by Ron Carter
“We’ll take backstreets,” he answered and seized his hat from its peg. “It’s come too fast. The committee has got to get control.”
“John,” she pleaded, her grasp like a vise, “don’t leave. Don’t go.”
He stopped and faced her, pain in his eyes, and he spoke gently. “I have to. I’d stay if I could.” He turned to Matthew. “You’re in charge here until I get back. Whatever happens, you and your mother will have to use your own best judgment.”
Matthew nodded as John turned and strode out into the silvery gray of the nearly full moon, and the door closed. He followed Tom trotting to the front gate. Tom stopped, and John saw the turmoil in his large, troubled eyes.
“There’s more,” Tom said, and his face dropped as he stared at the ground. “I didn’t want to say with Margaret and Matthew right there.”
John’s face clouded. “What’s wrong, Tom? Something’s wrong.”
Tom brought his tortured eyes back to John’s. “It’s Thorpe. He’s the informer. He’s the one been telling Gage.”
John gasped at the searing stab of pain, and long seconds passed before he moved or spoke. “No, not Thorpe,” he said, his voice thick with disbelief. He shook his head. “It can’t be Henry.”
Tom stared at him steadily in silence.
John lowered his eyes. “How do you know?”
“I followed the go-between all day. They use Enid Ferguson to get messages in and out when she delivers bread to Thorpe’s house.”
“Enid Ferguson! At the bakery? You saw it? You’re sure?”
“Certain. I saw it but I didn’t believe it until I stopped to figure.”
“Figure what?”
“Sunday morning the British knew the committee met Saturday night. Half the committee knew about the meeting, and any of them could have told the British. But only you and Thorpe knew the women took the muskets to the church yesterday. It had to be Thorpe told Gage. That’s why they never arrested the women. He wouldn’t let them arrest his wife and daughter.”
John’s breath came short as the truth of it settled over his soul like a great, evil, stifling shroud. For long moments he stood staring at Tom as his mind raced unchecked. Matthew—Kathleen—Phoebe—the children, those poor children—what will our people do? hang him? no time, no time—the British are marching—no time.
By sheer force of will John brought his stampeding thoughts under control and forced his brain into some sense of order. He squared his shoulders and spoke decisively. “Warren has to know.”
Tom shoved the gate open and started for the corner, John following at a trot. Three times they dodged behind hedges and into side streets to let small groups of grenadiers move past quietly towards the Back Bay. Thirty yards from Warren’s home Tom suddenly stopped and grasped John’s arm, and they watched two shadowy figures open Warren’s front gate and rap twice on his front door. Lights flickered on behind drawn curtains and the door opened, and in the brief moments before the two figures strode through the door, recognition flashed.
“Revere and Walsh!” Tom exclaimed.
Seconds later John rapped on the front door, and in a moment he and Tom were inside the room, eyes squinted against the sudden light while they identified the silent, intense faces staring back at them: Warren, Revere, and Walsh.
Warren sat them at his table, and his words were terse, tense. “The British are moving tonight for Concord and we’ve got to warn our people, so listen well. We have no time to say it twice.”
He paused in the silence. “Dawes left ten minutes ago to ride south down through the guard lines, across the Neck if the British haven’t already closed it, to Lexington to tell Adams and Hancock and Parker—Parker’s in charge of the militia there. Then on to Concord to tell James Barrett and John Buttrick. He’ll stop at every farmhouse along the way to tell them what’s happening, and to get ready.”
He raised his eyes to Revere. “We can’t leave this to chance, so I’m asking you to do the same thing, only you go north, across the water to Charlestown, then on to Lexington and Concord with the same message. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“At each village, each farm close to the roads, pause long enough to raise someone in charge of the militia if you can, and call the news to them and tell them to spread it, but don’t stop. Keep moving. I’ve already sent the message out to the farther towns—Winchester, Woburn, Tewksbury, and down south to Watertown, Newton, Framingham.”
