by C. C. Finlay
As the other men in the line started to break away in groups of two and three, Munroe pointed across the road behind them. “Let's stay off the main road. We'll circle the burying ground and cut back through the trees.”
“That sounds good,” Everett said, and he bent to pick up his hat and flints.
But the British regulars would not let them go.
Pitcairn had chased after Parker, circling his horse around him. “Order them to lay down their arms or by God every man on this field will end the day dead,” Pitcairn shouted.
He pulled his pistol and aimed it at Captain Parker.
“Damn you, I order you to surrender.”
That was when time slowed down, and Proctor felt like a fish swimming beneath the frozen surface of a winter pond. Pitcairn's horse stamped and whinnied, blocking Proctor's view of Captain Parker's face. Proctor felt a knot of tightness in his chest. Pitcairn leaned over and aimed his pistol at Captain Parker's back, clearly intending to shoot. A golden circle of light was spinning on his chest.
It wasn't right: a man who couldn't be stabbed with a steel knife, who couldn't be shot, shooting another man in the back at point-blank range.
“Hey!” Proctor raised his musket.
He heard a bang, like a chair slamming into the wall. When the smoke cleared from the end of his muzzle, Pitcairn stared at him. Untouched.
“Boy, what did you just do?” Munroe asked.
Time rushed forward again, like a mountain cataract when the ice melted. Scattered popping echoed around the green and a second later the Redcoats' line erupted in a wall of smoke shot with flame. Proctor turned to answer Munroe just in time to see the old man's head split open by a lead ball, flinging him backward in a spray of blood.
What had he done? Proctor's training kicked in and he started to reload. The jumbled Lexington line, in the middle of dispersing, responded to the Redcoats with ragged shots. When the second British rank fired, men all around Proctor threw themselves to the ground.
Some of them went down for a different reason. Everett had taken a ball through his leg and was trying to stanch the flow of blood. Arthur stared at his uncle; his shaking hand spilled gunpowder everywhere but into his barrel. Behind them women screamed and children shrieked, some running forward through the gunfire to check on their husbands and fathers, while others scattered to their homes.
Across the green, British officers shouted for the next rank of soldiers to step forward while the others reloaded. Proctor tugged on Arthur's sleeve. “We best be on our way.”
“I'm staying! I'm—”
“You take him,” Everett said through gritted teeth.
Proctor didn't need permission. He grabbed the back of Arthur's coat and dragged him across the road toward the cemetery. They ran with their heads down as the guns cracked and another round of lead buzzed over their heads. The Redcoat order to fix bayonets and advance came from behind as the two of them passed the smithy and ran among the crosses and headstones.
“We aren't going to take that,” Arthur said, twisting to get free. “We aren't just going to let them march in and tell us what to do and shoot us. We have to get my uncle!”
Proctor tightened his fist on the boy's jacket and kept running. He glanced at his musket—the firing pan was empty, the hammer down—he'd shot a second time but he couldn't recall aiming or pulling the trigger.
What he did recall was the way the Redcoats concentrated their fire around him, because he'd been the first to shoot. And Robert Munroe, who had survived the French and Indian wars alongside Proctor's father, was dead.
How was he going to explain himself to his father?
Or to Emily?
He'd had to do something. He knew his shot couldn't hurt Pitcairn. He couldn't just let Pitcairn shoot Captain Parker.
How was he going to explain himself to anyone who saw him take the first shot? He wouldn't be able to tell anyone how he knew Pitcairn was safe, or Parker was in danger. Not without bringing magic into it.
Shouts behind him were followed by more scattered shots. Proctor pushed Arthur's head down as they ran into the cover of the trees. “Left,” he said, guiding the boy with a shove. They'd have to get back to the road before they stumbled into the swamp.
Proctor's vision from the scrying came back to him again. He hadn't just lied to his mother, he'd lied to himself.
The smoke of muskets.
The taste of black powder.
The Redcoats running.
