by Ron Carter
“Go on to Concord and get with the militia,” Revere told the others, while he turned and set off at a trot eastward, back towards Lexington.
The nearly full moon had set and the eastern sky was turning from black to deep purple when Revere again banged on the door of the Reverend Jonas Clarke and waited until the door opened.
“Revere! What happened?”
They all gathered in the parlor while Revere explained. Then Revere turned resolutely to Hancock, who had stormed about the house like a caged lion half the night, and spent an hour cleaning his musket and pistol and packing his bullet pouch and powder horn for the fight.
“The roads are alive with regulars. If they get the munitions at Concord, and you and Adams besides, we’ve lost. Go north with Adams, away from here.”
Hancock slammed his fist down on the table and lunged to his feet. “I hate it. You’re right, but I hate it.” By force of will he stopped and gathered himself. “All right, I’ll go, but only the Eternal knows how I need to get into this fight.”
______
Notes
While on his famous ride on the night of April 18, 1775, Paul Revere was confronted by two British officers before reaching the town of Mystic. One of the officers did attempt to cut cross-country to intercept Revere, and mired himself and his horse in a clay bog. Revere outran the other officer on the splendid mare loaned to him by John Larkin. (See French, The Day of Concord and Lexington, p. 89; Fischer, Paul Revere’s Ride, pp. 107–8.)
During the ride, Revere did happen onto a young patriot named Martin Herrick and another named Samuel Prescott, both of whom joined Dawes and Revere in spreading the message. Following the visit of Dawes and Revere to the home of the Reverend Jonas Clarke, Revere, Dawes, and Prescott were captured. However, in a daring break for freedom, Dawes and Prescott escaped, while Revere was captured again immediately but released when he bluffed the British officers into believing the militia was on its way and they would be captured. (See French, The Day of Concord and Lexington, chapter 10.)
Wednesday, April 19, 1775
Chapter XI
* * *
John Dunson silently eased down the overhang of the bank of the Mystic River, west of Menotomy where Alewife Brook joined, and slowly settled into the water to his neck. The rings rippled out into the river current and disappeared. He clamped his teeth at the bite of the cold water and then moved against the grass and willows and cattails on the overhang, making no ripples, no sound, and he stood rigid, holding his musket and powder horn above his head.
The high-pitched voice came from above and behind him, past the overhang. “The bloody colonial was right ’ere, ’e was,” called a grenadier. “I seen ’im plain, I did, ’im and his musket, sneakin’ in the moonlight!”
“Then find him!” barked an officer.
“Maybe ’e’s in the water by now, workin’ downstream.”
The officer’s voice rang. “Deevers, take your squad downstream one hundred yards and wade out. If anything appears, shoot to kill.”
John heard the pounding of feet fading as six grenadiers ran north, and then the thrashing continued as twenty-two others tromped the riverbank, ramming their bayonets into the willows and cattails and underbrush thick on the riverbank. He heard the officer dismount and then the unmistakable sound of his sword ripping through the growth as he hacked it down.
John breathed shallow through his open mouth, making no sound. He kept his head tipped forward to prevent moonlight from reflecting off his face, and he kept his eyes on the water. He saw the moon-cast shadow of a regular on the water directly in front of him and knew the man was standing less than three feet directly above his head. He shifted one foot, getting braced to push off into the current underwater if the man raised the alarm. He heard a bayonet clang on a stone directly above, and then the blade rammed downward four inches from the front brim of his hat. He watched the blade jerk back and he braced for the next thrust. It missed his left shoulder by a foot, and then the grenadier moved on, jabbing the undergrowth, tromping his way north.
The thrashing and cursing continued, and John felt the muscles in his legs and arms begin to stiffen in the cold water and then to cramp, and still he stood motionless.
