by Becky Akers
The parlor’s clock showed a few minutes before eight when he stood, spoke his thanks and farewells, and stepped with Anne out onto the porch.
“God go with you, Master Hale,” she said.
“Thank you, Miss Hallam, I—”
But his words were drowned as a horseman pounded past with cries of “News! News!”
Foam flew from the horse to wet Nathan’s hand. He wiped it against his breeches, staring after the man, as Anne said, “My goodness, he’s in a hurry, and at this time of night, too. What do you think’s happened?”
Nathan shook his head, preoccupied with Ally and his trip on the morrow. “He’s come a long way, though, to have such a lathered horse.”
It was too dark to watch the rider’s progress, but they could hear him galloping down State Street, still shouting, to the tavern. In the faint glow from its windows, they saw him bolt from his saddle. Idlers bestirred themselves from their seats on either side of the door to question him. Anne picked up her skirts and set off for the tavern. Nathan followed.
“—should’ve seen them troops run!” the messenger was saying as they came within earshot.
“What is it, sir?” Nathan asked. “What’s happened?”
The man took a breath and nodded at the tavern’s keeper as he pressed a mug of small beer into his hand. “Here, got a letter from the Committee of Safety that’ll tell you everything.” He fished a crumpled paper from his pocket, handed it to Nathan, and raised the mug to his lips.
Nathan smoothed the sheet and squinted at it in the feeble light. He barely discerned the heading: “Wednesday Morning near 10 of the Clock. Watertown. To all Friends of AMERICAN Liberty: let it be known that this morning before break of day a British brigade....”
The messenger lowered his beer and rubbed his sleeve across his mouth. “Aw, don’t strain your eyes, son. I’ll tell you what it says. Been a fight up to Lexington village, not too far from Boston, just yesterday. Army tried to arrest John Hancock and old Sam Adams, and they’s aiming to steal our powder and arms at Concord, little bit further down the road. But we was warned by some of the Committee, riding out of Boston. Them soldiers collided with the militia at Lexington, fired on them, killed some of them. Just like Redcoats, ain’t it? We was outnumbered about twenty to one, we couldn’t’a stopped them nohow, but they shot at us anyways. Well, they killed a bunch of men, stabbed them in the back with them bayonets. Lord, I hate them Regulars—”
“What’s happened, friend?” Judge Law arrived with some men from his office.
“Yesterday there’s a fight near Boston,” Nathan said while the messenger finished his beer. “Redcoats fired on the militia and killed some of them.”
“God preserve us!” The judge staggered back a step. “Yesterday, you say?”
“But we whupped ’em anyways!” The messenger grinned. More people swelled the circle gathering around him, and church bells began to toll. “After they’s done killing us at Lexington, they marched on to Concord, to get our military stores, see. Folks at Concord knew they’s coming, been moving them stores out all week, so there wasn’t much left for them to get. Them fools went and set fire to the little bit they found, which of course meant the whole country roundabout could see what was going on, account of the smoke. Thought they’s burning the town. Well, sir, afore long, there’s all sorts of militia ganging up on the army. We hid behind every barn and fence all the way back to Boston. We shot at the Redcoats and harried them, and I wager we winged near five hundred. Sent them back to Boston in style, let me tell you. That’s where they be now, holed up like a bunch of old grannies with the militia gathering across the harbor at Cambridge and holding them inside Boston. They wanted Boston so much, they can have it, long as they stay there and leave the rest of us be.”
“You mean the militia’s got the king’s troops trapped inside Boston?” The judge’s voice rose as high as the king’s temper would when he learned of this defiance.
“That’s it, sir. That’s what I’m telling you.”
“But—but that’s war!”
“War?” The man repeated it wonderingly, then nodded. “Ahyuh, I reckon that’s right. It’s war. But it’s been war, you ask me, ever since they killed them poor men in ’70, in the Massacre. Mowed them down in cold blood. I was there. I saw it.” He nodded solemnly. “We shoulda fired back at ’em then, fought for our liberties right there and then, and it’d be over with by now. Well, sir, I got to keep on riding south, let more people know.”
