Characters Mentioned
Browner, Solomon – 18 year old Lexington youth returning from a trip to Boston
Clarke, Reverend Jonas – Lexington minister and influential political leader
Cockrane, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Grant, Lieutenant – Member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Loring, Jonathan – One of a party of three Lexington men captured by Major Mitchell’s advance party
Lumm, Captain Charles – member of Major Mitchell’s patrol
Mitchell, Major Edward – 10th Regiment. In command of a body of officers assigned to intercept express riders prior to the British raid upon Concord
Munroe, Sergeant William – Lexington tavern owner and militia sergeant
Parker, Captain John – Lexington militia captain
Patterson, Elijah – Lexington cabinet maker. One of a party of three captured by Major Mitchell’s advance party
Chapter 8. “A Most Delightful Evening.” Section 1
They rode into Lexington and stopped where the road forked, the moonlight revealing directly ahead a triangular common. Major Mitchell stared back at the three-story, square-shaped building, a flickering light making pale two downstairs windows. “A tavern, I fairly own. Press on.” With his left hand he indicated the Old Bay Road to Concord.
“That was them,” Solomon Browner whispered. He stepped outside. Reverend Jonas Clarke, Captain John Parker, and Elijah Patterson occupied the doorsill.
Stepping into the moonlight, Reverend Clarke looked at his pocket watch. Parker, after glancing at Clarke, stared at the road.
Just what does he hope to see, now that they’re gone? Solomon thought. Edging his way past the Captain and Patterson, he entered the building.
Years ago, plain-speaking, hard-working John Parker had earned the townspeople’s respect. But now his shoulders stooped, his eyes looked tired, he moved slowly: at forty-six he was old. Solomon had noticed these changes two months earlier after he had returned from a horse-trading trip with his father to Hartford. Parker’s physical bearing, his mediocre intelligence, and most everybody’s expectation that British soldiers would soon be marching through the village had convinced some individuals, Solomon included, that Parker needed to be replaced.
Looked upon as a boy, not wanting to appear insolent, not wanting to give Elijah Patterson the opportunity to ridicule him, Solomon had kept his mouth shut. Older men, not he, needed to speak.
“They don’t know exactly where your guests are, Jonas,” Parker said. “They'll be riding past Lincoln a ways, I think.” Solomon watched Parker’s right hand, inside his coat, tug at his belt. “Maybe they'll be finding out, though. One way or the other, we’ll see them come riding back.”
We know that, Captain. Tell us what we don’t know.
Believing Parker hadn’t the ability to tell them, Solomon wanted to speak. To prove that a person’s age didn’t make him dumb, or intelligent. But it wasn’t his place. And as for what needed to be done, it would be the Reverend who’d be doing the deciding.
“Solomon said Will Munroe put a guard at your house,” Patterson remarked across Parker’s body.
“Eight men, Will said. Nine countin' him,” Solomon expanded. “Should be enough t’hold all of 'em off, I think.” Not exactly brilliant, he realized, but it was what he, not Patterson, had the right to say!
“Elijah, Solomon, I want you to raise as many militiamen as you can and get them over to the Meeting House within the hour.” Reverend Clarke walked to the center of the room. Patterson and Parker followed. “You do agree, don’t you, John?”
“I do.” Parker tapped three fingers on an edge of a table. His left hand became a fist. “What arresting’s t’be done, we'll be the ones t’do it.”
“Perhaps. At the very least, we must monitor their activity.” Parker nodded. Clarke glanced at the doorway. “We’ll need a patrol. Three men.”
“Count me one of them!” Solomon exclaimed.
All three were looking long at him. They were judging him! Blood rushed to his face.
He could ride faster and farther than any of them! “I’m ready for it!” he declared. “Right now! Just give me a fresh horse!”
“You may take mine,” Clarke answered. “You, Elijah!” he declared, barely pausing.
“I'll get your third man, Reverend. Jonathan Loring, I think.”
