Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1

by Ron Carter

  Dawes leaped to his feet hot, fist jammed into the air. “Outrage!” he bellowed, and fifty loud voices echoed it. His wife reached to grasp his coat sleeve and tried to pull him back into his seat and he shrugged it off, face crimson, neck veins bulging. “Weapons of war in a house of God! Frightening our women and children! How much more? How much longer?”

  A chorus of voices swelled and rang off the hard, bare walls.

  Warren stood and raised his hands and shouted, “Order!” then stood on his bench and shouted again. Olmsted seized the pulpit bell and shook it high, clanging. Slowly the outcry subsided.

  “William Dawes is right,” Warren exclaimed. “A deliberate act of desecration and insult to provoke us. But do we rise to their bait and deliver control of this affair to them?”

  All talk ceased.

  Warren continued. “I think not. Fight we will, but restraint is our assurance of winning. Wait until we are ready! Keep your passion for freedom alive, but restrain it until our time has come!”

  The congregation sobered. Dawes settled back into his seat.

  The Reverend Mr. Olmsted seized the moment. He shook the pulpit bell again and waited until everyone was facing the pulpit and all talk ceased before he clacked it back onto its shelf. His high nasal voice came piercing. “We shall begin services this morning by singing.”

  John looked back at Warren, who rounded his lips and blew air as they felt the congregation settle and the mood change, and they knew the flash point had passed.

  Instantly Olmsted launched into “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” his thin voice quavering. Hesitantly at first, then in strength, the congregation picked it up. The sound reached outside where the British soldiers paused and exchanged questioning glances and shook their heads as they fell into ranks and waited further orders from the officers.

  The song finished, Olmsted gave no space for interruption. “Let us pray,” he said instantly, and bowed his head. “O God, who dwells in the heavens,” he began, and for a full minute invoked the spirit of the Almighty to fill the chapel. With his lusty “Amen” still in the air, he opened the Bible.

  “I have prepared this morning’s sermon from the second letter written by the Apostle Paul to the Corinthians, chapter three, verse seventeen.” He stared down his nose through his spectacles while his finger tracked down the column on the Bible page and stopped. Carefully he read, “ ‘Now the Lord is that Spirit: and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.’ ” He raised his head, mouth a straight line, and waited.

  Liberty! The word reached into every heart with its magic! A resounding “Amen” filled the chapel, and Olmsted continued.

  “The Lord God is spirit, without form or substance, large enough to fill the immensities of eternity, small enough to dwell in your heart, and it is his spirit that has moved upon this land and inspired an unquenchable thirst for liberty!”

  Caught up in the sudden, unexpected thrust of Olmsted’s sermon, John leaned forward, eyes narrowed as he listened intently.

  “The earth is his footstool, the heavens his throne. Oh, the marvels of God, the unknowable secrets of his power!”

  John did not move in his fierce concentration.

  “If you would throw off the yoke of oppression and have the liberty your souls thirst for, then draw close to God. He is spirit, and you will know him only through spirit, which knowledge awaits all who come to him through obedience to his divine will and word. You can bring him here to dwell in your hearts, in this chapel, in this fair land, through obedience, and where he is, there also is liberty.” His finger thumped the Bible. “God has declared it. If we will humble ourselves to his will and word, God has promised us liberty in this life, and the unknowable blessing of dwelling in his presence in the eternities, singing endless songs of praise to his holy name with throngs of angels.”

  Olmsted continued while John slowly eased back in his pew. His eyes dropped as startling new thoughts settled into the depths of his soul, and he pondered. Margaret turned to study his face, and he was unaware of her frank stare.

  At five minutes past eleven Olmsted closed the book and concluded. “God has inspired our passion for freedom. We must continue our struggle, peacefully if possible, by whatever means necessary if not.” He paused and pursed his mouth for a moment. “Let us pray.”