“Take my horse,” Nathan said. “He’s fresh and he’s fast.”
“Thankee, son. You keep mine in the meantime, till I can get yours back to you somehow or t’other. Any of you men wanna ride up to Boston and keep the army bottled up there, we’d be much obliged.”
“We’ll call a meeting right away, sir.” The judge turned to his clerk. “Run tell the vestrymen to stop ringing alarm and ring for a town meeting instead.”
Half an hour later, Miner’s Tavern was so crowded that Nathan could not find a seat. He would have stood outside in the yard but for five of his students beckoning from the rear of the room. He pushed his way to them while men buzzed over the trouble in Massachusetts.
“Ask the master,” Zeke Simpson was insisting when he reached the group. “I’m telling you, we’re not old enough.”
“That true, Master Hale?” said Isaiah Starr. “They won’t take us into the militia until we’re sixteen?”
Nathan shook his head, but his answer was lost as Judge Law pounded a table for quiet. “Gentlemen, this meeting will come to order.”
“Can’t tell me I can’t fight Redcoats if I want to,” Ike said as the men nearby hushed him.
“We’ve all heard the news from Boston by now, I’m sure,” the judge said. “What we’ve got to do is decide what to do about it.”
“I say we keep our heads and not get too riled.” John Whitney’s complacent tones sounded through the room. “Folks up there in the Bay Colony always in a snit about something or other. Look at the trouble they’ve caused us all. Let Boston settle its own problems, I say. That Adams fellow, and Hancock, too, they’re nothing but rabble-rousers.”
Judge Law nodded. “True enough, Mr. Whitney. We’re blessed with the best government on earth, freedom, prosperity. Seems Boston’s forgotten that.”
Silence held the room but for outraged whispers from Isaiah Starr and Zeke Simpson. Nathan glanced at them, then raised his voice. “What happened in Boston affects us all. Anything a government does to some of its subjects, it could do to the rest.”
Men turned to peer at him as the judge said, “The king’s just trying to seize powder and muskets that might be used against him.”
“They’d be used to defend free men from tyranny.”
“So you think we ought to take arms against the king, Master Hale?” The judge’s voice climbed so high this time it cracked. By now, everyone in the room was craning to see him. “That—that’s treason!”
Nathan shook his head. “We’re free English citizens, aren’t we? That means we have a contract with the government. We submit to it and obey the laws—”
“Hear, hear!”
“—long as—” He paused, allowing the tumult to die. “Long as king and Parliament honor their end of things. They’ve got to protect our lives, liberty, and property.”
“’Course, and that’s why the king disarmed that mob in Boston, to keep the peace, don’t you see.”
Nathan stood with arms akimbo. “How does a government impose its will on its subjects?” He waited for an answer, as if they were in class.
Zeke Simpson’s father obliged. “By force.”
“Yes, by force. We saw what happens when we don’t want to pay taxes. The king sends soldiers here, with guns, to force us to pay. Only way to resist is by bringing our own guns against those soldiers. The king knows that, so his army marched against the stores at Concord to disarm us. A government deprives the people of their rights, it’s a good bet t
hey’ll rebel unless it disarms them first. Tyrants always disarm the people.”
“He’s right!” Mr. Simpson shouted. “’Twill be our death the day they have more muskets than us.”
“You can’t be serious.” Mr. Hutchings’ tone arced as high as the judge’s. “King’s got the best army in the world. You think a mob in Boston can stand up to them?”
“They’re not a mob,” Nathan said. “They’re men like us, fighting for their homes and families. The army’s Regulars are paid. ’Tis only a job to them to fight. They’ll probably turn and run, first time they come against free men fighting for their liberties.”
“You’re a fool, Hale,” a man to his left said. “I fought with Braddock in the French War, and I can tell you, the British Army’s the best in the world.”
“It sure is,” another called from across the room. “My uncle sold supplies to the Redcoats then, and he always says we got the best trained, best equipped, just the best men all around fighting for us anywhere in the world. Couple of farmers and shopkeepers don’t stand a chance against them.”
