Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch

by C. C. Finlay

  Along the hilltop, townswomen had been carrying food to the men. Proctor snatched a warm piece of buttered bread from a pale, determined girl he'd never met. She glanced down at the Redcoats and hurried away with her basket before he could thank her. Arthur started after her, but Proctor put a hand on his shoulder and handed him the bread. While Arthur devoured that, Proctor reached in his pocket, crumbled off a piece of the cheese his mother had given him, and slipped it in his mouth, savoring the sharp taste. He hoped she wasn't too worried, though she must have heard the shots or the news by now. By the time he swallowed, the British forces were forming their own line. Behind Proctor, the Concord militia officers debated their course of action.

  “What are we waiting for?” Arthur said. “Let's shoot them.”

  Eleazar Brooks, a gray-haired veteran from Lincoln and another friend of Proctor's father, stood near them in the line. “Careful, now. It will not do for us to begin a war.”

  “The war's already begun,” Proctor said. He told Brooks what happened to Munroe and Everett.

  Brooks sucked his teeth. “That's unfortunate. Munroe was a good man. But it's not a war yet, just some scattered shooting. If it's going to get worse, we must make sure the regulars are the ones as start it.”

  Could Proctor take comfort in that? That he hadn't started it, that it was up to the Redcoats? He wasn't comforted. Somehow he had to make things right.

  Up and down the line, the older men were cautious and wanted to wait, while the young men were all for meeting the British and giving them a whipping. Captain Smith, of the Lincoln minutemen, ran toward them, mopping sweat from his forehead. “More militia are coming in,” he said. “We're going to retreat across the North Bridge to Punkatasset Hill, until our strength is equal to theirs.”

  “Another retreat?” Arthur asked. “Why?”

  “The hill's a good choice,” the veteran Brooks said. “It'll give us a clear view to see them coming. And it's a bigger field for us to make formation.”

  “It doesn't matter if we have a bigger field, if they've got the bigger force,” Proctor said.

  Then the drums and the fifes kicked up a tune, and Proctor retreated again through the town. Their double file stomped on the wooden planks as they ran across the North Bridge, drowning out the sound of the drums. They climbed Punkatasset Hill, a broad field that looked over the Concord River into the center of town.

  The British force followed their retreat, occupying the abandoned bridge. Now they were blocking the way back to Emily's house, Proctor realized, and he still needed to go talk to her, to make things right somehow, so they could have the life together that they planned. Seeing the Redcoats marching so near called back his memories of the men shot at Lexington, the sharp smell of their blood mixed with black smoke, and all his plans with Emily felt as fragile as a man's life. One musket ball could destroy them.

  Down below, the British commanders sent several companies across the bridge and north toward the mill. That drew angry exclamations from several of the men. “They know exactly where we hid the munitions,” Brooks said. “That means there's been Tory spies among us.”

  One of the other Lincoln men said, “I hear that Rucke up from Lexington is one of them. He moved out here with his daughter just so's he could spy on the militias.”

  “That's a damned lie,” Proctor snapped.

  “Says who?” The man had a lopsided mouth that made it look like he was ready to bite someone.

  Proctor balled his fist and stepped up to punch that ugly mouth. “Says me.”

  Eleazar Brooks shoved between them, holding up his hand for peace. “Save it for the Redcoats, boys. We'll be needing both of you afore the day is out.”

  The other man backed away. “That's fine with me,” he said. “There'll be time to deal with Tory spies and their friends after the day is over.”

  “You make sure you know what you're talking about,” Proctor said. A cold knot tightened in his chest, different from the one he had when scrying. The worse things got today, the harder it would be to make things right with Emily. He turned back to his place in line and tightened his grip on his musket.

  “I haven't ever heard anything like that about Miss Emily's father,” Arthur said quietly.

  “Because it's a damned lie,” Proctor growled back. Immediately he regretted it. “Forgive my language, Arthur. It wasn't meant to be directed at you.”