“You get the minutemen out here first!” Parker exclaimed. “Then you see me! You don’t go riding off!”
Parker’s unexpected outburst startled them.
Five seconds later Solomon wanted to laugh.
The Reverend had bossed him, embarrassed him, in front of three of his militiamen. Everybody knew Clarke bossed him. Just as everybody knew Clarke and Parker were longtime friends. It had been Clarke that had gotten Parker elected! Not once, as far as Solomon knew, had Parker ever contradicted him. Nobody did, not Parker, not Solomon’s father, probably the Reverend’s High Whig houseguests.
The most Parker ever did -- what he was doing now, glaring at the moonlight -- was flash a bit of temper. And there was Reverend Clarke, still frowning. “The redcoats are after the munitions at Concord!” Parker said sharply, refusing to turn around. “Those riders are out there scouting that road!”
“Astute.”
One word. All Reverend Clarke needed to cut a man into pieces was one word.
Solomon felt Parker’s humiliation.
“They have t'pass through here again,” Patterson said, ending five seconds of strained silence. “You’re right, Captain.”
Parker blinked. Turning a bit, he touched his chin. “You’d best wear warm clothing, Elijah. Take some food,” he said huskily, putting Patterson -- Solomon noticed -- in charge. “Could be a long night.”
“Come by the parsonage, John,” Clarke said to Parker, his eyebrows high. “The first opportunity you have.”
Parker nodded.
Clarke exited the tavern.
Three miles west of Lexington Major Mitchell halted the group.
“Behind us, beyond these farm houses, is a pasture, with trees farther back. Across the road is a clump of trees through which the moon sheds little light.” Moving his jawbone laterally, Mitchell visualized the location. “We might not find a better place of ambush.” Turning his head, he glared at Grant, who, looking at Lumm, was about to speak. To Captain Cochrane, Mitchell said, “If upon second examination the place is to my liking, we shall set our snare, and wait to see what we shall catch!”
Solomon Browner’s anger had come to full boil.
Elijah Patterson had announced his foolish plan to Captain Parker, and the militia leader had accepted it! Outside Buckman’s, Solomon had stated his objections. Patterson had barely listened! Why? Because he was twenty-three? Because age boosted a man’s intelligence? What, then, did that make Jonathan Loring, who was twenty-six?
Listening to Solomon’s objections, Loring had said nary a word!
Because they were friends, Solomon reasoned. Because he wasn’t a decision-maker, maybe. The least he could have said, once, was “Solomon’s right.”
Patterson’s scheme was full of holes! Like, after they had sneaked up on the redcoat patrol, two of them were supposed to keep watch while the other rode back to find Parker. Guess who that was going to be! If, instead, the patrol turned back, according to Patterson, they would hear hoof beats and then one of them would gallop off to Lexington while the other two (Solomon and Loring) hid -- assuming they had time and a safe place to. “Going out t’detect them,” Patterson had cautioned, “we’ll have to move real slow. We don’t want t’be making any noise!” Hah!
They had been out on the road for more than an hour and had only just crossed the Lincoln/Lexington line! “Three turtles could have gotten here sooner,” Solomon groused.
Ten minutes. It would take them ten minutes to get past Josiah Nelson’s pastures!
“I don't think they'll get too close to Concord,” the Leader of the Patrol said, ending their lengthy silence.
“Be damn foolish if'n they did,” Loring replied. The two friends were riding next to each other.
“They could be anywhere along here,” Solomon said, twenty feet behind.
Patterson twisted about. “Solomon, we’ve got t’keep quiet. Don’t talk, ‘less it’s important.”
“You’d best keep that in mind,” Solomon answered.
They rode on -- Solomon seething -- another quarter mile.
So what he had said was obvious. And what they were doing was probably what anybody would do, except he’d have had each rider spaced farther apart. But Patterson had been insulting. What made Patterson’s remark about the redcoats not riding too close to Concord that important? Solomon took spiteful amusement at the way Patterson was holding his head, at an angle, as if to hear better. The man was a coffin-maker, for God’s sake, not an Abenaki scout!
