have my sword polished.”
The old woman turned to Adams. “You will dissuade him, Samuel?”
“Ultimately.”
“My mind is set, Sam.”
“Set for what?” The young lady occupying the entryway, Dolly Quincy, had followed her patron downstairs. “What have you set your mind to do? Something silly I imagine.”
“I find it not at all silly to defend one’s property against tyranny!” Dismissing her with a dramatic gesture, Hancock stepped past her. “Where does Lowell sleep? I suppose I shall have to awaken him.”
“The regulars have left Boston, Miss Quincy,” Adams said blandly. “They march for Concord. John wants to be a minuteman.”
“That is silly! John, if you do, I will not stay here another minute! I will return at once to Boston, where I shall be safe with Father!”
“Safe?!” He stepped toward her. “Upon my word, you and Aunt Lydia will go to the closest town! Woburn, I should think. Boston, indeed!”
“Indeed, Boston! I want a chaise prepared now!” She turned upon the inscrutable-visaged Reverend, staring at the ebbing fire.
“No, Madam, as long as there is a bayonet left in Boston you shall not return!” Hands gripping his sides, Hancock dared her to walk past him.
Pushing her left forearm against his chest, she maneuvered by. “Recollect, Mr. Hancock,” she said over her left shoulder, “I am not yet under your control. I shall go to Father tomorrow.”
“I will not permit it!”
A rap upon the front door ended the burlesque.
Adams moved to the edge of his chair. What bad information was he about to hear?
Reverend Clarke opened the door.
“A William Dawes here t’see Mr. Adams an’ Mr. Hancock,” a nervous militiaman announced.
Revere bounded out of his chair. “Let him in!”
It was the other express rider, about whom Revere had voiced concern! Adams watched Reverend Clarke lead the young man and Revere into the kitchen. They will be off to Concord within minutes, he predicted. As must he and Hancock in Hancock’s carriage to Woburn within the half hour!
Yet a part of him declared, beyond all reason, “Stay! Witness your handiwork! Supplement it!” This raid upon Concord, so long anticipated, had ignited in his soul a potent excitement!
Ultimate triumph had alighted within his reach!
How it had eluded him!
Twice he and the citizens of Massachusetts had defeated Parliament’s tax usurpations. After the Boston Massacre, after British troops had been removed from the city, after the repeal of the Townsend Acts, he had been unable to sustain their wrath. Major grievances assuaged, they had considered the tax that had remained on tea -- a tax that they were not forced to pay – inconsequential, not recognizing its existence to be a deliberate statement of Parliament’s authority!
It had been, ironically, the lords and commons of Parliament who had sundered the populace’s indifference. Safeguarding their financial interests, Parliament’s majority had awarded the foundering East India Company a monopoly of the colonial tea trade. Their action had struck colonial merchants like a lightning bolt. Perceiving the seaport tea merchant legislated out of business, American importers of every type, fearing precedence, had remonstrated. Provided again the opportunity to foment revolt, Adams and his valuable associate, Joseph Warren, had contrived the Tea Party. Parliament had harshly retaliated. Mother Country and Massachusetts now confronted each other at the edge of a precipitous cliff.
Fear and the consequent desire to compromise occupied now the minds and hearts of his countrymen. The Continental Congress had vacillated. So, too, had the Provincial Congress, which he and Warren had forced recently to pass resolves that would mean nothing if they were not vigorously enacted. Vile frustration!
Frustration here, now, too, of a different sort. Leave, or remain. That event so rare as to incite diverse men to militant reprisal would within hours transpire! Martyrs! The regrettable but essential homicide of townsmen! What else but an act of war could convince his people that they must create for themselves and for their children a liberty-loving, sovereign nation?
Adams, Samuel – Continental Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel patriots of Massachusetts
Browner, Solomon – 18 year old Lexington youth returning from a trip to Boston
Buckman, John – owner of the Buckman Tavern
Church, Dr. Benjamin – Provincial Congress delegate
Clarke, Reverend Jonas – Lexington minister and influential political leader
Dawes, William – express rider
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of British forces stationed in Boston
Gerry, Elbridge – Provincial Congress delegate
Hancock, John – rich Boston merchant. Continental Congress delegate
Hancock, Lydia – John Hancock’s aunt
Loring, Jonathan – One of three Lexington men captured by Major Mitchell’s advance party
Lowell, John – John Hancock’s clerk
Munroe, Sergeant William – Lexington tavern owner and militia sergeant
Otis, James – outspoken member of the Provincial Assembly and the Sons of Liberty
Parker, Captain John – Lexington militia captain
Patterson, Elijah – Lexington cabinet maker. One of a party to three captured by Major Mitchell’s advance party
Quincy, Dorothy (‘Dolly”) – John Hancock’s future wife
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Warren, Dr. Joseph – Second to Sam Adams in the Sons of Liberty leadership
Traveling toward the center of Lexington, a visitor might stop first at Munroe Tavern, approximately 2 miles outside the center of the town on the left side of the road. Or he might choose instead to spend the night at Buckman Tavern, at the apex of where the highway separates into two roads. If he chooses instead to visit Reverend Jonas Clarke, he would take the right-branching road and travel a short distance to come upon his house on the left side.
The Hancock-Clarke House had been the home of the Reverend John Hancock and, afterward, the Reverend Jonas Clarke - two ministers who served the spiritual and secular needs of Lexington for 105 years. Soon after coming to Lexington in 1698 the Reverend Mr. Hancock built a small parsonage on this site and in 1738 his son Thomas, a wealthy Boston merchant, enlarged his parents' home. The Reverend Hancock's grandson John, a frequent visitor to this house, was the first signer of the Declaration of Independence and the first Governor of Massachusetts.
Succeeding Hancock as minister in 1752, the Reverend Jonas Clarke, who reared twelve children in this parsonage, was an eloquent supporter of the colonial cause. The Reverend Clarke's fervent sermons were a source of inspiration to the citizens of Lexington during the crisis with Britain.
Chapter 9, “Flawed Expectation,” Section 2
William Munroe was in a foul mood. Told by Solomon Browner that British officers were patrolling the Menotomy/Lexington road, their purpose confirmed by Elbridge Gerry’s messenger, Monroe had posted outside Reverend Jonas Clarke’s house seven militiamen, late evening idlers he had found in John Buckman’s taproom. It was obvious now that Reverend Clarke’s guests, Sam Adams and John Hancock, were entirely safe. Those being made to suffer were the seven and himself. “If there was trouble t’be had, we’d’ve already had it,” Munroe had complained to the militiaman standing closest to him, directing blame not upon himself but flawed expectation.
What good were they doing? he had asked himself. They, and he, were permitting the gentlemen and the ladies in the house to sleep. Nothing else. Protecting them from harm was one thing. This wasn’t. He and his militiamen were nobody’s servants! By God, he was the father of three children, Captain Parker’s sergeant, proprietor of a popular tavern, which was where he wanted to be, there or at Buckman’s, drinking flip!
If Reverend Clarke didn’t notice the service he was performing, didn’t thank him for it, he’d be saying a few choice words right to the minister’s face!
For the umpteenth time Munroe looked at his watch. The hour hand had moved past midnight. Much earlier Mr. Hancock had told him he and the others were “retiring.” Munroe was not to “permit anything to disturb” their rest. This, he had concluded, was because of the women: Hancock's aunt and that young lady that had accompanied her. From Boston. Two weeks ago. High-born women they were, displaying all their airs, demanding special treatment!
Solomon Browner had started the trouble. The group of officers he had seen was probably half way back to Boston. And no one, not Browner, not Patterson, not Loring, had had the courtesy to tell him! They were on the road doing something! He was standing under a tall maple, getting angrier, looking too many times at his damn watch!
He pulled inwardly the lapels of his coat.
The militiaman nearest him straightened, raised his musket. “A horse is comin'.”
Munroe heard it, too, the unmistakable sound of shod hooves striking road.
“Comin' from the Common,” the militiaman said.
“Could be from Captain Parker,” a man farther away said. “Maybe them redcoats are lookin' for trouble after all.”
“Hide yourselves!” Munroe ordered. Crouched behind the maple tree’s thick trunk, Munroe blinked rapidly at the road.
He saw the single horseman. The large-sized man directed his mount into the very yard! Leveling his musket, Munroe stepped forth.
Seeing Munroe, the rider swung decisively out of the saddle. “Put that firearm away!” he shouted.
“Keep your voice down.”
“I will speak with Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock at once!” The stranger gave Munroe a smoldering look.
“No, by God, you will not!” The impertinence! He would be deciding what happened here!
“Let me pass!” The intruder glowered. “Their lives are in danger!”
“We know that!”
It occurred to Munroe that the rider, a servant or hostler, had been sent by another member of the Congress. With old news. He would now have to suffer the man’s explanation, before sending him off. But, first, Munroe would have this puffed up messenger know who issued the orders here!
“I won't let you in! The family has retired! Say what you've t'say t’me. And keep your voice down. They don't want t'be disturbed by any noise.”
The rider's teeth glinted in the moonlight. “Noise! You'll have noise enough! The regulars are coming out! Here, tend this!” He handed the militiaman standing next to Munroe his reins. Taking long strides, he reached the front door. He pounded on it.
Munroe grabbed the intruder’s right shoulder. “I said not t'disturb them!”
A window opened. Reverend Clarke’s large head protruded. “What’s happening out there?!” the minister demanded.
“I must see John Hancock at once! Let me in!”
The clergyman stared at the messenger. “I don't know you,” he said. “I will not admit strangers to this house at this time of night without knowing who they are and what they want!”
Another window opened. John Hancock’s hostile expression vanished. “Do come in, Revere,” the rich merchant declared, almost laughing. “We’re not afraid of you.”
Will Munroe’s face burned. A tingling sensation sped across his shoulder blades, coursed up his neck bone. He had argued with Paul Revere! As important a patriot, nearly, as the two at the windows. And Mr. Adams, inside. Worse, he had embarrassed himself! In front of his own guard! He'd be the butt of jokes, in his own tavern, for weeks!
Well, he’d have to live with it, wouldn’t he? For awhile. Even though everybody knew he didn’t suffer any man’s ridicule! Few tried! This, however -- damned humilitating, cursed unfair -- he’d have to bear!
It wouldn’t matter that he had had every reason for behaving the way he had. He had not been at fault! Revere hadn’t identified himself! The trouble had been Revere's doing. A name. All he had needed from Revere was his name!
It occurred to him what Revere’s appearance meant. The officers that Solomon Browner had seen had been a reconnaissance patrol. Gage’s regulars were marching! Whatever Paul Revere was about to say he should be hearing! All of which he would be needing to tell Captain Parker. Something definite would then be done, with nobody thinking to have fun at his expense!
Uninvited, he passed through the front entrance, following after the man that had made too much noise.
“John, you must not do this,” Sam Adams declared, his thin mouth and thick jaw sternly set.
“I shall, sir, join my comrades. We shall stand shoulder to shoulder against the invader!”
Seated comfortably in a high-backed upholstered chair, Paul Revere smiled. The richest man of New England, wearing a silk night coat and Moroccan slippers, was expressing egalitarian sentiment.
“John! Be sensible! Attend what I am about to say! You wish to risk your life. In a just cause. I commend you. But consider. If you should die, any townsman owning a musket could replace you on that Common! Anybody! Who could replace you at Philadelphia?!”
Right arm bent, left knee flexed, Hancock contemplated.
Sam Adams’s pulpy face darkened. Palsy! His voice had again betrayed him! Ear drums thumping, he jabbed his elbows against the armrests of his chair.
Those not acquainted with him that first day in Philadelphia might have judged him two steps from the coffin. His body was a vexing impediment! Not so his mind! No man, no accident, no force of nature had the power to alter his will! Like boats commanded by a surging tide men like Otis, Hancock, Warren, and Church adhered!
Excepting Otis, who had gone quite mad, they were whole men. John Hancock was as healthy as a four-year-old colt!
But Hancock lacked intellectual capacity, reasoned judgment. To control him Adams had gratified his appetite for admiration. The recipient of flattery, of meaningless political titles, Hancock reveled in glory. It was because of Hancock’s largess, not just his belief that to prosper the colonies had to be independent of England, that Adams indulged him.
“My leadership, Sam, is required as much this day upon the village common!” Stiffly disposed -- a peacock amid fowl -- Hancock challenged him.
Her nightclothes showing an inch below her cloak, Lydia Hancock entered. “Are you going to keep us up all night, John?” she accused.
“I am! I shall be joining my comrades! We are to stand against tyranny!” He looked through the entryway, beyond which extended the staircase. “Where is Lowell? I must have my sword polished.”
The old woman turned to Adams. “You will dissuade him, Samuel?”
“Ultimately.”
“My mind is set, Sam.”
“Set for what?” The young lady occupying the entryway, Dolly Quincy, had followed her patron downstairs. “What have you set your mind to do? Something silly I imagine.”
“I find it not at all silly to defend one’s property against tyranny!” Dismissing her with a dramatic gesture, Hancock stepped past her. “Where does Lowell sleep? I suppose I shall have to awaken him.”
“The regulars have left Boston, Miss Quincy,” Adams said blandly. “They march for Concord. John wants to be a minuteman.”
“That is silly! John, if you do, I will not stay here another minute! I will return at once to Boston, where I shall be safe with Father!”
“Safe?!” He stepped toward her. “Upon my word, you and Aunt Lydia will go to the closest town! Woburn, I should think. Boston, indeed!”
“Indeed, Boston! I want a chaise prepared now!” She turned upon the inscrutable-visaged Reverend, staring at the ebbing fire.
“No, Madam, as long as there is a bayonet left in Boston you shall not return!” Hands gripping his sides, Hancock dared her to walk past him.
Pushing her left forearm against his chest, she maneuvered by. “Recollect, Mr. Hancock,” she said over her left shoulder, “I am not yet under your control. I shall go to Father tomorrow.”
“I will not permit it!”
A rap upon the front door ended the burlesque.
Adams moved to the edge of his chair. What bad information was he about to hear?
Reverend Clarke opened the door.
“A William Dawes here t’see Mr. Adams an’ Mr. Hancock,” a nervous militiaman announced.
Revere bounded out of his chair. “Let him in!”
It was the other express rider, about whom Revere had voiced concern! Adams watched Reverend Clarke lead the young man and Revere into the kitchen. They will be off to Concord within minutes, he predicted. As must he and Hancock in Hancock’s carriage to Woburn within the half hour!
Yet a part of him declared, beyond all reason, “Stay! Witness your handiwork! Supplement it!” This raid upon Concord, so long anticipated, had ignited in his soul a potent excitement!
Ultimate triumph had alighted within his reach!
How it had eluded him!
Twice he and the citizens of Massachusetts had defeated Parliament’s tax usurpations. After the Boston Massacre, after British troops had been removed from the city, after the repeal of the Townsend Acts, he had been unable to sustain their wrath. Major grievances assuaged, they had considered the tax that had remained on tea -- a tax that they were not forced to pay – inconsequential, not recognizing its existence to be a deliberate statement of Parliament’s authority!
It had been, ironically, the lords and commons of Parliament who had sundered the populace’s indifference. Safeguarding their financial interests, Parliament’s majority had awarded the foundering East India Company a monopoly of the colonial tea trade. Their action had struck colonial merchants like a lightning bolt. Perceiving the seaport tea merchant legislated out of business, American importers of every type, fearing precedence, had remonstrated. Provided again the opportunity to foment revolt, Adams and his valuable associate, Joseph Warren, had contrived the Tea Party. Parliament had harshly retaliated. Mother Country and Massachusetts now confronted each other at the edge of a precipitous cliff.
Fear and the consequent desire to compromise occupied now the minds and hearts of his countrymen. The Continental Congress had vacillated. So, too, had the Provincial Congress, which he and Warren had forced recently to pass resolves that would mean nothing if they were not vigorously enacted. Vile frustration!
Frustration here, now, too, of a different sort. Leave, or remain. That event so rare as to incite diverse men to militant reprisal would within hours transpire! Martyrs! The regrettable but essential homicide of townsmen! What else but an act of war could convince his people that they must create for themselves and for their children a liberty-loving, sovereign nation?
March 7, 2021
Crossing the River -- Chapter 9, Section 1
Characters Mentioned
Barker, Lieutenant John – 4th Regiment. Highly critical of superiors
Conant, Colonel William – Charlestown militia commander
Dawes, William – express rider
Devens, Richard – Provincial Congress delegate interrogated by Major Mitchell
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of Boston forces stationed in Boston
Hancock, John – Rich Boston merchant. Continental Congress delegate
Larkin, Parson – Charlestown minister with excellent horse
Laurie, Captain Walter – 43rd Regiment. In command of companies guarding Concord’s North Bridge
Parsons, Captain Lawrence – 10th Regiment. In charge of a body of companies sent to Colonel Barrett’s farm to search for military stores
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Chapter 9, “Flawed Expectation,” Section 1
The horse was slender, nervous. Good Yankee horses tended to be. Placing his left hand on the horse’s nose, speaking gently, Revere watched the animal’s alert eyes. “Good horse,” he said to Colonel Conant.
“Parson Larkin's finest.”
“He needs to be.” Richard Devens touched the straw-laden dirt with the end of his walking stick. “You should know, Revere, that I was detained by British officers along the Menotomy road!”
Revere squinted.
“I encountered them at dusk. Five or six officers. Several servants -- sergeants, I presume -- accompanying them. They demanded I direct them to ‘Clark's tavern’!”
It took Revere a moment to comprehend Devens’s statement.
He wondered how much more the General knew. Gage’s spy continued to do them damage.
“I’ve dispatched a rider to warn Hancock. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s intercepted. With this horse you might have better luck. I would advise you …”
“Another express rider left Boston!” Revere interrupted. “A half hour before me. By Boston Neck.” He didn’t need this man's assessment.
“Good.” Stepping back two feet, Devens crossed his forearms.
Revere didn’t want to hear the man’s prattle. He needed to think. He set about shortening the stirrups’ leg length.
“Which road will you take?” Colonel Conant asked.
“The Cambridge road, then on to Menotomy.” He placed a forefinger under the girths.
“That’s the road I was stopped on,” Devens said, testily.
Revere studied the horse's bit. “Both roads might be patrolled. Time is important.” It was 11:25 o'clock.
The horse tossed his head, stamped his hooves. Revere stroked the horse’s muscular neck.
He mounted. The horse stepped backward. “I will alert as many households as I can,” he said, looking down. “Our message will get through. Whether or not I'm stopped.” He placed his right hand familiarly on the horse's neck. “But, I think, this animal will outrun any British plow horse.” He smiled, his irritation gone. He turned the horse onto the road.
To his left, in the bright moonlight, he saw the dark waters of the Charles River. To his right he saw the Mystic. The smell of the sea was strong and rank.
He would ride across this neck of salt marsh, moors, clay-pits, and brushwood at a pace that would neither fatigue his horse nor send them recklessly into an ambush. How far inland from their landing place the redcoats had marched he had no way of estimating. Reaching Cambridge, he would take the road through Menotomy to arrive at Lexington, a distance of eleven miles, an hour’s ride, he thought. The other route, through Medford, across the Mystic, then to Menotomy -- bypassing Cambridge -- and then to Lexington would add at least a half-hour.
His hands easy with the reins, his body accustomed to the horse’s hoof falls, Revere recalled other times he had delivered important news from Boston.
He remembered best the morning after he had toppled East India chests of tea into the harbor. Other men, having slept through the night, could have delivered the news more easily to Committee of Correspondence leaders in New York and Philadelphia; but he, knowledgeable, entirely reliable, had volunteered.
White spires above the bare branches of maples, birches, and beech had told him of the close proximity of each country town. In the better taverns he had enjoyed bowls of hot punch, tankards of flip, legs of lamb, country bread, butter, and roasted apples. He had returned to Boston eleven days after having left it, having averaged 63 miles a day in the saddle. It had been the first of three trips he had made to Philadelphia.
He had savored each assignment.
This ride, so perilous, so important, had its own satisfying enticements. A clear sky had that afternoon banished the threat of additional rain. He admired in the moonlight the angular shadows of solitary trees, sentinels, he mused, of an undisturbed wetland. He imagined farmers, directing oxen to their farthest fields, beholding God’s canopy of brittle lights: sensory gratifications to soothe the troubled soul, treacherous distractions to his purpose at hand!
Riding past the Medford road, Revere scrutinized each approaching shadow. On a less bright night two weeks hence, the deciduous growth being then in full leaf, he would have seen nothing. Each shade stimulated his imagination.
Beneath that tree, a mounted soldier. No. What was it? Having passed it, he would never know.
Directly ahead another soldier! No. Something abandoned. Two empty casks, one atop the other, he guessed.
His little horse steadfastly galloped. He thought that if he were challenged, the animal had enough run in him yet; but after they had ridden through Cambridge, perhaps not. More than likely they would be confronted there, not before.
Another soldier! No, two! Holsters and cockades! Mounted! In the broad shadow where the road narrowed!
They moved. One of them, leaving the shadow, raised a hand. The other, already ten yards beyond, turned his horse to block the road.
Pushing hard against his stirrups, pulling his reins to his chest, Revere brought his horse to an abrupt stop. Yanking the reins sideways, he forced his mount to turn. Spurring the horse in the direction they had come, he heard the nearest officer shout.
“Stop! By God, stop or I’ll shoot!”
Parson Larkin’s finest sped toward the Medford road. Bent low over the horse’s neck, Revere calculated. A pistol shot would miss him, he thought, but maybe not the horse. Quick separation was essential!
No shot was fired. Too far behind to waste ball and powder, he concluded. Or, too difficult to fire accurately.
Wanting to know, Revere glanced backward. Twenty rods lay between. Parade horses, he derided.
