NAT BREWSTER MARCHES WITH PITCAIRN TO LEXINGTON
It was about the time that Revere and the Porcupine first sighted the
troops on the Common that Nat Brewster heard a rattling at his prison
door; lifting his head he saw it open and admit the guards, bearing
lighted candles.
“We’ll take that little girdle off you, my lad,” said a grizzled
sergeant of infantry who seemed to be in command. “I suppose you’ll not
make any objection to that.”
“I’m to be removed from here, then,” spoke Nat, as the soldiers began
unlocking the steel band that encircled him.
“Yes,” replied the sergeant with a laugh. “We thought you’d need a
trifle of fresh air.”
“Where am I to be taken?” asked the boy.
But the sergeant shook his head at this.
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” answered he. “But,”
with a renewal of his laugh, “you might ask that navy lieutenant;
perhaps he’d be pleased to say.”
The lock of the steel girdle seemed to work stiffly and the soldiers
grumbled and strove at it angrily.
“I’d not like to have that same lieutenant in charge of me,” said a
youthful, flaxen-haired corporal who made one of the party. “He’s a bad
one, I can tell you.”
The grizzled sergeant nodded, watching the efforts at the lock and
frowning at the delay.
“I think,” continued the flaxen-haired corporal, “that he knows more
ways of getting a groan out of a man than the Grand Inquisitor himself.”
“Ah! I think I understand,” said Nat, and his mouth tightened.
“If he’s got anything ag’in you and there’s anything he wants to make
you tell, you’ll understand right enough,” said the old sergeant,
grimly.
“I’ve seen a good bit of punishment since I joined His Majesty’s army,”
said the corporal, who seemed of a talkative disposition, “but that
naval chap do beat all. Mind how he took it out of that private of the
forty-seventh the other day?” to the sergeant.
“Torture?” asked Nat.
“You may well say so,” returned the flaxen-haired one. “And when he’d
made the private confess, he took the man charged with trying to get
him to desert and manhandled him in a way I never heard of before. Did
you see the little parade of tar and feathers through the streets?”
“Yes,” replied Nat.
“That was an idea of Chesbrook’s; sort of a finishing off, you might
call it.”
Here the band and chain clashed to the stone floor; with muskets at
their shoulders, the guard fell in line, Nat in their midst.
“As a last word, lad,” said the grizzled sergeant, not unkindly, “let
me say you’d better do anything that shipman tells you. It’ll save you
a lot, perhaps.”
“Thank you,” said Nat.
At a sharp word from the sergeant the guard marched out of the room and
into the open air. There were very few lights; but the bustle told Nat,
at once, that there was something under way; and then as he saw line
after line of fully equipped soldiers pass by, he understood.
“It’s the column being sent to Concord!” he breathed. There was a queer
tightening at his heart and throat as he watched the trained redcoats
trudge stolidly toward the river. Their compact organization was plain;
like a machine they moved at the command of watchful officers. Behind
them were centuries of discipline and British prestige, proven upon
countless battle-fields. And, at the very best, there would be to
oppose them a but few bands of roughly organized farmers and workmen,
called hastily from their occupations to take up arms.
“What chance have they?” thought Nat, gloomily, still burdened with his
captivity. “Even if they have been armed, what chance have they?”
But he had no great time to think over this or anything else; being
led to the line of boats he was forced into one of them; and in a few
moments was in midstream. The lights of the “Somerset” man-of-war,
which lay near at hand, burned clearly, and the tide was at young
flood. Overhead the moon was like a silver disc; and the sprinkling
stars wavered and sparkled like myriads of eyes, gazing down at the
darkness of the world.
The troops were ferried across the river with a despatch that spoke
well for Gage’s preparations. Immediately they were formed in column
and the eighteen-mile march to Concord began.
Nat now found himself well in the rear under a close guard; near him
rode Major Pitcairn, the commander of the column, Lieutenant-Colonel
Smith and Chesbrook, all of whom seemed engaged in earnest
conversation. No one spoke to Nat, save now and then the grizzled
infantry sergeant; but at length a horseman dropped back from the
front, dismounted, gave his steed in care of a soldier and approached
him.
