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

Munroe Tavern

                                                            Buckman Tavern

                                                                        

                                                                              

Hancock/Clarke House

Traveling toward the center of Lexington, a visitor might stop first at Munroe Tavern, (See “William Munroe” on the map) 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 (See “John Buckman” on the map) at the apex of where the highway separates into two roads. If he chooses instead to visit the Reverend Joan Clarke, he would take the right-branching road and travel a short distance to come upon the Clarke/Hancock House on the left side (not indicated on the map).

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?

Traveling toward the center of Lexington, a visitor might stop first at Munroe Tavern, (See “William Munroe” on the map) 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 (See “John Buckman” on the map) at the apex of where the highway separates into two roads. If he chooses instead to visit the Reverend Joan Clarke, he would take the right-branching road and travel a short distance to come upon the Clarke/Hancock House on the left side (not indicated on the map).

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?

Crossing the River, Chapter 9, Section 1

 

Characters Mentioned

Barker, Lieutenant John – 4^th 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 – 43^rd Regiment. In command of companies guarding Concord’s North Bridge

Parsons, Captain Lawrence – 10^th 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

Map

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!

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 – 10^th Regiment. Volunteer replacement of Lieutenant Hamilton

Mitchell, Major Edward – 10^th 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 – 10^th 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 1^st 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 10^th 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.