In a half minute he was at the junction.
Down the Medford road his horse raced. Not until he looked across the field separating the two roads did Revere realize that his pursuers had anticipated his intent. He saw a horse and rider traversing the angle of the triangular field. Watching their up and down movement, he knew he would be losing half the distance he had gained. This time the soldier would attempt a shot. Revere demanded greater speed.
Looking again, he saw that his pursuer had vanished! Two seconds later the horse’s head and neck appeared as if out of a hole. Revere saw nothing of the rider or of the other officer, who had apparently not joined the chase.
Revere slowed his blowing horse to an easy walk. His own body adjusting to its rush of adrenaline, Revere marveled. Two officers had accosted him. Devens had seen, how many, seven? Nine? More, then, waited along the main road.
Twenty minutes’ riding would bring him to the plank bridge at Medford. There he would awaken the militia captain. Afterward, he would ride to Menotomy. Evading somehow the remaining officers, he would gallop to Lexington, raising every farmhouse he passed. If he did not reach Concord, by a more circuitous route Billy Dawes or somebody else would. During the next sixty minutes, his words would be repeated by dozens of riders, off after midnight, radiating toward destinations not his own.
“Lieutenant Barker, order them ashore!” Captain Parsons directed. “Escort them to the nearest road. Keep them silent, and wait for Captain Laurie’s instructions.”
“Yes sir.” Barker scowled at the men in his boat and the boat immediately larboard. Many, having heard the Captain, were staring at the brackish water.
“Out!” he ordered. “Get out of the boat! Get out! Keep your cartridge boxes high! We wade ashore and muster where I say!”
No horse would be led through the bog to the gunwale for him! His would be provided after he had sloshed through the turgid muck! Grasping the side of the boat, wondering how far he would sink before he gained stable footing, he propelled himself, feet first, over the water. Up to his knees, he discovered. The water was cold, very cold! “Move! Keep moving!” he shouted to those in the water. “The sooner we get out, the sooner we dry off!” If we get to marching, he thought.
John Barker was a bona fide pessimist. A friend had told him once he had come out of the womb doubting birth. He had taken the jibe as a compliment. The best thing he had to say about his seven years of army service was that the experience had reinforced his mindset.
He and the men of his company would suffer now yet another protracted delay! Neither he nor anybody else had been told of the expedition’s destination or purpose. Superior minds had deemed that information too important to distribute. Which was not to say that the meanest cove hadn’t figured it out!
Barker, Lieutenant John – 4th Regiment. Highly critical of superiors
Conant, Colonel William – Charlestown militia commander
Dawes, William – express rider
Devens, Richard – Provincial Congress delegate interrogated by Major Mitchell
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of Boston forces stationed in Boston
Hancock, John – Rich Boston merchant. Continental Congress delegate
Larkin, Parson – Charlestown minister with excellent horse
Laurie, Captain Walter – 43rd Regiment. In command of companies guarding Concord’s North Bridge
Parsons, Captain Lawrence – 10th Regiment. In charge of a body of companies sent to Colonel Barrett’s farm to search for military stores
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Chapter 9, “Flawed Expectation,” Section 1
The horse was slender, nervous. Good Yankee horses tended to be. Placing his left hand on the horse’s nose, speaking gently, Revere watched the animal’s alert eyes. “Good horse,” he said to Colonel Conant.
“Parson Larkin's finest.”
“He needs to be.” Richard Devens touched the straw-laden dirt with the end of his walking stick. “You should know, Revere, that I was detained by British officers along the Menotomy road!”
Revere squinted.
“I encountered them at dusk. Five or six officers. Several servants -- sergeants, I presume -- accompanying them. They demanded I direct them to ‘Clark's tavern’!”
It took Revere a moment to comprehend Devens’s statement.
He wondered how much more the General knew. Gage’s spy continued to do them damage.
“I’ve dispatched a rider to warn Hancock. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s intercepted. With this horse you might have better luck. I would advise you …”
“Another express rider left Boston!” Revere interrupted. “A half hour before me. By Boston Neck.” He didn’t need this man's assessment.
“Good.” Stepping back two feet, Devens crossed his forearms.
Revere didn’t want to hear the man’s prattle. He needed to think. He set about shortening the stirrups’ leg length.
“Which road will you take?” Colonel Conant asked.
“The Cambridge road, then on to Menotomy.” He placed a forefinger under the girths.
“That’s the road I was stopped on,” Devens said, testily.
Revere studied the horse's bit. “Both roads might be patrolled. Time is important.” It was 11:25 o'clock.
The horse tossed his head, stamped his hooves. Revere stroked the horse’s muscular neck.
He mounted. The horse stepped backward. “I will alert as many households as I can,” he said, looking down. “Our message will get through. Whether or not I'm stopped.” He placed his right hand familiarly on the horse's neck. “But, I think, this animal will outrun any British plow horse.” He smiled, his irritation gone. He turned the horse onto the road.
To his left, in the bright moonlight, he saw the dark waters of the Charles River. To his right he saw the Mystic. The smell of the sea was strong and rank.
He would ride across this neck of salt marsh, moors, clay-pits, and brushwood at a pace that would neither fatigue his horse nor send them recklessly into an ambush. How far inland from their landing place the redcoats had marched he had no way of estimating. Reaching Cambridge, he would take the road through Menotomy to arrive at Lexington, a distance of eleven miles, an hour’s ride, he thought. The other route, through Medford, across the Mystic, then to Menotomy -- bypassing Cambridge -- and then to Lexington would add at least a half-hour.
His hands easy with the reins, his body accustomed to the horse’s hoof falls, Revere recalled other times he had delivered important news from Boston.
He remembered best the morning after he had toppled East India chests of tea into the harbor. Other men, having slept through the night, could have delivered the news more easily to Committee of Correspondence leaders in New York and Philadelphia; but he, knowledgeable, entirely reliable, had volunteered.
White spires above the bare branches of maples, birches, and beech had told him of the close proximity of each country town. In the better taverns he had enjoyed bowls of hot punch, tankards of flip, legs of lamb, country bread, butter, and roasted apples. He had returned to Boston eleven days after having left it, having averaged 63 miles a day in the saddle. It had been the first of three trips he had made to Philadelphia.
He had savored each assignment.
This ride, so perilous, so important, had its own satisfying enticements. A clear sky had that afternoon banished the threat of additional rain. He admired in the moonlight the angular shadows of solitary trees, sentinels, he mused, of an undisturbed wetland. He imagined farmers, directing oxen to their farthest fields, beholding God’s canopy of brittle lights: sensory gratifications to soothe the troubled soul, treacherous distractions to his purpose at hand!
Riding past the Medford road, Revere scrutinized each approaching shadow. On a less bright night two weeks hence, the deciduous growth being then in full leaf, he would have seen nothing. Each shade stimulated his imagination.
Beneath that tree, a mounted soldier. No. What was it? Having passed it, he would never know.
Directly ahead another soldier! No. Something abandoned. Two empty casks, one atop the other, he guessed.
His little horse steadfastly galloped. He thought that if he were challenged, the animal had enough run in him yet; but after they had ridden through Cambridge, perhaps not. More than likely they would be confronted there, not before.
Another soldier! No, two! Holsters and cockades! Mounted! In the broad shadow where the road narrowed!
They moved. One of them, leaving the shadow, raised a hand. The other, already ten yards beyond, turned his horse to block the road.
Pushing hard against his stirrups, pulling his reins to his chest, Revere brought his horse to an abrupt stop. Yanking the reins sideways, he forced his mount to turn. Spurring the horse in the direction they had come, he heard the nearest officer shout.
“Stop! By God, stop or I’ll shoot!”
Parson Larkin’s finest sped toward the Medford road. Bent low over the horse’s neck, Revere calculated. A pistol shot would miss him, he thought, but maybe not the horse. Quick separation was essential!
No shot was fired. Too far behind to waste ball and powder, he concluded. Or, too difficult to fire accurately.
Wanting to know, Revere glanced backward. Twenty rods lay between. Parade horses, he derided.
In a half minute he was at the junction.
Down the Medford road his horse raced. Not until he looked across the field separating the two roads did Revere realize that his pursuers had anticipated his intent. He saw a horse and rider traversing the angle of the triangular field. Watching their up and down movement, he knew he would be losing half the distance he had gained. This time the soldier would attempt a shot. Revere demanded greater speed.
Looking again, he saw that his pursuer had vanished! Two seconds later the horse’s head and neck appeared as if out of a hole. Revere saw nothing of the rider or of the other officer, who had apparently not joined the chase.
Revere slowed his blowing horse to an easy walk. His own body adjusting to its rush of adrenaline, Revere marveled. Two officers had accosted him. Devens had seen, how many, seven? Nine? More, then, waited along the main road.
Twenty minutes’ riding would bring him to the plank bridge at Medford. There he would awaken the militia captain. Afterward, he would ride to Menotomy. Evading somehow the remaining officers, he would gallop to Lexington, raising every farmhouse he passed. If he did not reach Concord, by a more circuitous route Billy Dawes or somebody else would. During the next sixty minutes, his words would be repeated by dozens of riders, off after midnight, radiating toward destinations not his own.
“Lieutenant Barker, order them ashore!” Captain Parsons directed. “Escort them to the nearest road. Keep them silent, and wait for Captain Laurie’s instructions.”
“Yes sir.” Barker scowled at the men in his boat and the boat immediately larboard. Many, having heard the Captain, were staring at the brackish water.
“Out!” he ordered. “Get out of the boat! Get out! Keep your cartridge boxes high! We wade ashore and muster where I say!”
No horse would be led through the bog to the gunwale for him! His would be provided after he had sloshed through the turgid muck! Grasping the side of the boat, wondering how far he would sink before he gained stable footing, he propelled himself, feet first, over the water. Up to his knees, he discovered. The water was cold, very cold! “Move! Keep moving!” he shouted to those in the water. “The sooner we get out, the sooner we dry off!” If we get to marching, he thought.
John Barker was a bona fide pessimist. A friend had told him once he had come out of the womb doubting birth. He had taken the jibe as a compliment. The best thing he had to say about his seven years of army service was that the experience had reinforced his mindset.
He and the men of his company would suffer now yet another protracted delay! Neither he nor anybody else had been told of the expedition’s destination or purpose. Superior minds had deemed that information too important to distribute. Which was not to say that the meanest cove hadn’t figured it out!
March 4, 2021
Crossing the River -- Chapter 8 -- Section 3
Characters Mentioned
Bentley, Joshua – rowed Revere’s boat across the Charles River
Conant, Colonel William – Charlestown militia commander
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of Boston forces stationed in Boston
Lister, Ensign Jeremy – 10th Regiment. Volunteer replacement of Lieutenant Hamilton
Mitchell, Major Edward – 10th Regiment. In command of a body of officers assigned to intercept express riders prior to the raid upon Concord
Newman, Robert – Christ Church sexton
Parsons, Captain Lawrence – 10th Regiment. In charge of a body of companies sent to Colonel Barrett’s farm to search for military stores
Percy, Lieutenant Hugh Earl – commander of the 1st Brigade. In charge of the relief column that rescued Colonel Smith’s forces
Pitcairn, Major John – commander of the Marines. Second in command of the forces sent to Concord
Pulling, John – Christ Church vestryman
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Richardson, Thomas – rowed Revere’s boat across the Charles River
Smith, Lieutenant Colonel Francis – commander of the 10th Regiment. In charge of the expedition sent to Concord to seize rebel stores
Chapter 8, “A Most Delightful Evening,” Section 3
Having dragged his trailing leg awkwardly through his opened bedroom window, Robert Newman lowered himself onto the roof of the abutting shed. For a good twenty seconds he listened. Across and down the roof he then proceeded, slowly -- silently, he prayed -- lest he be heard by the British officers downstairs at their game of whist. He had excused himself from the general company ten minutes earlier, telling his mother that he was tired and wanted to retire. At the edge of the roof, listening, staring, he detected no one in the street. Carefully, soundlessly, he lowered himself, his shoes reaching the top of an upright, empty flour barrel. Crouched atop the barrel, he extended his left leg until the toe of his shoe touched the pavement.
Had they heard him? Stiff as a grave marker, he listened.
The dark shape of Christ Church dwarfed him. He moved quickly across the street into its shadow. A young man, twenty-three, he was the church sexton. His older brother was the organist. Times were hard; Newman did not like his job; too bad. When Paul Revere had explained to him what he had wanted, Newman had been eager to participate. Afterward, he had reckoned the peril.
Hearing footsteps on the cobblestones, he stepped behind the church’s corner. John Pulling emerged from the darkness. “Sssst! Over here!” Newman whispered.
Pulling was a church vestryman. Revere had recruited him to be Newman’s lookout.
“Not here yet?” Pulling asked.
“He didn't say when. Any time, I suspect.” He was right. Soon they heard aggressive footsteps. Paul Revere’s broad figure approached.
“Nervous?” Revere asked, joining them at the church’s darkest corner.
Newman nodded.
“You become accustomed to it.” For perhaps ten seconds Revere gazed at the deserted street.
Newman was taken by the silversmith’s air of confidence.
“The British soldiers are in the boats,” Revere informed. “Go easy. Take your time. But do your work to its completion. If I’m arrested, our fortune may rest entirely upon what you accomplish.” He patted Newman’s left shoulder. “I must prepare to leave. God be with you.”
Newman listened to Revere’s footfalls and then, too soon, but the night sounds.
It was too late to renege.
“All right,” he said, raising angrily his hands. He pulled out of his side coat pocket a ring of keys. He inserted a long key into the lock of the side entrance door. He turned the key and pushed open the door. Pulling nodded. Newman closed the door, locked it, and in darkness felt his way to a closet. Leaving it, carrying two lanterns, he moved to the stairway that led to the belfry.
Past the bell loft he climbed, the eight great bells within somnolent. He reached the highest window. To the north he saw in the moonlight the shoulder of Copp's Hill. Beyond lay the mouth of the Charles River and the glimmering lights of the Somerset, a moving, ethereal flicker.
He reached downward, lit the lanterns, and raised them chest high. Somewhere amid the lights of Charlestown, beyond the Somerset, Sons of Liberty were watching. They would now know that Gage’s soldiers were crossing the Back Bay.
Having counted to twenty, he set the lanterns down below the window. He extinguished them. Such a short while they had glowed, but Mr. Revere had assured him that patriots of Liberty would be watching. He had not wanted others, especially sailors on the man-of-war, to see them!
Other people, however, just might! An officer, taking a brisk walk along Snow Street. Newman imagined others: a soldier at the burying ground engaging a whore, sentries idling at the Charlestown Ferry. How swiftly might the source of that strange illumination be determined? How soon might soldiers be dispatched to investigate?
He heard unnatural sounds in the street! Sounds loud enough to startle him. What was Pulling doing? His heart thumped.
He waited a full minute.
He imagined Pulling arrested, soldiers posted silently outside the main entrance. Impeded by doubt, by anxiety, he tarried.
Ashamed of his cowardice, he willed himself down the dark stairway. He returned the lanterns to the closet. Then, to the opposite end of the church he walked, stopping to listen after each step. Eventually, he reached the window farthest from the main entrance. He opened it, not without some noise, listened again to silence, climbed through it, and placed his shoes on firm soil.
Five minutes later he was standing on the roof of the shed adjacent to his bedroom window. He eased himself soundlessly over the sill. Leaving his outer garments on the floor, he climbed into his bed. For at least an hour he lay still, his agitated mind imagining frightful consequences.
Below, concluding a most delightful evening, the officers jested and guffawed.
“What do we have here?!” Colonel Smith had blocked Lister’s way to the boat. Standing beside Smith, Major John Pitcairn stared. Two aides, behind the officers, squinted. “You shall not accompany us!” Smith raised his chin. “We are not accepting volunteers!”
“Sir, I am replacing a sick officer,” Lister said stiltedly.
“On whose authority may I ask?”
“Captain Parsons, sir.”
“And where is Captain Parsons? I wish to speak to him.”
“I believe he's in one of the boats, sir.”
Colonel Smith glanced, perfunctorily, at the nearest boat. “I see.”
Lister moved his feet.
Smith cleared his throat.
“Simply put, I will not let you go!”
“But, sir, the company requires my presence!”
“You have not had the necessary training. I think not!” Smith's small, round eyes censured him.
Lister stammered, gestured expansively. “Sir, my absence'll reflect upon the honor of our regiment!”
Again, Colonel Smith raised his chin. Eyebrows high, he stared. “How so, ensign?”
“The 10th'll be the only regiment whose two flank companies will not have their full complement of officers!”
The Colonel touched the base of his chin. He nodded ever so slightly. “I fairly admit that the honor of one's regiment must be preserved!” He glanced at Pitcairn, who had turned his attention to the boats. Smith thereupon straightened. “Seen in that light, ensign, I shall permit you to serve.”
“Thank you, sir.” Lister saluted him. The Colonel turned away.
Lister stepped through the shallow water. His left hand on the gunwale of the nearest boat, he stared at the shoreline. Not counting the two senior officers and their truckling aides, he would be the last soldier loaded. “What a fellow you are,” he muttered.
“How could this be?! I have spoken about it only to you, and my wife!” General Gage resumed his pacing, then stopped. “Colonel Smith does not know! He has sealed orders, which he is to open once he reaches Cambridge!”
“Sir, is there anyone else, someone, maybe an unguarded remark?”
Hands pressed against the small of his back, the General scowled. “Yes. Yes,” he said, nodding, “those officers who must perform special duties. Major Mitchell. He and junior officers of his selection. I sent them into the country to intercept express riders!” Gage's eyes evaded Percy's. “Also, this afternoon, several artillery men on horses, with disassembling tools, to hide in the woods beyond Menotomy, where they are to await Smith’s column. I must emphasize, all of them are loyal soldiers, hand-picked men, sworn to secrecy!”
“Yes sir. Indeed, I take your point.” Percy unclasped his hands, lowered them below his waist. “What I have described to you wears, now that you have spoken, a different aspect.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Rife speculation. Sir, put yourself in their stead. Munitions in Concord. Soldiers embarking in boats. Concord seventeen miles away. The stores common knowledge throughout this city. I find this explanation compelling.”
“Just so.” Gage nodded. “Determined whether by deduction or hard evidence, the horse is out of the barn! The question that is germane, Colonel Percy, is, Do I abort the raid?!” Staring over Percy’s left shoulder, Gage rubbed the joints of his right hand.
Percy gazed through the window that overlooked Orange Street. Expecting the sound of a horse’s hooves or the wheels of a wagon, he heard nothing. “Sir, even if the foray’s advent is common knowledge outside this building,” he said, “it may yet not be anticipated in Concord. You have only this evening deployed the soldiers.”
The General sighed. He stared at the floor. Percy empathized. Often before battle, and most definitely thereafter, plans went awry. Expect the unexpected, the old adage went. Do thereafter what appears right. Still, …
“We can expect now a concerted attempt to alert the militia. Major Mitchell bears a grave responsibility.”
Percy agreed.
Gage crossed the room. For perhaps twenty seconds he stared out the one window. Head raised, shoulders straight, he turned. “Come what may, we shall finish this. An early start on the road to Concord, arrival at dawn, a swift conclusion to our business, it can yet be done. I do not see why this cannot succeed, as planned!”
Percy recalled Colonel Smith's tardy arrival at the shoreline. He visualized the chaotic embarkation.
“I still believe that confronted by our disciplined soldiers the provincial farmer will desist. He is not a coward, but he is practical. At times he is very shrewd.”
“At times, yes. I do agree.”
“So we shall go as planned.” Hands joined, General Gage fixated on two picture frames, slightly off kilter, on the near wall. “I am confident of success,” he declared. Eye pouches visible, he turned to his subordinate. “Notwithstanding, you had best sleep lightly, for I will not hesitate to require your service.”
Softly, softly, the muffled oars dipped into the water. The boat was marking a broad semi-circle about the Somerset, turning ever so slightly against its cable.
The boat’s occupants did not speak. Joshua Bentley and Thomas Richardson were laboring to bring the boat closer to the mouth of the river. Neither man glanced at the Somerset’s dark hull. Paul Revere, motionless as stone, regarded little else.
Up current, longboats were ferrying soldiers to Lechmere’s Point. If he and they in the boat reached the Charlestown landing, he would have little time to act following his conversation with Colonel Conant.
He glanced at the North Boston skyline, confident that the lanterns had been lit and the Colonel and those assisting him had witnessed them. How long would they wait for his arrival before deciding that he had been taken? Because of their hesitancy, how late would be his replacement’s departure?
These questions did not require answers. Having left the Somerset behind, the little boat now approached the Old Battery. He and they at the oars had won. Joy replaced trepidation. Impulsively, Revere lifted Richardson’s feet. The muscular rower let loose a robust oath.
Laughing yet, Revere saw over Richardson’s left shoulder one of Colonel Conant’s militiamen, gesturing at the edge of the Battery dock. Waving his arms, Revere shouted.
