With that, the Clarke household settled down for the night, confident in the guard posted outside. In addition to Reverend Clarke, his wife, Lucy, John Hancock, and Samuel Adams, Hancock’s “female connections”—as James Warren termed them in a letter to Mercy—were present. Things had deteriorated to the point that neither Hancock nor Adams dared venture into Boston, and on April 7, Hancock’s beloved aunt Lydia and his fiancée, Dorothy Quincy, had left Boston and found refuge in Lexington. Also present were other members of the Clarke family. Lucy Clarke was a granddaughter of the Reverend John Hancock, making her John III’s second cousin.4
Sometime between midnight and one o’clock on the morning of April 19, the quiet outside the Clarke residence was broken by the sound of a horse hurrying up the road from the direction of Lexington Green. Sergeant Munroe and his men were at their posts, and Munroe blocked the rider’s path as he dismounted and strode purposefully toward the front door. The sergeant did not recognize the man and admonished him to be quiet lest he wake the inhabitants with his noise. “Noise!” shouted the lone rider. “You’ll have noise enough before long. The regulars are coming out.” At this, he stepped around Munroe and pounded on the front door.
Reverend Clarke immediately opened an upstairs window and inquired who was there. Without answering that direct question, the rider instead announced that he wished to see Mr. Hancock. Clarke, in the usual deliberative way of ministers, sought to question him more about his business, but Hancock’s head appeared at another window, and he said rather matter-of-factly, “Come in, Revere; we are not afraid of you.”5
EVEN THOUGH PAUL REVERE REMEMBERED the early hours of April 19 as “very pleasant” weatherwise, the British column marching west from Cambridge toward Lexington on what is now Massachusetts Avenue was already showing signs of stress. Most if not all of Smith’s command were wet and chilled from hours of waiting and stumbling around soggy marshes. They nonetheless set a brisk pace along the road, still muddy from the prior day’s rain. For a time, they managed better than four miles an hour despite complaints that the pace was “hasty and fatiguing.”6
Colonel Smith, however, was not one to consider the welfare of his men, and after the delays in crossing the Charles and wandering through marshy bogs, he focused on the part of Gage’s orders that directed him to secure the two bridges at Concord “as soon as possible” with “a party of the best Marchers.” Halting the main column for a brief rest at Menotomy, where the committee of safety of the Provincial Congress had just adjourned, Smith ordered Major John Pitcairn to take the six light infantry companies at the head of the column—about eighteen officers and 220 men, roughly 30 percent of his force—and march them at the quick to seize the Concord bridges and hold them until his main force arrived. Nothing was said about what might happen at the little crossroads of Lexington en route.7
John Pitcairn was by all accounts an able officer of long service. He was born in Scotland about 1722, the son of a Presbyterian minister. Commissioned a lieutenant in Cornwall’s Seventh Marines in 1746, Pitcairn filled a variety of assignments and was finally promoted to major in 1771, a long twenty-five years later. Along the way, the rigors and postings of military life did not keep him from marrying Elizabeth Dalrymple and fathering nine children with her. By the time Pitcairn landed in Boston with a contingent of six hundred marines in December of 1774, he was in his midfifties, and the subsequent long winter no doubt brought thoughts of Elizabeth and retirement. One of their children, Robert, had become a midshipman in the Royal Navy and was on watch during a 1767 voyage when what would be named Pitcairn Island was discovered in the South Pacific. Another of their children, Catherine, was married to Captain Charles Cochrane of the Fourth Regiment, who was now somewhere on the road up ahead as part of Major Mitchell’s advance patrol. Pitcairn’s son William was with him on the march as a lieutenant in the light infantry company of the Royal Marines.8
John Pitcairn was the type of experienced commander a superior would want for a mission in which the lines between military and political considerations were blurred. Colonel Leslie had faced this sort of quandary six weeks before at Salem and had at least come away without bloodshed if not rebel cannons. But Colonel Smith was another matter. Like Pitcairn, Smith was an aging relic of the ponderous hierarchy of the British army. Somewhat overweight, meticulous to a fault, and deliberative in his rank and position, Smith might well have been called General Gage’s ideal of what a military leader should be—which in itself was not necessarily a compliment to either man. Whether Smith’s unhurried pace was due to studied calmness under fire or merely occasional befuddlement only time would tell.