He paused until the room became silent. “And whatever you do, be certain Parker and Barrett and Buttrick understand clearly, we are not to fire unless the British do. They must fire first. Is that clear? They must fire first.”
Revere nodded. “I understand.”
Tom interrupted. “The British sent out six mounted patrols a couple of hours ago. I figure they went to clear the backroads. You’re bound to run into one of them.”
Warren pursed his mouth and paused for a moment, then shrugged. “Watch for those patrols, and if you run into one, you’ll just have to handle it. Don’t spare your horse. You can get a fresh mount at most any of the farms if you have to.”
Warren paused to look briefly into the eyes of Paul Revere. In them he saw the fire and the will and the commitment, and he felt his soul open to embrace him, to fear for him. “God bless you. Only he knows what waits for all of us out there, but as he is my witness, we are doing his work this night.”
For a moment the small group sat in the stillness, awed by the sudden feeling that seized them, melded them into a oneness.
Then Revere stood. “If I’m to get ahead of the British army, I’ll have to go. I’ve alerted Newman and Pulling and Thomas Bernard about the signal from the church. They’ll be waiting.”
Robert Newman was sexton, and John Pulling vestryman, for the Old North Church, directly across the street from Robert Newman’s home. The Anglican rector had lately been forced out of the church because of his vehement loyalty to the Crown, and the old building, the tallest in Boston City and easily visible from the Charlestown side of the Charles River, was closed and locked. Both Newman and Pulling had keys.
Without another word he strode to the door, threw it open, and silently disappeared into the night. Warren closed the door and turned to glance at the great clock on his mantel. It was approaching ten p.m., April 18, 1775. He turned to Walsh. “You’ve done your work. Who’s the captain of your militia?”
“Samuel Smith.”
“The one who’s chairman of the Tea Committee? In charge of powder and ball?”
“Yes. Sam’s ready.”
“I know he is. Go report to him for duty. You’ll be in good hands. God bless you.”
Walsh nodded and walked out into the bright wash of moonlight.
To the north, Revere worked his way through the crooked streets to the home of Robert Newman at the corner of Salem and Sheafe Streets, directly across the street from the Old North Church. Revere slowed and stopped, listening, watching for movement, and there was nothing. He silently walked past the front windows of the brick home and peered inside, and his breath came short. British soldiers sat at a table with Mrs. Newman, playing cards, boisterous, laughing. Robert Newman was not to be seen.
Revere felt a split second of panic as he continued down the street and pushed through a heavy iron gate into the darkness of the garden at the rear of the home, mind groping.
Where’s Robert? Have they taken him? Do they know the plan?
He sensed more than heard a sound and then a movement in the deep shadows, and instantly he was balanced, braced, ready for the hunched figure that suddenly appeared in the dim moonlight, and then recognition flashed.
“Robert!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.
“Didn’t mean to frighten you.” Robert turned and signalled and two more men appeared at his side. “I’ve got Pulling and Bernard. What do you want us to do?”
Revere exhaled air and his shoulders slumped in relief. “I thought the British had taken you.”
/> Newman shook his head. “When they came I told them I was going upstairs to bed early. I dropped out my window and waited for these two.”
“Dropped from the second floor? Are you hurt?”
Newman shook his head.
“Good. Did you get the lanterns?”
“Yes. Hidden in a church closet.”
“Go to the steeple and show two lights on the Charlestown side.”
“The British are crossing the Back Bay?”
“Yes. Two lights. They’re waiting on the Charlestown side.”
The three men nodded silent understanding, and Revere continued. “I’m going home to change clothes and then across to Charlestown.”
“How will you cross the water?”
“Joshua Bentley and Tom Richardson are waiting at my boat. It’s hidden under a wharf at the north end. You take care of the signal. I’ll do the rest.”
“Done.”
Quickly, silently, the four men pushed through the iron gate and moved into the street, and Revere disappeared while the other three darted across to the shadows of the Old North Church.
Newman whispered to Bernard. “You stand guard. Pulling and I will go to the tower.”