  The congregation added their “Amen” to Olmsted’s, and then they rose from the pews, one and two at a time, tentative, not knowing what waited outside. Someone opened the rear doors and squinted into the bright sunlight, then led out, and the chapel began to empty. Still lost in his thoughts, John was unaware when those in front of him stopped, and Margaret tugged his arm to avoid a collision. John blinked back to reality and looked about, startled, and only then did he see that the people were standing in the churchyard in silence.

  British soldiers stood in the streets, in pairs, at intervals. The congregation milled about, uncertain of the meaning, hesitant of what to do.

  John turned to Margaret. “Stay here with the children until I’m back,” he said, and then he trotted to Warren. “Any idea what this is about?”

  Thorpe arrived, eyes darting to watch the soldiers.

  “No,” Warren answered. His eyes were slits, his face growing red.

  Dawes arrived running. His eyes flashed and his voice was too loud. “What do they think they’re doing?” He jammed an accusing finger towards the officers.

  Palmer and Watson stopped behind Thorpe. Eyes in the crowd turned to the men, asking for direction.

  “We’ve got to get these people to go home,” John exclaimed. “If they become a mob we could be in trouble.”

  “Agreed,” Warren said.

  Quickly the six men spread through the crowd. “Go home in groups. Act normal. Start nothing. Come back and go into the church if they interfere. Go. Now.”

  Olmsted appeared in the chapel door, Bible under one arm. Thorpe was nearest him and called, “Help get this crowd moving before something happens.” Olmsted’s head thrust forward for a moment in surprise before he raised his voice and moved among the people. Families grouped together and moved out, past the soldiers, not looking back. The crowd thinned and was suddenly gone, leaving John and the other five alone in the churchyard with their families.

  John said, “Dawes, come with me. You others pair up and let’s go.”

  Wives on their arms, they started their separate directions, John leading his family, with Dawes and his wife, Sarah, following behind. Sarah, whose beauty was legend in Boston, and William had privately borne their deep personal sorrow of being unable to have children, and seeing her broken heart, William had become ever more protective.

  John held a steady pace until the British officers and four regulars marched directly in his path, stopped, faced him, and waited beneath a great maple gleaming in the sun. John slowed and stopped and waited as the British officer spoke. “Up a bit late last evening, wouldn’t you say?”

  John remained silent.

  “A shame that Revere couldn’t be here today,” the officer continued, a condescending smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And the other member of your committee—lost his bloody name—oh yes, Sievers. Now, where would Sievers be? Drunk in what pub?”

  Behind Dawes, unseen, a sergeant of the regulars quietly swung his musket from his shoulder and lowered the bayonet. He carefully slipped the point beneath the hem of Sarah’s ankle-length dress and began to lift it. He had it halfway to her knee before she felt the tugging and turned. She gasped and slapped at her skirt and jerked away.

  Dawes spun to see the cause. He stared uncomprehending at his wife, then at the soldiers, and then saw the unslung musket. “What happened?” he demanded of Sarah.

  “Nothing. It was nothing.”

  “You’re frightened half to death! Did he touch you?”

  Sarah shook her head, hand at her throat, eyes downcast.

  The sergeant grinned. “No need to embarrass your lady,” he drawled. “She ain
’t goin’ to say. ’Twas nothin’, really. All that happened was I used me old Brown Bess to take a peek at the ankle of this fair lass.” He thrust the rifle down and forward. “Like this, y’see, g’vnor?”

  The tip of the bayonet touched the hem on Sarah’s skirt, and Dawes’s movement was a blur. His foot came down with all his weight on the gun muzzle, driving it downward, and the bayonet point hit the cobblestones. The blade bowed, snapped in two, and spun clanging into the street. Sarah screamed and clapped her hands over her mouth. Margaret gasped, and Brigitte shouted, “Stop it!” John and Matthew grabbed the women and pulled them clear of the action and held them crying as the sergeant lost his hold on his musket and it went clattering at his feet. Dawes swept it up and in one fluid movement swung it over his head with all his strength. It caught the sergeant on the downstroke, just above his ear, and ripped it half off his head before it struck his shoulder at the base of his neck. The sergeant went down backwards with a groan.

