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 – 10th Regiment. In command of a body of officers assigned to intercept express riders prior to the British raid upon Concord
Revere, Paul – Boston silversmith and express rider
Chapter 7, “Hell to Pay,” Section 1
Revere's information is much more than encouraging. I call it emancipating!”
“Call it liberating, call it emancipating, call it whatever you want. We share the same sentiment.” Seated in his high-back chair, Reverend Jonas Clarke, about to say more, turned his large head toward the child standing before him.
“Mr. Hancock wishes to say he has retired.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth. And so shall you.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Jonas, how old is your daughter?” Clarke’s house guest asked after she had left.
“Eleven. Twelve? I have seven daughters. Six sons.” Reverend Clarke smiled. “I have difficulty remembering their ages.”
Sam Adams withdrew his black pipe from his mouth. He exhaled pleasurably a stream of smoke. Sparks from the bottom, red-creased log showered the fire pit screen. Watching the red particles fade, he said, “When she is married with children, Jonas, may she and they prosper in a liberty-loving nation.”
“May we all sooner.”
The High Whig leader rested his head against the cushioned chair back.
He and John Hancock had begun their residence at the Clarke house a month ago. Frequently, as he intended now, he had sat up well into the night, his host opposite him reading by candle and firelight. Productive discussions had resulted.
Adams knew well that Jonas Clarke's influence extended far beyond the Sunday meeting house. Clarke had been the major political force in Lexington for two decades. He had been among the first in the province to oppose the Stamp Act, declaring it a violation of the natural rights of man, rights relinquished through timidity and vacillation. During Adams and Hancock’s stay Clarke had been Adams’s advisor and obliging confidant. This particular night Adams wanted much more.
“So, Samuel, once again you will have your Tea Act.”
“Your meaning, Jonas?” Adams answered, not the least surprised at the Reverend’s insight.
The minister placed the book he had been about to read on the circular table next to his chair. He covered his yawning mouth. “You will devise a way to capitalize on this forthcoming invasion.” He crossed his left leg over his right, placed his huge hands on his left knee.
“An opportunity our timorous friends who assemble at Concord would forfeit!”
“Ah. The 'half-way patriots' again.”
“We have them similarly in the Provincial Congress!”
Having suppressed a second yawn, Clarke smiled. Silenced, not willing to remain so, Adams supposed he was about to be grievously repetitious. They had walked up and down this hillside before. In particular, how the Continental Congress had talked of establishing a colonial Parliament, which, superintended by London’s Parliament, would legislate colonial matters, and how he had scuttled the idea. How here in Massachusetts the delegates at Concord had likewise been timorous. How like sailors on a wrecked ship, fearing the turbulent water, they refused to leap! Previous diatribes on the subject notwithstanding, his blood was up! He would speak because he had the need to speak! Revere’s information was the impetus. Clarke’s complicity was his purpose.
“I said to them, ‘Gage's reinforcements from England and his replacement will be arriving shortly. What shall we do then, gentlemen, hide our powder west of the Berkshires?'”
The minister chuckled. He recrossed his legs, dangled his hands close to the floor.
“So, at last, they passed the resolution! A Massachusetts army. But, Jonas, do you believe we will ever see that army?! Where are the musket balls and gunpowder the Congress asked of our people months ago?!”
“I know that very little is where we store it, in our meeting house.”
“Our people haven't the will to force the separation! They wish to defend only what they have!” Cradling his elbows, he scowled at the burning logs. “It seems they are satisfied with their ill-equipped militia! This past week their delegates argued endlessly about the rules and regulations of this Massachusetts paper army! If the redcoats do this, only then will the army do that. A half of nothing, Jonas, is nothing!”
Clarke raised a long forefinger. “The redcoats wish now to change the equation,” he said authoritatively.
“When they do, we do not need speeches about it!”
They had arrived at the destination he had sought. He would proceed now deliberately, persuasively.
“We do not need finely-worded resolutions! We need an event, Jonas, that will enflame the passions of our people, an event that will embolden, nay compel, every half-way patriot to one course of action!”