Why had he assumed they were marching back to Boston? They were chasing the militia.
“We need to find our company and report,” he told Arthur, who was too stunned to respond. And then with certainty unrelated to his particular gift, he added, “The real battle is only beginning.”
They clambered over the stone wall when they came to the road. There was a light on in Emily's house.
Out of reflex as much as purpose, he headed toward her door. They'd have heard the shooting out this far, and she might be worried.
“Proctor?”
He stopped, turning at the sound of Arthur's voice.
“I thought we had to find our company and report,” Arthur said. His face was still clouded by anger and fear.
Behind them, a musket shot echoed over the trees from the direction of Lexington—the Redcoats could be coming this way any moment.
“Right,” Proctor agreed. “We better hurry.”
As they jogged past Emily's house, Proctor took one last glance over his shoulder. He made a promise to himself to come back later today, as soon as things settled down, and talk to her then.
Assuming that things could settle down in one day.
Chapter 4
Arthur tugged on Proctor's sleeves. Warning beacons lit the hilltops to the west, alerting other towns. A moment later, the fitful wind carried snatches of church bells ringing the same message north and south. The countryside was rising against the British.
They lost those signs when they rounded Fiske's Hill and passed under the shadow of the high bluff that lined the road. Arthur stumbled, and Proctor hooked an arm under his shoulder and hauled him along. The poor kid was probably exhausted, but before Proctor could say anything encouraging, hoofbeats sounded on the road behind them.
“Let's hide, in case it's the Redcoats,” he said. The road was lined with boulders and loose stones, topped with logs. Proctor banged his knee on a stump end as they vaulted a low spot and crouched where they wouldn't be seen. Arthur tried again to reload his fowling piece.
Proctor reached out and stopped him. The rider was a boy, a colonial, galloping hard toward Concord.
“Hey!” Proctor shouted, standing up to wave his arms. “Hey, come back! What's the news?”
The boy reined in, kicking up dirt as he turned around. “The Redcoats shot the militia at Lexington. Now they're marching for Concord!”
“We were at the green when they started shooting,” Proctor said. “We saw them shoot Robert Munroe in the head.”
Arthur pushed forward. “Do you have any word about Everett Simes? He was injured—we had to leave him behind.”
“I don't know all the names,” the boy replied. “But they bayoneted some of the injured men, speared them like they were fish, and they shot Jonathon Harrington on his own doorstep, right in front of his wife.”
Proctor's jaw dropped open. Arthur started back for Lexington, and Proctor grabbed him.
“I need to carry the warning ahead,” the boy explained as his anxious horse spun in circles, and Proctor said, “God speed.”
As the hoofbeats faded down the road, Arthur tried to pull free of Proctor's grip. “We've got to go back.”
“There's no help for your uncle now.” His own voice sounded hard to him despite the evenness of his words. “There'll be plenty to do ahead.”
Arthur's lips rolled into a grim frown, and he set off for Concord at twice the pace he'd had before. Proctor jogged after him, but his thoughts trailed behind. How could his gift
have been so wrong? Why hadn't he seen the Redcoats firing at the militia?
He hated the true answer. He had seen it in his scrying, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. He'd taken his ability for a gift before this, but now he had doubts. It could get men killed.
The fields and farmyards along the road were empty. At Hartwell's place, a trunk full of books and silver had been left by the barn. When Proctor and Arthur crossed the bridge at Tanner's Creek, even the tavern was empty. Closer to Concord, at Merriam's Corner, three generations of Merriams had gathered to barricade the road.
“The British killed men at Lexington,” the youngest Merriam shouted as they approached. “They shot Robert Munroe's head off and stabbed Everett Simes—Oh, hey, there's Arthur.”
“We were there,” Arthur said. He looked over his shoulder, as if the bayonets might still be right behind them.
Proctor's glance shifted from face to face. Maybe fifteen men, all brave and angry. He tensed, wondering what they would say if they knew he'd been the first to shoot. He felt like he carried a stain on him, as if they already knew.