But for now, the immediate concern as Major Pitcairn led his advance force forward at a brisk march along the road to Lexington may have been General Gage’s tactical decision to assemble a force of independent companies without a regimental command structure. Smith acquiesced in this decision by sticking to traditional regimental seniority in the order of march. Pitcairn had behind him six company commanders, generally able and willing but largely unknown to him, and one wonders whether Smith might have been better advised to have moved Pitcairn’s light infantry company of marines into the van of his advance force.
As it was, the company at the head of Pitcairn’s column soon found plenty to keep it occupied. There was more activity in farmhouses and barns than there should have been at that hour—although it was by then approaching 4:00 a.m. Riders were encountered along the road, and all were detained and presumed to be rebel messengers out in the predawn dark to spread the alarm. Some, such as Simon Winship, may have had other business, or at least have been good actors. About halfway between Menotomy and Lexington, Pitcairn’s advance guard met Winship “on horseback, unarmed, and passing along in a peaceable manner.” When ordered to halt and dismount, Winship indignantly questioned the soldiers’ right to detain him. He had not been out warning minutemen, he claimed, but merely returning to his father’s house. Despite his protests, Winship was forced to march on foot in the midst of the British troops back toward Lexington, in the direction he had come.9
To Pitcairn, it soon became obvious from these encounters that surprise was not to be among his advantages. From the sounds of alarm bells and signal guns that were now resonating ahead of and behind his position, Colonel Smith was coming to the same conclusion. Major Mitchell and his patrol had set the alarm system in motion even as General Gage was giving Smith his orders. Smith made his first prudent decision of the long night and sent a messenger riding back toward Boston to advise the general that Smith might require reinforcements.
HAVING DELIVERED DR. WARREN’S MESSAGE and warned Hancock and Adams of the approaching troops, Paul Revere remounted and rode west toward Concord to spread the alarm. William Dawes, who had slipped across Boston Neck before it was sealed and arrived at the Clarke residence shortly after Revere, joined him. A third rider, Dr. Samuel Prescott of Concord, soon overtook them. Prescott had been out on an errand of love and was returning to Concord from a late evening courting Lydia Mulliken of Lexington. Revere and Dawes ascertained that Prescott was a rebel at heart, and the three took turns knocking on farmhouse doors as they rode toward Concord.
By now the moon was near its apex, and the road was bathed in moonlight. The brightness made it more difficult to see what dangers lurked in the shadows of tall trees. Near the tiny hamlet of Lincoln, about midway between Lexington and Concord, Revere scouted the road in the lead while Dawes and Prescott stopped to arouse the inhabitants of a farmhouse.
Suddenly two British officers rode out from the shadows. Revere shouted a warning to his companions, and for a fleeting moment the rebel trio considered bulling its way through, although they were unarmed. But then another two heavily armed regulars emerged from the shadows. Flight quickly seemed the better strategy. Prescott urged his horse over a stone wall and escaped into the darkness of the adjacent woods. Dawes, who was mounted on the slowest horse of the three, rode in the opposite direction a
nd managed to find shelter in an abandoned farmhouse. Revere was about to outrun his pursuers when six more soldiers appeared across his path.
Revere found himself a prisoner, but he was not alone. Major Mitchell’s patrol had also captured messenger Solomon Brown, who had been dispatched earlier from Lexington to Concord, and Elijah Sanderson and Jonathan Loring, who had been sent to follow the officers after they passed through Lexington. An officer who appeared to be in command ordered Revere to dismount and asked him where he had come from and when. Revere told him but thought the officer “seemed surprised” at his answers, either at the ground he had covered so quickly or the fact that he had slipped out of Boston at all. Asked his name, Revere told the truth on this point, too, which met with recognition. But rather than cower, Revere used his acknowledged notoriety to launch a verbal offensive against his captors.
They wouldn’t find what they were after, Revere told them. He had warned the countryside all the way from Charlestown and would soon have five hundred men in the field. The British officer retorted that his side had fifteen hundred men coming but again seemed surprised at the extent of Revere’s knowledge. The officer rode back to a group of officers still on the road. After a whispered conversation, they all came back to Revere at a gallop. This time it was Major Mitchell himself who “Clap’d his Pistol to [Revere’s] head” and threatened to “blow [his] brains out” if Revere did not answer his questions.