But the young mountaineer’s head was bent and he did not notice the
newcomer until he spoke. Then the head went up swiftly; the darkness
hid the scorn in Nat’s eyes, but nothing could deny that which was in
his voice.
“Oh, it’s you, Prentiss, is it?”
The other laughed frankly, honestly. It was the same laugh that had
caught the fancy of the cobbler at the ferry road.
“You don’t make me very welcome,” said the New England boy.
“If there is any reason why I should,” spoke Nat, “just give it a name.”
“Why,” said the other, “I can think of none. From your point of view I
suppose I am a very great rascal, indeed.”
“There can be no greater crime,” said Nat, “than to turn traitor to
one’s country and friends.”
“I agree with you in that,” said the other, gravely. “But,” and there
was a new note in his voice, “of what does treachery consist?”
He did not give Nat an opportunity to reply, but at once proceeded.
“Two people may love their country; they may desire with all their
hearts to serve it--but each may have a different idea as to how it
should best be done. You, for example, think that to defy the king and
parliament, to follow the leadership of Messrs. Adams, Hancock, Warren
and their like, to take up arms against the lawful governor, is to
serve the colonies. But I think the reverse.”
“There can be no doubt of that,” replied Nat, drily.
But the other paid no heed to the sarcasm.
“I, too, desire to see the colonies dealt justly by,” he went on. “I
also can see very plainly the wrongs that have been done them. But I
do not believe in seeking to right them by any method that will end
in bloodshed. An appeal to the liberal minded English nation will set
everything right.”
“Has that not been tried?”
“In a way--yes. But not in the right way. The British mean kindly by
us; and if the Whigs would cease threatening, we’d quickly get our
rights.”
“It is not we who threaten,” said Nat; “it is they. You say you do not
believe in methods that might end in bloodshed--then what do you think
of this present expedition?”
“It is a peaceable one--a demonstration only.”
The boy said this eagerly, with the manner of one who is anxious to
defend a thing which he strongly desires to be true--but of which he is
not altogether convinced.
“Peaceable!” Nat laughed, mockingly. “Why, there are above a thousand
men in this column, each with musket and bayonet, powder and ball.”
“Nevertheless, their errand is peaceful,” argued the New England lad.
“We but seek to take the leaders of this sedition that they may not
tempt the people; we mean to seize the magazines that no madness may be
committed that would bring on a war.”
“I begin to see your position,” said Nat. “And so,” sternly, “you think
that to bring these things about, any deceit may be practiced, and
treachery resorted to.”
“Those are hard words,” said the other, quietly.
“But they are true ones. Was it not treachery to plan the capture of
your kind friends Mr. Adams and his brother by the Tories? Was it
not deceit that you practiced upon Mr. Cooper and Ben, who trusted
you--upon Dr. Warren, upon Paul Revere?”
Near at hand a smoking lantern, borne upon a pole, threw off a red
flare of light; in this the face of the New England lad took on a
sudden troubled look. He laid his hand upon Nat’s arm and was about to
speak; but at that moment the grizzled sergeant broke in upon them.
“Sorry to interrupt, my lads,” said he, in his gruff way. Then
addressing himself to Nat, he continued: “You’re wanted back here a
piece by Lieutenant Chesbrook. And,” lowering his voice so that no one
else might hear, “now is the time to remember what I told you in the
guard-house awhile ago. I think you are going to have use for it.”
The British column had advanced steadily along the old Charlestown and
West Cambridge road until it had now reached Menotomy. Lights could be
seen flickering at windows; and as the head of the brigade came on,
dark forms went flitting and vanishing into the night.
But Nat saw none of this; he was hurried toward the group composed
of Lieutenant-Colonel Smith and his aides, which had drawn up before
Newell’s tavern. The hoofs of the horses rang loudly as they stamped
upon the stones; their bridle chains jingled and they snorted
impatiently at the delay. A party under several officers had just been
sent to enter the inn.
