Origins_Revolution

by Mark Henrikson

  “I’d like that,” Doc Prescott answered and continued west on the road. “The company of a fine woman has me out this late, what excuse do the two of you have?”

  Paul figured he had already told several hundred others that night, why not one more. “We’re part of the Alarm and Muster watch. The regulars came out of their Boston barracks earlier heading by sea for Concord. We spread the word, and now the militias are gathering to keep them away from the city.”

  “Hmm, sounds like I could have stayed in Lexington after all. No one is going to keep their appointment with two armies squaring off just outside the city.”

  “I’ll bet they back down,” William countered. “The British can’t risk another ‘Boston Massacre’ incident. Paul here would make another engraving and really set the colonies ablaze with rage.”

  The group continued riding west for a few miles until they spotted a blockade manned by at least fifteen soldiers. They were in the process of detaining another group of riders.

  “I believe this is where we part ways, gentlemen,” the doctor said.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” a stern voice shouted from behind them.

  They turned around to find a mounted British army major approaching with three additional cavalrymen in tow.

  “The hell I’m not,” Doc Prescott announced kicking his mount hard in the ribs to prompt the animal into a full sprint toward a stone wall separating the road from an adjacent farm field. The horse sailed over the barrier and retained its momentum as its rider cruised into the safety of darkness.

  William bolted the opposite direction from the doctor and drew one of the cavalry riders away with him, but the remaining two plus the major surrounded Paul before he had a chance to move a muscle.

  “Don’t even think about it,” the major barked with the muzzle of his pistol pointed between Paul’s eyes.

  “Why would I? I was just returning from a lady friend’s house when I came across the other two and figured it was safer to ride in numbers than alone. What is this all about anyway?”

  “Of course you were,” the major mocked. “You just happened to be front running our forces as they approach the city. I don’t think so. You’re a traitor just like the others we’ve detained tonight. Now dismount and come with us.”

  “As you wish,” Paul answered before swinging his leg over the saddle and stepping down. “I’m not a fighting man, but I’d wager you fine gentlemen will have quite a fight on your hands if you approach the city, especially with innocent captives held at gunpoint. I hear the local militias don’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”

  “That disorganized rabble you call a militia concerns me about as much as a baby shaking a rattle in its crib,” the major said with a hearty laugh.

  Paul joined another dozen captives being marched east by the soldiers, back toward Lexington. About a half mile outside the town center, they approached the North Bridge from an elevated vantage point. The scene was utter chaos as about a hundred British soldiers were in retreat across the bridge, while twenty more worked to try and pull up the loose timbers of the bridge to obstruct their pursuer’s advance. A contingent of four or five hundred militiamen followed hot on their heels.

  “Stop destroying our bridge you bastards,” a voice from the mass of militiamen bellowed as the lines met on the bridge. Those prying on the planks were thrown backwards to join the ranks of a firing line the British regulars were attempting to form.

  All was quiet for a few moments as the two forces sized each other up. Then a single rifle blast shattered the silence and echoed throughout the surrounding hillsides and into the world beyond.

  “What was that?” the major asked of no one in particular.

  “That was a signal to alarm the country, and I dare say will be a shot heard round the world,” Paul answered.

  Down below on the North Bridge a few more shots rang out from the British line before one of the militiamen yelled, “Fire. For God’s sake, fellow soldiers, fire!”

  A wall of lead ripped through the British line, striking down one in ten in the process. This left the regulars in disarray as militiamen pressed in with their vastly superior numbers to overrun the British and send them running for the hills, abandoning their wounded.

  As Paul, his fellow captives, and their captors drew closer, a church bell began to clank rapidly from the town center. That prompted one of the other captives to say to the major, “The bell’s a’ringing. The town’s alarmed, and you’re all dead men if we come any closer!”

  The major seemed to agree with the assessment. “Leave the captives, we must alert our approaching forces that shots have been fired.”

  “Who is the disorganized rabble now,” Paul taunted after them. “That’s a real fine backside there, major. I’m sure we’ll be seeing lots more of it before this revolution is over.”

  Chapter 27: Minutemen Indeed

  “General, we haven’t found anything here either,” a captain informed Henry. All General Clinton could do was hang his head low and shake it in frustration. They stole a night’s march on this small town to fall on the suspected rebel supply caches by surprise. Either their loyalist informants were mistaken or the colonial rebels were far more effective at speeding word of the army’s movements to the town sympathizers than anyone realized.

  “Have we come up with anything from this town? The informants gave us at least a dozen locations to investigate. They can’t all have been wrong,” General Clinton asked.

  “The 5th regiment reported unearthing some crates holding a few hundred pounds of musket balls. The 23rd seized a hundred barrels or so of flour and salted meats,” the captain reported. “Everywhere else we’ve only found empty holes in the ground and storage lockers cleared out in a hurry.”

  Henry nodded his head in understanding. “They knew we were coming, took everything they could carry, and vanished into the night.”

  “Now that we have the morning light to work with, we may have a better chance of spotting recently disturbed ground or hidden rooms,” the young officer suggested with a glimmer of hope.