Red fissures in the bottom log snapped.
“Independence, Samuel, can only be obtained by force. What precisely would you have happen that would inspire the most cautious of our people to fight?”
He knows. Am I surprised? I am not. But I will say it. And he will agree. “Martyrs, Jonas. A dozen martyrs.”
2
“Upon my word! Bloody fine duty, I say!” Captain Cochrane, about to mount, shouted.
“Huzzah to ale! To Shepherd’s pie! To comely wenches! To Tommy Gage’s farts!” Astride his horse, Captain Lumm belched.
Not hearing Major Mitchell’s approach, Lieutenant Grant guffawed.
“By God, hold your tongues!” They had preceded Mitchell into the yard while he had paid the proprietor. “Mount! We shall ride to the bottom of this hill! Then I, not you, will speak!” Mitchell galloped westward, away from the Black Horse Tavern. Instantly sobered, his nine subordinates followed.
“Answer me one plain question!” Mitchell began once they had coalesced under a canopy of high maple limbs. ”Were you selected to alert the countryside of your contempt of our Commanding General?!” Rising above his saddle, he pointed his chin at the most culpable. “By my word, I hand-picked the lot of you for this special duty! I should have impressed nine pock-faced moon-calves of the King’s Own! I will not have you defame within my hearing our General!”
Squinting, he heard but the fractious movements of his spirited horse.
Not one of them had the courage to look at him! The worst was Grant, pretending a preoccupation with a boil on the back of his right hand! God’s blood, he would give every one of them full reason to cower!
“Heed this well! I will suffer neither your indiscretion nor your insubordination! If you believe that I share your disdain, you embrace a perilous delusion!”
“Sir, I beg your pardon.” Captain Lumm had spoken.
Drunken, weasel bastard! What fawning excuse was this flash rattler, eyes off in the trees, about to try to pass muster?!
“I confess, sir, that I am too fond of hot slings, and, big-bosomed tavern wenches. I want discretion.” Lumm offered a conciliatory smile. Mitchell’s glare destroyed it.
Captain Cochrane stirred. Having first glanced away, Cochrane made eye contact. “Sir, your criticism is well received. I confess my indiscretion. To do damage to the integrity of this mission is farthest from my heart.”
Pretty Words!
Mitchell’s fierce eyes scorched all. “You? You?! The lot of you?! By your silence do I presume the same sentiment?!” Satisfied he had daunted both the innocent and the culpable, he exclaimed: “So be it!”
Oh, they were pliable enough, castigated. Excellent horsemen, they were the best officer material he had been able to recruit. Harried repeatedly, they would suffice.
Leaning left, he spat. He scowled across the road. “Our public mission, as General Gage conceived it,” he announced, “has ended. To the rabble of the countryside we have been officers on an afternoon furlough, taking our exercise after a fine meal away from the city. We commence now to execute our plan!”
Lumm and Grant exchanged looks. Cochrane, his head and hands still, concentrated.
“As you probably have deduced, a large portion of our garrison is to march this way before dawn. Secrecy is paramount. We shall station ourselves this evening in darkened areas along selected roads to intercept express riders intent on broadcasting the army’s destination and purpose.”
He saw guarded faces, devoid of expression.
Captain Cochrane spoke. “Sir. Having intercepted a rider, what should we do?”
“Interrogate him. Detain him, until our soldiers have reached us and he can do us no harm!”
“What measures should we employ, sir, should he resist?”
Looking past the officer, Mitchell arched his back. For all his careful courtesy, Cochrane had exhibited two qualities. Forethought. And backbone. Mitchell recalled what he had been told about Cochrane’s conduct at Portsmouth, how Cochrane had drawn his sword in protest when the rebels had begun to lower the British flag. How during the ensuing struggle he had been wounded by it. His mouth widening, Mitchell said, “Whatever means necessary to prevent his escape.”
Captain Lumm, next to Cochrane, nodded. Moving his jaw laterally, Lieutenant Grant grinned.
