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 – 10th Regiment. Volunteer replacement of Lieutenant Hamilton
MacKenzie, Lieutenant Frederick – adjutant general of the Welch Fusiliers. Amateur cartographer
Parsons, Captain Lawrence – 10th 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 1st 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 10th 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.
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