Bentley, Joshua – rowed Revere’s boat across the Charles River
Conant, Colonel William – Charlestown militia commander
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of Boston forces stationed in Boston
Lister, Ensign Jeremy – 10th Regiment. Volunteer replacement of Lieutenant Hamilton
Mitchell, Major Edward – 10th Regiment. In command of a body of officers assigned to intercept express riders prior to the raid upon Concord
Newman, Robert – Christ Church sexton
Parsons, Captain Lawrence – 10th Regiment. In charge of a body of companies sent to Colonel Barrett’s farm to search for military stores
Percy, Lieutenant Hugh Earl – commander of the 1st Brigade. In charge of the relief column that rescued Colonel Smith’s forces
Pitcairn, Major John – commander of the Marines. Second in command of the forces sent to Concord
Pulling, John – Christ Church vestryman
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Richardson, Thomas – rowed Revere’s boat across the Charles River
Smith, Lieutenant Colonel Francis – commander of the 10th Regiment. In charge of the expedition sent to Concord to seize rebel stores
Chapter 8, “A Most Delightful Evening,” Section 3
Having dragged his trailing leg awkwardly through his opened bedroom window, Robert Newman lowered himself onto the roof of the abutting shed. For a good twenty seconds he listened. Across and down the roof he then proceeded, slowly -- silently, he prayed -- lest he be heard by the British officers downstairs at their game of whist. He had excused himself from the general company ten minutes earlier, telling his mother that he was tired and wanted to retire. At the edge of the roof, listening, staring, he detected no one in the street. Carefully, soundlessly, he lowered himself, his shoes reaching the top of an upright, empty flour barrel. Crouched atop the barrel, he extended his left leg until the toe of his shoe touched the pavement.
Had they heard him? Stiff as a grave marker, he listened.
The dark shape of Christ Church dwarfed him. He moved quickly across the street into its shadow. A young man, twenty-three, he was the church sexton. His older brother was the organist. Times were hard; Newman did not like his job; too bad. When Paul Revere had explained to him what he had wanted, Newman had been eager to participate. Afterward, he had reckoned the peril.
Hearing footsteps on the cobblestones, he stepped behind the church’s corner. John Pulling emerged from the darkness. “Sssst! Over here!” Newman whispered.
Pulling was a church vestryman. Revere had recruited him to be Newman’s lookout.
“Not here yet?” Pulling asked.
“He didn't say when. Any time, I suspect.” He was right. Soon they heard aggressive footsteps. Paul Revere’s broad figure approached.
“Nervous?” Revere asked, joining them at the church’s darkest corner.
Newman nodded.
“You become accustomed to it.” For perhaps ten seconds Revere gazed at the deserted street.
Newman was taken by the silversmith’s air of confidence.
“The British soldiers are in the boats,” Revere informed. “Go easy. Take your time. But do your work to its completion. If I’m arrested, our fortune may rest entirely upon what you accomplish.” He patted Newman’s left shoulder. “I must prepare to leave. God be with you.”
Newman listened to Revere’s footfalls and then, too soon, but the night sounds.
It was too late to renege.
“All right,” he said, raising angrily his hands. He pulled out of his side coat pocket a ring of keys. He inserted a long key into the lock of the side entrance door. He turned the key and pushed open the door. Pulling nodded. Newman closed the door, locked it, and in darkness felt his way to a closet. Leaving it, carrying two lanterns, he moved to the stairway that led to the belfry.
Past the bell loft he climbed, the eight great bells within somnolent. He reached the highest window. To the north he saw in the moonlight the shoulder of Copp's Hill. Beyond lay the mouth of the Charles River and the glimmering lights of the Somerset, a moving, ethereal flicker.
He reached downward, lit the lanterns, and raised them chest high. Somewhere amid the lights of Charlestown, beyond the Somerset, Sons of Liberty were watching. They would now know that Gage’s soldiers were crossing the Back Bay.
Having counted to twenty, he set the lanterns down below the window. He extinguished them. Such a short while they had glowed, but Mr. Revere had assured him that patriots of Liberty would be watching. He had not wanted others, especially sailors on the man-of-war, to see them!
Other people, however, just might! An officer, taking a brisk walk along Snow Street. Newman imagined others: a soldier at the burying ground engaging a whore, sentries idling at the Charlestown Ferry. How swiftly might the source of that strange illumination be determined? How soon might soldiers be dispatched to investigate?
He heard unnatural sounds in the street! Sounds loud enough to startle him. What was Pulling doing? His heart thumped.
He waited a full minute.
He imagined Pulling arrested, soldiers posted silently outside the main entrance. Impeded by doubt, by anxiety, he tarried.
Ashamed of his cowardice, he willed himself down the dark stairway. He returned the lanterns to the closet. Then, to the opposite end of the church he walked, stopping to listen after each step. Eventually, he reached the window farthest from the main entrance. He opened it, not without some noise, listened again to silence, climbed through it, and placed his shoes on firm soil.
Five minutes later he was standing on the roof of the shed adjacent to his bedroom window. He eased himself soundlessly over the sill. Leaving his outer garments on the floor, he climbed into his bed. For at least an hour he lay still, his agitated mind imagining frightful consequences.
Below, concluding a most delightful evening, the officers jested and guffawed.
“What do we have here?!” Colonel Smith had blocked Lister’s way to the boat. Standing beside Smith, Major John Pitcairn stared. Two aides, behind the officers, squinted. “You shall not accompany us!” Smith raised his chin. “We are not accepting volunteers!”
“Sir, I am replacing a sick officer,” Lister said stiltedly.
“On whose authority may I ask?”
“Captain Parsons, sir.”
“And where is Captain Parsons? I wish to speak to him.”
“I believe he's in one of the boats, sir.”
Colonel Smith glanced, perfunctorily, at the nearest boat. “I see.”
Lister moved his feet.
Smith cleared his throat.
“Simply put, I will not let you go!”
“But, sir, the company requires my presence!”
“You have not had the necessary training. I think not!” Smith's small, round eyes censured him.
Lister stammered, gestured expansively. “Sir, my absence'll reflect upon the honor of our regiment!”
Again, Colonel Smith raised his chin. Eyebrows high, he stared. “How so, ensign?”
“The 10th'll be the only regiment whose two flank companies will not have their full complement of officers!”
The Colonel touched the base of his chin. He nodded ever so slightly. “I fairly admit that the honor of one's regiment must be preserved!” He glanced at Pitcairn, who had turned his attention to the boats. Smith thereupon straightened. “Seen in that light, ensign, I shall permit you to serve.”
“Thank you, sir.” Lister saluted him. The Colonel turned away.
Lister stepped through the shallow water. His left hand on the gunwale of the nearest boat, he stared at the shoreline. Not counting the two senior officers and their truckling aides, he would be the last soldier loaded. “What a fellow you are,” he muttered.
“How could this be?! I have spoken about it only to you, and my wife!” General Gage resumed his pacing, then stopped. “Colonel Smith does not know! He has sealed orders, which he is to open once he reaches Cambridge!”
“Sir, is there anyone else, someone, maybe an unguarded remark?”
Hands pressed against the small of his back, the General scowled. “Yes. Yes,” he said, nodding, “those officers who must perform special duties. Major Mitchell. He and junior officers of his selection. I sent them into the country to intercept express riders!” Gage's eyes evaded Percy's. “Also, this afternoon, several artillery men on horses, with disassembling tools, to hide in the woods beyond Menotomy, where they are to await Smith’s column. I must emphasize, all of them are loyal soldiers, hand-picked men, sworn to secrecy!”
“Yes sir. Indeed, I take your point.” Percy unclasped his hands, lowered them below his waist. “What I have described to you wears, now that you have spoken, a different aspect.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Rife speculation. Sir, put yourself in their stead. Munitions in Concord. Soldiers embarking in boats. Concord seventeen miles away. The stores common knowledge throughout this city. I find this explanation compelling.”
“Just so.” Gage nodded. “Determined whether by deduction or hard evidence, the horse is out of the barn! The question that is germane, Colonel Percy, is, Do I abort the raid?!” Staring over Percy’s left shoulder, Gage rubbed the joints of his right hand.
Percy gazed through the window that overlooked Orange Street. Expecting the sound of a horse’s hooves or the wheels of a wagon, he heard nothing. “Sir, even if the foray’s advent is common knowledge outside this building,” he said, “it may yet not be anticipated in Concord. You have only this evening deployed the soldiers.”
The General sighed. He stared at the floor. Percy empathized. Often before battle, and most definitely thereafter, plans went awry. Expect the unexpected, the old adage went. Do thereafter what appears right. Still, …
“We can expect now a concerted attempt to alert the militia. Major Mitchell bears a grave responsibility.”
Percy agreed.
Gage crossed the room. For perhaps twenty seconds he stared out the one window. Head raised, shoulders straight, he turned. “Come what may, we shall finish this. An early start on the road to Concord, arrival at dawn, a swift conclusion to our business, it can yet be done. I do not see why this cannot succeed, as planned!”
Percy recalled Colonel Smith's tardy arrival at the shoreline. He visualized the chaotic embarkation.
“I still believe that confronted by our disciplined soldiers the provincial farmer will desist. He is not a coward, but he is practical. At times he is very shrewd.”
“At times, yes. I do agree.”
“So we shall go as planned.” Hands joined, General Gage fixated on two picture frames, slightly off kilter, on the near wall. “I am confident of success,” he declared. Eye pouches visible, he turned to his subordinate. “Notwithstanding, you had best sleep lightly, for I will not hesitate to require your service.”
Softly, softly, the muffled oars dipped into the water. The boat was marking a broad semi-circle about the Somerset, turning ever so slightly against its cable.
The boat’s occupants did not speak. Joshua Bentley and Thomas Richardson were laboring to bring the boat closer to the mouth of the river. Neither man glanced at the Somerset’s dark hull. Paul Revere, motionless as stone, regarded little else.
Up current, longboats were ferrying soldiers to Lechmere’s Point. If he and they in the boat reached the Charlestown landing, he would have little time to act following his conversation with Colonel Conant.
He glanced at the North Boston skyline, confident that the lanterns had been lit and the Colonel and those assisting him had witnessed them. How long would they wait for his arrival before deciding that he had been taken? Because of their hesitancy, how late would be his replacement’s departure?
These questions did not require answers. Having left the Somerset behind, the little boat now approached the Old Battery. He and they at the oars had won. Joy replaced trepidation. Impulsively, Revere lifted Richardson’s feet. The muscular rower let loose a robust oath.
Laughing yet, Revere saw over Richardson’s left shoulder one of Colonel Conant’s militiamen, gesturing at the edge of the Battery dock. Waving his arms, Revere shouted.
February 28, 2021
Crossing the River -- Chapter 8 -- Section 2
Characters Mentioned
Conant, Colonel William – Charlestown militia commander
Dawes, William – express rider
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of Boston forces stationed in Boston
Hamilton, Lieutenant – missing officer at the loading of soldiers to be rowed across the Charles River
Lister, Ensign Jeremy – 10th Regiment. Volunteer replacement of Lieutenant Hamilton
MacKenzie, Lieutenant Frederick – adjutant general of the Welch Fusiliers. Amateur cartographer
Parsons, Captain Lawrence – 10th Regiment. In charge of a body of companies sent to Colonel Barrett’s farm to search for military stores
Percy, Lieutenant Hugh Earl – commander of the 1st Brigade. In charge of the relief column that rescued Colonel Smith’s forces
Pitcairn, Major John – commander of the Marines. Second in command of the forces sent to Concord
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Smith, Lieutenant Colonel Francis – commander of the 10th Regiment. In charge of the expedition sent to Concord to seize rebel stores
Warren, Doctor Joseph – second to Samuel Adams in the Sons of Liberty leadership
Chapter 8, “A Most Delightful Evening,” Section 2
Lieutenant Frederick MacKenzie was in a temper.
At 10 p.m., expecting to witness an expeditious loading, the adjutant of the 23rd Regiment had led his two companies to the bottom of Boston Common. No officer had been assigned to direct the sundry grouping of companies to pre-selected boats. MacKenzie had witnessed, instead, bunches of soldiers herded on the upslope of the Common, empty boats bobbing at the shoreline, and forty to fifty soldiers caterwauling and blatterooning between.
“Who's in charge here?! Who is responsible for this?!” MacKenzie had demanded.
“Colonel Smith, sir,” an ensign belonging to the 10th Regiment had answered. “My captain's orders are to do nothing until the Colonel arrives. He's late.”
Lieutenant MacKenzie had then understood. Disdaining the ensign’s explanation, MacKenzie had loaded his men immediately into four boats. Junior officers of other companies had thereafter followed his example.
Thirty minutes had passed. Riding the negligible current, the occupied boats awaited Smith’s appearance. They would have to be rowed across the river twice. MacKenzie thought about the hot biscuits and honey that Nancy had promised him upon his return. Two months ago he had scoffed at General Gage’s solicitation of officers who could draw and spy, a message about which she had teased and then interrogated him. The General’s reckless choice of Colonel Smith warranted least of all jest! Far more consequential than solicitation of spies was this!
Walking rapidly across Hanover Street, Paul Revere turned inward at Joseph Warren's residence, the messenger that had summoned him at 10 p.m. lagging far behind. Expecting a summons that afternoon, Revere was somewhat surprised that it had arrived at this late hour. But General Gage would not have wanted to begin the transport sooner, even though a crossing in the dark would be nearly as conspicuous. Anyone witnessing the massing of troops at the bottom of the Common and the hurried preparations of officers billeted in private homes would recognize a major undertaking was in the doing.
“Paul, they've begun.” Grasping Revere’s right arm, Warren directed the silversmith into his study. Rejecting chairs, each stood.
“You must go again to warn our friends.” Warren placed his hands atop the closest high-back chair. “And the town militias!”
“I'm ready.”
“You should know … as a precaution … that I have sent a rider across the Neck.” Eyebrows arched, Warren studied Revere’s face. “I did so a half hour ago. He may pass the guard, but we cannot be certain.”
“Who?”
“William Dawes.” Warren read Revere's perplexed expression. “Billy Dawes, the young cordwainer. Last September he helped remove the four brass cannon from the gun house.”
“I do know him. He’s young.”
“Twenty-three. Courageous, a play actor of sorts. More to our advantage is the soldiers at the Gate don’t know him. Nor does anybody else, save the officer he knocked to the street recently for insulting his wife.” Warren smiled, guardedly.
Revere had devised a way to have his message carried into the country should he be seized crossing the River. Not entirely satisfied, Warren had initiated his own plan, couched to Revere as cautionary. The good doctor had not wanted to do him injury. He was not offended. Dawes’s participation mattered to him not one straw. What mattered was that Warren, trusting his own considerable lights, had acted. It was yet another example of why his leadership was widely esteemed.
“How are you to proceed?” the doctor asked, satisfied apparently that he had not offended.
“Exactly as we had decided. I should reach Charlestown past 11 p.m. if I evade the Somerset. Whether I do or not, the lanterns will alert Colonel Conant.” He stopped, a sudden upsurge of emotion affecting his ability to speak. “And you?” he fairly whispered.
“I will stay here awhile.” Warren averted Revere’s eyes. His fingertips brushed twice the top of the chair in front of him. “Useful information may yet be forthcoming.” He returned Revere's stare. “If the General had wanted to arrest me, Paul, I would have been at the Province House days before! Seated comfortably, I should imagine, sipping his Madeira!” His eyes sparkled.
“Then I will see you …”
“In a day or two. Be assured!” He gazed across the room, at the silk drapery, the mantelpiece figurines, the latticed window. He touched briefly the bridge of his nose. “God protect you,” he said, offering Revere a sudden, strained smile.
“God protect us all.”
A hundred yards from the shoreline of Boston Common, Hugh, Earl Percy, feigning indifference, watched the final company of regulars clamber into the three remaining boats. The past forty-five minutes he had watched agitated junior officers locate, remove, and relocate their charges across the upslope of the Common. Because none of the waiting boats had been assigned to specific units, the more assertive officers had attempted to commandeer those closest. Arguments and the co-mingling of companies had resulted. Percy had observed in the rank and file a gamut of conduct, little of it exemplary.
Ten rods to Percy’s left, surrounded by a crowd of company captains, Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith was seated on a chair, carried down, Percy assumed, from one of the barracks. “His attention is yet misdirected!” Percy muttered. If he, Percy, were commander, … He wasn’t!
Two hours ago General Gage had informed Earl Percy of Smith’s appointment. The General had summoned Percy to the Province House to apprise him of his subordinate assignment. First, however, had been Gage’s revelation that Colonel Smith was to lead. No! Percy had silently reacted. “I have placed Major Pitcairn second in command,” the General had thereafter stated.
At once Percy had recognized Gage’s reasoning. He had not wanted to offend his most senior field officer. An awful decision. Gage’s selection of Pitcairn, however, had been astute. Honest, efficient, fair-minded, and shrewd, John Pitcairn had the ability to correct Smith’s worst mistakes. Perhaps Smith would seek Pitcairn's counsel. Better yet, he might delegate to the Scotsman all decision-making responsibility.
These hurried thoughts had preceded Gage’s announcement of Percy’s assignment. “You shall command a sizeable force to be made ready to reinforce Colonel Smith and his men at or near the vicinity of Concord should events deem that action necessary.” -- So, the General has his own doubts, Percy had thought. -- “But I don’t think the rebels will fight.”
Riding past tall, peak-roofed buildings during his return to his residence, Percy had pondered Gage’s decision. A part of Percy’s creed was his belief that in combat a commanding general should utilize the entirety of his resources. That meant employing to maximum benefit his best field officer. The General had chosen to proceed differently, presuming that the colonials would not contest Smith, saving Percy to avert calamity should his judgment be proven deficient.
The mismanagement that Percy had witnessed the past forty-five minutes had laid bare the importance of Gage’s calculation.
Vulgar townsmen were gathering ever closer along the down slope. Most were of the worst element: artful, hypocritical, cruel! As was many a regular riding now the gentle current! Miscreants of every stripe abounded!
Like footpads out of black alleyways, these city villains were claiming ownership of the slope! Some stared, some were amused, many hurled insults at the soldiers, several of whom, revealed by the light of the moon, gestured and shouted back. Not willing to tolerate the scapegraces yet another minute, Percy walked aggressively up the hill.
He came upon a group of five standing in his way. To avoid interrogation and insult, he began a wide detour. Three turned to face him; one of them spoke.
“The British’ve marched, but they’ll miss their aim.”
Percy marked him. They reciprocated. One man's eyes traveled the length of his uniform.
“What aim?” he responded, his irritation evident.
“Why, the cannon at Concord,” the gray-haired man said, smirking.
Percy stepped past them. With long strides he ascended the hill. A second cluster of men, blocking his way, scattered.
That the soldiers were “on the march” was clear. But to know precisely their purpose and destination!
“Where’s Hamilton?! Who here has seen Hamilton?! Lickspittle jackanapes!”
Suppressing a grin, Ensign Jeremy Lister watched his captain, Lawrence Parsons, vociferate.
“He's in the barrack, sir,” a corporal responded, separating himself from four soldiers calf deep in the water.
“Two messengers say he isn’t! If he is, I'll court martial him!”
Lister had come to the shoreline both to watch the departure of several friends and discover what the surprise muster meant. They, subalterns of light infantry units, had received training in flanking maneuvers. He had not.
Although amused by Captain Parsons’ tirade, he felt deprived.
“Ensign Lister.” The young man pivoted. “Have you seen Hamilton?”
“Today, sir?”
“Of course today! Somebody reported to me he was sick! Pansy-mouthed faggot!” Parsons glared up the slope. “We sneak our men down here. Our sergeants wake them with hands over their mouths! Everybody is quiet, does his job, and we're ready to load and Hamilton’s not here! The fawning little ape!”
“I haven't seen him, sir. Not since yesterday.” One of Lister's friends waved at him from a nearby boat.
“He dishonors me! He dishonors the regiment! He … ah, here now! Here now we might hear something!”
A squat, beefy soldier was hurrying down the slope. Grasping his bullet pouch, halting ten feet away, he shook his head.
“What is it?!” Parsons scowled.
“Lieutenant Hamilton wishes t'inform you,” the sergeant said in a neutral voice, “he's too sick t'go.”
“Damn him! I will court martial him!”
“Sir! I, sir, volunteer!” Lister responded.
Captain Parsons’ stare lasted two seconds. “Get your equipment! Do not make the entire company wait!”
Lister sprinted up the hill.
Conant, Colonel William – Charlestown militia commander
Dawes, William – express rider
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of Boston forces stationed in Boston
Hamilton, Lieutenant – missing officer at the loading of soldiers to be rowed across the Charles River
Lister, Ensign Jeremy – 10th Regiment. Volunteer replacement of Lieutenant Hamilton
MacKenzie, Lieutenant Frederick – adjutant general of the Welch Fusiliers. Amateur cartographer
Parsons, Captain Lawrence – 10th Regiment. In charge of a body of companies sent to Colonel Barrett’s farm to search for military stores
Percy, Lieutenant Hugh Earl – commander of the 1st Brigade. In charge of the relief column that rescued Colonel Smith’s forces
Pitcairn, Major John – commander of the Marines. Second in command of the forces sent to Concord
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Smith, Lieutenant Colonel Francis – commander of the 10th Regiment. In charge of the expedition sent to Concord to seize rebel stores
Warren, Doctor Joseph – second to Samuel Adams in the Sons of Liberty leadership
Chapter 8, “A Most Delightful Evening,” Section 2
Lieutenant Frederick MacKenzie was in a temper.
At 10 p.m., expecting to witness an expeditious loading, the adjutant of the 23rd Regiment had led his two companies to the bottom of Boston Common. No officer had been assigned to direct the sundry grouping of companies to pre-selected boats. MacKenzie had witnessed, instead, bunches of soldiers herded on the upslope of the Common, empty boats bobbing at the shoreline, and forty to fifty soldiers caterwauling and blatterooning between.
“Who's in charge here?! Who is responsible for this?!” MacKenzie had demanded.
“Colonel Smith, sir,” an ensign belonging to the 10th Regiment had answered. “My captain's orders are to do nothing until the Colonel arrives. He's late.”
Lieutenant MacKenzie had then understood. Disdaining the ensign’s explanation, MacKenzie had loaded his men immediately into four boats. Junior officers of other companies had thereafter followed his example.