  “We'll show those damned scoundrels,” Arthur replied, trying to match Proctor's tone. “And we'll give them something back for what they did to my uncle. If I see any of them lying there injured, I'll bayonet them myself.”

  Proctor swallowed his first real laugh since sunrise. “But you don't have a bayonet.”

  “Then I'll just use a hatchet,” the boy said in deadly earnest, looking at the one in Proctor's belt.

  A barking dog slammed into Proctor's leg, knocking him off-balance, before it chased another dog up the hill and into the mass of confusion there. Men's dogs had followed them from their homes and farms and frolicked as if it were a picnic.

  In many ways, the hillside did resemble a church picnic. Laundry hung from the lines outside the house atop the hill. Besides the dogs, women and children ran back and forth from town with food and news. Old faces mixed with young, the black faces of slaves and former slaves mixed with the white. The officers gathered there were dressed in ordinary clothes; the colonel in charge wore an old coat, a flapped hat, and a leather apron. The Reverend Emerson, Concord's minister, was present in his dark coat, moving among the crowd to offer words of encouragement and prayers. He carried a musket instead of a cross.

  “You don't look well, Proctor,” he said.

  “I saw some things at Lexington this morning, Reverend,” Proctor answered, though he meant to say did instead of saw.

  “Your Miss Emily lives up that way, doesn't she?” Emerson asked.

  How like the Reverend. He seemed to remember everything about every member of his congregation as easily as other ministers remembered their Bible verses. “Yes, she does,” Proctor said.

  Emerson clapped him on the shoulder. “You get her away from her father and make an honest patriot of her.”

  Before Proctor could reply to that, Arthur tugged at his sleeve. “Look!”

  A column of smoke rose from the town below.

  “That's the town hall,” Emerson said in alarm.

  Everyone saw it. Before the Concord men charged down the hill on their own, the drums started beating, calling them to order. As they fell into a double line, Proctor realized there were at least two full regiments gathered, more than enough to take the bridge. With volunteers still coming in from outlying towns, they had almost a thousand militiamen now, as many men as the British force. Proctor felt a pride in his countrymen. They had no lack of courage or discipline.

  He braced his feet as they marched down the slope. The colonel, in his leather apron, stomped along the length of the line. “Do not fire first,” he reminded the men every few steps. “Don't be the first to open fire.”

  Proctor looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

  Down the line someone called out, “What do we do once they fire on us?”

  The colonel paused to answer him. “Then you remember your training and fire as fast as you can. Aim low for their bodies.”

  By that time, they had reached the bottom of the hill. The British soldiers guarding the bridge saw that they were badly outnumbered and retreated across the river. As soon as the last ones were safely across, they began to pull up the wooden planks, rendering it impassable.

  The colonel ran ahead to the bridge, leather apron flapping against his legs. “Stop that! Stop! That's our bridge, to our homes—you leave it be!”

  In town, the column of smoke grew larger and sparks shot into the air. No direct order was given, but a consensus was reached, and the militia began to move with all the rapidity and force of a nor'easter.

  The minutemen from Acton went first because they ha
d bayonets and boxes loaded with cartridges for a faster rate of fire. Their fifer, a blond boy as young as Arthur looked, played “The White Cockade,” a quick little Jacobite song the British thought seditious. The Concord minutemen followed after them. Proctor and the Lincoln minutemen came next, finishing the front ranks.

  Most of the casualties would be there in front. Everyone knew it but no one held back. The militia companies filled out the middle ranks behind them, followed at the rear by the unorganized volunteers who answered the alarms.

  As the formation swept down the hillside, the Redcoats fled the bridge and collided with a second company coming up from the town to support them. While they milled, confused for a moment, frantically sorting out their order on the western bank, the militia column spread out along the eastern causeway across the river. Close enough to exchange fire, but out of range of the British bayonets.

  The Redcoats finally began to form a three-deep firing formation. When their flankers ran toward the end of the militia lines, Proctor and others aimed their muskets.