  “Shoot him!” bellowed the captain, and the soldier nearest the sergeant grabbed for the strap to bring his musket around. Dawes slammed the brass-plated butt of the ten-pound musket into the soldier’s face and he went down in a heap, blood spurting as Dawes took a stride to the maple tree and swung the musket with all his strength. The first blow smashed the hammer and the powder pan completely off the weapon, and the second blow bent the barrel six inches out of line.

  He threw the ruined weapon bouncing into the cobblestone street and spun back to leap for the last two armed British regulars, who were desperately fumbling to bring their muskets to bear. They threw up their hands, stumbled backwards, lost their footing, and went down sprawling. Dawes turned and lunged towards the British officers.

  John caught him from behind around the middle with both arms, lifted him off his feet, and held him struggling. “Dawes, Dawes, get control,” he shouted. Dawes wrenched against John’s hold and battled, and then he slowed and stopped. He exhaled, and it was as though all the wind went out of him.

  “I’m all right now, John.”

  John set him down and watched for a moment, and Dawes took one pace and thrust his face nearly into that of the captain. “Tell Gage the next British soldier who touches my wife is dead,” he said evenly. “I’m William Dawes. Tell him.”

  The captain blinked as though coming from some far place in his mind. “You’ll be under arrest before nightfall,” he blustered, “for assaulting a soldier of the Crown.” The young lieutenant moved to one side and spread his feet, balanced, ready.

  Warren and Thorpe both arrived, breathless from their run across the church lawn, wide-eyed, pensive, waiting for an explanation.

  John pushed Dawes aside and fronted the officer and spoke, his voice thick with rage. “Your soldier used a bayonet to force an indecency upon a gentlewoman in public. Count yourself lucky he’s still alive. If you charge Dawes with anything, I’ll charge the soldier with assault with a deadly weapon upon a defenseless woman in a public street on a Sabbath morning. He will be tried in a Massachusetts court despite Gage’s order to the contrary, and as God is my witness, I will see him hang!” John did not realize his clenched fist was raised into the face of the officer.

  John stopped and the captain looked into his eyes and recoiled. He licked suddenly dry lips and involuntarily took half a step back. The young lieutenant glanced at his captain and held his ground. John lowered his fist, and his next words were quiet but struck deep. “I suggest, sir, you gather up your wreckage and move on.”

  The captain puffed himself up and his eyes were wild and his face flushed red, but he said nothing. Then he turned and barked orders. The young lieutenant hauled the sergeant to his feet while the other soldiers picked up the other battered man and the useless musket, and they followed him as they marched down the narrow street without looking back, and disappeared.

  John watched for a moment, then exhaled and battled to regain a sense of calm. He turned to Sarah. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. He did no harm.” She was still trembling, clinging to William.

  “What happened?” Warren demanded.

  “The sergeant made a mistake,” John answered. “Dawes corrected it. That’s all.” An unexpected smile flashed. “I doubt he’ll do it again.” He sobered again. “William, you’ll have to learn to govern that temper. I think that sergeant knew about the cannon.”

  For a moment Dawes puzzled at the statement before the remembrance came back to him. It was he who had flared hot when the British seized all the colonial cannon on the Boston Back Bay to prevent their use against British ships if war broke out. That night Dawes led seven men in from the Back Bay, where they silently scaled a twenty-foot stone wall, lifted a two-ton cannon from its mounts, lowered it into their waiting boats, and disappeared, all with a British sentry less than forty feet away. In the heavy lift, Dawes had driven a cuff button into his wrist, and went to Warren, the physician, for treatment, refusing to tell Warren how it happened. The sheer bravado of the unbelievable, daring feat made a laughingstock of the British in every newspaper in the thirteen colonies, and every pub, every inn, and half the church meetings rocked with laughter at the telling and retelling. The truth of who led the audacious raid was finally known, and overnight Dawes became a folk hero.