In his mind he saw Tom Sievers twenty-two years earlier, hiding beneath an overhang in an unnamed river far to the north in a bitter cold January, while eight Huron warriors tried for two hours to flush him. Separated from Tom earlier in the raid, John had circled back and spent half an hour watching before he understood what they were doing. He shot one of them at two hundred yards, and the other seven came jumping, howling after him. He led them away from Tom and lost them when full darkness came on a moonless night. The cramps from the icy water did not leave Tom’s legs for two days.
John moved his legs slightly in the water, then his arms, and then remained motionless.
Long moments passed before the officer barked his next order. “We’ve lost this one. Tompkins, go get Deevers and meet us back at the road. The road’s full of them tonight.”
John heard the thumping boots and the jangle of Tompkins’s canteen and powder horn and bullet pouch as he ran north to get Deevers.
“Sergeant,” the officer continued, “reassemble the men immediately and march them back to the road. I’ll be waiting there.” The sound of the running horse faded as the sergeant bawled his orders. The men fell into rank and file, and he called the cadence as he marched them back to the road to Menotomy.
John waited until the only sound was the quiet murmur of the river before he worked his way upstream twenty feet and up onto the bank. He quickly squeezed the water from his moccasins and picked up his musket and started east, away from the dark line of willows that marked the river. His soaked clothing caught the chill night air, and John shivered as he began the ground-eating trot that Tom had taught him so long ago, with the peculiar slight side-to-side sway familiar to men who have learned to cover long distances.
He slowed atop the gentle groundswell east of town and stopped, counting too many lights, sensing something had happened. He hunched forward and followed a stone fence, bent low, invisible, and came quartering in on the rear of Cooper’s tavern, where lights glowed inside behind drawn curtains. He stopped at the front door and listened. There was sound inside but no voices. He rapped quietly.
“Who’s there?” It was a woman’s voice.
“John Dunson from Boston.”
The door opened a crack. “Are you with the militia?”
“I’m joining them in Concord. What’s happened here tonight?”
The door opened. “Paul Revere came through and said the regulars are coming. My husband’s gone north to spread the warning.”
“Have the soldiers been here?”
“Not yet.”
“Thank you. I’ll move on.” The woman followed him out into the night and watched until he was out of sight.
He trotted across the road and on through the town, where lights glowed in every house. Near the church he was challenged by militia before they saw his hat and his musket, and he continued on west. One hundred yards past town he climbed a stone fence and resumed his pace west through open fields, never more than fifty yards from the road. Twice he saw British patrols and dropped to the ground to watch them pass on the road before he continued working his way through the greening fields, head turning constantly to catch any movement in the waning moonlight. His thoughts went back, and he let them run their own direction as he went.
That woman came out to watch me go to war—as she watched her husband—as Margaret watched. Women bear sons and sons leave them to go to war—what causes war? They start in someone’s heart—change human hearts—that’s the answer. Too hard to change hearts—we push it away—too hard—easier to kill each other than change our hearts—Christ tried to teach us—crucified him—easier to crucify him than change—how many times have we crucified him since? ten thousand? ten million?
The snort and stamp of the
horse and the shout from the Lexington Road came in the same instant, and John dropped to the ground like a stone as he heard the voice in the dark.
“There’s somethin’ movin’ out in that field, sir. Looks like a bloody colonial t’ me, sneakin’ to Lexington.”
John sucked air and took off his hat and raised his head far enough to see the patrol on the road, twenty-five yards away. Six mounted men and two officers, all standing stock-still, studying the field where he lay. Desperately he peered into the waning moonlight, looking for a ditch, a rise, trees—anything for cover if he had to run. He held his position and watched, and waited for the officer to give orders.
The officer said, “Move on! I see nothing out there. We’ve got to get back to warn Colonel Smith.”
John’s shoulders slumped and he exhaled slowly as he watched them raise their horses to a canter eastward, and he waited until they were gone before he rose.
Fool! Daydreaming with British patrols swarming. I do that again and I’ll find out soon enough about changing human hearts. The dead don’t have a human heart to change! He shook his head in disgust and once again picked up his pace west.