  “Hold your fire,” Captain Smith bellowed. “We're not to start it.”

  But I already did start it, Proctor thought.

  And then he pushed that thought aside. Pitcairn had been ready to shoot Captain Parker, knowing that he was in no danger himself. And that shot would have started a war as sure as Proctor's had. Now he would do what ever he had to do to make things right again.

  “Once they do start it,” Smith ordered, “aim for the brightest coats first—that'll be their officers.”

  “The crossed white straps make for a nice target,” Amos whispered to Proctor.

  Proctor's heart pounded. He'd already faced their guns once. Waiting was harder, now that he knew what was coming. A gun cracked and a puff of smoke went up from the front of the outnumbered British line. Proctor swallowed, but kept his own finger frozen.

  Two more British shots went off.

  Still the militiamen around Proctor held their fire.

  Then the front row of Redcoats let go with a ragged, unordered volley. One of the Acton minutemen went down, his chest burst open, spurting blood. The fifer dropped, his tune cut off in mid-note. A second volley came from the British line and a few more soldiers fell around Proctor. Still, the minutemen waited for the order.

  “Fire! For God's sake, fire!”

  Chapter 5

  “Fire!”

  The cry spread from one end of the militia line to the other. Proctor aimed for the reddest coat and squeezed the trigger. For the next few moments, all he was aware of were the men beside him, the men he aimed at, and the mechanical process of reloading his musket. Dense clouds of bitter smoke obscured both sides of the river. Before the third ball left his musket he became aware that he no longer heard lead whizzing past him.

  The British lines had broken.

  Men were down around him. Some of the militia retreated from the carnage to regroup, while others ran toward the bridge to secure it. Proctor stood frozen.

  The musket fog began to clear; the harsh taste of gunpowder filled his mouth. Across the river, the Redcoats were in full retreat toward Concord Green.

  Just like in his scrying.

  The British dead sprawled awkwardly in the road, while the wounded cried out in pain. One Redcoat clutched his belly and crawled on hands and knees after the retreating column, until he fell on his face and lay there moaning, gut-shot, bleeding to death. One of the militiamen crossed the bridge, pulled out his hatchet, and calmly split the Redcoat's skull. Proctor was not sure if it was cruelty or mercy. You killed a chicken in the yard that way, but not a man. And yet, didn't he want the British dead? Hadn't they done the same to Everett Simes?

  While he stood there unsure of his own feelings or next action, men began to carry the colonial dead and injured toward the farm house on the hill.

  “Proctor,” a small voice said beside him. “Proctor?”

  He looked over and saw Arthur standing there, pale and trembling. His chin was slick with vomit. “Arthur?” Proctor asked, his heart lurching. “Have you been shot?”

  “No. But I don't feel so good.”

  Proctor grabbed Arthur's shoulder, turned him side-to-side to make sure he wasn't hurt. “Maybe you should go home and check on your mother and your sisters.”

  “You sure that's proper?”

  “I'm sure. The bridge is ours now. But don't go through the center of town. Cut through the pasture and go around behind the ridge, until you come to the Bedford Road. If that's clear, then take the road on home.”

  “All right.”

  “If you have to tell them about your uncle Everett, you do it straight-out, without details or embellishment,” Proctor said. “You don't want to upset them more than need be.”

  Arthur nodded, but he continued to stand there. Proctor reached out and used his sleeve to wipe the spit off Arthur's chin. That made Arthur jerk his head away and scowl.

  “I know what to do,” he said, wiping his own chin.

  He ran off, leaving his hat on the ground with shot still in it. Proctor didn't have the heart to call after him, so he put the lead in his hunting bag and tucked the cap in his belt. When Arthur reached the bridge, he sprinted across, past the Redcoat who'd had his skull split open. Proctor watched him climb over the far hill and head off through the woods behind town.

  He wasn't the only one to leave. Here and there, other men headed off in other directions, ignoring calls to return.