Mitchell then grilled Revere with the same questions the first officer had asked, but he demanded more particulars. Revere gave him the same answers without further detail but with a like amount of swagger. No doubt annoyed by Revere’s confidence and uncertain of the number of rebels who might be closing in around his small troop, Mitchell ordered Revere to mount his horse. As Revere did so, Mitchell snatched the reins out of his hands and exclaimed, “By G-d Sir you are not to ride with reins I assure you” and handed them to an officer to lead him.10
Mitchell’s men put each of their four prisoners—Revere, Brown, Sanderson, and Loring—between two guards, and they all started east toward Lexington at a brisk pace. Elijah Sanderson’s horse, “not being swift,” had difficulty keeping up, and one of the officers pressed his own horse close and prodded Sanderson’s mount with a blow from his scabbard.
As they neared Lexington, the boom of a signal gun reverberated through the crisp dawn air. What did it mean? Mitchell testily asked Revere. The express rider shrugged and repeated what he had already said twice before: the countryside knew that the regulars were about and was in a state of alarm. According to Sanderson’s recollection, the bell at the meetinghouse on Lexington Green began to ring soon thereafter, and Jonathan Loring snapped to his captors, “The bell’s a ringing, the town’s alarmed, and you’re all dead men.”11
Even Major Mitchell seems to have considered that a strong possibility. Keeping his prize—Paul Revere—Mitchell ordered the other three rebels to dismount. “I must do you an injury,” one soldier told Sanderson, drawing his sword. Expecting the worst, Sanderson, Brown, and Loring were relieved when their captors merely cut the bridles and saddles off their horses and drove them away. The three men, on foot but very near Lexington Green, were told they “might go about their business.”
Revere asked Mitchell to dismiss him as well, but the major “said he would carry me, lett the consequences be what it will.” But a few more minutes of riding brought them within sight of the meetinghouse and the sound of another alarm volley—likely fired by those gathered at Buckman’s Tavern. Major Mitchell quickly quizzed Revere about the distance to Cambridge and ordered him to trade his horse for a burly sergeant’s wearying mount. The exchange made, the bridle and saddle girth on the sergeant’s original horse were also slashed. Then Major Mitchell’s patrol and Paul Revere’s horse hurried past the meetinghouse and disappeared down the road toward Cambridge at full gallop. Revere was left standing in the road near the edge of Lexington Green.12
WHILE PAUL REVERE HAD TAKEN his ride toward Concord and been returned to Lexington a prisoner, Lexington’s militia had not been idle. Even before Revere had arrived, an initial guard had formed around the Clarke house, and another group gathered at Buckman’s Tavern. The call to turn out Lexington’s full complement was not given until after the receipt of Dr. Warren’s warning, sent via Revere. According to Reverend Clarke, “the militia of this town were alarmed, and ordered to meet on the usual place of parade,” that being Lexington Green. Clarke’s account was decidedly one-sided as to the peaceful intent of the militia and the militant purpose of the approaching regulars. The call out was made “not with any design of commencing hostilities upon the king’s troops,” Clarke maintained, “but to consult what might be done for our own and the people’s safety.” They would be ready, however, “in case overt acts of violence, or open hostility should be committed by this mercenary band of armed and blood-thirsty oppressors.”13
The commander of Lexington’s militia company was Captain John Parker. In the tradition of the militia, his position was an elected one, as were those of his officers. The practical nature of hardened countrymen usually assured that they voted for military experience over popularity. Parker had plenty of both. He was forty-six that spring, dying of tuberculosis but not one to let such personal inconvenience stand in the way of duty. His family recalled him as “a great tall man, with a large head and a high, wide brow.” His military experience had been honed through some of the toughest fighting of the French and Indian War. Parker had been with Brigadier James Wolfe at the siege of Louisbourg and on the Plains of Abraham before the fall of Quebec. There were rumors that along the way he had spent some time with Rogers’ Rangers.14
Despite Parker’s position as captain, the seventy-some men who answered this middle-of-the-night summons had truly come—in Reverend Clarke’s words—“to consult what might be done.” While a far-reaching alarm system was already spreading word of the regulars’ advance to similar militia units across much of eastern Massachusetts, at this particular moment Captain Parker’s men were very much on their own. They looked to Parker for leadership, but as a volunteer force of independent-minded individuals they expected to have some say in whatever action they took. And whatever action that might be, they would first and foremost be concerned with the immediate safety of their persons, their families, and their homes.
