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!
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