Thirty minutes had passed. Riding the negligible current, the occupied boats awaited Smith’s appearance. They would have to be rowed across the river twice. MacKenzie thought about the hot biscuits and honey that Nancy had promised him upon his return. Two months ago he had scoffed at General Gage’s solicitation of officers who could draw and spy, a message about which she had teased and then interrogated him. The General’s reckless choice of Colonel Smith warranted least of all jest! Far more consequential than solicitation of spies was this!
Walking rapidly across Hanover Street, Paul Revere turned inward at Joseph Warren's residence, the messenger that had summoned him at 10 p.m. lagging far behind. Expecting a summons that afternoon, Revere was somewhat surprised that it had arrived at this late hour. But General Gage would not have wanted to begin the transport sooner, even though a crossing in the dark would be nearly as conspicuous. Anyone witnessing the massing of troops at the bottom of the Common and the hurried preparations of officers billeted in private homes would recognize a major undertaking was in the doing.
“Paul, they've begun.” Grasping Revere’s right arm, Warren directed the silversmith into his study. Rejecting chairs, each stood.
“You must go again to warn our friends.” Warren placed his hands atop the closest high-back chair. “And the town militias!”
“I'm ready.”
“You should know … as a precaution … that I have sent a rider across the Neck.” Eyebrows arched, Warren studied Revere’s face. “I did so a half hour ago. He may pass the guard, but we cannot be certain.”
“Who?”
“William Dawes.” Warren read Revere's perplexed expression. “Billy Dawes, the young cordwainer. Last September he helped remove the four brass cannon from the gun house.”
“I do know him. He’s young.”
“Twenty-three. Courageous, a play actor of sorts. More to our advantage is the soldiers at the Gate don’t know him. Nor does anybody else, save the officer he knocked to the street recently for insulting his wife.” Warren smiled, guardedly.
Revere had devised a way to have his message carried into the country should he be seized crossing the River. Not entirely satisfied, Warren had initiated his own plan, couched to Revere as cautionary. The good doctor had not wanted to do him injury. He was not offended. Dawes’s participation mattered to him not one straw. What mattered was that Warren, trusting his own considerable lights, had acted. It was yet another example of why his leadership was widely esteemed.
“How are you to proceed?” the doctor asked, satisfied apparently that he had not offended.
“Exactly as we had decided. I should reach Charlestown past 11 p.m. if I evade the Somerset. Whether I do or not, the lanterns will alert Colonel Conant.” He stopped, a sudden upsurge of emotion affecting his ability to speak. “And you?” he fairly whispered.
“I will stay here awhile.” Warren averted Revere’s eyes. His fingertips brushed twice the top of the chair in front of him. “Useful information may yet be forthcoming.” He returned Revere's stare. “If the General had wanted to arrest me, Paul, I would have been at the Province House days before! Seated comfortably, I should imagine, sipping his Madeira!” His eyes sparkled.
“Then I will see you …”
“In a day or two. Be assured!” He gazed across the room, at the silk drapery, the mantelpiece figurines, the latticed window. He touched briefly the bridge of his nose. “God protect you,” he said, offering Revere a sudden, strained smile.
“God protect us all.”
A hundred yards from the shoreline of Boston Common, Hugh, Earl Percy, feigning indifference, watched the final company of regulars clamber into the three remaining boats. The past forty-five minutes he had watched agitated junior officers locate, remove, and relocate their charges across the upslope of the Common. Because none of the waiting boats had been assigned to specific units, the more assertive officers had attempted to commandeer those closest. Arguments and the co-mingling of companies had resulted. Percy had observed in the rank and file a gamut of conduct, little of it exemplary.
Ten rods to Percy’s left, surrounded by a crowd of company captains, Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith was seated on a chair, carried down, Percy assumed, from one of the barracks. “His attention is yet misdirected!” Percy muttered. If he, Percy, were commander, … He wasn’t!
Two hours ago General Gage had informed Earl Percy of Smith’s appointment. The General had summoned Percy to the Province House to apprise him of his subordinate assignment. First, however, had been Gage’s revelation that Colonel Smith was to lead. No! Percy had silently reacted. “I have placed Major Pitcairn second in command,” the General had thereafter stated.
At once Percy had recognized Gage’s reasoning. He had not wanted to offend his most senior field officer. An awful decision. Gage’s selection of Pitcairn, however, had been astute. Honest, efficient, fair-minded, and shrewd, John Pitcairn had the ability to correct Smith’s worst mistakes. Perhaps Smith would seek Pitcairn's counsel. Better yet, he might delegate to the Scotsman all decision-making responsibility.
These hurried thoughts had preceded Gage’s announcement of Percy’s assignment. “You shall command a sizeable force to be made ready to reinforce Colonel Smith and his men at or near the vicinity of Concord should events deem that action necessary.” -- So, the General has his own doubts, Percy had thought. -- “But I don’t think the rebels will fight.”
Riding past tall, peak-roofed buildings during his return to his residence, Percy had pondered Gage’s decision. A part of Percy’s creed was his belief that in combat a commanding general should utilize the entirety of his resources. That meant employing to maximum benefit his best field officer. The General had chosen to proceed differently, presuming that the colonials would not contest Smith, saving Percy to avert calamity should his judgment be proven deficient.
The mismanagement that Percy had witnessed the past forty-five minutes had laid bare the importance of Gage’s calculation.
Vulgar townsmen were gathering ever closer along the down slope. Most were of the worst element: artful, hypocritical, cruel! As was many a regular riding now the gentle current! Miscreants of every stripe abounded!
Like footpads out of black alleyways, these city villains were claiming ownership of the slope! Some stared, some were amused, many hurled insults at the soldiers, several of whom, revealed by the light of the moon, gestured and shouted back. Not willing to tolerate the scapegraces yet another minute, Percy walked aggressively up the hill.
He came upon a group of five standing in his way. To avoid interrogation and insult, he began a wide detour. Three turned to face him; one of them spoke.
“The British’ve marched, but they’ll miss their aim.”
Percy marked him. They reciprocated. One man's eyes traveled the length of his uniform.
“What aim?” he responded, his irritation evident.
“Why, the cannon at Concord,” the gray-haired man said, smirking.
Percy stepped past them. With long strides he ascended the hill. A second cluster of men, blocking his way, scattered.
That the soldiers were “on the march” was clear. But to know precisely their purpose and destination!
“Where’s Hamilton?! Who here has seen Hamilton?! Lickspittle jackanapes!”
Suppressing a grin, Ensign Jeremy Lister watched his captain, Lawrence Parsons, vociferate.
“He's in the barrack, sir,” a corporal responded, separating himself from four soldiers calf deep in the water.
“Two messengers say he isn’t! If he is, I'll court martial him!”
Lister had come to the shoreline both to watch the departure of several friends and discover what the surprise muster meant. They, subalterns of light infantry units, had received training in flanking maneuvers. He had not.
Although amused by Captain Parsons’ tirade, he felt deprived.
“Ensign Lister.” The young man pivoted. “Have you seen Hamilton?”
“Today, sir?”
“Of course today! Somebody reported to me he was sick! Pansy-mouthed faggot!” Parsons glared up the slope. “We sneak our men down here. Our sergeants wake them with hands over their mouths! Everybody is quiet, does his job, and we're ready to load and Hamilton’s not here! The fawning little ape!”
“I haven't seen him, sir. Not since yesterday.” One of Lister's friends waved at him from a nearby boat.
“He dishonors me! He dishonors the regiment! He … ah, here now! Here now we might hear something!”
A squat, beefy soldier was hurrying down the slope. Grasping his bullet pouch, halting ten feet away, he shook his head.
“What is it?!” Parsons scowled.
“Lieutenant Hamilton wishes t'inform you,” the sergeant said in a neutral voice, “he's too sick t'go.”
“Damn him! I will court martial him!”
“Sir! I, sir, volunteer!” Lister responded.
Captain Parsons’ stare lasted two seconds. “Get your equipment! Do not make the entire company wait!”
Lister sprinted up the hill.
February 25, 2021
Crossing the River -- Chapter 8 -- Section 1
Characters Mentioned
Browner, Solomon – 18 year old Lexington youth returning from a trip to Boston
Clarke, Reverend Jonas – Lexington minister and influential political leader
Cockrane, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Grant, Lieutenant – Member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Loring, Jonathan – One of a party of three Lexington men captured by Major Mitchell’s advance party
Lumm, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Mitchell, Major Edward – 10th Regiment. In command of a body of officers assigned to intercept express riders prior to the British raid upon Concord
Munroe, Sergeant William – Lexington tavern owner and militia sergeant
Parker, Captain John – Lexington militia captain
Patterson, Elijah – Lexington cabinet maker. One of a party of three captured by Major Mitchell’s advance party
Chapter 8. “A Most Delightful Evening.” Section 1
They rode into Lexington and stopped where the road forked, the moonlight revealing directly ahead a triangular common. Major Mitchell stared back at the three-story, square-shaped building, a flickering light making pale two downstairs windows. “A tavern, I fairly own. Press on.” With his left hand he indicated the Old Bay Road to Concord.
“That was them,” Solomon Browner whispered. He stepped outside. Reverend Jonas Clarke, Captain John Parker, and Elijah Patterson occupied the doorsill.
Stepping into the moonlight, Reverend Clarke looked at his pocket watch. Parker, after glancing at Clarke, stared at the road.
Just what does he hope to see, now that they’re gone? Solomon thought. Edging his way past the Captain and Patterson, he entered the building.
Years ago, plain-speaking, hard-working John Parker had earned the townspeople’s respect. But now his shoulders stooped, his eyes looked tired, he moved slowly: at forty-six he was old. Solomon had noticed these changes two months earlier after he had returned from a horse-trading trip with his father to Hartford. Parker’s physical bearing, his mediocre intelligence, and most everybody’s expectation that British soldiers would soon be marching through the village had convinced some individuals, Solomon included, that Parker needed to be replaced.
Looked upon as a boy, not wanting to appear insolent, not wanting to give Elijah Patterson the opportunity to ridicule him, Solomon had kept his mouth shut. Older men, not he, needed to speak.
“They don’t know exactly where your guests are, Jonas,” Parker said. “They'll be riding past Lincoln a ways, I think.” Solomon watched Parker’s right hand, inside his coat, tug at his belt. “Maybe they'll be finding out, though. One way or the other, we’ll see them come riding back.”
We know that, Captain. Tell us what we don’t know.
Believing Parker hadn’t the ability to tell them, Solomon wanted to speak. To prove that a person’s age didn’t make him dumb, or intelligent. But it wasn’t his place. And as for what needed to be done, it would be the Reverend who’d be doing the deciding.
“Solomon said Will Munroe put a guard at your house,” Patterson remarked across Parker’s body.
“Eight men, Will said. Nine countin' him,” Solomon expanded. “Should be enough t’hold all of 'em off, I think.” Not exactly brilliant, he realized, but it was what he, not Patterson, had the right to say!
“Elijah, Solomon, I want you to raise as many militiamen as you can and get them over to the Meeting House within the hour.” Reverend Clarke walked to the center of the room. Patterson and Parker followed. “You do agree, don’t you, John?”
“I do.” Parker tapped three fingers on an edge of a table. His left hand became a fist. “What arresting’s t’be done, we'll be the ones t’do it.”
“Perhaps. At the very least, we must monitor their activity.” Parker nodded. Clarke glanced at the doorway. “We’ll need a patrol. Three men.”
“Count me one of them!” Solomon exclaimed.
All three were looking long at him. They were judging him! Blood rushed to his face.
He could ride faster and farther than any of them! “I’m ready for it!” he declared. “Right now! Just give me a fresh horse!”
“You may take mine,” Clarke answered. “You, Elijah!” he declared, barely pausing.
“I'll get your third man, Reverend. Jonathan Loring, I think.”
“You get the minutemen out here first!” Parker exclaimed. “Then you see me! You don’t go riding off!”
Parker’s unexpected outburst startled them.
Five seconds later Solomon wanted to laugh.
The Reverend had bossed him, embarrassed him, in front of three of his militiamen. Everybody knew Clarke bossed him. Just as everybody knew Clarke and Parker were longtime friends. It had been Clarke that had gotten Parker elected! Not once, as far as Solomon knew, had Parker ever contradicted him. Nobody did, not Parker, not Solomon’s father, probably the Reverend’s High Whig houseguests.
The most Parker ever did -- what he was doing now, glaring at the moonlight -- was flash a bit of temper. And there was Reverend Clarke, still frowning. “The redcoats are after the munitions at Concord!” Parker said sharply, refusing to turn around. “Those riders are out there scouting that road!”
“Astute.”
One word. All Reverend Clarke needed to cut a man into pieces was one word.
Solomon felt Parker’s humiliation.
“They have t'pass through here again,” Patterson said, ending five seconds of strained silence. “You’re right, Captain.”
Parker blinked. Turning a bit, he touched his chin. “You’d best wear warm clothing, Elijah. Take some food,” he said huskily, putting Patterson -- Solomon noticed -- in charge. “Could be a long night.”
“Come by the parsonage, John,” Clarke said to Parker, his eyebrows high. “The first opportunity you have.”
Parker nodded.
Clarke exited the tavern.
Three miles west of Lexington Major Mitchell halted the group.
“Behind us, beyond these farm houses, is a pasture, with trees farther back. Across the road is a clump of trees through which the moon sheds little light.” Moving his jawbone laterally, Mitchell visualized the location. “We might not find a better place of ambush.” Turning his head, he glared at Grant, who, looking at Lumm, was about to speak. To Captain Cochrane, Mitchell said, “If upon second examination the place is to my liking, we shall set our snare, and wait to see what we shall catch!”
Solomon Browner’s anger had come to full boil.
Elijah Patterson had announced his foolish plan to Captain Parker, and the militia leader had accepted it! Outside Buckman’s, Solomon had stated his objections. Patterson had barely listened! Why? Because he was twenty-three? Because age boosted a man’s intelligence? What, then, did that make Jonathan Loring, who was twenty-six?
Listening to Solomon’s objections, Loring had said nary a word!
Because they were friends, Solomon reasoned. Because he wasn’t a decision-maker, maybe. The least he could have said, once, was “Solomon’s right.”
Patterson’s scheme was full of holes! Like, after they had sneaked up on the redcoat patrol, two of them were supposed to keep watch while the other rode back to find Parker. Guess who that was going to be! If, instead, the patrol turned back, according to Patterson, they would hear hoof beats and then one of them would gallop off to Lexington while the other two (Solomon and Loring) hid -- assuming they had time and a safe place to. “Going out t’detect them,” Patterson had cautioned, “we’ll have to move real slow. We don’t want t’be making any noise!” Hah!
They had been out on the road for more than an hour and had only just crossed the Lincoln/Lexington line! “Three turtles could have gotten here sooner,” Solomon groused.
Ten minutes. It would take them ten minutes to get past Josiah Nelson’s pastures!
“I don't think they'll get too close to Concord,” the Leader of the Patrol said, ending their lengthy silence.
“Be damn foolish if'n they did,” Loring replied. The two friends were riding next to each other.
“They could be anywhere along here,” Solomon said, twenty feet behind.
Patterson twisted about. “Solomon, we’ve got t’keep quiet. Don’t talk, ‘less it’s important.”
“You’d best keep that in mind,” Solomon answered.
They rode on -- Solomon seething -- another quarter mile.
So what he had said was obvious. And what they were doing was probably what anybody would do, except he’d have had each rider spaced farther apart. But Patterson had been insulting. What made Patterson’s remark about the redcoats not riding too close to Concord that important? Solomon took spiteful amusement at the way Patterson was holding his head, at an angle, as if to hear better. The man was a coffin-maker, for God’s sake, not an Abenaki scout!
“The road looks a lot different at night,” Loring said. Patterson nodded. “Doesn't look the same. I hardly recognize it.”
“The Hartwell house is up ahead a ways. Hard not to recognize. Now be quiet so I can hear.”
Having reached the crest of a gentle incline, they stopped to stare and listen. Again the sideways tilt of Patterson’s head. This would be a good story to tell at the tavern! Solomon thought. Will Munroe would have the biggest laugh. Why, it would probably get told all over town!
Patterson put his horse forward. Loring caught up with him. Chuckling, Solomon followed.
Out of dark shadows horses’ hooves pounded, large shapes lunged. One of the shapes leveled a pistol at Patterson's startled face.
“Stop where you are or you die!”
Two riders! Highwaymen! British uniforms!
“Move across the road! Into that pasture!” the soldier nearest Solomon ordered.
A section of fence railing had been taken down. Making eye contact with Solomon, Patterson nodded compliance.
They were escorted a good 100 yards across the pasture toward a wood out of which six more soldiers suddenly, rapidly galloped.
“To me!” a tall officer at the head of the group commanded.
For thirty seconds the officer scrutinized them. Patterson glanced at Solomon, then at Loring, made a minute hand gesture.
Bugger that! Solomon thought.
“What is your business on this road?!” the officer demanded.
“Our farm is down the road. And your business, sir?” Patterson responded. “What right have you to intercept us, and take us here like thieves?!”
“Deserters,” the officer said. “We are in search of deserters. I want your names!”
Each responded, Solomon’s words a whisper.
“You say you have a farm ‘down the road,’ but you have different surnames. Answer my original question. What business do you have on this road?!”
“I said I was returnin' to my farm! These men live on farms farther along!”
Solomon had never seen Patterson so angry. Deserters!” the officer had said. Bloody hell! He was angry, too!
The officer looked at him. “You, tell me! I desire the names of your neighbors?!”
Solomon turned his head. Patterson was staring at his reins.
“You, answer my question! Not your companion!”
“Ebenezer Jones,” Solomon began. It was a made-up name.
“Jonathan Williams … Jonas Harrison.” His throat was thick! He cleared it.
“Pray tell, what are the names of those who reside within Lexington?” The officer tilted his head.
“Which ones?” Solomon recognized his natural voice. “Too many of them t’name.”
“Name a few, their location, … their livelihood.”
“Why?” Talking helped. He felt less afraid.
“If you are who you say you are, not a deserter who skillfully dissembles, then you will have little difficulty. Mind you, I desire quick answers!”
Solomon discovered that he could not invent names fast enough. He began to identify actual people. All the while the officer scrutinized, interrupted, demanded to be told where specific individuals lived. Finally, Solomon stopped. It was a game. The bony-faced officer was playing him!
“Continue.”
“I've said enough. If you don't believe me now, you're not going to.”
“Perhaps,” the officer said. “You must not suppose that. I am nearly convinced you are what you say. Proceed.”
“More names?”
The officer nodded. Solomon began again but stopped. The man was taking too much pleasure! That had been the whole purpose! “You have enough.”
The officer pointed his chin. “You have not mentioned several with whom I have some acquaintance. The Clark family for one. Where in Lexington do they reside?”
Solomon opened his mouth to speak but didn’t. Blood rushed beneath his skin. He, so critical of Patterson, had been tricked!
“Look me full in the face, boy! If you cannot tell me where this Clark resides, I will know you to be a cowardly deserter and I will not tarry in meting justice!”
“Nothing more! As sure as gold not one word more!”
The officer scowled.
Solomon wanted to pull the bastard down.
“Captain Cochrane!” the blackguard officer declared. “You will keep them separated. See to it that each is interrogated in turn.” His eyes returned to Solomon.
“Before this night is done, you will curse your recalcitrance!”
Browner, Solomon – 18 year old Lexington youth returning from a trip to Boston
Clarke, Reverend Jonas – Lexington minister and influential political leader
Cockrane, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Grant, Lieutenant – Member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Loring, Jonathan – One of a party of three Lexington men captured by Major Mitchell’s advance party
Lumm, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Mitchell, Major Edward – 10th Regiment. In command of a body of officers assigned to intercept express riders prior to the British raid upon Concord
Munroe, Sergeant William – Lexington tavern owner and militia sergeant
Parker, Captain John – Lexington militia captain
Patterson, Elijah – Lexington cabinet maker. One of a party of three captured by Major Mitchell’s advance party
Chapter 8. “A Most Delightful Evening.” Section 1
They rode into Lexington and stopped where the road forked, the moonlight revealing directly ahead a triangular common. Major Mitchell stared back at the three-story, square-shaped building, a flickering light making pale two downstairs windows. “A tavern, I fairly own. Press on.” With his left hand he indicated the Old Bay Road to Concord.
“That was them,” Solomon Browner whispered. He stepped outside. Reverend Jonas Clarke, Captain John Parker, and Elijah Patterson occupied the doorsill.
Stepping into the moonlight, Reverend Clarke looked at his pocket watch. Parker, after glancing at Clarke, stared at the road.
Just what does he hope to see, now that they’re gone? Solomon thought. Edging his way past the Captain and Patterson, he entered the building.
Years ago, plain-speaking, hard-working John Parker had earned the townspeople’s respect. But now his shoulders stooped, his eyes looked tired, he moved slowly: at forty-six he was old. Solomon had noticed these changes two months earlier after he had returned from a horse-trading trip with his father to Hartford. Parker’s physical bearing, his mediocre intelligence, and most everybody’s expectation that British soldiers would soon be marching through the village had convinced some individuals, Solomon included, that Parker needed to be replaced.
Looked upon as a boy, not wanting to appear insolent, not wanting to give Elijah Patterson the opportunity to ridicule him, Solomon had kept his mouth shut. Older men, not he, needed to speak.
“They don’t know exactly where your guests are, Jonas,” Parker said. “They'll be riding past Lincoln a ways, I think.” Solomon watched Parker’s right hand, inside his coat, tug at his belt. “Maybe they'll be finding out, though. One way or the other, we’ll see them come riding back.”
We know that, Captain. Tell us what we don’t know.