So by ones, twos, and threes the men of Lexington assembled on their village green. Many were related by blood or marriage, and all were neighbors and friends. While their ages ranged from sixteen to sixty-six, most were middle-aged men of some substance—men who worked hard on their farms, ran businesses, and took active part in the affairs of the town and the Congregational church. Its meetinghouse was so central to the activities of the town that it served as a makeshift armory for guns and munitions. Many times its congregation had heard Reverend Clarke espouse the blessings of liberty and the rights of man. Benjamin Estabrook’s slave, Prince, didn’t share in those blessings, but having taken an oath as a militiaman, he was among those who assembled in the darkness.
Robert Munroe was an example of how connected the men were on Lexington Green that morning. He was two weeks shy of his sixty-third birthday, definitely of the older generation in that era. He had already given his service in the Louisbourg campaign of the French and Indian War. His daughter Anna was married to Daniel Harrington. His daughter Ruth was the wife of William Tidd. These sons-in-law and Munroe’s own two sons, Ebenezer and John, stood beside him on the green that morning. Tidd was a lieutenant in the company; Daniel Harrington owned the blacksmith shop that fronted on the northern edge of the green.15
As his company formed on the green, Captain Parker sent two scouts down the road toward Cambridge to attempt to locate the approaching column of regulars. It is unclear how far they traveled, but one of them returned between 3:00 and 4:00 a.m. and reported “no appearance of the troops, on the roads, either from Cambridge or Charlestown; and… that the movements in the army the evening b
efore, were only a feint to alarm the people.”16
Given the inactivity and the coolness of the early morning air, Parker decided to dismiss his company, provided the men stay within earshot of a drumroll so they might be readily reassembled. Some retired to nearby homes, but most sought refuge in the warm confines of Buckman’s Tavern while Parker calmly awaited the return of his second scout. Little did he suspect—though perhaps he should have—that the scout was returning to Lexington as a prisoner of Major Pitcairn’s advance guard.
HAVING BEEN LEFT STANDING IN the road by Major Mitchell and his patrol, Paul Revere avoided crossing Lexington Green and instead circled north across the town cemetery toward the Clarke house. Most likely he did so to avoid other soldiers, should they be lurking around the green. Like Major Mitchell, Revere may have been unsure of the meaning of the commotion coming from the direction of Buckman’s Tavern—originating, unbeknownst to him, from Parker’s men. Perhaps the regulars were already in town in force.
Just whom Revere expected to find at the Clarke residence is uncertain, but he certainly did not expect to find the objects of his midnight ride. But yes—some three hours after receiving Revere’s urgent warning from Dr. Warren, John Hancock and Samuel Adams were still ensconced in Reverend Clarke’s parlor debating a course of action. When Hancock had written Elbridge Gerry a few hours before that “I intend doing myself the pleasure of being with you to-morrow,” he had meant in a committee meeting and not on a field of battle, but now Hancock seemed quite determined to be present at the latter. Never mind that his only weapons at hand were a pistol and a ceremonial sword meant more for fashionable dress than rugged combat.
John Hancock had become who he was in Boston society and commerce through no lack of ego. Samuel Adams understood this completely and had long used Hancock’s self-esteem to the advantage of the rebel cause. But Hancock, who had become an acknowledged political leader under Adams’s tutelage, rather grandly considered himself a military leader as well. Until removed from the post some months before by General Gage, Hancock had held the title of captain of the First Corps of Cadets. It sounded very official, but the cadets more closely resembled a local fraternal order that turned out occasionally for ceremonial roles than a military force. Other than drilling with the cadet company, Hancock had never had the slightest military training, never commanded troops in battle, and never been in the line of fire.
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