“The road looks a lot different at night,” Loring said. Patterson nodded. “Doesn't look the same. I hardly recognize it.”
“The Hartwell house is up ahead a ways. Hard not to recognize. Now be quiet so I can hear.”
Having reached the crest of a gentle incline, they stopped to stare and listen. Again the sideways tilt of Patterson’s head. This would be a good story to tell at the tavern! Solomon thought. Will Munroe would have the biggest laugh. Why, it would probably get told all over town!
Patterson put his horse forward. Loring caught up with him. Chuckling, Solomon followed.
Out of dark shadows horses’ hooves pounded, large shapes lunged. One of the shapes leveled a pistol at Patterson's startled face.
“Stop where you are or you die!”
Two riders! Highwaymen! British uniforms!
“Move across the road! Into that pasture!” the soldier nearest Solomon ordered.
A section of fence railing had been taken down. Making eye contact with Solomon, Patterson nodded compliance.
They were escorted a good 100 yards across the pasture toward a wood out of which six more soldiers suddenly, rapidly galloped.
“To me!” a tall officer at the head of the group commanded.
For thirty seconds the officer scrutinized them. Patterson glanced at Solomon, then at Loring, made a minute hand gesture.
Bugger that! Solomon thought.
“What is your business on this road?!” the officer demanded.
“Our farm is down the road. And your business, sir?” Patterson responded. “What right have you to intercept us, and take us here like thieves?!”
“Deserters,” the officer said. “We are in search of deserters. I want your names!”
Each responded, Solomon’s words a whisper.
“You say you have a farm ‘down the road,’ but you have different surnames. Answer my original question. What business do you have on this road?!”
“I said I was returnin' to my farm! These men live on farms farther along!”
Solomon had never seen Patterson so angry. Deserters!” the officer had said. Bloody hell! He was angry, too!
The officer looked at him. “You, tell me! I desire the names of your neighbors?!”
Solomon turned his head. Patterson was staring at his reins.
“You, answer my question! Not your companion!”
“Ebenezer Jones,” Solomon began. It was a made-up name.
“Jonathan Williams … Jonas Harrison.” His throat was thick! He cleared it.
“Pray tell, what are the names of those who reside within Lexington?” The officer tilted his head.
“Which ones?” Solomon recognized his natural voice. “Too many of them t’name.”
“Name a few, their location, … their livelihood.”
“Why?” Talking helped. He felt less afraid.
“If you are who you say you are, not a deserter who skillfully dissembles, then you will have little difficulty. Mind you, I desire quick answers!”
Solomon discovered that he could not invent names fast enough. He began to identify actual people. All the while the officer scrutinized, interrupted, demanded to be told where specific individuals lived. Finally, Solomon stopped. It was a game. The bony-faced officer was playing him!
“Continue.”
“I've said enough. If you don't believe me now, you're not going to.”
“Perhaps,” the officer said. “You must not suppose that. I am nearly convinced you are what you say. Proceed.”
“More names?”
The officer nodded. Solomon began again but stopped. The man was taking too much pleasure! That had been the whole purpose! “You have enough.”
The officer pointed his chin. “You have not mentioned several with whom I have some acquaintance. The Clark family for one. Where in Lexington do they reside?”
Solomon opened his mouth to speak but didn’t. Blood rushed beneath his skin. He, so critical of Patterson, had been tricked!
“Look me full in the face, boy! If you cannot tell me where this Clark resides, I will know you to be a cowardly deserter and I will not tarry in meting justice!”
“Nothing more! As sure as gold not one word more!”
The officer scowled.
Solomon wanted to pull the bastard down.
“Captain Cochrane!” the blackguard officer declared. “You will keep them separated. See to it that each is interrogated in turn.” His eyes returned to Solomon.
“Before this night is done, you will curse your recalcitrance!”
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