He crested the rise north of Munroe’s tavern and saw the lights of Lexington. He returned to the road to cross the west bridge and came into town facing the meetinghouse that blocked the view of the big green common. Lights glowed in every house, every building, and militia were in the streets with muskets.
“Where can I find Captain John Parker?”
“Buckman’s tavern waiting for the regulars.”
The cavernous room in the tavern was crowded with militia, some sleeping on the floor, muskets leaned against the walls. John’s eyes adjusted to the light as he made his way to Parker.
“I’m John Dunson from Boston. Has Revere been here?”
“Him and Dawes. They said the soldiers are coming, but we haven’t seen a sign of them yet.”
“They’ll be here.”
“We’ll be ready.”
“Are Adams and Hancock safe?”
“They’re up at the Reverend Mr. Clarke’s home with nine men on guard.”
“Thanks.”
“Going up to see them?”
“No, I’m headed for Concord.”
In dawn’s earliest gray light John made the turn on the groundswell at Meriam’s Corner, and he paused in startled disbelief as he stared down at Concord. Every road north, west, and south was jammed with carts and wagons moving away from Concord, loaded with gunpowder, cannonballs, musket shot, muskets, medicines, dried fish, dried beef. Militia and colonials filled the cobblestone streets in Concord Town, carrying munitions and supplies from barns, attics, wells, sheds, stables, the church, and root cellars to more carts and wagons, or placing them on pack saddles strapped to horses and mules.
John trotted the half mile into town and worked his way through the bustling traffic to the first man who carried a musket.
“Where can I find Major Buttrick or Colonel Barrett?”
Lieutenant Frederick Mackenzie, Twenty-third Regiment, Royal Welch Fusiliers, looked at the eastern skyline, where the beginnings of dawn separated the earth from the sky, and he cursed again under his breath.
His regiment had been in the first longboats to leave Boston and cross the Back Bay, to land at the Lechmere farm staging point and watch the longboats disappear back into the black water to shuttle the second contingent across. The chaos of matching officers with troops they had never seen before was compounded when the longboats returned and dumped another two hundred fifty confused regulars in the dark.
Colonel Francis Smith shouted his orders above the bedlam. “Tenth Regiment of light infantry will lead, with the remaining regiments following in numerical order.”
“If that’s the marching order ’e wanted, why didn’t ’e ’ave us load up that way,” came the murmuring from the regulars as they struggled in the dark to find where one regiment ended and the next began.
One hour and forty minutes later Smith rose in the stirrups of his horse at the head of the column, looked about for a moment, and then gave the order.
“Forrrard, march.”
Thirty minutes later the entire column was bogged down in the backwater marshes of the Lechmere landing, where low tide had left tide pools and deep mud. For over an hour they carried their ten-pound muskets over their heads while they slogged through water and muck to their hips before they found a solid road and stopped. Covered with marsh mud to their chests, dripping, they once more cursed in the dark as they tried to regroup into the marching order while Mackenzie marveled at the lack of skill he was seeing in the officers. Forty minutes later Colonel Smith once again gave the order and the column moved on past Harvard College towards Cambridge.
It seemed the roads, fields, and woods were filled with either British patrols or colonials, and the column stopped again and again. On the fifth stop for no reason he could see, Mackenzie muttered, “Concord before daylight!” He shook his head. “It’s nearly daylight now and we haven’t yet made Lexington. Surprise the militia? Most likely they’ll have a surprise for us.” He shook his head again and marched on.
At the head of the column, Lieutenant Waldron Kelly turned his head to listen, then spoke to Colonel Smith. “There’s someone coming at the gallop, sir.”
Smith leaned forward in his saddle and peered into the gray darkness. “Challenge him, Lieutenant.”
“Halt and identify yourself or be shot,” Kelly shouted.
There was no response. Kelly turned to Sergeant Roscoe Wells. “Sergeant, prepare your squad to fire.”