“That’s why I’m going to Boston, to join them,” Mr. Simpson said. “They’s strength in numbers.”
“So will I.” Nathan’s heart broke as he saw his marriage postponed again. “Let us march immediately, and never lay down our arms until we obtain our independence.”
The room froze, except for Zeke and Isaiah, who grinned. Zeke started to cheer but caught his father’s eye. Having silenced his son, Mr. Simpson gaped at Nathan.
“Independence, sir?” the judge said when he could speak again. “What do you mean by that?”
“We ought to separate ourselves entirely from England and even government. What do we need them for anyway? King thinks he can do a better job of running our lives than we can. Say this present trouble passes, say he withdraws his troops and compensates Boston for its losses, he’ll still think he and his ministers know what’s best for us. They’ll still treat us as children who can’t get along in the world without all their rules and protection. Next time we disagree about something,” he shrugged, “there’ll be soldiers here again forcing us to the king’s will. Only this time they might be in New London instead of Boston.”
“All right, sir,” Judge Law said. “But I don’t think anyone in this room, or even in Boston for that matter, wants anything as radical as independence. We’re still Englishmen, sir, and I hope everyone joins me in saying ‘God save the king!’”
“I sure don’t,” Hutchings shouted, then added, “Want no king, I mean,” while Simpson cried, “I just want them Redcoats shipped back where they come from, afore they head our way.”
Nathan said, “You leaving for Boston tomorrow, Mr. Simpson?”
“Yup. And any of you want to join us, be back here at dawn.”
Despite misty rain, about sixty men gathered at daybreak in front of the tavern for the four-days’ journey north. Nathan hunched against the damp, his spirits gray as the skies. He had thought to ride to Coventry, not Boston.
When they reached the city Monday afternoon, they sat their horses in amazement. Boston perched on its circle of land in the middle of the bay, pathetically vulnerable. The militia surrounding it on the mainland clearly outnumbered the Redcoats pulsing through Boston’s arteries, while the smoke of ten thousand cook-fires ascended in a ring about the harbor.
Nathan stayed several days, enough to see that the army had no intention of stirring from its haven. The militia was triumphant, its camp a carnival as idleness prevailed. Men had left their chores for an adventure, and they intended to make the most of it. They prowled the countryside, told tales around the fire, drank rum, played at cards and dice.
Nathan sought the troop from Coventry, sure that some of his brothers must have come. He found Samuel, Joseph, and John, the ones he expected. Enoch could not be spared from chores nor his studies for the ministry, and the others were too young. Nathan asked after them, the Deacon and Abigail, and finally, Alice. He tried not to stammer as he spoke her name, tried to meet their gaze as he inquired how she was weathering Elijah’s death. He should have looked anywhere but their eyes, for there pity loomed.
John laid a hand on his shoulder. “Forget her, Nathan. Father and Abigail are still against it. Poor Elijah’s hardly cold before Alice was pestering them to let her visit you.”
“And?”
Joseph and Samuel stared at the horizon. John kicked at a clod of earth before answering. “Father said you’d promised him once that you wouldn’t marry her and you’re a man of your word. He said she could plead with you every day the rest of her life, and ’twouldn’t matter because of that.”
He despaired at how securely the Deacon had imprisoned him with his own honor and hardly listened as John continued.
“Alice said she’d go to New London whatever he said about it, and so Father reminded her,” John cleared his throat, “that you won’t be of age for another year yet, and she isn’t, either. Sorry, Nathan.”
The brothers stood awkwardly until Samuel said, for sake of breaking the silence, “You ought to see if you can get into our company, Nathan. We got a good man as captain, name of Thomas Knowlton. He fought the French and knows his stuff. He’s one to say ‘Come on, boys,’ instead of ‘Go on, boys.’”
“How long you here for, Nathan?” Joseph asked.
“Until I get tired of doing nothing, I guess. Thought I’d start back tomorrow. I stay away from teaching too long, they’ll see they can manage without me.”