Newman drew the great brass sexton’s key from his pocket and silently twisted it in the massive lock and the door swung open. Pulling followed him in, and Bernard drew the heavy door closed and faded into the shadows to watch and listen.
Inside, Newman felt his way to the closet where he had hidden two square metal lanterns with clear glass lenses, so small they barely had place for the stumps of two candles he had set inside. He handed one lantern to Pulling, and they hung them around their necks by the leather loops Newman had tied. Each stuffed flint and steel and tinderboxes into their pockets before Newman turned and worked his way to the stairs leading upwards, Pulling close behind.
They set their feet silently as they climbed the 154 stairs, and the only sound was the creaking of the old staircase as it complained of the unexpected nocturnal intrusion. At the top of the stairs both men crouched, opened their tinderboxes, and with deft, practiced strokes, struck sparks into the tinder with flint and steel and gently blew on them until small curls of flame glowed. They passed flame from the tinderboxes to the candles and waited for a moment while the flame became strong before they closed the lantern gates.
With their glowing lanterns hung about their necks, resting on their chests, Newman pointed to a narrow ladder that led upwards to the top of the bell tower. Rung upon rung, the men carefully climbed to the topmost windows in the steeple, while the tiny glow from the lanterns made giant, grotesque shadows from the huge oaken beams and the great, silent brass bells.
They stopped at the top landing, pulled the leather loops over their heads, and held the lanterns in their hands. Newman nodded to Pulling, and then threw open the sash, opening the northwest window on the Charlestown side of the steeple. Each man thrust his lantern out the window and held it, swinging slightly, for only a few seconds, fearful that British eyes in the streets below might see. Then they quickly pulled them back inside, closed the window sash, blew out the candlewicks, looped the lanterns back around their necks, and clambered back down the ladder, then the stairs. They jammed the lanterns back into the closet and ran to the great door, just as Bernard came barging through and closed it behind him, breathing heavily.
“British patrol! Is there another way out of here?”
Newman spun on his heel. “This way!”
He charged back into the dark sanctuary of the church, where he leaped onto a bench near the altar. He twisted the lock on a window and jerked it open and dropped through, Pulling and Bernard right behind.
Newman paused for one second to shake their hands, grinning in the moonlight. “We’re finished! Scatter. We can’t be caught together.”
The sound of feet running in different directions faded, and in a few moments the Old North Church stood silent in the night.
Across the Charles River, colonial eyes had waited in silence, never leaving the black needle-pointed spire of the Old North Church while they strained to see lights—one, or two. At the moment Newman threw open the window sash and the two lights were thrust out, half a dozen patriots caught their breath, eyes narrowed to be certain before they broke and sprinted, each in a separate direction to be ready when Revere’s boat touched the Charlestown shore.
South of the church, Revere had changed his clothing to riding boots, spurs, and surtout while Joshua Bentley and Tom Richardson waited, and the three had then quickly, silently worked their way towards the wharf on the north end of the peninsula, beneath which Revere had hidden his boat. While yet thirty yards from the wharf, they stopped, crouched in the dull moonlight, to watch and listen. The only sound or movement was the water, lapping against rocks and wharf pilings.
They wasted no time. In seconds they were beneath the wharf, a man on either side of the boat, one behind, moving it towards the black water. The bow had reached the shoreline when Richardson suddenly stopped and the other two raised their faces in alarm.
“We forgot cloth to muffle the oars in the oarlocks.”
“Is it important?” Revere asked, impatient.
“We can’t chance it. We’re going through the squadron of British gunboats, probably within yards of the Somerset.”
Richardson pointed back to the street and Bentley followed him, trotting, while Revere waited with the boat. They crossed the cobblestones, and Richardson stopped at a house and tossed pebbles clacking against a second-story window. Seconds later the dark window opened and Richardson hissed, “We need cloth, enough to wrap two oars.”
Again there was a pause, then the rustle of cloth on cloth, and through the window came a set of woolen underwear, floating down, still warm from the lady who had been wearing them. Richardson held them up long enough to identify them, while Bentley gaped.