Believing Parker hadn’t the ability to tell them, Solomon wanted to speak. To prove that a person’s age didn’t make him dumb, or intelligent. But it wasn’t his place. And as for what needed to be done, it would be the Reverend who’d be doing the deciding.
“Solomon said Will Munroe put a guard at your house,” Patterson remarked across Parker’s body.
“Eight men, Will said. Nine countin' him,” Solomon expanded. “Should be enough t’hold all of 'em off, I think.” Not exactly brilliant, he realized, but it was what he, not Patterson, had the right to say!
“Elijah, Solomon, I want you to raise as many militiamen as you can and get them over to the Meeting House within the hour.” Reverend Clarke walked to the center of the room. Patterson and Parker followed. “You do agree, don’t you, John?”
“I do.” Parker tapped three fingers on an edge of a table. His left hand became a fist. “What arresting’s t’be done, we'll be the ones t’do it.”
“Perhaps. At the very least, we must monitor their activity.” Parker nodded. Clarke glanced at the doorway. “We’ll need a patrol. Three men.”
“Count me one of them!” Solomon exclaimed.
All three were looking long at him. They were judging him! Blood rushed to his face.
He could ride faster and farther than any of them! “I’m ready for it!” he declared. “Right now! Just give me a fresh horse!”
“You may take mine,” Clarke answered. “You, Elijah!” he declared, barely pausing.
“I'll get your third man, Reverend. Jonathan Loring, I think.”
“You get the minutemen out here first!” Parker exclaimed. “Then you see me! You don’t go riding off!”
Parker’s unexpected outburst startled them.
Five seconds later Solomon wanted to laugh.
The Reverend had bossed him, embarrassed him, in front of three of his militiamen. Everybody knew Clarke bossed him. Just as everybody knew Clarke and Parker were longtime friends. It had been Clarke that had gotten Parker elected! Not once, as far as Solomon knew, had Parker ever contradicted him. Nobody did, not Parker, not Solomon’s father, probably the Reverend’s High Whig houseguests.
The most Parker ever did -- what he was doing now, glaring at the moonlight -- was flash a bit of temper. And there was Reverend Clarke, still frowning. “The redcoats are after the munitions at Concord!” Parker said sharply, refusing to turn around. “Those riders are out there scouting that road!”
“Astute.”
One word. All Reverend Clarke needed to cut a man into pieces was one word.
Solomon felt Parker’s humiliation.
“They have t'pass through here again,” Patterson said, ending five seconds of strained silence. “You’re right, Captain.”
Parker blinked. Turning a bit, he touched his chin. “You’d best wear warm clothing, Elijah. Take some food,” he said huskily, putting Patterson -- Solomon noticed -- in charge. “Could be a long night.”
“Come by the parsonage, John,” Clarke said to Parker, his eyebrows high. “The first opportunity you have.”
Parker nodded.
Clarke exited the tavern.
Three miles west of Lexington Major Mitchell halted the group.
“Behind us, beyond these farm houses, is a pasture, with trees farther back. Across the road is a clump of trees through which the moon sheds little light.” Moving his jawbone laterally, Mitchell visualized the location. “We might not find a better place of ambush.” Turning his head, he glared at Grant, who, looking at Lumm, was about to speak. To Captain Cochrane, Mitchell said, “If upon second examination the place is to my liking, we shall set our snare, and wait to see what we shall catch!”
Solomon Browner’s anger had come to full boil.
Elijah Patterson had announced his foolish plan to Captain Parker, and the militia leader had accepted it! Outside Buckman’s, Solomon had stated his objections. Patterson had barely listened! Why? Because he was twenty-three? Because age boosted a man’s intelligence? What, then, did that make Jonathan Loring, who was twenty-six?
Listening to Solomon’s objections, Loring had said nary a word!
Because they were friends, Solomon reasoned. Because he wasn’t a decision-maker, maybe. The least he could have said, once, was “Solomon’s right.”
Patterson’s scheme was full of holes! Like, after they had sneaked up on the redcoat patrol, two of them were supposed to keep watch while the other rode back to find Parker. Guess who that was going to be! If, instead, the patrol turned back, according to Patterson, they would hear hoof beats and then one of them would gallop off to Lexington while the other two (Solomon and Loring) hid -- assuming they had time and a safe place to. “Going out t’detect them,” Patterson had cautioned, “we’ll have to move real slow. We don’t want t’be making any noise!” Hah!
They had been out on the road for more than an hour and had only just crossed the Lincoln/Lexington line! “Three turtles could have gotten here sooner,” Solomon groused.
Ten minutes. It would take them ten minutes to get past Josiah Nelson’s pastures!
“I don't think they'll get too close to Concord,” the Leader of the Patrol said, ending their lengthy silence.
“Be damn foolish if'n they did,” Loring replied. The two friends were riding next to each other.
“They could be anywhere along here,” Solomon said, twenty feet behind.
Patterson twisted about. “Solomon, we’ve got t’keep quiet. Don’t talk, ‘less it’s important.”
“You’d best keep that in mind,” Solomon answered.
They rode on -- Solomon seething -- another quarter mile.
So what he had said was obvious. And what they were doing was probably what anybody would do, except he’d have had each rider spaced farther apart. But Patterson had been insulting. What made Patterson’s remark about the redcoats not riding too close to Concord that important? Solomon took spiteful amusement at the way Patterson was holding his head, at an angle, as if to hear better. The man was a coffin-maker, for God’s sake, not an Abenaki scout!
“The road looks a lot different at night,” Loring said. Patterson nodded. “Doesn't look the same. I hardly recognize it.”
“The Hartwell house is up ahead a ways. Hard not to recognize. Now be quiet so I can hear.”
Having reached the crest of a gentle incline, they stopped to stare and listen. Again the sideways tilt of Patterson’s head. This would be a good story to tell at the tavern! Solomon thought. Will Munroe would have the biggest laugh. Why, it would probably get told all over town!
Patterson put his horse forward. Loring caught up with him. Chuckling, Solomon followed.
Out of dark shadows horses’ hooves pounded, large shapes lunged. One of the shapes leveled a pistol at Patterson's startled face.
“Stop where you are or you die!”
Two riders! Highwaymen! British uniforms!
“Move across the road! Into that pasture!” the soldier nearest Solomon ordered.
A section of fence railing had been taken down. Making eye contact with Solomon, Patterson nodded compliance.
They were escorted a good 100 yards across the pasture toward a wood out of which six more soldiers suddenly, rapidly galloped.
“To me!” a tall officer at the head of the group commanded.
For thirty seconds the officer scrutinized them. Patterson glanced at Solomon, then at Loring, made a minute hand gesture.
Bugger that! Solomon thought.
“What is your business on this road?!” the officer demanded.
“Our farm is down the road. And your business, sir?” Patterson responded. “What right have you to intercept us, and take us here like thieves?!”
“Deserters,” the officer said. “We are in search of deserters. I want your names!”
Each responded, Solomon’s words a whisper.
“You say you have a farm ‘down the road,’ but you have different surnames. Answer my original question. What business do you have on this road?!”
“I said I was returnin' to my farm! These men live on farms farther along!”
Solomon had never seen Patterson so angry. Deserters!” the officer had said. Bloody hell! He was angry, too!
The officer looked at him. “You, tell me! I desire the names of your neighbors?!”
Solomon turned his head. Patterson was staring at his reins.
“You, answer my question! Not your companion!”
“Ebenezer Jones,” Solomon began. It was a made-up name.
“Jonathan Williams … Jonas Harrison.” His throat was thick! He cleared it.
“Pray tell, what are the names of those who reside within Lexington?” The officer tilted his head.
“Which ones?” Solomon recognized his natural voice. “Too many of them t’name.”
“Name a few, their location, … their livelihood.”
“Why?” Talking helped. He felt less afraid.
“If you are who you say you are, not a deserter who skillfully dissembles, then you will have little difficulty. Mind you, I desire quick answers!”
Solomon discovered that he could not invent names fast enough. He began to identify actual people. All the while the officer scrutinized, interrupted, demanded to be told where specific individuals lived. Finally, Solomon stopped. It was a game. The bony-faced officer was playing him!
“Continue.”
“I've said enough. If you don't believe me now, you're not going to.”
“Perhaps,” the officer said. “You must not suppose that. I am nearly convinced you are what you say. Proceed.”
“More names?”
The officer nodded. Solomon began again but stopped. The man was taking too much pleasure! That had been the whole purpose! “You have enough.”
The officer pointed his chin. “You have not mentioned several with whom I have some acquaintance. The Clark family for one. Where in Lexington do they reside?”
Solomon opened his mouth to speak but didn’t. Blood rushed beneath his skin. He, so critical of Patterson, had been tricked!
“Look me full in the face, boy! If you cannot tell me where this Clark resides, I will know you to be a cowardly deserter and I will not tarry in meting justice!”
“Nothing more! As sure as gold not one word more!”
The officer scowled.
Solomon wanted to pull the bastard down.
“Captain Cochrane!” the blackguard officer declared. “You will keep them separated. See to it that each is interrogated in turn.” His eyes returned to Solomon.
“Before this night is done, you will curse your recalcitrance!”
February 21, 2021
Crossing the River, Chapter 7, Section 2
Characters Mentioned
Adams, Samuel – Contential Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel patriots of Massachusetts
Browner, Benjamin – Solomon Browner’s father, member to Lexington’s correspondence committee
Browner, Solomon – 18 year old Lexington youth returning from a trip to Boston
Church, Dr. Benjamin – Provincial Congress delegate
Clarke, Reverend Jonas – Lexington minister and influential political leader
Conant, Colonel William – leader of Charlestown’s Committee of Safety
Devens, Richard – Provincial Congress delegate questioned by Major Mitchell
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of British forces stationed in Boston
Gerry, Elbridge – Provincial Congress delegate
Hancock, John – rich Boston merchant, Continental Congress delegate
Munroe, Sergeant William – Lexington tavern owner and militia sergeant
Orne, Colonel Azor – Provincial Congress delegate
Parker, Captain John – Lexington militia captain
Raymond, John – crippled Munroe Tavern bartender
Ward, Artemus – Provincial Congress delegate
Warren, Dr. Joseph – Second to Sam Adams in the Sons of Liberty leadership
Watson, Benjamin – Provincial Congress delegate and Richard Devens’s traveling companion
White, Benjamin – Provincial Congress delegate
Chapter 7, “Hell to Pay,” Section 2
Solomon Browner had thought that the showers that morning might continue and that he would have to ride home from the Market drenched. Instead, the grey clouds had disappeared; city folk had attended in large numbers; and he had sold every egg at a good price. Late that afternoon a chill wind had begun to blow. Crossing the Great Bridge, knowing that the gusts would likely persist, he had anticipated the warmth of his parents’ fire.
Leaving Menotomy, reaching a turn in the road next to a stand of white pine, he spied ahead of him a group of horsemen, seven British soldiers, he counted, officers, chatting. The sight of them, here, where they had no business being, vexed him.
All right, he said silently, what had he to fear? He belonged to be where he was, doing nary one flaming thing wrong! What were they doing here, so far from Boston, at this late hour? He had seen too many soldiers already, in the city, where they also didn’t belong!
Solomon slowed his mare almost to a walk. He continued to close on them. If I go any slower, or stop, they’ll be thinking I’ve done something wrong, he thought. I’m going to have to pass them. It wasn’t right! He was an eighteen-year-old farm boy, having that afternoon sold two large baskets of eggs! Why should he have to explain that?!
One of the trailing officers twisted about, took a long look at him. The rider next to him looked as well. Each said something. Now he absolutely had to pass them!
He did. The space between his horse and the officers lengthened. He knew by their silence that they were staring at him. He felt awkward. His face was hot. One of them spoke. Somebody laughed.
How he hated them! It wasn’t enough that they wanted his father’s land. That they taxed his family. That they gave his father’s money to their damnable church. That at the market they had looked down their bony noses at him like he hadn’t washed! If they ever did march through Lexington, as rumor said, maybe he, his friends, and all his neighbors might just go do what Captain Parker said they should!
“Solomon, you’ve passed them,” he muttered, “you’re safe.” To hell with them! Think about the fire, bread and soup! He recalled his father’s advice. “Go about your business like you’re ignoring them whilst keeping a close eye. That way you stay out of trouble. Once you’re gone, they don’t matter.”
They did matter!
He heard their horses’ galloping hooves! He looked back.
They were upon him! They were passing him! Just as swiftly they were riding ahead, the ends of their blue topcoats lengthening, fluttering.
He saw underneath the flapping cloaks several holstered pistols!
His body reacted. His mind comprehended.
This he could not ignore. The bread, the soup, the fire would have to wait. Neophyte Lexington militiaman that he was, he knew he had to locate Sergeant Munroe right away!
The meeting of the Committees of Safety and Supplies at Wetherby Tavern had adjourned. Richard Devens, directing his chaise along the Charlestown road, reflected on what had happened.
He had learned that a large portion of the munitions stored at Concord had been moved to nearby towns, Revere's warning the week before having been the impetus. Onerous work. Necessary work. What would be said if, contrary to expectation, Gage’s soldiers stayed put across the River? A lot. Better to suffer doing what might turn out to be unnecessary than to be lazy and pay a terrible price.
What had aroused every delegate’s dander had been their inability to reach a consensus! The absence of John Hancock, Samuel Adams, and Joseph Warren had been telling! Town militias would be alerted, but what were they supposed to do once they met up with the regulars? The debate had been so much oration, temper, and wasted energy, the latter replenished afterward by large quantities of beef and ale, much to the delight of the proprietor! At one large table had sat Devens, Benjamin Church, Benjamin White, Elbridge Gerry, Colonel Azor Orne, Artemas Ward, and Abraham Watson. After their repast, all except Gerry, Orne, and Colonel Henry Lee had left the tavern to return to their villages. Devens’s special reason for doing so was to superintend Colonel Conant.
He and his companion, Abraham Watson, would reach Charlestown just before dark. To stay longer, to eat more shepherd’s pie and swallow more ale, would have been irresponsible.
Feeling revitalized, he had left the tavern in excellent humor. The sky having cleared after a morning shower, the wheels of his chaise turning smoothly, the moon being full, he had remained contented.
Listening to the footfalls of his horse, he imagined farmers at their tables, merchants closing their shops. It was that best time of day for a tired man -- be he farmer, shopkeeper, or Provincial Committeeman -- to savor his well deserved ease.
He could not be doing so this evening. Monitoring Colonel Conant’s decision-making was too important. Tonight Revere might light his signal in the Christ’s Church belfry.
He would supervise Conant not because the militia officer was lacking but because the matter required his presence. Open to suggestion, Conant would welcome his assistance. They would play cards, sip wine, talk about family, …
He heard approaching hoof beats -- farmers, in consort, returning from market, he supposed. Very well, he would offer them a cordial wave, a “Good evening to you, gentlemen” to send them happily past.
He saw them. They were wearing heavy cloaks. He saw between where the cloaks separated the glint of scarlet. They were soldiers. Officers. The lead rider ordered him to stop!
His throat throbbing, Devens waited.
The rider positioned his horse beside Devens’s side of the chaise.
“Our pardon, sir. We are in search of refreshment.” The officer angled his head.
Involuntarily, Devens nodded.
“I crave to know the location of Clark Tavern. Would you direct us to that location?”
A tremor coursed up Devens’s spine.
“Clark Tavern, I say. We have been told it is close at hand.”
Devens pressed his hands against his thighs. He cleared his throat. “There is no tavern by that name hereabout,” he said hoarsely. Clearing his throat a second time, he made eye-contact. “I’ve never heard of a tavern by that name, anywhere.”
Seated beside him, Watson was a pillar of salt.
The officer scrutinized them. Devens looked away. A farm boy rode past, showing no interest.
“We have been played the fool, it does appear,” the officer said. “Soldiers, officers on a day's outing, enjoying the countryside. Subjects of a provincial’s jest.” Curling his mouth, presenting a controlled smile, he tapped his chest. “I confess, the matter warrants no explication. Yet, my piqued curiosity will not allow me to desist.” Head tilted, the lean officer paused. “If the establishment so named does not exist, who then is Clark? Why did the jester invoke this name to deceive me?” The officer's teeth appeared behind the smiling lips. “I seek to perceive the nature of the jest.”
Involuntarily, Devens extended his left hand. “I cannot help you, sir.” Quite deliberately, he shook his head. “My friend and I are from Charlestown.” His voice sounded more confident. “I suppose there are many Clarks hereabout. I know of none personally.”
“So be it.”
Conviviality lit, Devens thought. In an eye blink, snuffed.
The officer addressed his companions. “We shall stop at the first tavern!” Kicking his horse’s sides, the officer rode westward. In pairs, his subordinates followed.
Devens hurried his horse and chaise toward Charlestown. Then, quite suddenly, he pulled the horse up. “We have to go back,” he told Watson. “We have to warn Gerry and the two colonels.”
“I disagree.” Watson frowned. “Those officers want John and Sam!”
Looking past the horse, Devens refused to speak.
Watson stared at the darkening road. He shook his head. “Richard, if those soldiers see us, they’ll know you lied to them! I don’t think …”
“Abraham! Some obliging fool is going to tell them! We have to go back! Afterward, Gerry can send a rider.”
Watson frowned at what appeared to be a broken-off tree branch. He exhaled through his teeth. “I agree Hancock and Adams must be warned. But, Richard, the danger!”
“Are you willing to risk it?”
Watson waited ten seconds before answering. “If the alternative is to walk to Charlestown, … I suppose I’ll have to!”
“Answer me this,” Watson said after Devens had turned the chaise around. “Recognizing our intention, what do you suppose those officers would do to us?”
Devens looked away.
Would I have done this alone? he questioned. Two half heroes, half fools, they were. Upon his return to Charlestown he would also send a rider. He and Watson would need to enter Menotomy far behind the officers. If the soldiers did not stop, he saw no reason why he couldn’t hastily complete his business and leave. He had Conant yet to counsel! Revere himself, if this were to be the momentous night!
“Six or seven British officers, you d'say?” William Munroe poured Solomon Browner a tankard of ale.
“On the road from Cambridge, headed this direction. Pistols under their cloaks. Shouldn’t we be warnin’ Mr. Hancock?!”
Munroe agreed. He had been in John Parker’s charge most of the afternoon. He wondered why Solomon hadn’t gone looking for him after not finding him in the tavern. “I'd better be posting a guard out there, the entire night,” he said.
“Do that 'n' I'll rest easy.”
Munroe nodded, appreciatively. Like his father, Benjamin, a leading member of the town’s correspondence committee, the boy had spunk. “You’ve done a good day's work, Solomon. You’ve earned your ‘rest easy.’”
A young man close to Solomon’s age entered the tavern. Seeing Browner and the proprietor at the end of the counter, he touched his hat brim. Rubbing together his palms, he approached.
“Please, which way t'the Reverend Clarke's house?” Seeing suspicion in their eyes, he said, “I be comin' from Elbridge Gerry, of the Committee of Safety, from Menotomy! British officers be on the road near there, asearchin' Sam Adams an' John Hancock! I be sent t'warn 'em.”
The tavern owner and Solomon exchanged looks. Munroe nodded. “You'll accompany me there right now!” he said.
Solomon watched his militia sergeant and the express rider leave the taproom. Solomon had had to wait an hour for Munroe to return to the tavern. He had decided that waiting was the wiser action. He’d been wrong. It seemed funny that he and this messenger had told Munroe the same story close to a minute apart. The crippled bartender, John Raymond, who stood in for Munroe when he was gone, raised the tavern owner’s half empty tankard. Using a rag, he wiped away the residue of moisture. Solomon lifted his own.
Strange doings were afoot, too much going on for him to rest easy or hard, he thought. Somebody ought to be outside not just at the Reverend’s house. Somebody should be out looking to see what needed to be found! Somebody like him!
Adams, Samuel – Contential Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel patriots of Massachusetts
Browner, Benjamin – Solomon Browner’s father, member to Lexington’s correspondence committee
Browner, Solomon – 18 year old Lexington youth returning from a trip to Boston
Church, Dr. Benjamin – Provincial Congress delegate
Clarke, Reverend Jonas – Lexington minister and influential political leader
Conant, Colonel William – leader of Charlestown’s Committee of Safety
Devens, Richard – Provincial Congress delegate questioned by Major Mitchell
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of British forces stationed in Boston
Gerry, Elbridge – Provincial Congress delegate
Hancock, John – rich Boston merchant, Continental Congress delegate
Munroe, Sergeant William – Lexington tavern owner and militia sergeant
Orne, Colonel Azor – Provincial Congress delegate
Parker, Captain John – Lexington militia captain
Raymond, John – crippled Munroe Tavern bartender
Ward, Artemus – Provincial Congress delegate
Warren, Dr. Joseph – Second to Sam Adams in the Sons of Liberty leadership
Watson, Benjamin – Provincial Congress delegate and Richard Devens’s traveling companion
White, Benjamin – Provincial Congress delegate
Chapter 7, “Hell to Pay,” Section 2
Solomon Browner had thought that the showers that morning might continue and that he would have to ride home from the Market drenched. Instead, the grey clouds had disappeared; city folk had attended in large numbers; and he had sold every egg at a good price. Late that afternoon a chill wind had begun to blow. Crossing the Great Bridge, knowing that the gusts would likely persist, he had anticipated the warmth of his parents’ fire.
Leaving Menotomy, reaching a turn in the road next to a stand of white pine, he spied ahead of him a group of horsemen, seven British soldiers, he counted, officers, chatting. The sight of them, here, where they had no business being, vexed him.
All right, he said silently, what had he to fear? He belonged to be where he was, doing nary one flaming thing wrong! What were they doing here, so far from Boston, at this late hour? He had seen too many soldiers already, in the city, where they also didn’t belong!