Eleven days after leaving New London, Nathan again stood before his desk there. One of the youngest boys waved his arm in the air. “You have a question, Mr. Billings?”
“Master Hale, tell us about Boston. You fight any Redcoats?”
They hung breathless, and he smiled to soften their disappointment. “Not a one. In fact, I didn’t get any closer to a Redcoat than we are to Groton there, across the river.”
“Oh.” Ezra Billings chewed his lip. “Wager you would have fought one, though, if you’d gotten close to him, huh?”
“Well, fighting a man’s a pretty serious thing.”
“So’s trampling people’s liberty.”
Nathan nodded as his own words came winging back to him. “Can’t argue with that. And remember what Mr. Henry down in Virginia says: ‘Give me Liberty or give me death!’”
Nathan and his students read all accounts of the business at Boston, exulting as the weeks passed and the militia kept the Regulars confined there. Only the Simpson brothers refused to rejoice. “I don’t trust the army,” they’d say, and none could blame them. It had lashed their father, a scout in the French War, 250 times for intervening when a pregnant camp-follower was whipped for drunkenness. The woman died, and he nearly did.
Ike said, “Redcoats’re like that bird you told us about, sir, the one that ain’t dead even when you think it is and flies up out of the ashes.”
“Treacherous,” Zeke said, “just like the government. You think they’re beat, but they rise again.”
In May, General William Howe arrived from England to command the Redcoats. He had won a seat in Parliament by promising to oppose the Crown’s tyranny in the colonies, then forsaken that pledge to lead an army against them. He was tall and dark and fond of high living. Nathan studied his likeness in a newspaper, incredulous that even a politician would hold his honor so lightly.
William Howe’s eldest brother had died a hero in the French War, earning him a monument in grateful Boston. That and the Howes’ pleas for tolerance toward the colonies made the influential family America’s friends. So it was rank betrayal to find a Howe leading the invaders, vowing to seize the rebellion’s headquarters and supplies at Cambridge.
Before Howe could fulfill his threat, the Patriots filed onto a mound overlooking Boston and fortified it one night in June. By dawn, they had raised a fort on Bunker’s Hill, to the astonishment of Howe and his staff.
“’Course, you know how the army is,” the expr
ess rider, the one who had delivered the news of Lexington and Concord two months before, told the people of New London. “Took them half the morning to get over their shock and get all their gear together and decide they was gonna rout us out of there. Well, sir, they come on, marching right up that hill we was sitting on, right into our fire. We was low on ammunition from the very start, so we had to make every shot count. We held off firing until they was so close we couldn’t miss, and then, pow! We let them have it. Mowed down half of them, I reckon. So Howe reforms them and tries again, if you can credit it. And we winged another half of them. Well, sir, Howe tries again. Man’s a butcher, you ask me. He reforms them lines and comes against us one more time. ’Course, we ain’t much of a menace now, what with our ball and powder about gone, but he don’t know that. They chased us out of there then, but I’ll tell you, I hope we sell them another hill at the same price, ’cause they lost better’n half their troops.”
Nathan grew restless. Grand events were changing history a scant hundred miles to the north; folks there might even overthrow a government and truly free its victim. Yet he passed his days translating Livy and worrying about the subjunctive. His brothers were still in arms. His friends from Yale wrote that they had enlisted. Though he knew aught of soldiering and had done little good when he marched to Boston before, he felt useless sitting in his schoolhouse.
When a colonel and twenty men from his company of the Seventh Connecticut Militia marched into New London three weeks later and beat their drum to recruit, Nathan sent a letter to the proprietors without qualms. His contract expired in a few days, and he had mentioned his enlistment to Judge Law and some of the others. It would come as no surprise, though all had tried to talk him out of it. “Sir, there’s more men than they know what to do with up to Boston,” the judge said, “but we’ve got only one schoolmaster. I’d hate to see a gentleman of your learning wasted as cannon-fodder.”
He left the schoolhouse on Friday and headed for Miner’s Tavern. There he found a man seated at the largest table, wearing a lieutenant’s uniform from the last war, a stack of papers in front of him. He studied Nathan as he introduced himself.