Traveling
toward the center of Lexington, a visitor might stop first at Munroe
Tavern, (See “William Munroe” on the map) approximately 2 miles
outside the center of the town on the left side of the road. Or he
might choose instead to spend the night at Buckman Tavern (See “John
Buckman” on the map) at the apex of where the highway separates
into two roads. If he chooses instead to visit the Reverend Joan
Clarke, he would take the right-branching road and travel a short
distance to come upon the Clarke/Hancock House on the left side (not
indicated on the map).
The
Hancock-Clarke House had
been
the home of the Reverend John Hancock and, afterward,
the Reverend Jonas Clarke - two ministers who served the spiritual
and secular needs of Lexington for 105 years. Soon after coming to
Lexington in 1698 the Reverend Mr. Hancock built a small parsonage on
this site and in 1738 his son Thomas, a wealthy Boston merchant,
enlarged his parents' home. The Reverend Hancock's grandson John, a
frequent visitor to this house, was the first signer of the
Declaration of Independence and the first Governor of
Massachusetts.
Succeeding
Hancock as minister in 1752, the Reverend Jonas Clarke, who reared
twelve children in this parsonage, was an eloquent supporter of the
colonial cause. The Reverend Clarke's fervent sermons were a source
of inspiration to the citizens of Lexington during the crisis with
Britain.
Chapter
9, “Flawed Expectation,” Section 2
William
Munroe was in a foul mood. Told by Solomon Browner that British
officers were patrolling the Menotomy/Lexington road, their purpose
confirmed by Elbridge Gerry’s messenger, Monroe had posted outside
Reverend Jonas Clarke’s house seven militiamen, late evening idlers
he had found in John Buckman’s taproom. It was obvious now that
Reverend Clarke’s guests, Sam Adams and John Hancock, were entirely
safe. Those being made to suffer were the seven and himself. “If
there was trouble t’be had, we’d’ve already had it,” Munroe
had complained to the militiaman standing closest to him, directing
blame not upon himself but flawed expectation.
What
good were they doing? he had asked himself. They, and he, were
permitting the gentlemen and the ladies in the house to sleep.
Nothing else. Protecting them from harm was one thing. This wasn’t.
He and his militiamen were nobody’s servants! By God, he was the
father of three children, Captain Parker’s sergeant, proprietor of
a popular tavern, which was where he wanted to be, there or at
Buckman’s, drinking flip!
If
Reverend Clarke didn’t notice the service he was performing, didn’t
thank him for it, he’d be saying a few choice words right to the
minister’s face!
For
the umpteenth time Munroe looked at his watch. The hour hand had
moved past midnight. Much earlier Mr. Hancock had told him he and the
others were “retiring.” Munroe was not to “permit anything
to disturb” their rest. This, he had concluded, was because of the
women: Hancock's aunt and that young lady that had accompanied her.
From Boston. Two weeks ago. High-born women they were, displaying all
their airs, demanding special treatment!
Solomon
Browner had started the trouble. The group of officers he had seen
was probably half way back to Boston. And no one, not Browner, not
Patterson, not Loring, had had the courtesy to tell him! They
were on the road doing something! He was standing under a tall
maple, getting angrier, looking too many times at his damn watch!
He
pulled inwardly the lapels of his coat.
The
militiaman nearest him straightened, raised his musket. “A horse is
comin'.”
Munroe
heard it, too, the unmistakable sound of shod hooves striking road.
“Comin'
from the Common,” the militiaman said.
“Could
be from Captain Parker,” a man farther away said. “Maybe them
redcoats are lookin' for trouble after all.”
“Hide
yourselves!” Munroe ordered. Crouched behind the maple tree’s
thick trunk, Munroe blinked rapidly at the road.
He
saw the single horseman. The large-sized man directed his mount into
the very yard! Leveling his musket, Munroe stepped forth.
Seeing
Munroe, the rider swung decisively out of the saddle. “Put that
firearm away!” he shouted.
“Keep
your voice down.”
“I
will speak with Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock at once!” The stranger
gave Munroe a smoldering look.
“No,
by God, you will not!” The impertinence! He would be
deciding what happened here!