Solomon slowed his mare almost to a walk. He continued to close on them. If I go any slower, or stop, they’ll be thinking I’ve done something wrong, he thought. I’m going to have to pass them. It wasn’t right! He was an eighteen-year-old farm boy, having that afternoon sold two large baskets of eggs! Why should he have to explain that?!
One of the trailing officers twisted about, took a long look at him. The rider next to him looked as well. Each said something. Now he absolutely had to pass them!
He did. The space between his horse and the officers lengthened. He knew by their silence that they were staring at him. He felt awkward. His face was hot. One of them spoke. Somebody laughed.
How he hated them! It wasn’t enough that they wanted his father’s land. That they taxed his family. That they gave his father’s money to their damnable church. That at the market they had looked down their bony noses at him like he hadn’t washed! If they ever did march through Lexington, as rumor said, maybe he, his friends, and all his neighbors might just go do what Captain Parker said they should!
“Solomon, you’ve passed them,” he muttered, “you’re safe.” To hell with them! Think about the fire, bread and soup! He recalled his father’s advice. “Go about your business like you’re ignoring them whilst keeping a close eye. That way you stay out of trouble. Once you’re gone, they don’t matter.”
They did matter!
He heard their horses’ galloping hooves! He looked back.
They were upon him! They were passing him! Just as swiftly they were riding ahead, the ends of their blue topcoats lengthening, fluttering.
He saw underneath the flapping cloaks several holstered pistols!
His body reacted. His mind comprehended.
This he could not ignore. The bread, the soup, the fire would have to wait. Neophyte Lexington militiaman that he was, he knew he had to locate Sergeant Munroe right away!
The meeting of the Committees of Safety and Supplies at Wetherby Tavern had adjourned. Richard Devens, directing his chaise along the Charlestown road, reflected on what had happened.
He had learned that a large portion of the munitions stored at Concord had been moved to nearby towns, Revere's warning the week before having been the impetus. Onerous work. Necessary work. What would be said if, contrary to expectation, Gage’s soldiers stayed put across the River? A lot. Better to suffer doing what might turn out to be unnecessary than to be lazy and pay a terrible price.
What had aroused every delegate’s dander had been their inability to reach a consensus! The absence of John Hancock, Samuel Adams, and Joseph Warren had been telling! Town militias would be alerted, but what were they supposed to do once they met up with the regulars? The debate had been so much oration, temper, and wasted energy, the latter replenished afterward by large quantities of beef and ale, much to the delight of the proprietor! At one large table had sat Devens, Benjamin Church, Benjamin White, Elbridge Gerry, Colonel Azor Orne, Artemas Ward, and Abraham Watson. After their repast, all except Gerry, Orne, and Colonel Henry Lee had left the tavern to return to their villages. Devens’s special reason for doing so was to superintend Colonel Conant.
He and his companion, Abraham Watson, would reach Charlestown just before dark. To stay longer, to eat more shepherd’s pie and swallow more ale, would have been irresponsible.
Feeling revitalized, he had left the tavern in excellent humor. The sky having cleared after a morning shower, the wheels of his chaise turning smoothly, the moon being full, he had remained contented.
Listening to the footfalls of his horse, he imagined farmers at their tables, merchants closing their shops. It was that best time of day for a tired man -- be he farmer, shopkeeper, or Provincial Committeeman -- to savor his well deserved ease.
He could not be doing so this evening. Monitoring Colonel Conant’s decision-making was too important. Tonight Revere might light his signal in the Christ’s Church belfry.
He would supervise Conant not because the militia officer was lacking but because the matter required his presence. Open to suggestion, Conant would welcome his assistance. They would play cards, sip wine, talk about family, …
He heard approaching hoof beats -- farmers, in consort, returning from market, he supposed. Very well, he would offer them a cordial wave, a “Good evening to you, gentlemen” to send them happily past.
He saw them. They were wearing heavy cloaks. He saw between where the cloaks separated the glint of scarlet. They were soldiers. Officers. The lead rider ordered him to stop!
His throat throbbing, Devens waited.
The rider positioned his horse beside Devens’s side of the chaise.
“Our pardon, sir. We are in search of refreshment.” The officer angled his head.
Involuntarily, Devens nodded.
“I crave to know the location of Clark Tavern. Would you direct us to that location?”
A tremor coursed up Devens’s spine.
“Clark Tavern, I say. We have been told it is close at hand.”
Devens pressed his hands against his thighs. He cleared his throat. “There is no tavern by that name hereabout,” he said hoarsely. Clearing his throat a second time, he made eye-contact. “I’ve never heard of a tavern by that name, anywhere.”
Seated beside him, Watson was a pillar of salt.
The officer scrutinized them. Devens looked away. A farm boy rode past, showing no interest.
“We have been played the fool, it does appear,” the officer said. “Soldiers, officers on a day's outing, enjoying the countryside. Subjects of a provincial’s jest.” Curling his mouth, presenting a controlled smile, he tapped his chest. “I confess, the matter warrants no explication. Yet, my piqued curiosity will not allow me to desist.” Head tilted, the lean officer paused. “If the establishment so named does not exist, who then is Clark? Why did the jester invoke this name to deceive me?” The officer's teeth appeared behind the smiling lips. “I seek to perceive the nature of the jest.”
Involuntarily, Devens extended his left hand. “I cannot help you, sir.” Quite deliberately, he shook his head. “My friend and I are from Charlestown.” His voice sounded more confident. “I suppose there are many Clarks hereabout. I know of none personally.”
“So be it.”
Conviviality lit, Devens thought. In an eye blink, snuffed.
The officer addressed his companions. “We shall stop at the first tavern!” Kicking his horse’s sides, the officer rode westward. In pairs, his subordinates followed.
Devens hurried his horse and chaise toward Charlestown. Then, quite suddenly, he pulled the horse up. “We have to go back,” he told Watson. “We have to warn Gerry and the two colonels.”
“I disagree.” Watson frowned. “Those officers want John and Sam!”
Looking past the horse, Devens refused to speak.
Watson stared at the darkening road. He shook his head. “Richard, if those soldiers see us, they’ll know you lied to them! I don’t think …”
“Abraham! Some obliging fool is going to tell them! We have to go back! Afterward, Gerry can send a rider.”
Watson frowned at what appeared to be a broken-off tree branch. He exhaled through his teeth. “I agree Hancock and Adams must be warned. But, Richard, the danger!”
“Are you willing to risk it?”
Watson waited ten seconds before answering. “If the alternative is to walk to Charlestown, … I suppose I’ll have to!”
“Answer me this,” Watson said after Devens had turned the chaise around. “Recognizing our intention, what do you suppose those officers would do to us?”
Devens looked away.
Would I have done this alone? he questioned. Two half heroes, half fools, they were. Upon his return to Charlestown he would also send a rider. He and Watson would need to enter Menotomy far behind the officers. If the soldiers did not stop, he saw no reason why he couldn’t hastily complete his business and leave. He had Conant yet to counsel! Revere himself, if this were to be the momentous night!
“Six or seven British officers, you d'say?” William Munroe poured Solomon Browner a tankard of ale.
“On the road from Cambridge, headed this direction. Pistols under their cloaks. Shouldn’t we be warnin’ Mr. Hancock?!”
Munroe agreed. He had been in John Parker’s charge most of the afternoon. He wondered why Solomon hadn’t gone looking for him after not finding him in the tavern. “I'd better be posting a guard out there, the entire night,” he said.
“Do that 'n' I'll rest easy.”
Munroe nodded, appreciatively. Like his father, Benjamin, a leading member of the town’s correspondence committee, the boy had spunk. “You’ve done a good day's work, Solomon. You’ve earned your ‘rest easy.’”
A young man close to Solomon’s age entered the tavern. Seeing Browner and the proprietor at the end of the counter, he touched his hat brim. Rubbing together his palms, he approached.
“Please, which way t'the Reverend Clarke's house?” Seeing suspicion in their eyes, he said, “I be comin' from Elbridge Gerry, of the Committee of Safety, from Menotomy! British officers be on the road near there, asearchin' Sam Adams an' John Hancock! I be sent t'warn 'em.”
The tavern owner and Solomon exchanged looks. Munroe nodded. “You'll accompany me there right now!” he said.
Solomon watched his militia sergeant and the express rider leave the taproom. Solomon had had to wait an hour for Munroe to return to the tavern. He had decided that waiting was the wiser action. He’d been wrong. It seemed funny that he and this messenger had told Munroe the same story close to a minute apart. The crippled bartender, John Raymond, who stood in for Munroe when he was gone, raised the tavern owner’s half empty tankard. Using a rag, he wiped away the residue of moisture. Solomon lifted his own.
Strange doings were afoot, too much going on for him to rest easy or hard, he thought. Somebody ought to be outside not just at the Reverend’s house. Somebody should be out looking to see what needed to be found! Somebody like him!
February 18, 2021
Crossing the River -- Chapter 7, Section 1
Characters Mentioned
Adams, Samuel – Congressional Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel patriots of Massachusetts
Ballard, John – hostler near General Gage’s Province House
Clarke, Rev. Jonas – Lexington minister and influential political leader
Cochrane, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of British forces stationed in Boston
Grant, Lieutenant – Member of major Mitchell’s patrol
Hancock, John – rich Boston merchant. Congressional Congress delegate
Lumm, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Mitchell, Major Edward – 10th Regiment. In command of a body of officers assigned to intercept express riders prior to the British raid upon Concord
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Chapter 7, “Hell to Pay,” Section 1
Revere's information is much more than encouraging. I call it emancipating!”
“Call it liberating, call it emancipating, call it whatever you want. We share the same sentiment.” Seated in his high-back chair, Reverend Jonas Clarke, about to say more, turned his large head toward the child standing before him.
“Mr. Hancock wishes to say he has retired.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth. And so shall you.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Jonas, how old is your daughter?” Clarke’s house guest asked after she had left.
“Eleven. Twelve? I have seven daughters. Six sons.” Reverend Clarke smiled. “I have difficulty remembering their ages.”
Sam Adams withdrew his black pipe from his mouth. He exhaled pleasurably a stream of smoke. Sparks from the bottom, red-creased log showered the fire pit screen. Watching the red particles fade, he said, “When she is married with children, Jonas, may she and they prosper in a liberty-loving nation.”
“May we all sooner.”
The High Whig leader rested his head against the cushioned chair back.
He and John Hancock had begun their residence at the Clarke house a month ago. Frequently, as he intended now, he had sat up well into the night, his host opposite him reading by candle and firelight. Productive discussions had resulted.
Adams knew well that Jonas Clarke's influence extended far beyond the Sunday meeting house. Clarke had been the major political force in Lexington for two decades. He had been among the first in the province to oppose the Stamp Act, declaring it a violation of the natural rights of man, rights relinquished through timidity and vacillation. During Adams and Hancock’s stay Clarke had been Adams’s advisor and obliging confidant. This particular night Adams wanted much more.
“So, Samuel, once again you will have your Tea Act.”
“Your meaning, Jonas?” Adams answered, not the least surprised at the Reverend’s insight.
The minister placed the book he had been about to read on the circular table next to his chair. He covered his yawning mouth. “You will devise a way to capitalize on this forthcoming invasion.” He crossed his left leg over his right, placed his huge hands on his left knee.
“An opportunity our timorous friends who assemble at Concord would forfeit!”
“Ah. The 'half-way patriots' again.”
“We have them similarly in the Provincial Congress!”
Having suppressed a second yawn, Clarke smiled. Silenced, not willing to remain so, Adams supposed he was about to be grievously repetitious. They had walked up and down this hillside before. In particular, how the Continental Congress had talked of establishing a colonial Parliament, which, superintended by London’s Parliament, would legislate colonial matters, and how he had scuttled the idea. How here in Massachusetts the delegates at Concord had likewise been timorous. How like sailors on a wrecked ship, fearing the turbulent water, they refused to leap! Previous diatribes on the subject notwithstanding, his blood was up! He would speak because he had the need to speak! Revere’s information was the impetus. Clarke’s complicity was his purpose.
“I said to them, ‘Gage's reinforcements from England and his replacement will be arriving shortly. What shall we do then, gentlemen, hide our powder west of the Berkshires?'”
The minister chuckled. He recrossed his legs, dangled his hands close to the floor.
“So, at last, they passed the resolution! A Massachusetts army. But, Jonas, do you believe we will ever see that army?! Where are the musket balls and gunpowder the Congress asked of our people months ago?!”
“I know that very little is where we store it, in our meeting house.”
“Our people haven't the will to force the separation! They wish to defend only what they have!” Cradling his elbows, he scowled at the burning logs. “It seems they are satisfied with their ill-equipped militia! This past week their delegates argued endlessly about the rules and regulations of this Massachusetts paper army! If the redcoats do this, only then will the army do that. A half of nothing, Jonas, is nothing!”
Clarke raised a long forefinger. “The redcoats wish now to change the equation,” he said authoritatively.
“When they do, we do not need speeches about it!”
They had arrived at the destination he had sought. He would proceed now deliberately, persuasively.
“We do not need finely-worded resolutions! We need an event, Jonas, that will enflame the passions of our people, an event that will embolden, nay compel, every half-way patriot to one course of action!”
Red fissures in the bottom log snapped.
“Independence, Samuel, can only be obtained by force. What precisely would you have happen that would inspire the most cautious of our people to fight?”
He knows. Am I surprised? I am not. But I will say it. And he will agree. “Martyrs, Jonas. A dozen martyrs.”
2
“Upon my word! Bloody fine duty, I say!” Captain Cochrane, about to mount, shouted.
“Huzzah to ale! To Shepherd’s pie! To comely wenches! To Tommy Gage’s farts!” Astride his horse, Captain Lumm belched.
Not hearing Major Mitchell’s approach, Lieutenant Grant guffawed.
“By God, hold your tongues!” They had preceded Mitchell into the yard while he had paid the proprietor. “Mount! We shall ride to the bottom of this hill! Then I, not you, will speak!” Mitchell galloped westward, away from the Black Horse Tavern. Instantly sobered, his nine subordinates followed.
“Answer me one plain question!” Mitchell began once they had coalesced under a canopy of high maple limbs. ”Were you selected to alert the countryside of your contempt of our Commanding General?!” Rising above his saddle, he pointed his chin at the most culpable. “By my word, I hand-picked the lot of you for this special duty! I should have impressed nine pock-faced moon-calves of the King’s Own! I will not have you defame within my hearing our General!”
Squinting, he heard but the fractious movements of his spirited horse.
Not one of them had the courage to look at him! The worst was Grant, pretending a preoccupation with a boil on the back of his right hand! God’s blood, he would give every one of them full reason to cower!
“Heed this well! I will suffer neither your indiscretion nor your insubordination! If you believe that I share your disdain, you embrace a perilous delusion!”
“Sir, I beg your pardon.” Captain Lumm had spoken.
Drunken, weasel bastard! What fawning excuse was this flash rattler, eyes off in the trees, about to try to pass muster?!
“I confess, sir, that I am too fond of hot slings, and, big-bosomed tavern wenches. I want discretion.” Lumm offered a conciliatory smile. Mitchell’s glare destroyed it.
Captain Cochrane stirred. Having first glanced away, Cochrane made eye contact. “Sir, your criticism is well received. I confess my indiscretion. To do damage to the integrity of this mission is farthest from my heart.”
Pretty Words!
Mitchell’s fierce eyes scorched all. “You? You?! The lot of you?! By your silence do I presume the same sentiment?!” Satisfied he had daunted both the innocent and the culpable, he exclaimed: “So be it!”
Oh, they were pliable enough, castigated. Excellent horsemen, they were the best officer material he had been able to recruit. Harried repeatedly, they would suffice.
Leaning left, he spat. He scowled across the road. “Our public mission, as General Gage conceived it,” he announced, “has ended. To the rabble of the countryside we have been officers on an afternoon furlough, taking our exercise after a fine meal away from the city. We commence now to execute our plan!”
Lumm and Grant exchanged looks. Cochrane, his head and hands still, concentrated.
“As you probably have deduced, a large portion of our garrison is to march this way before dawn. Secrecy is paramount. We shall station ourselves this evening in darkened areas along selected roads to intercept express riders intent on broadcasting the army’s destination and purpose.”
He saw guarded faces, devoid of expression.
Captain Cochrane spoke. “Sir. Having intercepted a rider, what should we do?”
“Interrogate him. Detain him, until our soldiers have reached us and he can do us no harm!”
“What measures should we employ, sir, should he resist?”
Looking past the officer, Mitchell arched his back. For all his careful courtesy, Cochrane had exhibited two qualities. Forethought. And backbone. Mitchell recalled what he had been told about Cochrane’s conduct at Portsmouth, how Cochrane had drawn his sword in protest when the rebels had begun to lower the British flag. How during the ensuing struggle he had been wounded by it. His mouth widening, Mitchell said, “Whatever means necessary to prevent his escape.”
Captain Lumm, next to Cochrane, nodded. Moving his jaw laterally, Lieutenant Grant grinned.
“We shall divide ourselves disproportionately,” Mitchell declared. “The group that I shall command will guard the road to Lexington, two of you will station yourselves on the road west of Charlestown, the remainder of you will patrol the roads south and west of Roxbury and Brookline. Your sergeants will accompany you. We shall gather them up, God’s life, where we left them, after I have determined your assignments!”
“I caution you!” he exclaimed, terminating Grant’s cocky self-absorption. “Your cloaks must cover your arms! Should you be questioned closely about your intent, you may admit that your purpose is to arrest deserters! Should you discover where the nefarious rogues, Adams and Hancock, quail, seize them!”
Having voiced much of the anger that defined him, Mitchell specified their assignments. “Tomorrow upon this vile populace,” he exclaimed, “sweet vengeance shall be exacted!
“Mr. Revere, beggin’ yer pardon. With yer say so, I be havin’ a word with you, private-like?”
The silversmith looked across the length of his shop. Nobody else was present.
He detected horse odor. “You may speak.”
“M'name's John Ballard. I be a hostler at a stable near the Province House.”
“In the midst of redcoats,” Revere said, affably. “Go on.”
“Yes sir, I be in the middle a them. That’s a fact.” He glanced at the counter separating them, at Revere’s hands, at the silversmith’s chest, but not at, Revere noticed, his face. “Figurin’ if I cozy up t’them redcoats, y’see, an’ … pretendin’ I be fer the Crown, …” He shrugged his shoulders. “I be makin' a livin', y’know. But I be findin' out certain things that gets let slipped.” His face broke into a happy grin. “As true as the gospel I be a son o’ liberty in me heart; I'd not t’be comin' here if that twasn't the gospel truth!”
“Tell me what you came to tell me.” Revere smiled.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Revere. I’ll be doin’ that, right off. Somethin’ important, too.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s what me friend told me which I’ll be tellin’ you.”
“Fine. Tell me.”
“Well, he says t’me this afternoon -- he be a groom at the Province House, y’know -- he says … he overheard this morning some officers talkin' and braggin'.” Ballard rapped four fingers on the counter. “They be seein' how their horses be saddled, y’know, and enjoyin' their talk, y’see, and one of them said that tomorrow … there’s goin’ t’be hell t’pay!'”
Mouth taut, eyelids retracted, Ballard waited.
“Yes? What else?” I’m supposed to be alarmed by this? Revere reacted. “Go on.”
The hostler blinked. His gaze dropped to the counter. He touched it. “Well, that’s … that’s all. I figure it be me duty to pass it along, what he heard!”
“You were right to have done so.”
Ballard nodded, guardedly smiled.
“What puzzles me, however, is … I must ask you this. Why did you come to me?!”
The hostler’s smile vanished. He gaped. “Heavens to Holland, Mister Revere! Everyone knows y’be a High Son o’ Liberty! D-d’y’be thinkin’ I be a spy?!”
Revere laughed, heartily. Twice he thumped the counter. “No, no. Not for a second!” he exclaimed, his eyes tearing. “I … apologize. I do apologize. Forgive my … Please understand, … it was your expression! I’m entirely at fault.”
The horse tender’s stupefied look persisted.
“Be assured,” Revere said, trying not to laugh. “You’re definitely not a spy! You are … quite the opposite! You’re the third person today that has brought me the same information. Which, mind you, is important, because it confirms what the others have said! Be certain I will pass this information along!”
Ballard’s face blushed. “I thank you, sir.”
“No. All thanks belong to you, a true patriot! But, ….” Wanting, despite his apologies, a final amusement, Revere continued. “I must absolutely caution you!”
“Sir?” Lines creased the man’s broad forehead.
Revere whispered. “Do not say anything about this to another soul. We do not want the redcoats knowing what we know that they believe we don’t know, do we?” Revere’s smile became a grin.
“No, sir, we don't,” Ballard, blinking rapidly, answered.
“John Ballard is your name?”
“I’tis, Mister Revere.”
“I will make certain to mention it to my friends.”
Adams, Samuel – Congressional Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel patriots of Massachusetts
Ballard, John – hostler near General Gage’s Province House
Clarke, Rev. Jonas – Lexington minister and influential political leader
Cochrane, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of British forces stationed in Boston
Grant, Lieutenant – Member of major Mitchell’s patrol
Hancock, John – rich Boston merchant. Congressional Congress delegate
Lumm, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Mitchell, Major Edward – 10th Regiment. In command of a body of officers assigned to intercept express riders prior to the British raid upon Concord
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Chapter 7, “Hell to Pay,” Section 1
Revere's information is much more than encouraging. I call it emancipating!”
“Call it liberating, call it emancipating, call it whatever you want. We share the same sentiment.” Seated in his high-back chair, Reverend Jonas Clarke, about to say more, turned his large head toward the child standing before him.