  General Clinton pondered the notion for a few moments before shaking his head to the negative. “No, anything not bolted down is already gone. Besides, the last round of reports from the field suggested that the local militias are beginning to gather. I’d like to avoid any potential exchange of gunfire.”

  “Should I order a withdrawal then?”

  “Not just yet, they’re only militia after all. We still have time, and I recall one informant thought some cannons were buried on a farm near the South Bridge. You don’t just put one of those on your back and start walking to the next town. They may still be here, and it would certainly be nice to come away with something substantial after all this,” Henry said before guiding his horse down South Bridge Road.

  At the end of the dirt path, he and his captain came upon a contingent of soldiers standing outside a farmhouse. The home featured a covered porch that ran the entire width of the house and had two junior officers under it pounded at the front door.

  “I command you under the authority granted by the Quartering Act to open this door,” one of them shouted to no effect.

  The other glanced over his shoulder to check on the men behind them, but his eyes focused on his commanding officer approaching instead. He nudged the other officer with his elbow before striking a rigid stance of attention and saluted. The other man immediately followed the example and all was quiet.

  General Clinton returned the salute as he rode to a stop in front of the porch steps, “What seems to be the difficulty?”

  “General, we have information that weapons are buried on this farm, but the owner, Mr. Ephraim Jones, has barred the door and refused us entry.”

  “And why would that stop you from gaining entry?”

  “Begging your pardon, General, your orders were to be as accommodating as possible to the locals to avoid any unfavorable incidents,” one of the junior officers offere
d.

  “I meant no pillaging or molesting of civilians. If one of them is going to disobey your lawful order and kick dirt in your eye while doing so, then you need to force the issue,” Henry snapped upon hearing the ludicrous answer.

  His already simmering temper boiled over in that moment. He was done being accommodating to these people and shouted a command, “Stand aside!”

  The two men exchanged curious looks before stepping to either side of the front door. Henry spurred his mount up the steps, ducked his head under the roofline, and prompted the horse to continue walking right through the front door. The mighty animal leveled the door and took half the front wall down with it before General Clinton dismounted and handed the reins to the nearest officer without saying a word.

  Inside the home, he found the farmer and his wife cowering against the back wall of their demolished living room. The woman hid her face in her husband’s chest trembling in fear as if the devil himself had just barged into their home. The farmer stood firm and held a determined look framed by a barely contained rage ready to explode.

  “The cannons, where are they buried?” Henry demanded as the other soldiers filed into the now open-air section of the house to support their commander’s demand.

  “Piss off you English prick,” the farmer barked.

  “I am going to ask you one more time,” Henry said while drawing his pistol, cocking the hammer, and pointing it at the man’s head. “Where…are…the cannons…buried?”

  The look of resolute defiance was undeniable on the man’s face, so General Clinton changed his approach accordingly. “Perhaps you are willing to die for this rebel cause of yours, but is she? Is she willing to be savagely beaten, raped, sodomized, and eventually killed for that cause? Are you willing to watch that happen right before your eyes in order to protect those guns?”

  Before giving an answer, the man looked deep into Henry’s eyes trying to see if he was that sort of man. The conclusion must have been yes, because a moment later the farmer’s steely resolve crumbled. “And that is why we rebel, but I won’t sacrifice her. I’ll take you to the guns.”

  “Bring your shovels,” Henry ordered his men before the farmer led them into a recently tilled and planted field. They stepped over row upon row of mounded earth before the farmer stopped to point successively at three separate rows. “Here, here, and there. Three cannons. That’s all of it. Take them and go you bastards.”

  Any guilt Henry felt at threatening the defenseless woman vanished in that moment. The hiding place blended in so well with the actual crops that they would never have found the weapons, not in a hundred years. When his men finally unearthed the three mounds, his heart nearly stopped beating.

  These were not just cannons. They were massive twenty-four pound bombardment guns. They were nearly useless on the defensive. However, they would wreak devastation on a fortification such as the walls of their barracks back in Boston. The rebels were not just stockpiling supplies, they were preparing to lay siege to the city.

  “The rebels definitely could not have carried those out of here on short notice,” the captain observed.

  “Neither can we,” General Clinton replied. “There aren’t enough horses to pull them, nor can the men carry these gigantic weapons fifteen miles back to Boston.”

  “I doubt we have enough explosives to spike them either,” the captain agreed. “What should we do with them?”

  Before Henry could concoct a plan, a commotion to the north distracted him. He looked in that direction and spotted several hundred soldiers falling back from the North Bridge without orders.

  “Did you tell them to withdraw?” Henry asked of his captain.

  “No sir. They appear to be retreating.”

  “That can’t be, those are rag-tag, hastily assembled militia on the other end of their muskets,” Henry huffed, but felt his breath cut short at the sight of colonial militia men chasing after the soldiers and firing periodic shots at them among the streets of Concord.

  “You can say that all you want, but they got your boys runnin’ yellow,” the farmer declared with great pride. “Best you be following them I think.”