  Dawes looked John in the eyes. “I didn’t intend to harm that man,” he said, “but when he went after Sarah . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “No one faults you,” John said. “It’s over and best forgotten.” He glanced at his own Margaret and the thought came, If it had been Margaret, what? John shuddered and pushed it away.

  “John, I would have killed him if you hadn’t stopped it,” said Dawes. “Thank you.”

  John nodded his head once. “We’ll walk with you to your home.”

  “It’s out of your way,” Dawes protested. “You’ve done enough. We’ll be all right.”

  “I’m sure you will, but we’ll walk you home anyway.”

  Warren said, “If this is under control, I better get back to my family.”

  “Wait,” John said.

  Warren and Thorpe stopped and all eyes were on John.

  “That captain knew about the meeting last night. He knows that Revere and Sievers are gone.” He paused and watched the concern grow in Warren and Thorpe. “How did he know?” He paused again before he continued. “Has Gage done anything about it? Does he have Revere and Sievers now?”

  They stood for several moments in the beauty of the spring morning, the silence broken only by the songs of the jays and robins in the sunlight and the trees.

  Warren shook his head. “I don’t know how Gage found out about the meeting last night. I doubt Gage has Revere or Sievers. If he did, we’d know about it by now, one way or another. There’s nothing to do but trust and go about our business.”

  “You’re right.”

  Warren and Thorpe hurried back across the church lawn.

  John turned to Margaret. “Are you all right?”

  She saw the concern in his face. “Yes, but don’t ever do that again.”

  “Do what?”

  “Stand in the streets of Boston and threaten a British officer with your fist in his face.”

  John’s eyebrows rose. “Did I do that?”

  Brigitte spoke, her voice strained, too high. “You certainly did! ‘Gather up your wreckage and move on’—that’s exactly what you told him, and he didn’t say a word! He just did it!” Rarely had Brigitte ever shown unabashed admiration to anyone, but now her face shone with pride.

  John turned to her. “How about you? All right?”

  “Fine.” She tugged at her bonnet. “I thought the war had started!”

  John straightened his vest and turned once again into the winding street. Ten minutes later the Dunsons left William and Sarah standing in their doorway waving while they continued down the walk through the twisting streets towards their own home. With the explosive moments behind them, the children began to cautiously shape
and form the stories they would tell for years to come.

  “Did you see it?” Caleb croaked hoarsely to Adam. “Dawes stamped that musket to pieces and knocked those two soldiers kicking—bam, bam—just like that, and the women were yelling, and Father and Matthew jerked them out, and then Father put that British officer in his place for fair! Did you see it? Did you?”

  Eyes huge and earnest, Adam exclaimed, “And did you see when he picked William up like he was nothing—picked him up and made him be good!” He stared at John’s straight back as though he were seeing his father for the first time.

  Margaret turned her face towards John’s. “Why did this all have to happen on such a beautiful spring morning with the Thorpes coming for dinner?”

  Lost in the startling, deadly events of the day, the thought came rolling forward, crowding past the tension and fears. The Thorpes are coming! Steaming leg of lamb! Custard! Talk and games and running in the yard. Matthew’s eyes sparkled. Kathleen is coming. Kathleen is coming. At that moment, no thought in the world other than this one would have pulled his mind from the explosive minutes that had just passed.

  John opened the front door, and Margaret said, “Change,” and everyone went to their bedrooms.

  While John loosened the buckles and ties on his square-toed shoes, Margaret worked the buttons on her shoes.

  “I hope to never again pass through such a strange Sabbath,” she said.

  “Strange?”

  “Soldiers marching us to church, soldiers inside the church, soldiers on the way home, disagreement with Olmsted’s sermon, you and William in a street battle, and now we have to put all that behind us and get ready for dinner guests! Strange.”

  A wry smile crossed John’s face. “A little different.”

  She stopped for a moment. “Different, you say? Much more different and I would have died of fright!” She hung her bonnet in the closet and turned back to him. “Did you see Brigitte and that young soldier? the one in the street, and then in the church?”

  John’s hands stopped. “What soldier?”