“Mr. Hancock wishes to say he has retired.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth. And so shall you.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Jonas, how old is your daughter?” Clarke’s house guest asked after she had left.
“Eleven. Twelve? I have seven daughters. Six sons.” Reverend Clarke smiled. “I have difficulty remembering their ages.”
Sam Adams withdrew his black pipe from his mouth. He exhaled pleasurably a stream of smoke. Sparks from the bottom, red-creased log showered the fire pit screen. Watching the red particles fade, he said, “When she is married with children, Jonas, may she and they prosper in a liberty-loving nation.”
“May we all sooner.”
The High Whig leader rested his head against the cushioned chair back.
He and John Hancock had begun their residence at the Clarke house a month ago. Frequently, as he intended now, he had sat up well into the night, his host opposite him reading by candle and firelight. Productive discussions had resulted.
Adams knew well that Jonas Clarke's influence extended far beyond the Sunday meeting house. Clarke had been the major political force in Lexington for two decades. He had been among the first in the province to oppose the Stamp Act, declaring it a violation of the natural rights of man, rights relinquished through timidity and vacillation. During Adams and Hancock’s stay Clarke had been Adams’s advisor and obliging confidant. This particular night Adams wanted much more.
“So, Samuel, once again you will have your Tea Act.”
“Your meaning, Jonas?” Adams answered, not the least surprised at the Reverend’s insight.
The minister placed the book he had been about to read on the circular table next to his chair. He covered his yawning mouth. “You will devise a way to capitalize on this forthcoming invasion.” He crossed his left leg over his right, placed his huge hands on his left knee.
“An opportunity our timorous friends who assemble at Concord would forfeit!”
“Ah. The 'half-way patriots' again.”
“We have them similarly in the Provincial Congress!”
Having suppressed a second yawn, Clarke smiled. Silenced, not willing to remain so, Adams supposed he was about to be grievously repetitious. They had walked up and down this hillside before. In particular, how the Continental Congress had talked of establishing a colonial Parliament, which, superintended by London’s Parliament, would legislate colonial matters, and how he had scuttled the idea. How here in Massachusetts the delegates at Concord had likewise been timorous. How like sailors on a wrecked ship, fearing the turbulent water, they refused to leap! Previous diatribes on the subject notwithstanding, his blood was up! He would speak because he had the need to speak! Revere’s information was the impetus. Clarke’s complicity was his purpose.
“I said to them, ‘Gage's reinforcements from England and his replacement will be arriving shortly. What shall we do then, gentlemen, hide our powder west of the Berkshires?'”
The minister chuckled. He recrossed his legs, dangled his hands close to the floor.
“So, at last, they passed the resolution! A Massachusetts army. But, Jonas, do you believe we will ever see that army?! Where are the musket balls and gunpowder the Congress asked of our people months ago?!”
“I know that very little is where we store it, in our meeting house.”
“Our people haven't the will to force the separation! They wish to defend only what they have!” Cradling his elbows, he scowled at the burning logs. “It seems they are satisfied with their ill-equipped militia! This past week their delegates argued endlessly about the rules and regulations of this Massachusetts paper army! If the redcoats do this, only then will the army do that. A half of nothing, Jonas, is nothing!”
Clarke raised a long forefinger. “The redcoats wish now to change the equation,” he said authoritatively.
“When they do, we do not need speeches about it!”
They had arrived at the destination he had sought. He would proceed now deliberately, persuasively.
“We do not need finely-worded resolutions! We need an event, Jonas, that will enflame the passions of our people, an event that will embolden, nay compel, every half-way patriot to one course of action!”
Red fissures in the bottom log snapped.
“Independence, Samuel, can only be obtained by force. What precisely would you have happen that would inspire the most cautious of our people to fight?”
He knows. Am I surprised? I am not. But I will say it. And he will agree. “Martyrs, Jonas. A dozen martyrs.”
2
“Upon my word! Bloody fine duty, I say!” Captain Cochrane, about to mount, shouted.
“Huzzah to ale! To Shepherd’s pie! To comely wenches! To Tommy Gage’s farts!” Astride his horse, Captain Lumm belched.
Not hearing Major Mitchell’s approach, Lieutenant Grant guffawed.
“By God, hold your tongues!” They had preceded Mitchell into the yard while he had paid the proprietor. “Mount! We shall ride to the bottom of this hill! Then I, not you, will speak!” Mitchell galloped westward, away from the Black Horse Tavern. Instantly sobered, his nine subordinates followed.
“Answer me one plain question!” Mitchell began once they had coalesced under a canopy of high maple limbs. ”Were you selected to alert the countryside of your contempt of our Commanding General?!” Rising above his saddle, he pointed his chin at the most culpable. “By my word, I hand-picked the lot of you for this special duty! I should have impressed nine pock-faced moon-calves of the King’s Own! I will not have you defame within my hearing our General!”
Squinting, he heard but the fractious movements of his spirited horse.
Not one of them had the courage to look at him! The worst was Grant, pretending a preoccupation with a boil on the back of his right hand! God’s blood, he would give every one of them full reason to cower!
“Heed this well! I will suffer neither your indiscretion nor your insubordination! If you believe that I share your disdain, you embrace a perilous delusion!”
“Sir, I beg your pardon.” Captain Lumm had spoken.
Drunken, weasel bastard! What fawning excuse was this flash rattler, eyes off in the trees, about to try to pass muster?!
“I confess, sir, that I am too fond of hot slings, and, big-bosomed tavern wenches. I want discretion.” Lumm offered a conciliatory smile. Mitchell’s glare destroyed it.
Captain Cochrane stirred. Having first glanced away, Cochrane made eye contact. “Sir, your criticism is well received. I confess my indiscretion. To do damage to the integrity of this mission is farthest from my heart.”
Pretty Words!
Mitchell’s fierce eyes scorched all. “You? You?! The lot of you?! By your silence do I presume the same sentiment?!” Satisfied he had daunted both the innocent and the culpable, he exclaimed: “So be it!”
Oh, they were pliable enough, castigated. Excellent horsemen, they were the best officer material he had been able to recruit. Harried repeatedly, they would suffice.
Leaning left, he spat. He scowled across the road. “Our public mission, as General Gage conceived it,” he announced, “has ended. To the rabble of the countryside we have been officers on an afternoon furlough, taking our exercise after a fine meal away from the city. We commence now to execute our plan!”
Lumm and Grant exchanged looks. Cochrane, his head and hands still, concentrated.
“As you probably have deduced, a large portion of our garrison is to march this way before dawn. Secrecy is paramount. We shall station ourselves this evening in darkened areas along selected roads to intercept express riders intent on broadcasting the army’s destination and purpose.”
He saw guarded faces, devoid of expression.
Captain Cochrane spoke. “Sir. Having intercepted a rider, what should we do?”
“Interrogate him. Detain him, until our soldiers have reached us and he can do us no harm!”
“What measures should we employ, sir, should he resist?”
Looking past the officer, Mitchell arched his back. For all his careful courtesy, Cochrane had exhibited two qualities. Forethought. And backbone. Mitchell recalled what he had been told about Cochrane’s conduct at Portsmouth, how Cochrane had drawn his sword in protest when the rebels had begun to lower the British flag. How during the ensuing struggle he had been wounded by it. His mouth widening, Mitchell said, “Whatever means necessary to prevent his escape.”
Captain Lumm, next to Cochrane, nodded. Moving his jaw laterally, Lieutenant Grant grinned.
“We shall divide ourselves disproportionately,” Mitchell declared. “The group that I shall command will guard the road to Lexington, two of you will station yourselves on the road west of Charlestown, the remainder of you will patrol the roads south and west of Roxbury and Brookline. Your sergeants will accompany you. We shall gather them up, God’s life, where we left them, after I have determined your assignments!”
“I caution you!” he exclaimed, terminating Grant’s cocky self-absorption. “Your cloaks must cover your arms! Should you be questioned closely about your intent, you may admit that your purpose is to arrest deserters! Should you discover where the nefarious rogues, Adams and Hancock, quail, seize them!”
Having voiced much of the anger that defined him, Mitchell specified their assignments. “Tomorrow upon this vile populace,” he exclaimed, “sweet vengeance shall be exacted!
“Mr. Revere, beggin’ yer pardon. With yer say so, I be havin’ a word with you, private-like?”
The silversmith looked across the length of his shop. Nobody else was present.
He detected horse odor. “You may speak.”
“M'name's John Ballard. I be a hostler at a stable near the Province House.”
“In the midst of redcoats,” Revere said, affably. “Go on.”
“Yes sir, I be in the middle a them. That’s a fact.” He glanced at the counter separating them, at Revere’s hands, at the silversmith’s chest, but not at, Revere noticed, his face. “Figurin’ if I cozy up t’them redcoats, y’see, an’ … pretendin’ I be fer the Crown, …” He shrugged his shoulders. “I be makin' a livin', y’know. But I be findin' out certain things that gets let slipped.” His face broke into a happy grin. “As true as the gospel I be a son o’ liberty in me heart; I'd not t’be comin' here if that twasn't the gospel truth!”
“Tell me what you came to tell me.” Revere smiled.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Revere. I’ll be doin’ that, right off. Somethin’ important, too.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s what me friend told me which I’ll be tellin’ you.”
“Fine. Tell me.”
“Well, he says t’me this afternoon -- he be a groom at the Province House, y’know -- he says … he overheard this morning some officers talkin' and braggin'.” Ballard rapped four fingers on the counter. “They be seein' how their horses be saddled, y’know, and enjoyin' their talk, y’see, and one of them said that tomorrow … there’s goin’ t’be hell t’pay!'”
Mouth taut, eyelids retracted, Ballard waited.
“Yes? What else?” I’m supposed to be alarmed by this? Revere reacted. “Go on.”
The hostler blinked. His gaze dropped to the counter. He touched it. “Well, that’s … that’s all. I figure it be me duty to pass it along, what he heard!”
“You were right to have done so.”
Ballard nodded, guardedly smiled.
“What puzzles me, however, is … I must ask you this. Why did you come to me?!”
The hostler’s smile vanished. He gaped. “Heavens to Holland, Mister Revere! Everyone knows y’be a High Son o’ Liberty! D-d’y’be thinkin’ I be a spy?!”
Revere laughed, heartily. Twice he thumped the counter. “No, no. Not for a second!” he exclaimed, his eyes tearing. “I … apologize. I do apologize. Forgive my … Please understand, … it was your expression! I’m entirely at fault.”
The horse tender’s stupefied look persisted.
“Be assured,” Revere said, trying not to laugh. “You’re definitely not a spy! You are … quite the opposite! You’re the third person today that has brought me the same information. Which, mind you, is important, because it confirms what the others have said! Be certain I will pass this information along!”
Ballard’s face blushed. “I thank you, sir.”
“No. All thanks belong to you, a true patriot! But, ….” Wanting, despite his apologies, a final amusement, Revere continued. “I must absolutely caution you!”
“Sir?” Lines creased the man’s broad forehead.
Revere whispered. “Do not say anything about this to another soul. We do not want the redcoats knowing what we know that they believe we don’t know, do we?” Revere’s smile became a grin.
“No, sir, we don't,” Ballard, blinking rapidly, answered.
“John Ballard is your name?”
“I’tis, Mister Revere.”
“I will make certain to mention it to my friends.”
February 14, 2021
Crossing the River -- Chapter 6, Section 2
Characters Mentioned
Adams, Samuel – Continental Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel patriots of Massachusetts
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of British forces stationed in Boston
Hancock, John – rich Boston merchant. Continental Congress delegate
Mackenzie, Colonel John – Marine friend in England of John Pitcairn
Montagu, John – 4th Earl of Sandwich, British First Lord of the Admiralty during the American Revolution
Percy, Lieutenant Colonel Hugh – commander of the 1st Brigade, commander of the relief column that rescued Colonel Smith’s forces
Pitcairn, Major John – commander of the Marines. Second in command of the forces sent to Concord
Quincy, Dolly – daughter of Judge Edmund Qunicy of Boston and future wife of John Hancock
Reveley, Henry – English friend of Hugh Percy
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Shaw, Francis – Fiercely anti-British Boston tailor. Forced to house British officers including John Pitcairn
Warren, Dr. Joseph – second to Samuel Adams in the Sons of Liberty leadership
Wragg, Lieutenant – billeted in Francis Shaw’s house with John Pitcairn
Chapter 6, “Acute Hostility,” Section 2
Late on the Saturday afternoon of April 15 a dark-complexioned, stocky man knocked on the door of the fashionable Hanover Street residence of Dr. Joseph Warren. The responding intern did not address the man until he had entered the doctor's study. “Sir, Doctor Warren is attending a patient. I shall tell him you’ve arrived.”
Paul Revere had known Joseph Warren fourteen years. They had met soon after Warren had graduated from Harvard. They had become friends while Warren had served his indenture to Dr. James Lloyd: mixing medicines, tying up minor wounds, reading Latin books, attending meetings of the radical Whig Party. Warren was taller, slender and rather handsome. Revere lacked Warren's eloquence and easy charm. Revere, six years older, was forty. He was a mechanic with a limited education and a large family. Rarely did men of Revere’s station establish close relationships with well-born professionals.
Dr. Warren was highly esteemed. He had made his name as one of two physicians who had inoculated nearly 5,000 people during the small pox epidemic of 1763. He was accessible to any person that sought his care.
Warren served the radical Whigs as a strategist, organizer, writer, and speaker. He had become Samuel Adams’s closest associate. Indefatigable express rider, effective propagandizer, tireless street activist, Revere’s contributions had likewise been substantial. Each man believed that his arrest was imminent. Each had refused to leave the city. Essential work required their presence.
“Revere!” exclaimed Warren, entering the room, drying his hands on a towel. “I had expected to see you later at the Dragon. Assuming my young interns would have permitted it!” Motioning toward a pair of upholstered, high-back chairs, he invited Revere to sit. Their having done so, Warren patted the artisan's left knee.
“More threats, Joseph?”
“Nothing tangible. Nothing directed at me as was the matter with the three British officers near the Province House.” Out of habit, he straightened the left sleeve of his silver-threaded waistcoat. “But, you see, my medical students are alarmists. I must show them the pistols I carry before they sanction any departure!”
Revere laughed. Warren's eyes glinted with humor.
“In truth, the good General could dispose of us most expeditiously: by military escort to prison, thence by ship to London to be presented as trophies to the King. The longer Gage waits, the greater we profit. I, thanks to you, have had my teeth fixed!” Warren exhibited a toothy grin.
How easy he relates, Revere thought. With Hancock, with Adams, with Tories, with everybody.
He recalled Warren’s speech a month ago, commemorating the fifth anniversary of the Boston Massacre. Warren had addressed a crowded church of agitated citizens. At least a dozen sour-faced British officers -- including Revere’s neighbor, Major John Pitcairn -- had sat in the first pew. Employing courtesy, discretion, and common sense, Warren had both delivered his message and defused hostility.
By being courtly, buoyant, Warren maintained his equilibrium. Revere’s way was single-minded absorption of the immediate task, be it a day long express ride to Portsmouth or a night patrol of the waterfront and Common.
“I, Paul, as well as any man, appreciate your skill with metal. But I am amazed at how well you fashioned these two ivory teeth. I do not eat with them, mind, but they look white, and I don't whistle when I speak.”
Revere grinned. His friend’s good cheer was a welcomed boost.
He had arrived at Warren’s house irritated that he would probably have to ride into the country early the next morning. He had spent the previous night shivering on patrol. He’d been hollow-limbed, muscle and tendon tired the entire day. He had rejected the thought of napping an hour or two in his shop because what he needed was uninterrupted sleep, which he might just get if he retired early, assuming he didn’t hear the usual street noises, if his children stayed in their beds, if …
“Paul.”
He started.
“You were out again all night, weren’t you? You have that particular look. Tell me what you have to say, before my talking puts you to sleep.”
He looked at his shoes. He pressed together opposite fingertips. “Confirmation, Joseph. Confirmation.”
Warren rose. He lifted the white towel off his chair’s left armrest. Revere watched him fold it in half. “Go on.”
“Gage has released his grenadier and light infantry companies from regular guard duty. My mechanics believe that the General is ready to launch his rowboats. At present, they are moored under the stern of one of his frigates.”
“Which he will use to carry soldiers across the Back Bay to Cambridge, from whence they will proceed to Concord.”
Revere nodded.
“With a detour at Lexington to seize Samuel and John.” Placing the folded towel on the armrest, Warren grimaced, afterward sat. His left hand bracing his chin, he bit his lower lip. “You should know that the Provincial Congress adjourned this morning. And Sam and John intend to remain in Lexington an additional month.”
Given the location of the stored munitions, Concord, Adams and Hancock’s continued residence in Lexington seemed to Revere foolish. Indeed, stupid. As had been his and Warren’s decision, according to some, not to leave the city. Revere studied his pensive friend, seated stiffly on the edge of his cushion. How much longer would Warren delay? Revere had prepared for a sudden departure; he suspected that Warren had not. “So, we fight,” Revere said, stating the obvious. That night, or the next, he could have his friend transported to Cambridge, where he could more safely direct the Province’s business. But would Warren be willing to leave his patients? “Their soldiers will invade the interior and we will fight,” he reiterated.
Warren stood. Hands clasped behind his back, he paced. Stopping beside Revere's chair, eyes glinting, he declared, “I am so weary of their conceited slurs! That we won't stand and fight, that we'll run when we sniff powder!”
“I know. They’re wrong.”
“Flouncing their queues, they fancy themselves paragons, indomitable Visigoths!”
Indeed, Revere thought, not understanding Warren’s allusion. “They’ll find out. Soon enough.”
His knuckles pressed against the small of his back, Warren stared out his latticed window. Revere waited, knowing Warren’s sudden temper would quickly abate.
Warren turned. “You will have to warn Adams and Hancock. At once.”
Revere recrossed his legs, stared.
“And the Concord militia. Although your ride to warn them a week ago has given them immediate cause to remove their stores.”
“I'd thought to leave tomorrow, early.”
“But not through the gate!” Warren shook his head. “They know you rode to Portsmouth! Their spy has told them. I am certain!”
“I have a boat ready.” Rising, Revere felt his left thigh cramp. It had cramped earlier, when he had risen from his bed after a brief rest. A bother, painful, but less annoying, he thought, than his friend’s presumption that he needed to be told what was dangerous. “I have a horse waiting across the River.”
“Ah. Very good.” Warren stared at him. “May God accompany you. He knows I depend on you.”
“Joseph, be ready, at a moment’s notice, to leave this house!” There, he had said it!
Warren grasped Revere’s shoulders.
“You have been talking to my interns, haven’t you?” Warren stared. “No? Well, in two or three days’ time we shall know.” Looking past Revere, he said, “Old friend, we have shared much danger. We shall not be deterred!”
3
A heavy mist lay upon Boston Common. Hugh, Earl Percy had been watching his soldiers perform their daily, except for Sunday, early morning close-order drills. Once the refuse of the streets of London and the ports of the Channel, rigorously disciplined, provided continuity, they had become good soldiers, many, he believed, good men.
He was cognizant of the acute discontent rampant in other brigades, evidenced by the recent spate in attempted desertions. His own men were likewise weary of the banality of barracks life, of the repetition of incessant drill. They, too, had suffered the provocative insults of the town’s populace. Their generalized discontent notwithstanding, they had maintained their allegiance to him. Long ago, looking after their collective needs, he had won their fidelity.
Months before they had come to Boston, Percy had given each man a new blanket and a golden guinea. Laying out 700 pounds, he had chartered a ship to transport to Boston their wives and children. Before coming to Boston and here as recently as three weeks ago, to inculcate fortitude Percy, a thin, bony man suffering from hereditary gout, had on long training exercises disdained the use of his horse.
Percy’s officers revered him. He had honored their allegiance with frequent invitations to his table, at the mansion at the corner of Tremont and Winter Streets, formerly the residence of the royal governor, a fine wooden house surrounded by wide lawns.
Without connivance, without deliberate forethought, he had fashioned a loyalty that other brigade commanders envied. An intelligent, attentive, generous aristocrat in His Majesty’s service, Hugh, Earl Percy was an anomaly.
A member of Parliament, a young nobleman who one day would become the Duke of Northumberland, Percy, like his father, had opposed Parliament's tax measures that had led ultimately to the destruction of tea in Boston Harbor. Lord North's Tory government knew well Percy's liberal, Whig viewpoint; but they knew as well his soldierly allegiance to English law and king.
He had arrived off Boston July 4 of the previous year, a month and three days after the closure of the Port. He had initially approved of General Gage's restrained enforcement of Parliament's punitive expectation that Boston recant its destructive act. The General’s policy had approximated Percy's accustomed mode of social interaction: respect people as human beings, mollify discontent, seek reasoned compromise, in specific instances help the indigent.
The immediate assistance he had given the Boston family made homeless by a fire had been done without calculation. The compliments he had sent to a merchant's wife on the excellence of her landscape drawings had been sincere. He very much enjoyed the respectable people of Boston. He had entertained many of the town's gentlemen. Often, after the early morning drills had been completed, he had walked across the Common to the house of John Hancock to have breakfast with the acknowledged rebel leader, his Aunt Lydia, and, occasionally, Hancock's rumored fiancée, the spirited Dolly Quincy, who, if gossip was truth, “fancied” him.
In matters great and small the nobleman was percipient.
He had entertained the thought that the king's ministers had sent him to Boston to serve by example. If his presence reduced somewhat the hostility that much of the citizenry directed toward British officers, perhaps in time, with other officers emulating his conduct, reasonable Bostonians might modify their adversarial judgments. Like rainwater percolating to the roots of parched trees, their altered perception of British superintendence might, then, permeate the minds of the less rational.