“Let
me pass!” The intruder glowered. “Their lives are in
danger!”
“We
know that!”
It
occurred to Munroe that the rider, a servant or hostler, had been
sent by another member of the Congress. With old news. He would now
have to suffer the man’s explanation, before sending him
off. But, first, Munroe would have this puffed up
messenger know who issued the orders here!
“I
won't let you in! The family has retired! Say what you've t'say t’me.
And keep your voice down. They don't want t'be disturbed by
any noise.”
The
rider's teeth glinted in the moonlight. “Noise! You'll have noise
enough! The regulars are coming out! Here, tend this!”
He handed the militiaman standing next to Munroe his reins. Taking
long strides, he reached the front door. He pounded on it.
Munroe
grabbed the intruder’s right shoulder. “I said not t'disturb
them!”
A
window opened. Reverend Clarke’s large head protruded. “What’s
happening out there?!” the minister demanded.
“I
must see John Hancock at once! Let me in!”
The
clergyman stared at the messenger. “I don't know you,” he said.
“I will not admit strangers to this house at this time of night
without knowing who they are and what they want!”
Another
window opened. John Hancock’s hostile expression vanished. “Do
come in, Revere,” the rich merchant declared, almost laughing.
“We’re not afraid of you.”
Will
Munroe’s face burned. A tingling sensation sped across his shoulder
blades, coursed up his neck bone. He had argued with Paul Revere!
As important a patriot, nearly, as the two at the windows. And Mr.
Adams, inside. Worse, he had embarrassed himself! In front of
his own guard! He'd be the butt of jokes, in his own tavern, for
weeks!
Well,
he’d have to live with it, wouldn’t he? For awhile. Even though
everybody knew he didn’t suffer any man’s ridicule! Few
tried! This, however -- damned humilitating, cursed unfair
-- he’d have to bear!
It
wouldn’t matter that he had had every reason for behaving
the way he had. He had not been at fault! Revere hadn’t
identified himself! The trouble had been Revere's doing. A name. All
he had needed from Revere was his name!
It
occurred to him what Revere’s appearance meant. The officers that
Solomon Browner had seen had been a reconnaissance patrol. Gage’s
regulars were marching! Whatever Paul Revere was about to say he
should be hearing! All of which he would be needing to tell Captain
Parker. Something definite would then be done, with nobody thinking
to have fun at his expense!
Uninvited,
he passed through the front entrance, following after the man that
had made too much noise.
“John,
you must not do this,” Sam Adams declared, his thin mouth
and thick jaw sternly set.
“I
shall, sir, join my comrades. We shall stand shoulder to shoulder
against the invader!”
Seated
comfortably in a high-backed upholstered chair, Paul Revere smiled.
The richest man of New England, wearing a silk night coat and
Moroccan slippers, was expressing egalitarian sentiment.
“John!
Be sensible! Attend what I am about to say! You wish to risk your
life. In a just cause. I commend you. But consider. If you should
die, any townsman owning a musket could replace you on that
Common! Anybody! Who could replace you at
Philadelphia?!”
Right
arm bent, left knee flexed, Hancock contemplated.
Sam
Adams’s pulpy face darkened. Palsy! His voice had again betrayed
him! Ear drums thumping, he jabbed his elbows against the armrests of
his chair.
Those
not acquainted with him that first day in Philadelphia might have
judged him two steps from the coffin. His body was a vexing
impediment! Not so his mind! No man, no accident, no force of nature
had the power to alter his will! Like boats commanded by a surging
tide men like Otis, Hancock, Warren, and Church adhered!
Excepting
Otis, who had gone quite mad, they were whole men. John
Hancock was as healthy as a four-year-old colt!
But
Hancock lacked intellectual capacity, reasoned judgment. To control
him Adams had gratified his appetite for admiration. The recipient of
flattery, of meaningless political titles, Hancock reveled in glory.
It was because of Hancock’s largess, not just his belief that to
prosper the colonies had to be independent of England, that Adams
indulged him.
“My
leadership, Sam, is required as much this day upon the village
common!” Stiffly disposed -- a peacock amid fowl -- Hancock
challenged him.
