by C. C. Finlay
“Good morning, Proctor,” old Munroe said, tugging at his beard. “Your father not coming?”
“No, sir,” Proctor answered. “His health won't allow.”
“No, didn't think so. It's too bad. He was always a good un in the thick of it. Sure hope you take after him some.”
“I could do without seeing the sharp end of an Indian tomahawk,” Proctor said, and the other men chuckled. He started one way and they turned the other. “Shouldn't we be headed into Niptown to muster?” he asked.
The locals called the new town of Lincoln Niptown because it had been made from a nip of Concord, a nip of Lexington, and a nip of Bedford, sitting in a spot amid all three. Proctor still went to church at the meeting house in Concord, because that's where his family had always gone, and he served with the militia in Lincoln because that was where he was assigned. In a way he felt like part of all three towns, and like part of none of them. Someday he would have to choose a spot and make it his own.
“Cap'n Smith says that a few of us ought to fetch back a firsthand report of the situation from Lexington,” Arthur explained. “So that's where we're going.”
“Well, all right then,” Proctor said, and he started in the other direction.
“Say, Proctor, we'll march right past the Rucke place, won't we?” Everett asked.
“Hadn't really thought about it,” Proctor said, “but you may be right.” He tried to sound as if he were talking about the weather, but he was eager to change the subject before they started teasing him. Arthur carried a long fowling piece for his weapon, so Proctor said, “You going bird hunting there, Arthur?”
“Sure,” Arthur answered back, deadpan. “Plan to shoot some redbirds if I see 'em.”
Robert Munroe and Everett Simes laughed, so Proctor chuckled with them, but the remark made him uncomfortable. Sure, there'd been some conflict between the soldiers and the colonists. Despite his unpleasant encounter with Pitcairn, though, they were all Englishmen in the end. Just like Emily's father said. They might squabble with one another the way a large family always did, but in the end they'd set aside their differences and make things right because it was better for everybody. It wouldn't come to shooting.
The other three began to chatter about how many Redcoats might be marching out of Boston, and how many militiamen would show up to fight them. Proctor walked in silence, slowly drawing ahead. As they passed through the swampy land west of Lexington, the wind played odd tricks with sounds, bringing snatches of voices from homes too far away to see. Every farm house between Cambridge and Salem was awake by now, having the same conversation about Redcoats and militia.
When Proctor rounded Concord Hill and came in sight of the rooftops of Lexington, the large, familiar house ahead was lit up bright as day. Even from a distance, he recognized the feminine silhouette in the main window.
As he ran ahead and up to the porch, the silhouette disappeared. He was reaching for the brass knocker when the door flew open. A heavy brown woman stood there in a dress thrown hastily over her shift.
“Sorry to come calling so late, Bess,” Proctor said, addressing the house slave Thomas Rucke had brought with him from a voyage to the West Indies. “I wondered, if Miss Emily was awake, if I might have a brief word with her.”
“She right here, be out in a second.” Sleep filled Bess's eyes, and she frowned as somebody behind her nudged her gently aside. It was Emily, in one of her best dresses, despite the hour. More dark curls than usual tumbled out from under the edges of her cap.
“Well, this is certainly an unexpected visit,” she said. She glanced at his weapons and her face turned cool. “I can't imagine what you're grinning at.”
Proctor dropped his gaze and his smile. “Might be because I'm looking at the sweetest woman I know.”
“You only say that because my father is in the sugar trade.”
“I'd think you were the sweetest woman in the colonies if your father traded lemon rinds.” She still wasn't smiling back. Bess pushed past them, a drowsy-eyed chaperone, shawl over shift, carrying a basket of darning. She grunted as she eased herself into the porch rocker, spreading the work on her lap as the wood creaked rhythmically. Proctor said, “I think I made a good impression on your father.”
“You did,” she said. “The only thing that concerns him is the militia business.”
“Emily—”
A faint voice down the road called, “Brown?”
Proctor looked over his shoulder. Turning back to Emily, he said in a rush, “You must believe me, there's nothing to fear.”
“Oh, Proctor,” she said, wringing her hands. “There was another incident in Boston after you left. Father says those rebels, that mob behind that tea party and everything since, they want to start a war.”
He shook his head. “No, no one wants to start a war.”
“Brown!” The voice was stronger as the other three militiamen marched around the bend.
“I have to go, Emily.”
She stared meaningfully at the yellow ribbon tied to his canteen. “If my affections mean anything to you at all, Proctor Brown, you will not be part of any mob to night.”
The creaking on the porch had stopped. Bess sat with her chin on her chest, the darning egg naked in her lap. Impulsively, Proctor took Emily's hand and leaned close to her. “You remember how I mentioned magic to you, when we were at the Coffee-House,” he said in low voice.
“Yes,” she said, more puzzled now than angry.
“Sometimes I can see a short ways into the future. You might call it scrying.”
“It sounds like you mean witchcraft.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held on tight.
“It's not like that,” he said. “It's like … like the parable of the talents. God gave me this talent, and He meant me to use it, not bury it. I used it to night, and I saw the Redcoats marching back to Boston. So there won't be any shooting, and there won't be any war.”