  Proctor didn't understand. The work here wasn't done yet—you didn't plow a field without planting it too. There were still plenty of Redcoats on both sides of the bridge. He found Captain Smith making sure the last of their injured were removed uphill.

  “What're we to do next, sir?” Proctor asked. “The Redcoats haven't exactly packed their kit for home yet.”

  Smith looked past the bridge. “No, they haven't. Gather as many men as you can before they scatter more. We‘re caught between four British companies still on this side of the bridge, and the rest in Concord. Could be a hammer and an anvil if we're not careful.”

  “I'll go do what I can,” Proctor said.

  He went along the causeway and up the hillside, calling the men from his company and telling them to report to Captain Smith. He grew bolder as he went and started commanding other men to report to their officers too. “The fighting's not done,” he said again and again. “The Redcoats're coming back for another try at us.”

  He wasn't sure if it was true, but he had to do something, anything, to make up for his decision on the green. The companies hadn't even re-formed when the order came to split their force, with the minutemen holding the eastern side of the river and the other militia the west.

  Proctor ran across the bridge, skipping over the gap where planks had been pried up. The minutemen took up a position behind the stone wall on the hillside. Proctor double-shotted his musket when he reloaded. He wanted to do as much damage with that first volley as possible.

  Smoke still rose from the center of town, but it was a smaller column now, more like a bonfire than a house fire. “What do you think they're burning?” he asked.

  Amos Lathrop crouched next to him. “The carriages for the cannons, that's what one of the girls said. At least the cannons are safely hidden.”

  “We can build new carriages in pretty short order,” Proctor replied. “But the cannons would be harder to replace.”

  “The Redcoat officers have to be thinking the same thing.”

  They were also thinking of retaking the bridge. The routed Redcoats had rejoined the rest of their troops, and they all marched back in fighting formation. When they saw the militia lined up behind the wall, they halted just outside range of the muskets. The officers rode forward of the troops for a better look.

  One officer rode out farther than the others, well within range of their guns. Proctor again saw the spark at his throat, even though he had the sun behind him. Pitcairn.

  Proctor sighted his musket at
him, just as he had on the Lexington Green. Then he lowered the weapon. It would be wasted lead.

  Captain Smith, coming down the line, rapped him on the shoulder. “I saw that, Brown. Hold your fire. We won't shoot until they shoot first.”

  As he walked away, Amos shook his head. “Shooting's already started. We held our fire at the bridge and lost good men.”

  Proctor rolled his tongue through his cheek and spit. “It's not like he's telling us to let them shoot first, then turn the other cheek.”

  “I'll say that much for the Reverend Emerson,” Amos said, referring to the minister from Concord. “He sure knows when it's time to beat plowshares into swords.”

  Drums sounded from the western bank of the river. The other four companies of Redcoats had returned from their expedition to the mill. When they saw that the bridge was unguarded and they were surrounded by colonial militia, the front ranks broke into a run.

  Proctor aimed his musket at them and discovered that his shoulder was bruised from the four quick volleys at the bridge. He needed to watch his powder.

  How four companies of Redcoats marched under the guns of the militia without either side firing a shot, Proctor couldn't say. The Redcoats crossed the bridge, quietly gathered up their dead and wounded, and continued their tense march under the guns of the minutemen until they rejoined their main force.

  Amos lowered his musket and took a deep breath. “Can you tell me why we let them rejoin forces like that?”

  Proctor wasn't sure. “Maybe when they're all bunched up together they make a bigger target.”

  Amos nodded. “That makes sense. Some of those old men in the militia, their eyesight's going bad and they need that advantage.”

  Proctor was anxious to do something more than sit behind a wall and guard the bridge. But now that they'd been stung, the British moved slowly. They milled around town, forming their order of march, stealing carriages for their wounded, and sending skirmishers out along Arrowhead Ridge to protect their retreat. It was noon before the drums beat the call to arms and the Redcoats started back toward Boston.

  A sense of relief flooded Proctor. He could reach Emily again, explain to her how the fighting happened. He could tell her about Pitcairn—