Her
nightclothes showing an inch below her cloak, Lydia Hancock entered.
“Are you going to keep us up all night, John?” she accused.
“I
am! I shall be joining my comrades! We are to stand against
tyranny!” He looked through the entryway, beyond which extended the
staircase. “Where is Lowell? I must have my sword polished.”
The
old woman turned to Adams. “You will dissuade him, Samuel?”
“Ultimately.”
“My
mind is set, Sam.”
“Set
for what?” The young lady occupying the entryway, Dolly Quincy, had
followed her patron downstairs. “What have you set your mind to do?
Something silly I imagine.”
“I
find it not at all silly to defend one’s property against
tyranny!” Dismissing her with a dramatic gesture, Hancock stepped
past her. “Where does Lowell sleep? I suppose I shall have
to awaken him.”
“The
regulars have left Boston, Miss Quincy,” Adams said blandly. “They
march for Concord. John wants to be a minuteman.”
“That
is silly! John, if you do, I will not stay here another
minute! I will return at once to Boston, where I shall be safe with
Father!”
“Safe?!”
He stepped toward her. “Upon my word, you and Aunt Lydia will go
to the closest town! Woburn, I should think. Boston, indeed!”
“Indeed,
Boston! I want a chaise prepared now!” She turned upon the
inscrutable-visaged Reverend, staring at the ebbing fire.
“No,
Madam, as long as there is a bayonet left in Boston you shall not
return!” Hands gripping his sides, Hancock dared her to walk past
him.
Pushing
her left forearm against his chest, she maneuvered by. “Recollect,
Mr. Hancock,” she said over her left shoulder, “I am not yet
under your control. I shall go to Father tomorrow.”
“I
will not permit it!”
A
rap upon the front door ended the burlesque.
Adams
moved to the edge of his chair. What bad information was he about to
hear?
Reverend
Clarke opened the door.
“A
William Dawes here t’see Mr. Adams an’ Mr. Hancock,” a nervous
militiaman announced.
Revere
bounded out of his chair. “Let him in!”
It
was the other express rider, about whom Revere had voiced
concern! Adams watched Reverend Clarke lead the young man and Revere
into the kitchen. They will be off to Concord within minutes, he
predicted. As must he and Hancock in Hancock’s carriage to Woburn
within the half hour!
Yet
a part of him declared, beyond all reason, “Stay! Witness your
handiwork! Supplement it!” This raid upon Concord, so long
anticipated, had ignited in his soul a potent excitement!
Ultimate
triumph had alighted within his reach!
How
it had eluded him!
Twice
he and the citizens of Massachusetts had defeated Parliament’s tax
usurpations. After the Boston Massacre, after British troops had been
removed from the city, after the repeal of the Townsend Acts, he had
been unable to sustain their wrath. Major grievances assuaged, they
had considered the tax that had remained on tea -- a tax that they
were not forced to pay – inconsequential, not recognizing its
existence to be a deliberate statement of Parliament’s authority!
It
had been, ironically, the lords and commons of Parliament who had
sundered the populace’s indifference. Safeguarding their financial
interests, Parliament’s majority had awarded the foundering East
India Company a monopoly of the colonial tea trade. Their action had
struck colonial merchants like a lightning bolt. Perceiving the
seaport tea merchant legislated out of business, American importers
of every type, fearing precedence, had remonstrated. Provided again
the opportunity to foment revolt, Adams and his valuable associate,
Joseph Warren, had contrived the Tea Party. Parliament had harshly
retaliated. Mother Country and Massachusetts now confronted each
other at the edge of a precipitous cliff.
Fear
and the consequent desire to compromise occupied now the minds and
hearts of his countrymen. The Continental Congress had vacillated.
So, too, had the Provincial Congress, which he and Warren had forced
recently to pass resolves that would mean nothing if they were
not vigorously enacted. Vile frustration!
Frustration
here, now, too, of a different sort. Leave, or remain. That event so
rare as to incite diverse men to militant reprisal would within hours
transpire! Martyrs! The regrettable but essential homicide of
townsmen! What else but an act of war could convince his people that
they must create for themselves and for their children a
liberty-loving, sovereign nation?