The youngest Merriam, outside without a hat, handed them cups of fresh water.
“They shot Jonathon Harrington in front of his own home, with his wife and children begging the Redcoats to spare his life,” Michael Merriam told them. “He bled to death on his doorstep, and none of the regulars did a thing to help him.”
“They'll do the same thing to you,” Proctor said, wiping water from his chin. “There's no way you can stand against them.”
“We don't mean to,” Michael said. “We're just watching the road until they come. When we see their numbers, we'll fall back and join the militia in Concord.”
“We'll see you there then,” Proctor said. “We have to muster and report what we saw.”
They said their good-byes and continued on toward Concord. The last stretch of road ran beneath the shadow of Arrowhead Ridge. “We could pick them off from up there,” Arthur said, squinting up at it. “While they were marching below.”
“Reckon we could,” Proctor replied, though he had reservations. Picking off a few of them wouldn't make any difference to Robert Munroe or Everett Simes, but it might make the Redcoats slower to shoot the next time. Or quicker. That Major Pitcairn meant business, and he had nothing to fear.
Drums and fifes played in the distance. Several companies of militia were marching out of Concord. Proctor and Arthur stepped to the side of the road to let them pass. He only saw young faces in their ranks. It was the minutemen. His company from Lincoln brought up the rear.
Proctor saluted Captain Smith, who was only a couple of years older than himself. “Brown,” Smith said as Proctor fell in beside them. “We marked you down absent at muster.”
“I went into Lexington with Munroe and Everett Simes,” Proctor said. “Saw the shooting there.”
“I'll correct the muster. Was it as bad as we heard?”
Proctor swallowed hard, thinking again that it might all be his fault. “As bad, or worse, depending on what you heard. There must be close to a thousand Redcoats, and the major of the marines is fearless. He means to take our guns or kill us.”
Smith nodded. “We're bound to see more fighting today now that they started it. You better find your place in line.”
“Sir, can I keep Arthur Simes with me?”
Smith glanced back at Arthur, trailing doggedly behind Proctor, and must have seen the intensity in his eyes. “You can. But Arthur?”
“Yes, sir?” His voice trembled.
“You're not to put yourself in the way of any exceptional danger. Your mother would have my hide.”
“It's a bit late for that,” Arthur said. Proctor took his arm and let the column pass. They exchanged nods of greeting with the rest of the men as they went by until Proctor saw the face he was looking for: sandy hair framing ice-blue eyes above a sharp nose and cleft chin.
“Amos Lathrop,” he said, falling in beside his friend. “It's good to see you.”
“I understand you already heard the British guns,” Amos said, and when Proctor shrugged an affirmation, he said, “Do you have to be so impatient to do everything?”
Proctor smiled from habit, though he didn't feel it inside. Being the only one to work their farm, and not having much family on either side, Proctor didn't have many close friends, but Amos was the closest.
Proctor made a quick count of the line. There were only a hundred minutemen present. “Where's the rest of the militia?” he asked.
“The militia captains voted to guard the town center,” Amos said, more than a little disgust tinting his voice. “The minutemen companies thought it better to meet the Redcoats on the road, so we voted to do that instead. Here we are.”
He sympathized with the minutemen's sentiment, but he thought it madness to divide their forces. “Do the captains know how many Redcoats there are?”
“We've heard there's a thousand,” Amos said. “But it wouldn't matter if there were ten thousand. These are our homes. Somebody's got to go out to meet 'em.”
Proctor sank into silence as they marched. It wasn't going to be a fair fight, not with one of the British officers using sorcery to protect himself. Proctor wondered if Pitcairn was the only one, or if others carried similar charms. There was no way to know, not from any distance.
And he was the only one who knew about the charm. He didn't know how to defeat it—it was becoming clear to him how little he knew about magic at all—but he had to atone for the harm he'd brought on Robert Munroe and Everett Simes and all the others. If he had a chance to take it from Pitcairn, he had to do it.