  Henry paid no mind to his prisoner and quickly issued orders to his captain. “Have all regiments fall back to this position. We will depart for Boston immediately once assembled.”

  “What about the cannons?”

  “You men, fetch some hammers to smash the trunnions flat. If cannons that size don’t have their mounting pins on both sides, then they’ll never be able to fire,” Henry instructed.

  “They’ll just repair them, won’t they? Cast some new mountings, stick them on, and be good as new?” one of the junior officers objected as the captain rode off on his horse to enact the withdrawal order.

  “No,” General Clinton countered before moving on to take charge of the retreating men. “That much force would snap any add-on pins right off. The rebels will have to re-forge the entire gun to make it serviceable again.”

  Henry rounded up thirty soldiers and established a skirmish line behind a stone wall framing the farmer’s property facing north. The row of redcoats served as a glowing beacon in the stormy retreat of the men from North Bridge. By the dozen, the retreating regulars joined the firing line behind the wall until the line stood a hundred and fifty strong.

  In their pursuit, twenty of the militiamen ventured close enough to crack off a few random shots that whistled harmlessly overhead. Henry was not about to let that go unanswered. “Fire!”

  A roar erupted from the line and when the smoke cleared, General Clinton saw the colonials falling back as they assisted two of their wounded comrades in the effort. None were killed, but the message was clear: stay the hell away.

  Ten minutes later and two more volleys fired to keep the assembling militia at a proper distance, all regiments had assembled in the Jones’ fields. At this point, the mass of militia on the adjacent hilltop were not the problem. They were out of weapon’s range, but the houses, tavern, and jail across the street were the real threat.

  The shots were not coming from militiamen inside those structures, they were delivered by the women and children occupying those homes. Anyone, boy or girl over the age of ten it seemed was firing down on them from second story windows while their younger siblings worked to reload extra sets of weapons.

  Civilians firing from houses was not the kind of warfare Henry’s soldiers were prepared to wage. It was time for his contingent of seven hundred men to withdraw. They had a long march ahead of them, and he wanted to get under way while the militia were still at their rear.

  “Take the east road. Flanking regiments fan out and hold the hilltops on both sides of the road to cover our advance. Move out,” General Clinton ordered.

  The British regulars shouldered their weapons and began marching in orderly lines of ten men abreast. A hundred men fanned out onto the ridge tops surrounding the road while another hundred brought up the rear with their weapons still at the ready.

  Henry began breathing easier when he saw the pursuing militia keeping a harmless distance. They seemed content escorting the British forces back to Boston. They would no doubt claim this as a victory by preserving their supply stockpiles.

  A mile down the road, Henry felt his blood run ice cold and his heart sink to the heel of his boot. The landscape funneled down to a narrow bridge that crossed a waist-high stream. On the other side of that bridge, the hilltops played host to nearly a thousand militiamen standing in organized firing lines. It would be a shooting gallery from an elevated position.

  Making matters worse, their pursuers had sped up their march to reach firing range and stood ready to give the British a push onto the proverbial plank they were made to walk by the unfriendly terrain. The men commanding the militia knew what they were about in their tactics. They knew the terrain and employed it to their fullest advantage.

  That fact did not surprise Henry so much. After all, many of these colonials had served as officers in the
army during the French and Indian War. What amazed him was how many militia they managed to assemble in such a short time. General Clinton expected the five hundred at his rear to be their entire opposition, only to find another thousand waiting ahead of him. It was as if their army materialized from the woods within minutes of command.

  Henry wasted no time lamenting his underestimating the colonial’s ability to muster and organize; his men were in very real danger now. “Narrow into lines of three. Flankers will cross first on double time march and fan back out to take those hilltops. The rest of you, fire a volley when you step off the bridge. Then continue double-time until we pass beyond their range of fire. March!”

  The moment the flankers boots touched wood planks, they were under heavy fire from both sides of the road. Henry watched in horror as the officers were the first to fall; the militia sharp shooters were specifically targeting them. That realization prompted him to dismount and command the rear guard on foot rather than in the saddle.

  The best General Clinton could tell, one in ten of his men fell crossing the bridge, and lord only knew how many were injured. He expected the colonials lining the ridges to fall back once the flankers reached them, but they stood firm and repelled the professional soldiers back onto the road and into full retreat.

  Henry made it through unharmed thanks in part to the use of his horse as a meat shield on his left side. He spotted a colonial on the right hillside wearing a bright red hat take aim at him. The instant he saw a spark from the flintlock, Henry ducked at the waist and felt the bullet whiz past and take a chunk of his hat with it. Had he not ducked, he would have no head at all.

  He resisted the overwhelming urge to break into a panicked run for safety, instead issueing another order. “Increase pace to a trot.”

  The drummer boy marching near Henry broke into a rapid cadence that prompted the mass of soldiers into a quick jogging pace. The colonials along the road tried to keep up, but a flat dirt road made for much easier travel than undulating grass, rocks and marshy wetlands along the roadside.