Traveling
toward the center of Lexington, a visitor might stop first at Munroe
Tavern, (See “William Munroe” on the map) approximately 2 miles
outside the center of the town on the left side of the road. Or he
might choose instead to spend the night at Buckman Tavern (See “John
Buckman” on the map) at the apex of where the highway separates
into two roads. If he chooses instead to visit the Reverend Joan
Clarke, he would take the right-branching road and travel a short
distance to come upon the Clarke/Hancock House on the left side (not
indicated on the map).
The
Hancock-Clarke House had
been
the home of the Reverend John Hancock and, afterward,
the Reverend Jonas Clarke - two ministers who served the spiritual
and secular needs of Lexington for 105 years. Soon after coming to
Lexington in 1698 the Reverend Mr. Hancock built a small parsonage on
this site and in 1738 his son Thomas, a wealthy Boston merchant,
enlarged his parents' home. The Reverend Hancock's grandson John, a
frequent visitor to this house, was the first signer of the
Declaration of Independence and the first Governor of
Massachusetts.
Succeeding
Hancock as minister in 1752, the Reverend Jonas Clarke, who reared
twelve children in this parsonage, was an eloquent supporter of the
colonial cause. The Reverend Clarke's fervent sermons were a source
of inspiration to the citizens of Lexington during the crisis with
Britain.
Chapter
9, “Flawed Expectation,” Section 2
William
Munroe was in a foul mood. Told by Solomon Browner that British
officers were patrolling the Menotomy/Lexington road, their purpose
confirmed by Elbridge Gerry’s messenger, Monroe had posted outside
Reverend Jonas Clarke’s house seven militiamen, late evening idlers
he had found in John Buckman’s taproom. It was obvious now that
Reverend Clarke’s guests, Sam Adams and John Hancock, were entirely
safe. Those being made to suffer were the seven and himself. “If
there was trouble t’be had, we’d’ve already had it,” Munroe
had complained to the militiaman standing closest to him, directing
blame not upon himself but flawed expectation.
What
good were they doing? he had asked himself. They, and he, were
permitting the gentlemen and the ladies in the house to sleep.
Nothing else. Protecting them from harm was one thing. This wasn’t.
He and his militiamen were nobody’s servants! By God, he was the
father of three children, Captain Parker’s sergeant, proprietor of
a popular tavern, which was where he wanted to be, there or at
Buckman’s, drinking flip!
If
Reverend Clarke didn’t notice the service he was performing, didn’t
thank him for it, he’d be saying a few choice words right to the
minister’s face!
For
the umpteenth time Munroe looked at his watch. The hour hand had
moved past midnight. Much earlier Mr. Hancock had told him he and the
others were “retiring.” Munroe was not to “permit anything
to disturb” their rest. This, he had concluded, was because of the
women: Hancock's aunt and that young lady that had accompanied her.
From Boston. Two weeks ago. High-born women they were, displaying all
their airs, demanding special treatment!
Solomon
Browner had started the trouble. The group of officers he had seen
was probably half way back to Boston. And no one, not Browner, not
Patterson, not Loring, had had the courtesy to tell him! They
were on the road doing something! He was standing under a tall
maple, getting angrier, looking too many times at his damn watch!
He
pulled inwardly the lapels of his coat.
The
militiaman nearest him straightened, raised his musket. “A horse is
comin'.”
Munroe
heard it, too, the unmistakable sound of shod hooves striking road.
“Comin'
from the Common,” the militiaman said.
“Could
be from Captain Parker,” a man farther away said. “Maybe them
redcoats are lookin' for trouble after all.”
“Hide
yourselves!” Munroe ordered. Crouched behind the maple tree’s
thick trunk, Munroe blinked rapidly at the road.
He
saw the single horseman. The large-sized man directed his mount into
the very yard! Leveling his musket, Munroe stepped forth.
Seeing
Munroe, the rider swung decisively out of the saddle. “Put that
firearm away!” he shouted.
“Keep
your voice down.”
“I
will speak with Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock at once!” The stranger
gave Munroe a smoldering look.
“No,
by God, you will not!” The impertinence! He would be
deciding what happened here!