Emily yanked her hand away. Her eyes were startled wide.
“You done courting there, Brown?” Everett Simes's voice said right behind him.
“Yes, sir, I am,” Proctor said. He straightened up, slid his thumb under his powder-horn strap to readjust it, and gave Emily a firm nod. “I was just telling Miss Rucke here there's nothing for her to worry about.”
“Good eve, Miss Rucke,” Everett said, squinting toward the east to see if dawn had poked its nose over the horizon. “Or maybe it's good day. It'd be best if your father didn't come out to visit you. With his support for the governor and all, he might find a welcome made of tar and feathers.”
“It's so pleasant to be threatened on my own front porch. I see the kind of company you've decided to keep, Mister Brown. Be so good as to call on me again when you can come alone.” She went over to the rocker and shook the slave awake. “Come, Bess, we should go inside. It's too dangerous to be out here. Good day, gentlemen.”
“It won't come to shooting,” Proctor assured her.
She closed the door behind her without looking back.
Chapter 3
Proctor hopped off the porch and crossed the little yard to rejoin the militiamen. As they resumed their march toward Lexington Green, he considered whether he needed to go back to repair his understanding with Emily. She was high-spirited—he loved that trait in her, though it meant she upset easily. Likely she'd be fine in a day or two, once the current commotion had passed and she saw that he was right.
The conversation of the other men turned to the spring planting, and to Everett's trouble with one of his plow oxen, and from there to the milk trade with Boston. The air grew colder, and the men's breath frosted as they spoke. When the conversation came back around to the British, it shoved Proctor's thoughts from Emily to Pitcairn. The scrying confirmed his earlier sense: the gold medallion was definitely some kind of protective charm. He didn't know how it worked or what it meant, but the rest of his vision was clear enough: the Redcoats would march back to Boston.
The
y passed the Lexington burying ground, with its grave markers thrust up from the darkness like tripstones. The four men fell into a natural silence. Cattle lowed uneasily in the common pen as they came to the green.
Lexington Green was a triangle where two roads combined to go into Boston. They passed the school house at the wide end of the triangle and crossed the open grass toward the meeting house that sat at the point. A few small groups of militiamen moved like shadows across the green. Maybe a dozen others, their faces lit by lanterns, were gathered around a cask of ale outside one of the houses that faced the green.
“Don't look like they're ready for the Redcoats,” Munroe muttered. “If the Redcoats are truly coming.”
“Don't look like there's more'n fifty men here total,” Everett said.
“And that's with a thousand Redcoats marching from Boston,” Arthur said. “How will we fight 'em?”
“There won't be any fighting—” Proctor started to say, but he was interrupted by a ragged volley of musket fire east of the green. He fumbled for his powder horn.
Old Munroe laughed at him, planted the butt-end of his weapon in the ground and leaned on it. “I think that's them as made up their minds to enter Buckman's tavern.”
That's when Proctor heard casual whoops and laughter from the same direction. But of course—you couldn't carry a loaded weapon into a tavern. He relaxed, laughing at himself.
“We could go to the tavern,” Arthur suggested hopefully, and his uncle glared at him.
“That'll be the best place to find Cap'n Parker,” Munroe said. “He uses it as his headquarters when the militia drills.”
They walked toward the tavern, passing the big oak tree and the bell tower. As they did so, a man came out of the tavern and crossed the road toward the green. Proctor would've walked past him in the moonlight, but Monroe stopped and lifted his chin in greeting.
“Good evening to you, Cap'n. We were just coming in search of you.”
Parker stopped. He was a tall man in his mid-forties with a large head and high brow. He coughed into his fist, sick with consumption—his eyes and his cheeks were sunken from it, dark shadows even at night. “Good evening, Robert. Who're your friends?”
“These are the Simeses, cousins from up by Lincoln,” Munroe answered. “And this is Brown. We picked him up on the road in.”
“We're grateful for your hike, but it doesn't 'pear as though we'll see any Redcoats to night after all,” Parker told them. “I was just giving men permission to disperse to their homes, though a few decided to go into the tavern to warm themselves first.”
Everett sighed loudly. “But if I go home now, I'll have to plow, and my ox isn't fit for it.”
Parker chuckled and excused himself to take the same message over to the men gathered around the keg of ale. Arthur yawned and stared down the road toward Boston. “Guess we wasted our time.”
“Not Proctor,” Munroe said. “At least he had the chance to visit his sweetheart.”
“And next time I see her, I can tell her I was right, that nothing happened,” Proctor said. He was relieved. With luck, he could stop by Emily's house for breakfast and find some way to make her understand what he was trying to tell her about the talents.
He was shifting the bag and horn on his shoulder for the march back home when a man ran onto the green from the Boston Road.
“The regulars have passed the Rocks,” the newcomer shouted. “They're only half a mile away!”
“What do we do?” Arthur asked.
“Keep a cool head,” Proctor told him. “This'll be peaceful.”
“Let's find Parker and see what he wants us to do,” Munroe said.
The warning spread faster than their conversation. Before they could find Parker, a man ran out of the tavern and sprinted to the belfry. In seconds the bells were clanging. The sound drew Captain Parker and everyone else.