The companies left the road, threading their way among the weeds and rocks to take up a position along the hilltop overlooking Tanner's Creek, where they were joined by a dozen or so Merriams. Proctor reloaded his musket. All around him men arranged their lead, powder, and flint in the manner they preferred for fast reloading. Proctor kept his ready for another quick retreat. There was no way a hundred and ten men could stand against that many Redcoats.
The sun was up now, the sky blue and clear, with a brisk wind drying off the last of yesterday's rain. Birds flitted through the air, singing their spring songs. Proctor reached for his canteen. He curled the yellow ribbon around his finger while he sipped, thinking of the curls in Emily's hair.
Would it make any difference if he explained the magic to these men? He doubted that they would believe him, or that it would change their resolve if they did. Here they stood, outnumbered, in full knowledge of their choice, ready to face the most efficient and deadly military force in the world.
The “deadly” aspect was chief in his mind.
The sound of drums came over the hills ahead of the Redcoats. Some of the birds fell silent.
“Let's bow our heads in prayer,” Captain Barrett called out. Proctor realized the deadly aspect wasn't chief in his mind only. He put both hands around the barrel of his musket, propped butt-end in the soil, and bowed his head.
“Heavenly Father,” Barrett said. “You bring these tribulations upon us as a chastisement because we fall away from Your Holy Word. Use Your rod to guide us back into Your safe pastures. And beat off the English wolves. Amen.”
“Amen,” Proctor said, echoed by a hundred other voices.
He knew what some of the men would say; they'd say that talents like his, skills they'd call witchcraft, were part of any falling away from the Holy Word. Were they right? If he knew how to fashion a charm like Pitcairn's, would he make it for himself? Was it a Christian gift, made with God-given skill, like his mother insisted their talents were? Or was it made with some other kind of magic?
Sunlight glinted sharp off movement at the far edge of the horizon, and the faint sound of drums strengthened into the rattle of a quick march. The double line of British regulars crested the road. The morning sun behind them turned their coats as red as blood.
Amos didn't change his expression, but he let out a low, appreciative whistle.
“Them's the ones who stabbed my uncle,” Arthur said.
A British officer rode ahead, twisting in his saddle to shout orders. Pitcairn. The drummers changed their cadence and the Redcoats spread out over the fields, forming a skirmish line opposite the minutemen. Men around Proctor began to speak up.
“Cap'n, there're too many of them.”
“We could hold this hill for one or two rounds, Cap'n Barrett, but they'll flank us for certain.”
“Don't care for the looks of that, sir.”
Proctor agreed with them. His first resolve to do something to make amends melted away like the dew.
“We'll stay here until they get within a hundred rods,” Barrett said finally. “Delay them that long, give more men time to muster in Concord. Then we'll make an orderly retreat back to the other companies.”
Proctor tightened his fist on his weapon, and he saw Amos and a few other men nodding. They could do that much without feeling like cowards.
If the British gave them the chance to do it. The skirmish line came at them steady, eager to engage and expecting to win any contest of arms. They were less than a quarter mile distant when Barrett signaled to the drummer and the colonials began their slow, deliberate retreat. The militia drummers matched the rhythm of the British drummers, beat for beat, with the fifers playing similar tunes. It would have felt like one of the parades Proctor had seen in Boston, mixing regular army with the colonial militia, were it not for the deadly circumstances earlier that morning.
They marched into Concord with the British holding firm a quarter mile behind them. The rest of the militia companies were lined up in formation on the high hill across the road from the meeting house. The liberty pole stood behind them, a thin reed stark against the pale sky, next to a pole flying the town flag. The minutemen hurried up the hill to join the other companies.
The Redcoats still outnumbered the militia two to one. They slowed down as they entered the town, but still they swept down the road with the practiced ease of a scythe at reaping.
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.