“Let
me pass!” The intruder glowered. “Their lives are in
danger!”
“We
know that!”
It
occurred to Munroe that the rider, a servant or hostler, had been
sent by another member of the Congress. With old news. He would now
have to suffer the man’s explanation, before sending him
off. But, first, Munroe would have this puffed up
messenger know who issued the orders here!
“I
won't let you in! The family has retired! Say what you've t'say t’me.
And keep your voice down. They don't want t'be disturbed by
any noise.”
The
rider's teeth glinted in the moonlight. “Noise! You'll have noise
enough! The regulars are coming out! Here, tend this!”
He handed the militiaman standing next to Munroe his reins. Taking
long strides, he reached the front door. He pounded on it.
Munroe
grabbed the intruder’s right shoulder. “I said not t'disturb
them!”
A
window opened. Reverend Clarke’s large head protruded. “What’s
happening out there?!” the minister demanded.
“I
must see John Hancock at once! Let me in!”
The
clergyman stared at the messenger. “I don't know you,” he said.
“I will not admit strangers to this house at this time of night
without knowing who they are and what they want!”
Another
window opened. John Hancock’s hostile expression vanished. “Do
come in, Revere,” the rich merchant declared, almost laughing.
“We’re not afraid of you.”
Will
Munroe’s face burned. A tingling sensation sped across his shoulder
blades, coursed up his neck bone. He had argued with Paul Revere!
As important a patriot, nearly, as the two at the windows. And Mr.
Adams, inside. Worse, he had embarrassed himself! In front of
his own guard! He'd be the butt of jokes, in his own tavern, for
weeks!
Well,
he’d have to live with it, wouldn’t he? For awhile. Even though
everybody knew he didn’t suffer any man’s ridicule! Few
tried! This, however -- damned humilitating, cursed unfair
-- he’d have to bear!
It
wouldn’t matter that he had had every reason for behaving
the way he had. He had not been at fault! Revere hadn’t
identified himself! The trouble had been Revere's doing. A name. All
he had needed from Revere was his name!
It
occurred to him what Revere’s appearance meant. The officers that
Solomon Browner had seen had been a reconnaissance patrol. Gage’s
regulars were marching! Whatever Paul Revere was about to say he
should be hearing! All of which he would be needing to tell Captain
Parker. Something definite would then be done, with nobody thinking
to have fun at his expense!
Uninvited,
he passed through the front entrance, following after the man that
had made too much noise.
“John,
you must not do this,” Sam Adams declared, his thin mouth
and thick jaw sternly set.
“I
shall, sir, join my comrades. We shall stand shoulder to shoulder
against the invader!”
Seated
comfortably in a high-backed upholstered chair, Paul Revere smiled.
The richest man of New England, wearing a silk night coat and
Moroccan slippers, was expressing egalitarian sentiment.
“John!
Be sensible! Attend what I am about to say! You wish to risk your
life. In a just cause. I commend you. But consider. If you should
die, any townsman owning a musket could replace you on that
Common! Anybody! Who could replace you at
Philadelphia?!”
Right
arm bent, left knee flexed, Hancock contemplated.
Sam
Adams’s pulpy face darkened. Palsy! His voice had again betrayed
him! Ear drums thumping, he jabbed his elbows against the armrests of
his chair.
Those
not acquainted with him that first day in Philadelphia might have
judged him two steps from the coffin. His body was a vexing
impediment! Not so his mind! No man, no accident, no force of nature
had the power to alter his will! Like boats commanded by a surging
tide men like Otis, Hancock, Warren, and Church adhered!
Excepting
Otis, who had gone quite mad, they were whole men. John
Hancock was as healthy as a four-year-old colt!
But
Hancock lacked intellectual capacity, reasoned judgment. To control
him Adams had gratified his appetite for admiration. The recipient of
flattery, of meaningless political titles, Hancock reveled in glory.
It was because of Hancock’s largess, not just his belief that to
prosper the colonies had to be independent of England, that Adams
indulged him.
“My
leadership, Sam, is required as much this day upon the village
common!” Stiffly disposed -- a peacock amid fowl -- Hancock
challenged him.