“Cap'n,” Munroe shouted as he headed across the green. “Hey, Cap'n.”
“Seems I was mistaken after all,” Parker said, hurrying toward the noise. “The Redcoats are marching, and we mean to show them our resolve. Would you gentlemen be so good as to parade with my company?”
“That's why we came,” Munroe said, and Everett said, “Guess I'll miss that plowing after all.”
“What about the young gentleman?” Parker asked with a nod toward Arthur.
“I can stand in line,” Arthur said.
Everett put a hand on his shoulder. “And do exactly as he's told.”
“I thank you,” Parker said, turning immediately away and yelling, “Billy! Billy, get your drum and beat to arms!”
The other three ran off to join the rest of Parker's gathering company. Munroe stopped and looked back at Proctor, who still hadn't moved. “You coming?”
There was still time for his scrying to come true, Proctor told himself. The Redcoats would march up, see the militia making their stand, and they'd turn around and go home, just like they had at Salem. If he was lucky, he'd still get to eat breakfast with Emily and make things right with her.
“I'm coming,” he said, and he followed after them.
For the next few moments, Lexington Green reminded him of an anthill stirred up with a stick. Men ran in every direction at once. The coming dawn cast a pale gray twilight, so that everything took on the aspect of shapes emerging from a mist. Captain Parker shouted at the men to form a line at the wide end of the green. Men from the tavern reloaded their weapons as they ran to obey. Proctor and the other three took a spot on the far end of the line, closer to the Concord Road.
Captain Parker paced up and down the line, shouting, “Form up, form up!” A young boy was beating the drums, the bells still sounded in the belfry, and families, drawn by the noise, gathered by the school house, where they called to their husbands and sons for an explanation.
One of the militiamen left the line to go speak to his wife. Parker ran him down and shoved him back in line. “The time for second thoughts is done,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear him. “Now form up, just like you trained.”
Munroe loaded his musket and fitted the ramrod in place under the barrel. He nudged Proctor. “You might want to feed that weapon if you plan to empty its guts.”
“I'll wait,” Proctor said. He looked down the line of men and made a quick count. “If it's sixty of us against a thousand Redcoats, there won't be any shooting.”
Arthur finished loading his fowling piece. “Here they come,” he said, his voice shaking. “Here they come now.”
The Lexington drum was drowned out by the sound of the approaching drummers, and the first Redcoats marched around the bend beyond the meeting house. To judge by the brogue, it was an Irishman who set the pace, his accent carrying across the green as he yelled the soldiers on. They came fast, for all their delay in getting this far, and once they started they seemed to keep on coming, a long line of red uniforms stretching as far as the eye could see. Proctor tried to count them too, but the dawn twilight blurred their numbers. His heart began to pound—there were hundreds, maybe even a thousand of them. In contrast with the militia, they formed a line with startling alacrity, several ranks deep, as wide as the green, and not more than seventy yards away. A deadly range for massed fire.
They would march back to Boston. He had scryed it.
Three British officers on horses rode onto the green and galloped at the center of the colonial line. One of them waved a sword and yelled, “Throw down your arms! You rebels, throw down your arms, damn you!”
Pitcairn's voice. Unmistakable.
A flame of anger jetted through Proctor, a reaction to the protective charm that Pitcairn wore. He reached into his hunting bag for a ball to load his musket. The militia might have to make just one volley, so the Redcoats could save face when they returned to their barracks in Boston.
He had his ramrod in the barrel when Captain Parker approached the British officers. Parker met them eye-to-eye, speaking quietly. The officers blustered back, shouting
orders at him to disarm his men.
A cry came down the line. “Don't fire unless fired upon.”
Everett took up the order and repeated it to Arthur. “Hold your fire—we're not to start any war.”
“But if they start it, we'll give it back to them,” Munroe said. He put his flints and his lead balls into his hat and set it on the ground in front of him for quicker reloading. After a second, Everett followed suit.
Proctor finished loading his weapon and looked up to see that the situation had quickly deteriorated. Two of the mounted officers cantered across the green while Pitcairn continued to shout at Captain Parker. The mass of Redcoats had grown so deep, it was impossible to see if more were coming. Meanwhile, flashes of brown and russet appeared behind the stone walls surrounding the green, where men too cowardly to join the line of the militia took cover. Women and children bunched by the cattle pen and between the houses that lined the commons, straining for a view.
The Redcoats took up their battle cry, shouting, “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
The roar made Proctor's skin goose-pimple. Everett swallowed nervously.
“There won't be any shooting,” Proctor told him.
Captain Parker finally turned away from Pitcairn, who was left mouth open in mid-rage, and walked back toward his company of militia.
“They won't listen to reason and mean to disarm us,” Captain Parker shouted down the line. “And we'll have none of that. So take your arms and disperse. Go home at once.”
“What do we do?” Arthur asked his uncle, looking more like twelve than fifteen.
“We'll disperse, that's the order,” Everett said.
Proctor breathed a sigh of relief. He would stop by and talk to Emily on the way home, make things better there.