“We shall divide ourselves disproportionately,” Mitchell declared. “The group that I shall command will guard the road to Lexington, two of you will station yourselves on the road west of Charlestown, the remainder of you will patrol the roads south and west of Roxbury and Brookline. Your sergeants will accompany you. We shall gather them up, God’s life, where we left them, after I have determined your assignments!”
“I caution you!” he exclaimed, terminating Grant’s cocky self-absorption. “Your cloaks must cover your arms! Should you be questioned closely about your intent, you may admit that your purpose is to arrest deserters! Should you discover where the nefarious rogues, Adams and Hancock, quail, seize them!”
Having voiced much of the anger that defined him, Mitchell specified their assignments. “Tomorrow upon this vile populace,” he exclaimed, “sweet vengeance shall be exacted!
“Mr. Revere, beggin’ yer pardon. With yer say so, I be havin’ a word with you, private-like?”
The silversmith looked across the length of his shop. Nobody else was present.
He detected horse odor. “You may speak.”
“M'name's John Ballard. I be a hostler at a stable near the Province House.”
“In the midst of redcoats,” Revere said, affably. “Go on.”
“Yes sir, I be in the middle a them. That’s a fact.” He glanced at the counter separating them, at Revere’s hands, at the silversmith’s chest, but not at, Revere noticed, his face. “Figurin’ if I cozy up t’them redcoats, y’see, an’ … pretendin’ I be fer the Crown, …” He shrugged his shoulders. “I be makin' a livin', y’know. But I be findin' out certain things that gets let slipped.” His face broke into a happy grin. “As true as the gospel I be a son o’ liberty in me heart; I'd not t’be comin' here if that twasn't the gospel truth!”
“Tell me what you came to tell me.” Revere smiled.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Revere. I’ll be doin’ that, right off. Somethin’ important, too.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s what me friend told me which I’ll be tellin’ you.”
“Fine. Tell me.”
“Well, he says t’me this afternoon -- he be a groom at the Province House, y’know -- he says … he overheard this morning some officers talkin' and braggin'.” Ballard rapped four fingers on the counter. “They be seein' how their horses be saddled, y’know, and enjoyin' their talk, y’see, and one of them said that tomorrow … there’s goin’ t’be hell t’pay!'”
Mouth taut, eyelids retracted, Ballard waited.
“Yes? What else?” I’m supposed to be alarmed by this? Revere reacted. “Go on.”
The hostler blinked. His gaze dropped to the counter. He touched it. “Well, that’s … that’s all. I figure it be me duty to pass it along, what he heard!”
“You were right to have done so.”
Ballard nodded, guardedly smiled.
“What puzzles me, however, is … I must ask you this. Why did you come to me?!”
The hostler’s smile vanished. He gaped. “Heavens to Holland, Mister Revere! Everyone knows y’be a High Son o’ Liberty! D-d’y’be thinkin’ I be a spy?!”
Revere laughed, heartily. Twice he thumped the counter. “No, no. Not for a second!” he exclaimed, his eyes tearing. “I … apologize. I do apologize. Forgive my … Please understand, … it was your expression! I’m entirely at fault.”
The horse tender’s stupefied look persisted.
“Be assured,” Revere said, trying not to laugh. “You’re definitely not a spy! You are … quite the opposite! You’re the third person today that has brought me the same information. Which, mind you, is important, because it confirms what the others have said! Be certain I will pass this information along!”
Ballard’s face blushed. “I thank you, sir.”
“No. All thanks belong to you, a true patriot! But, ….” Wanting, despite his apologies, a final amusement, Revere continued. “I must absolutely caution you!”
“Sir?” Lines creased the man’s broad forehead.
Revere whispered. “Do not say anything about this to another soul. We do not want the redcoats knowing what we know that they believe we don’t know, do we?” Revere’s smile became a grin.
“No, sir, we don't,” Ballard, blinking rapidly, answered.
“John Ballard is your name?”
“I’tis, Mister Revere.”
“I will make certain to mention it to my friends.”
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