Her
nightclothes showing an inch below her cloak, Lydia Hancock entered.
“Are you going to keep us up all night, John?” she accused.
“I
am! I shall be joining my comrades! We are to stand against
tyranny!” He looked through the entryway, beyond which extended the
staircase. “Where is Lowell? I must have my sword polished.”
The
old woman turned to Adams. “You will dissuade him, Samuel?”
“Ultimately.”
“My
mind is set, Sam.”
“Set
for what?” The young lady occupying the entryway, Dolly Quincy, had
followed her patron downstairs. “What have you set your mind to do?
Something silly I imagine.”
“I
find it not at all silly to defend one’s property against
tyranny!” Dismissing her with a dramatic gesture, Hancock stepped
past her. “Where does Lowell sleep? I suppose I shall have
to awaken him.”
“The
regulars have left Boston, Miss Quincy,” Adams said blandly. “They
march for Concord. John wants to be a minuteman.”
“That
is silly! John, if you do, I will not stay here another
minute! I will return at once to Boston, where I shall be safe with
Father!”
“Safe?!”
He stepped toward her. “Upon my word, you and Aunt Lydia will go
to the closest town! Woburn, I should think. Boston, indeed!”
“Indeed,
Boston! I want a chaise prepared now!” She turned upon the
inscrutable-visaged Reverend, staring at the ebbing fire.
“No,
Madam, as long as there is a bayonet left in Boston you shall not
return!” Hands gripping his sides, Hancock dared her to walk past
him.
Pushing
her left forearm against his chest, she maneuvered by. “Recollect,
Mr. Hancock,” she said over her left shoulder, “I am not yet
under your control. I shall go to Father tomorrow.”
“I
will not permit it!”
A
rap upon the front door ended the burlesque.
Adams
moved to the edge of his chair. What bad information was he about to
hear?
Reverend
Clarke opened the door.
“A
William Dawes here t’see Mr. Adams an’ Mr. Hancock,” a nervous
militiaman announced.
Revere
bounded out of his chair. “Let him in!”
It
was the other express rider, about whom Revere had voiced
concern! Adams watched Reverend Clarke lead the young man and Revere
into the kitchen. They will be off to Concord within minutes, he
predicted. As must he and Hancock in Hancock’s carriage to Woburn
within the half hour!
Yet
a part of him declared, beyond all reason, “Stay! Witness your
handiwork! Supplement it!” This raid upon Concord, so long
anticipated, had ignited in his soul a potent excitement!
Ultimate
triumph had alighted within his reach!
How
it had eluded him!
Twice
he and the citizens of Massachusetts had defeated Parliament’s tax
usurpations. After the Boston Massacre, after British troops had been
removed from the city, after the repeal of the Townsend Acts, he had
been unable to sustain their wrath. Major grievances assuaged, they
had considered the tax that had remained on tea -- a tax that they
were not forced to pay – inconsequential, not recognizing its
existence to be a deliberate statement of Parliament’s authority!
It
had been, ironically, the lords and commons of Parliament who had
sundered the populace’s indifference. Safeguarding their financial
interests, Parliament’s majority had awarded the foundering East
India Company a monopoly of the colonial tea trade. Their action had
struck colonial merchants like a lightning bolt. Perceiving the
seaport tea merchant legislated out of business, American importers
of every type, fearing precedence, had remonstrated. Provided again
the opportunity to foment revolt, Adams and his valuable associate,
Joseph Warren, had contrived the Tea Party. Parliament had harshly
retaliated. Mother Country and Massachusetts now confronted each
other at the edge of a precipitous cliff.
Fear
and the consequent desire to compromise occupied now the minds and
hearts of his countrymen. The Continental Congress had vacillated.
So, too, had the Provincial Congress, which he and Warren had forced
recently to pass resolves that would mean nothing if they were
not vigorously enacted. Vile frustration!
Frustration
here, now, too, of a different sort. Leave, or remain. That event so
rare as to incite diverse men to militant reprisal would within hours
transpire! Martyrs! The regrettable but essential homicide of
townsmen! What else but an act of war could convince his people that
they must create for themselves and for their children a
liberty-loving, sovereign nation?