“My information is positive,” Nat heard Lieutenant Chesbrook say to
Major Pitcairn, as he came up. “The rebel Committee of Safety met here
to-day; and I have not much doubt but that some of them are passing the
night under the same roof.”
“We’ll root them out, if they are,” returned the immaculate major. “I
suppose you’ll know them, if taken?”
“No, but our young friend here will, I think,” and Chesbrook waved his
hand toward Nat Brewster.
Just then there came the sound of loud voices at the inn and the sound
of splintering woodwork as the doors were forced.
“You give me credit for more knowledge than I possess,” said Nat,
coolly. “The Committee of Safety is largely composed of gentlemen who
are strangers to me.”
Lieutenant Chesbrook touched his horse with the spur; in a moment he
was at the boy’s side and saying in a smooth, persuasive voice:
“It would be altogether better for you if you would not assume that
attitude. You possess information which I want and which I mean to
have. So you will profit a great deal by falling in with my desires.”
But Nat looked up at him and replied, calmly:
“I am the person to judge of what is best for me, Lieutenant Chesbrook.”
“I think not,” said the naval officer. “You see, you don’t know just
what it will mean to refuse. I have with me some few ingenious little
contrivances which are much used upon shipboard in compelling our men
to do that which they are disinclined to do. So don’t compel me to
bring them out; you’ll be sorry for it if you do.”
There was a stir among a group of officers; a boyish figure darted
through them and stood beside Nat.
“Lieutenant!” cried this person in a warning voice; and instantly
Chesbrook wheeled in his saddle.
“Well?” demanded he, harshly.
“It was understood between us----” the boy got this far when the man
interrupted him.
“Have the goodness not to interfere with my work, Prentiss,” said he,
sourly. “This is no time for boyish notions.”
“But you promised that no one was to be injured!” There was a note of
pleading in the lad’s voice; he clutched the stirrup of the officer and
held tightly to it.
Chesbrook laughed.
“If you were fool enough to think that matters of this kind,” with a
wave of the hand at the marching column, “could be carried through like
a tea-party, it is no fault of mine.”
Nat saw the boy stare up at the speaker, his face suddenly drawn.
“Then,” said he, slowly, making almost the same gesture as the other,
“this means war?”
“Of course it does!” rapped out Major Pitcairn. “The king’s troops
exist for the purpose of making war.”
Before the boy could make reply, an officer came hastily from the inn.
“No one there but the servants and such,” complained he.
“Bring them out,” directed Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, angrily. “And
bring all of them.”
In a few moments a little line of half-dressed folk blinked
bewilderedly in the light of the flaring torches as the British
officers narrowly examined them. But they were so unmistakably what
they claimed to be that they were quickly dismissed.
“Get back with you!” cried Lieutenant-Colonel Smith in a fury. “And if
I ever hear one word against you regarding harboring rebels it will be
the sorriest day for you that ever dawned.”
So with that the officers pressed after the column; and Nat was once
more placed in the midst of his guard, which went trudging sullenly
forward. And as the “tramp-tramp” grew fainter, the inn people began
to laugh. For safe in an adjoining field were Messrs. Gerry, Lee and
Orne, of the patriot committee. They had been roused by messengers as
the head of the column passed beneath their bedroom windows, and had
slipped out by a back door as the British broke their way in by the
front.
As the brigade advanced, guns began to boom in the distance and bells
clanged a sonorous warning to the countryside.
“The entire section is up,” growled the commander. “Some warning must
have been sent after all.”
After a very few miles, Major Pitcairn was ordered forward with a body
of light infantry.
“Pick up any one you find on the road and secure the two bridges at
Concord,” directed the lieutenant-colonel, curtly.
“It has a bad look,” said Pitcairn, as he sat his horse, awaiting the
formation of the six companies which were to make up his command. The
clangor, dim but continuous, crept toward them across the level fields;
and for the first time a serious look had settled upon the faces of the
king’s officers.
“I fancy,” said the commander, “that a reinforcement would do no
harm; indeed, judging by all the commotion ahead, it might be of good
service.”