Thus, initially, his superiors may have hypothesized. If he had mollified to any extent the hostility of even a handful of righteous provincials, recent events had rendered moot that accomplishment. At the recent gathering of officers attended by the young soldier turned improbable spy General Gage had defined succinctly the futility of his benign policy. The chivalrous general had altered his viewpoint. Percy had done so months ago. It had been solely for military reasons, not for any positive regard he had for the rebel provincial, that Percy had praised the General for not having invaded the countryside “willy-nilly.”
During the past six months Percy had written letters criticizing the General’s high-mindedness. “The general’s great lenity and moderation serve only to make them more daring and insolent,” he had written his friend, Henry Reveley, in England, after 400 New Hampshire militiamen had seized royal powder and cannon from Portsmouth’s dilapidated fortress.
Charitable as he had been to individual inhabitants, his opinion of them as a group, upon immediate exposure to them, had swiftly hardened. He had been appalled at the nastiness of the Boston mob. They and the people that incited them were bullies, cowards. “Like all other cowards, they are cruel and tyrannical,” he had informed Reveley. The Congregational clergy’s practice of denying Loyalists admittance to their churches was abhorrent. These rebels are “the most designing artful villains in the world,” he had written to his father. Selfish and strident in the pursuit of their objectives, they were incapable of disciplined, cooperative accomplishment. Town meetings were never-ending debates. Their town militias -- independent, jealous, wrangling entities -- talked much but accomplished little. The best he had to say about his nine months amongst the people of Boston was that his tenure had been instructive.
The morning mist emblematic of attitudes contrary to his nature, he stared a good half minute at the drab river.
Questions.
Which day this week would General Gage order the seizure of Concord’s stores?
What measures would the General take to forestall armed resistance?
What exigencies should the commander of the expedition strive to anticipate?
Would he, Percy, be that commander?
The day had remained cold, dreary. It will rain during the night, John Pitcairn predicted.
He stood, as he often did, at the top of Boston Common, facing the River and its complement of ships. Across the River lay Cambridge. Beyond it were the towns of Menotomy and Lexington. He suspected that within the week he would be directing regulars through those villages to seize and destroy munitions stockpiled in Concord.
The inactivity of his long stay in Boston had made him testy. He was a man that craved action. Little about his life, save his rank, had changed since he had fought the French. Notwithstanding his need for stimulation, he adhered to the belief that whom a soldier waged war against mattered. This particular day his divided perception of the present conflict had caused him, standing high and far above the river, to try to formulate a practical resolution.
Folly! Beyond all help!
He stepped off aggressively toward his lodging.
North Square was a block inland from the wharves and bustle of the North End waterfront. Its produce wagons rattled across its beach pebble-cobbled streets, open to the brisk sea air. Triangular in shape, the square was rimmed by neat, small houses, many adjoined. Here a military man could enjoy the sight of trees, well maintained fences, windowpanes shining in the sun, gleaming brass, and doorsteps well scrubbed.
He and several of his lieutenants were billeted in the house of Francis Shaw, a tailor and staunch Whig. Many North Square residents were artisans and mechanics, most, like his “host,” antagonistic toward British authority. Most notable of this group was Shaw’s neighbor down the street, the notorious silversmith/propagandist/express rider, Paul Revere.
John Pitcairn was a decisive man. In conduct and speech he did not equivocate. Negligent soldiers by the hundreds had suffered his infamous wrath. Yet his longevity of service and his consequent exposure to a wide gamut of people had been instructive. Over the years he had developed a certain tolerance toward courteous, honorable gentlemen that happened to espouse wrong-headed beliefs. He was not boisterous or waggish in their company as he often was with fellow officers. Instead, he was polite, even congenial. Being quartered amidst the plain-speaking, hard-working craftsmen of North Square hadn’t been a hardship. He had felt at ease with them. They, in turn, had been civil.
The son of a minister, he attended weekly the services at Christ Church. Walking about North Square, he acknowledged always the presence of those individuals with whom he was acquainted. Occasionally, he engaged in good-natured, restrained banter. He never argued. Honorable men, not of the same mind, valued restraint.
He knew what most believed. The basis of their entire quarrel with Parliament was that they were denied the rights of Englishmen. In that august body they had no representation. Thus Parliament inflicted injury upon them. So went their argument. He could have pointed out that the war against France on the Continent and here in America had been costly and that the colonies had benefited. They would continue to benefit. Why then should they be exempt from paying their share? Tough-minded, aggressive people they were. Englishmen in that respect. Interacting with them at a personal level had allowed him to feel on occasion a degree of kinship. Their generalized conduct, however, -- especially their contempt for the uniform -- ignited frequently his temper.
To his Marine friend in England, Colonel John Mackenzie, he had written in December: “I have so despicable an opinion of the people of this country that I would not hesitate to march with the Marines I have with me to any part of the country, and do whatever I was inclined.” To Lord Sandwich, the First Lord of the Admiralty, he had declared that stern measures must be taken. “One active campaign, a smart action, and burning two or three of their towns, will set everything to rights. Nothing now, I am afraid, but this will ever convince those foolish bad people that England is in earnest.”
Tough words. To re-establish English law, to reaffirm Royal and Parliamentary authority, he would indeed slay his colonial brethren. But his personal contact with individual Northenders had given him cause, during quiet moments, to temporize, comportment in a major in the King’s service not to be countenanced!
Anticipating strife, he passed reluctantly through the front doorway of Francis Shaw’s house. Most probably Lieutenant Wragg would again antagonize at the family table the old tailor’s son, Samuel. Pitcairn would be forced to intercede, dousing temporarily the acute hostility that Parliament had created and Wragg stoked, volatile enmity perpetuated by colonial rabble-rousers and obnoxious junior and senior officers of the King.
Adams, Samuel – Continental Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel patriots of Massachusetts
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of British forces stationed in Boston
Hancock, John – rich Boston merchant. Continental Congress delegate
Mackenzie, Colonel John – Marine friend in England of John Pitcairn
Montagu, John – 4th Earl of Sandwich, British First Lord of the Admiralty during the American Revolution
Percy, Lieutenant Colonel Hugh – commander of the 1st Brigade, commander of the relief column that rescued Colonel Smith’s forces
Pitcairn, Major John – commander of the Marines. Second in command of the forces sent to Concord
Quincy, Dolly – daughter of Judge Edmund Qunicy of Boston and future wife of John Hancock
Reveley, Henry – English friend of Hugh Percy
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Shaw, Francis – Fiercely anti-British Boston tailor. Forced to house British officers including John Pitcairn
Warren, Dr. Joseph – second to Samuel Adams in the Sons of Liberty leadership
Wragg, Lieutenant – billeted in Francis Shaw’s house with John Pitcairn
Chapter 6, “Acute Hostility,” Section 2
Late on the Saturday afternoon of April 15 a dark-complexioned, stocky man knocked on the door of the fashionable Hanover Street residence of Dr. Joseph Warren. The responding intern did not address the man until he had entered the doctor's study. “Sir, Doctor Warren is attending a patient. I shall tell him you’ve arrived.”
Paul Revere had known Joseph Warren fourteen years. They had met soon after Warren had graduated from Harvard. They had become friends while Warren had served his indenture to Dr. James Lloyd: mixing medicines, tying up minor wounds, reading Latin books, attending meetings of the radical Whig Party. Warren was taller, slender and rather handsome. Revere lacked Warren's eloquence and easy charm. Revere, six years older, was forty. He was a mechanic with a limited education and a large family. Rarely did men of Revere’s station establish close relationships with well-born professionals.
Dr. Warren was highly esteemed. He had made his name as one of two physicians who had inoculated nearly 5,000 people during the small pox epidemic of 1763. He was accessible to any person that sought his care.
Warren served the radical Whigs as a strategist, organizer, writer, and speaker. He had become Samuel Adams’s closest associate. Indefatigable express rider, effective propagandizer, tireless street activist, Revere’s contributions had likewise been substantial. Each man believed that his arrest was imminent. Each had refused to leave the city. Essential work required their presence.
“Revere!” exclaimed Warren, entering the room, drying his hands on a towel. “I had expected to see you later at the Dragon. Assuming my young interns would have permitted it!” Motioning toward a pair of upholstered, high-back chairs, he invited Revere to sit. Their having done so, Warren patted the artisan's left knee.
“More threats, Joseph?”
“Nothing tangible. Nothing directed at me as was the matter with the three British officers near the Province House.” Out of habit, he straightened the left sleeve of his silver-threaded waistcoat. “But, you see, my medical students are alarmists. I must show them the pistols I carry before they sanction any departure!”
Revere laughed. Warren's eyes glinted with humor.
“In truth, the good General could dispose of us most expeditiously: by military escort to prison, thence by ship to London to be presented as trophies to the King. The longer Gage waits, the greater we profit. I, thanks to you, have had my teeth fixed!” Warren exhibited a toothy grin.
How easy he relates, Revere thought. With Hancock, with Adams, with Tories, with everybody.
He recalled Warren’s speech a month ago, commemorating the fifth anniversary of the Boston Massacre. Warren had addressed a crowded church of agitated citizens. At least a dozen sour-faced British officers -- including Revere’s neighbor, Major John Pitcairn -- had sat in the first pew. Employing courtesy, discretion, and common sense, Warren had both delivered his message and defused hostility.
By being courtly, buoyant, Warren maintained his equilibrium. Revere’s way was single-minded absorption of the immediate task, be it a day long express ride to Portsmouth or a night patrol of the waterfront and Common.
“I, Paul, as well as any man, appreciate your skill with metal. But I am amazed at how well you fashioned these two ivory teeth. I do not eat with them, mind, but they look white, and I don't whistle when I speak.”
Revere grinned. His friend’s good cheer was a welcomed boost.
He had arrived at Warren’s house irritated that he would probably have to ride into the country early the next morning. He had spent the previous night shivering on patrol. He’d been hollow-limbed, muscle and tendon tired the entire day. He had rejected the thought of napping an hour or two in his shop because what he needed was uninterrupted sleep, which he might just get if he retired early, assuming he didn’t hear the usual street noises, if his children stayed in their beds, if …
“Paul.”
He started.
“You were out again all night, weren’t you? You have that particular look. Tell me what you have to say, before my talking puts you to sleep.”
He looked at his shoes. He pressed together opposite fingertips. “Confirmation, Joseph. Confirmation.”
Warren rose. He lifted the white towel off his chair’s left armrest. Revere watched him fold it in half. “Go on.”
“Gage has released his grenadier and light infantry companies from regular guard duty. My mechanics believe that the General is ready to launch his rowboats. At present, they are moored under the stern of one of his frigates.”
“Which he will use to carry soldiers across the Back Bay to Cambridge, from whence they will proceed to Concord.”
Revere nodded.
“With a detour at Lexington to seize Samuel and John.” Placing the folded towel on the armrest, Warren grimaced, afterward sat. His left hand bracing his chin, he bit his lower lip. “You should know that the Provincial Congress adjourned this morning. And Sam and John intend to remain in Lexington an additional month.”
Given the location of the stored munitions, Concord, Adams and Hancock’s continued residence in Lexington seemed to Revere foolish. Indeed, stupid. As had been his and Warren’s decision, according to some, not to leave the city. Revere studied his pensive friend, seated stiffly on the edge of his cushion. How much longer would Warren delay? Revere had prepared for a sudden departure; he suspected that Warren had not. “So, we fight,” Revere said, stating the obvious. That night, or the next, he could have his friend transported to Cambridge, where he could more safely direct the Province’s business. But would Warren be willing to leave his patients? “Their soldiers will invade the interior and we will fight,” he reiterated.
Warren stood. Hands clasped behind his back, he paced. Stopping beside Revere's chair, eyes glinting, he declared, “I am so weary of their conceited slurs! That we won't stand and fight, that we'll run when we sniff powder!”
“I know. They’re wrong.”
“Flouncing their queues, they fancy themselves paragons, indomitable Visigoths!”
Indeed, Revere thought, not understanding Warren’s allusion. “They’ll find out. Soon enough.”
His knuckles pressed against the small of his back, Warren stared out his latticed window. Revere waited, knowing Warren’s sudden temper would quickly abate.
Warren turned. “You will have to warn Adams and Hancock. At once.”
Revere recrossed his legs, stared.
“And the Concord militia. Although your ride to warn them a week ago has given them immediate cause to remove their stores.”
“I'd thought to leave tomorrow, early.”
“But not through the gate!” Warren shook his head. “They know you rode to Portsmouth! Their spy has told them. I am certain!”
“I have a boat ready.” Rising, Revere felt his left thigh cramp. It had cramped earlier, when he had risen from his bed after a brief rest. A bother, painful, but less annoying, he thought, than his friend’s presumption that he needed to be told what was dangerous. “I have a horse waiting across the River.”
“Ah. Very good.” Warren stared at him. “May God accompany you. He knows I depend on you.”
“Joseph, be ready, at a moment’s notice, to leave this house!” There, he had said it!
Warren grasped Revere’s shoulders.
“You have been talking to my interns, haven’t you?” Warren stared. “No? Well, in two or three days’ time we shall know.” Looking past Revere, he said, “Old friend, we have shared much danger. We shall not be deterred!”
3
A heavy mist lay upon Boston Common. Hugh, Earl Percy had been watching his soldiers perform their daily, except for Sunday, early morning close-order drills. Once the refuse of the streets of London and the ports of the Channel, rigorously disciplined, provided continuity, they had become good soldiers, many, he believed, good men.
He was cognizant of the acute discontent rampant in other brigades, evidenced by the recent spate in attempted desertions. His own men were likewise weary of the banality of barracks life, of the repetition of incessant drill. They, too, had suffered the provocative insults of the town’s populace. Their generalized discontent notwithstanding, they had maintained their allegiance to him. Long ago, looking after their collective needs, he had won their fidelity.
Months before they had come to Boston, Percy had given each man a new blanket and a golden guinea. Laying out 700 pounds, he had chartered a ship to transport to Boston their wives and children. Before coming to Boston and here as recently as three weeks ago, to inculcate fortitude Percy, a thin, bony man suffering from hereditary gout, had on long training exercises disdained the use of his horse.
Percy’s officers revered him. He had honored their allegiance with frequent invitations to his table, at the mansion at the corner of Tremont and Winter Streets, formerly the residence of the royal governor, a fine wooden house surrounded by wide lawns.
Without connivance, without deliberate forethought, he had fashioned a loyalty that other brigade commanders envied. An intelligent, attentive, generous aristocrat in His Majesty’s service, Hugh, Earl Percy was an anomaly.
A member of Parliament, a young nobleman who one day would become the Duke of Northumberland, Percy, like his father, had opposed Parliament's tax measures that had led ultimately to the destruction of tea in Boston Harbor. Lord North's Tory government knew well Percy's liberal, Whig viewpoint; but they knew as well his soldierly allegiance to English law and king.
He had arrived off Boston July 4 of the previous year, a month and three days after the closure of the Port. He had initially approved of General Gage's restrained enforcement of Parliament's punitive expectation that Boston recant its destructive act. The General’s policy had approximated Percy's accustomed mode of social interaction: respect people as human beings, mollify discontent, seek reasoned compromise, in specific instances help the indigent.
The immediate assistance he had given the Boston family made homeless by a fire had been done without calculation. The compliments he had sent to a merchant's wife on the excellence of her landscape drawings had been sincere. He very much enjoyed the respectable people of Boston. He had entertained many of the town's gentlemen. Often, after the early morning drills had been completed, he had walked across the Common to the house of John Hancock to have breakfast with the acknowledged rebel leader, his Aunt Lydia, and, occasionally, Hancock's rumored fiancée, the spirited Dolly Quincy, who, if gossip was truth, “fancied” him.
In matters great and small the nobleman was percipient.
He had entertained the thought that the king's ministers had sent him to Boston to serve by example. If his presence reduced somewhat the hostility that much of the citizenry directed toward British officers, perhaps in time, with other officers emulating his conduct, reasonable Bostonians might modify their adversarial judgments. Like rainwater percolating to the roots of parched trees, their altered perception of British superintendence might, then, permeate the minds of the less rational.
Thus, initially, his superiors may have hypothesized. If he had mollified to any extent the hostility of even a handful of righteous provincials, recent events had rendered moot that accomplishment. At the recent gathering of officers attended by the young soldier turned improbable spy General Gage had defined succinctly the futility of his benign policy. The chivalrous general had altered his viewpoint. Percy had done so months ago. It had been solely for military reasons, not for any positive regard he had for the rebel provincial, that Percy had praised the General for not having invaded the countryside “willy-nilly.”
During the past six months Percy had written letters criticizing the General’s high-mindedness. “The general’s great lenity and moderation serve only to make them more daring and insolent,” he had written his friend, Henry Reveley, in England, after 400 New Hampshire militiamen had seized royal powder and cannon from Portsmouth’s dilapidated fortress.
Charitable as he had been to individual inhabitants, his opinion of them as a group, upon immediate exposure to them, had swiftly hardened. He had been appalled at the nastiness of the Boston mob. They and the people that incited them were bullies, cowards. “Like all other cowards, they are cruel and tyrannical,” he had informed Reveley. The Congregational clergy’s practice of denying Loyalists admittance to their churches was abhorrent. These rebels are “the most designing artful villains in the world,” he had written to his father. Selfish and strident in the pursuit of their objectives, they were incapable of disciplined, cooperative accomplishment. Town meetings were never-ending debates. Their town militias -- independent, jealous, wrangling entities -- talked much but accomplished little. The best he had to say about his nine months amongst the people of Boston was that his tenure had been instructive.
The morning mist emblematic of attitudes contrary to his nature, he stared a good half minute at the drab river.
Questions.
Which day this week would General Gage order the seizure of Concord’s stores?
What measures would the General take to forestall armed resistance?
What exigencies should the commander of the expedition strive to anticipate?
Would he, Percy, be that commander?
The day had remained cold, dreary. It will rain during the night, John Pitcairn predicted.
He stood, as he often did, at the top of Boston Common, facing the River and its complement of ships. Across the River lay Cambridge. Beyond it were the towns of Menotomy and Lexington. He suspected that within the week he would be directing regulars through those villages to seize and destroy munitions stockpiled in Concord.
The inactivity of his long stay in Boston had made him testy. He was a man that craved action. Little about his life, save his rank, had changed since he had fought the French. Notwithstanding his need for stimulation, he adhered to the belief that whom a soldier waged war against mattered. This particular day his divided perception of the present conflict had caused him, standing high and far above the river, to try to formulate a practical resolution.
Folly! Beyond all help!
He stepped off aggressively toward his lodging.
North Square was a block inland from the wharves and bustle of the North End waterfront. Its produce wagons rattled across its beach pebble-cobbled streets, open to the brisk sea air. Triangular in shape, the square was rimmed by neat, small houses, many adjoined. Here a military man could enjoy the sight of trees, well maintained fences, windowpanes shining in the sun, gleaming brass, and doorsteps well scrubbed.
He and several of his lieutenants were billeted in the house of Francis Shaw, a tailor and staunch Whig. Many North Square residents were artisans and mechanics, most, like his “host,” antagonistic toward British authority. Most notable of this group was Shaw’s neighbor down the street, the notorious silversmith/propagandist/express rider, Paul Revere.
John Pitcairn was a decisive man. In conduct and speech he did not equivocate. Negligent soldiers by the hundreds had suffered his infamous wrath. Yet his longevity of service and his consequent exposure to a wide gamut of people had been instructive. Over the years he had developed a certain tolerance toward courteous, honorable gentlemen that happened to espouse wrong-headed beliefs. He was not boisterous or waggish in their company as he often was with fellow officers. Instead, he was polite, even congenial. Being quartered amidst the plain-speaking, hard-working craftsmen of North Square hadn’t been a hardship. He had felt at ease with them. They, in turn, had been civil.
The son of a minister, he attended weekly the services at Christ Church. Walking about North Square, he acknowledged always the presence of those individuals with whom he was acquainted. Occasionally, he engaged in good-natured, restrained banter. He never argued. Honorable men, not of the same mind, valued restraint.
He knew what most believed. The basis of their entire quarrel with Parliament was that they were denied the rights of Englishmen. In that august body they had no representation. Thus Parliament inflicted injury upon them. So went their argument. He could have pointed out that the war against France on the Continent and here in America had been costly and that the colonies had benefited. They would continue to benefit. Why then should they be exempt from paying their share? Tough-minded, aggressive people they were. Englishmen in that respect. Interacting with them at a personal level had allowed him to feel on occasion a degree of kinship. Their generalized conduct, however, -- especially their contempt for the uniform -- ignited frequently his temper.
To his Marine friend in England, Colonel John Mackenzie, he had written in December: “I have so despicable an opinion of the people of this country that I would not hesitate to march with the Marines I have with me to any part of the country, and do whatever I was inclined.” To Lord Sandwich, the First Lord of the Admiralty, he had declared that stern measures must be taken. “One active campaign, a smart action, and burning two or three of their towns, will set everything to rights. Nothing now, I am afraid, but this will ever convince those foolish bad people that England is in earnest.”
Tough words. To re-establish English law, to reaffirm Royal and Parliamentary authority, he would indeed slay his colonial brethren. But his personal contact with individual Northenders had given him cause, during quiet moments, to temporize, comportment in a major in the King’s service not to be countenanced!
Anticipating strife, he passed reluctantly through the front doorway of Francis Shaw’s house. Most probably Lieutenant Wragg would again antagonize at the family table the old tailor’s son, Samuel. Pitcairn would be forced to intercede, dousing temporarily the acute hostility that Parliament had created and Wragg stoked, volatile enmity perpetuated by colonial rabble-rousers and obnoxious junior and senior officers of the King.