Wells and his squad raised their muskets to the ready. The sounds grew louder, and then they could see the shapes of men hunched low over the necks of running horses in the deceptive light. The sergeant and his squad cocked the big hammers on their muskets.
The shout came high above the sound of the pounding hooves, “Major Mitchell coming in,” and the men uncocked their muskets and lowered them.
Mitchell’s squad pulled their winded mounts to a stop in a cloud of dust, and Mitchell demanded, “Lieutenant, where is Colonel Smith?”
Kelly jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Right there, sir.”
Mitchell straightened in his saddle. “Beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t recognize you in this light.”
“Report.”
“Sir, we’ve been west past Lexington as ordered. There are . . .” Mitchell hesitated at the sound of more horses nearly upon them at a run, and watched Major Pitcairn pull his mount to a standstill, with its muzzle a scant four feet from Mitchell’s mount, Lieutenant William Sutherland right behind.
“Colonel Smith,” Pitcairn exclaimed, “what’s wrong? I heard running horses.”
“Mitchell was just reporting. Continue, Major.”
Mitchell’s voice was high, strained. “The whole countryside is aroused between here and Concord. More than five hundred militia have gathered at the Green in Lexington, and more are pouring in. We saw them moving on the ridges. They fired a volley. Sir, it is my estimate that we are facing numbers vastly larger than our column, and they’re well armed.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, sir. I saw them. And the volley they fired was at least two hundred muskets.”
“Any casualties?”
“No, sir. It was dark.”
Pitcairn twisted in his saddle to look at Sutherland. “Lieutenant, repeat what you told me half an hour ago.”
Sutherland reined his horse in closer to Colonel Smith. “Sir, when the column was stopped to send out flankers, I scouted ahead with Lieutenant Adair and we met a colonial driving a load of wood. He said there were a thousand men at Concord ready to defend the town.”
“Where is the man now?”
“Gone. But on our return Adair and I saw great numbers of colonials along the ridges and backroads, moving towards Concord.”
Smith slumped in his saddle, staring at his hands while he considered. “Gentlemen, it appears we have
some things to ponder. Pitcairn, keep the first six companies and flankers out and continue the march.”
Pitcairn shouted the orders, and the six lead companies resumed the march. The long column, three abreast, followed the country road while Smith rode thoughtfully, feeling the loneliness of command as he weighed the information given by Mitchell and Sutherland.
He spurred his horse forward, beside Pitcairn. “Stop the column.”
While Pitcairn gave the orders, Smith drew pencil and paper from his saddlebag and composed a brief note, sealed it, and once again called to Pitcairn. “I need a messenger.”
Thirty seconds later Lieutenant Ambrose of the Twenty-third Royal Welch Fusiliers faced Smith.
“Take this back to General Gage in Boston. Don’t spare your horse.”
The young lieutenant stuffed the paper inside his red coat, spun his horse, and galloped east in a cloud of dust.
“May I ask, sir,” Pitcairn said, “what was the message?”
Smith reflected for a moment. “I told Gage the numbers we’re facing and asked him to send reinforcements. Resume the march.”
Like a great, flowing river of red coats, the column moved west once more. The clouds on the eastern horizon were shot through with rose and gold by the sun, not yet risen. Smith rode beside the six lead companies, Pitcairn and Sutherland two hundred yards ahead, leading them.
Suddenly Smith straightened in his saddle and studied Sutherland. He had turned his horse back and was coming at a run, while Pitcairn had stopped the first three companies and they were loading their muskets.
Sutherland reined in beside Smith, breathing heavily. “Sir, Major Pitcairn thought you should know. There was a militiaman in the field to the right, up ahead, about fifty yards from the road. We saw him. He aimed his musket at me and pulled the trigger. It misfired, but he intended to shoot me, sir.”
Smith reined his horse to a stop and Sutherland stopped beside him.
“Let me be certain of what you’re saying,” Smith said steadily. “A colonial militiaman aimed his musket at you and attempted to shoot you?”