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 – 10^th Regiment. Volunteer replacement of Lieutenant Hamilton

MacKenzie, Lieutenant Frederick – adjutant general of the Welch Fusiliers. Amateur cartographer

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

Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider

Smith, Lieutenant Colonel Francis – commander of the 10^th 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.

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 – 10^th 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!”

 

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!

Crossing the River, Chapter 7, Section 1

Characters Mentioned

Adams, Samuel – Congressional Congress delegate. Leader of the rebel pateriots 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 – 10^th 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.”