So a rider was despatched instantly to Boston for additional troops;
and as he dashed eastward, the light infantry battalion under Pitcairn
took its way to the west. Chesbrook accompanied this advance force, and
Nat, his captors having their original plan, apparently, still in mind,
was ordered with them also.
“But I recognize no man that is captured on the way,” vowed the boy,
his jaw set. “Let them do as they will, I’ll stick to that.”
Dawn was beginning to streak the east with lines of gray when Nat made
out young Prentiss forcing his way afoot through the compact mass of
the battalion.
“It will soon be daylight,” said he, when he had approached near enough
to speak.
Nat gave a look at the sky.
“Within an hour,” returned he briefly.
Somehow his resentment against the New England boy was not at all
as strong as he thought it should be. Treachery, all forms of
unfaithfulness and deceit had long been Nat’s pet aversions, but for
all that he could not lift himself to the pitch of anger that he felt
the other’s acts deserved.
The rhythmic tramp of the troops continued and the rattle of equipment
was sharp and distinct in the dawn. Now and then the low command of a
sergeant was heard, but all other voices were silent.
“Another hour till daylight,” said Nat, after a pause, “and then, I
fancy, we shall see desperate work!”
“Do you really believe that?” asked the other boy, and his tones were
anxious and eager.
“I do,” replied Nat; “the minutemen are up. Surely you heard the guns
and alarm bells awhile ago.”
“Yes, I know. I understand. But,” hurriedly, “the British officers will
not fire upon them--they will not permit their men to do so.”
Nat turned his face toward the speaker curiously.
“You seem to be very anxious to make yourself believe that,” he said.
“If I did not believe it,” replied the other boy, “I should not be
here.”
A thought came to Nat like an inspiration. Lowering his voice to almost
a whisper, he said:
“I think I understand. You mean that if you thought they would fire
upon the colonists, you would not be upon the British side.”
“Yes,” returned the other.
“And that can only mean that you would be----” Nat paused without
completing the sentence.
[Illustration: _THEY CAME WITHIN SIGHT OF LEXINGTON_]
“Upon the side of the Provincial Congress,” returned the other without
the slightest hesitation.
As they marched along the wheel-cut road toward Lexington, Nat now and
then stole a look at the boy at his side. The pale dawn made things
visible in a dim sort of way, and the young mountaineer noted that the
other’s head was bent and that he seemed deep in bitter reflection.
There was something in his manner that drew Nat powerfully; but in
spite of this, he did not believe in him.
“He deceived me before,” thought Nat; “and he deceived others to whom
he owed every allegiance. How am I to know but that this is another
attempt to do the same thing.”
But he had not a great deal of time to revolve the situation, for,
still in the gray dawn, they came within sight of the town of Lexington.
Directly ahead was the village green, with the town meeting-house
facing it. Two thin lines of men, with rifles in their hands, were
gathered here, and as the British came in sight, a drum rolled
warningly from their midst. This sound Pitcairn instantly accepted as
a challenge; and at once the battalion halted.
“Load with ball--prime--fix bayonets!” came the curt commands. Then
forward went the six companies at double quick.
Nat saw Captain Parker of the militia, whom he knew by sight, and also
Sergeant William Monroe, walking up and down before the two lines of
minutemen; and from their gestures he knew that they were speaking
encouragingly.
Then, unconsciously, his eyes traveled beyond the militia; three
figures stole from the shadow cast by an inn near the meeting-house;
two of them bore a square, heavy looking box between them, and Nat gave
a start of wonder as he recognized them.
“Mr. Revere!” he cried, “and Ben Cooper!”
At the same moment he felt a hand touch his elbow and heard the boy at
his side say, quietly:
“But the third one--look at him.”
The last of the three was a boy; he held a rifle in his hand and
seemed to be guarding the two with the box. The face was turned with
eagerness toward the British, and as Nat’s eyes fell upon it, he
stopped, rooted to the spot with bewilderment.
For the boy was Ezra Prentiss!