“Thank you,” Richardson whispered loudly, and the window closed without a word. Bentley said not a word as the two ran back to the anxious, waiting Revere.
Two minutes later the oars were wrapped and working silently in the oarlocks as Bentley and Richardson stroked strongly, evenly, barely breaking water with their oars to avoid sound, while Revere sat in the stern of the boat, watching the huge men-of-war, listening for the dreaded challenge from one of them. The Somerset was dead ahead.
Earlier that evening, according to rules enforced by the British, all ferries, boats, mud-scows, and canoes in town had been tied to the Somerset, to stop all craft from crossing the Charles River after nine o’clock p.m. As they rowed they heard the clear clang of the bell on the great warship, strangely clear in the night—twice, a pause, twice, a pause, and then once more. Ten-thirty p.m. Twice they looked over their shoulders, south, and in the moonlight could see the low black shapes of longboats in the distance, silently moving the British troops west in a line across the Back Bay.
The tide was rising, the ships rocking gently in the swells. The nearly full moon had risen, a great ball, but oddly more south than east on that night. Boston Town lay between the low moon and the great warships, and the town cast a long, wide shadow across this part of the river, while at the same time it created a million sparkling diamonds dancing on the waters elsewhere. Revere’s boat moved steadily northward, nearly invisible in the unexpected shadow. The Somerset grew larger, then towered ahead, and the two men kept their heads down so that no light would reflect off their faces. They scarcely breathed as they angled slightly east, expecting every second to hear the command “Halt! Who goes there?” from the watch on the top deck of the great man-of-war.
Then they were abreast of the monster, with her 520-man crew, and they could see the ugly snouts of her sixty-four cannon black against the moonlight. Then they were past the bow, and then they quietly glided on north, leaving the ship behind. At one hundred yards Bentley glanced at Revere, and Revere looked back at him, and then Richardson, and they all exhaled held breath while the two oarsmen continue
d the steady dip and pull on their oars.
Far to the south, Dawes jerked the knot tight in the rope that served as a belt around his middle and tugged his shirttail down around his battered brown woolen trousers. He pulled the bill on his worn leather cap low, then reached for the tied, half-filled sack of rolled oats and threw it up behind the seat of his saddle and lashed it tight. Then he stopped to inspect himself. From his old, cracked high-top leather shoes to his leather cap, he looked the part of an illiterate mill hand.
In the lamplight of his barn, he turned to Elizabeth, standing in the yellow light, shawl wrapped tight. Tenderly he drew her to him and held her. For long moments she was rigid, and then she relaxed and her arms slipped around him.
“I’ll be back,” he said to her quietly.
She started to speak, but then her chin trembled and suddenly she buried her face in his chest and she sobbed. For long moments he held her, and then the trembling and the sobbing slowed, and stopped.
“I’ll be back,” he repeated. He kissed her and turned, and she stepped back, and he led the dappled gray gelding out into the moonlight. He swung up onto the nervous mount and paused to look back at Elizabeth, silhouetted in the yellow lamp glow, and then he spun the horse and kicked it to a lope, due south, towards the lines at the Neck.
He held the horse at a lope and wondered, Will they have the barricade up and stop me? Will they recognize me, or will they believe I’m a Mystic miller trying to get home? He held the steady lope, listening and watching intently for the first sign of a British patrol that would challenge him.
To the north, at his home, Joseph Warren faced John and Tom. “We need to get the committee gathered. We have a lot to do.”
John’s eyes dropped and he spoke quietly. “There’s a matter we have to handle first.”
Warren felt the heavy darkness in John and stopped and waited.
“Tom says Henry Thorpe is the one who’s been informing Gage.”
Warren’s mouth dropped open for a moment before he clamped it shut and turned to Tom. “Tell me.”
Warren’s eyes glowed like fires as Tom spoke, and when he stopped, Warren stood in silence for long moments. Then his eyes closed, and a deep sadness settled into his being. His shoulders sagged and his head dropped forward.