the Reverend Mr. Emerson's house to the north bridge, crossed the
river, and came to a halt on a hill overlooking the meadows, the
village, and surrounding country. They could see the British
dividing,--one party crossing the south bridge and going towards
Colonel Barrett's house to destroy the supplies collected there;
another party advancing to the north bridge. Roger saw groups of
officers in the graveyard using their spy-glasses. A soldier was
cutting down the liberty pole. Other soldiers were entering houses,
helping themselves to what food was left on the breakfast-tables or
in the pantries. Colonel Smith and Major Pitcairn rested themselves
in Mr. Wright's tavern.
"I'll stir the Yankee blood before night, just as I stir this brandy,"
said Pitcairn, stirring the spirit in his tumbler with his finger.
A party of British crossed the south bridge, made their way to Colonel
Barrett's house, and burned the cannon carriages stored in his barn.
Roger was glad to see Captain Isaac Davis and the minute-men of Acton
march up the hill to join them. Captain Davis was thirty years old. He
had kissed his young wife and four children good-by.
"Take good care of the children, Hannah," he said as he bade her
farewell.
Twice a week he had drilled his company. He was brave, resolute,
kind-hearted. His men loved him because he demanded strict obedience.
They had stopped long enough at his home for his young wife to powder
their hair, that they might appear neat and trim like gentlemen when
meeting the British. They were thirty-five, all told. Keeping step to
Luther Blanchard's fifing of the White Cockade, and Francis Barker's
drumming, they marched past the men from Concord and formed on their
left.
[Illustration: THE WHITE COCKADE.]
[Illustration: WRIGHT'S TAVERN]
"Order arms!" They rested their muskets on the ground and wiped the
perspiration from their foreheads.
Men from Westford, Lincoln, and Carlisle are arriving. They are four
hundred now. The officers stand apart, talking in low tones. The
redcoats had crossed the bridge to the western bank.
"Let us drive the redcoats across the river," said Captain Smith.
"I haven't a man that is afraid," said Captain Davis.
He was heavy-hearted in the early morning when he kissed the young
wife and took the baby from the cradle in his arms, but is resolute
now.
"Attention, battalion! Trail arms! Left in front! March!" Luther
Blanchard pipes the tune, and the battalion--the men of Acton
leading--descends the hill.
The redcoats had recrossed the river and were taking up the planks of
the bridge. A moment later muskets flash beneath the elms, and maples
along the farthest bank and there is a whistling of bullets in the
air. Roger's heart is in his throat, but he gulps it down. Another
volley, and Captain Davis, Abner Hosmer, and Luther Blanchard reel to
the ground. Never again will Hannah receive a parting kiss, or the
father caress the baby crooning in the cradle.[61]
[Footnote 61: "The fire soon began from a dropping shot on our side,
when they and the front company fired almost at the same instant."
"Diary of a British Officer," _Atlantic Monthly_, April, 1877.]
"Fire! For God's sake, fire!" shouts Major Buttrick. Roger cocks his
gun, takes aim at the line of scarlet beneath the trees and pulls the
trigger. Through the smoke he sees men throw up their arms and tumble
to the ground. The scarlet line dissolves, the soldiers fleeing in
confusion. No longer is Roger's heart in his throat. His nerves are
iron and the hot blood is coursing through his veins. King George has
begun the war; no longer is he his subject, but a rebel, never more to
owe him allegiance.
* * * * *
The forenoon wore away. The British were returning from Colonel
Barrett's, having destroyed the cannon carriages, thrown some bullets
into a well, and broken open several barrels of flour. It was past
noon when they formed in line once more to return to Boston.
"We will head them off at Merriam's Corner," said Colonel Barrett.
The planks which the British had removed from the bridge were quickly
replaced. The minute-men crossed the stream, turned into a field to
the left, and hastened over the meadow to the road leading to Bedford.
It was past three o'clock when they reached Mr. Merriam's house. Roger
saw the British marching down the road. Suddenly a platoon wheeled
towards the minute-men and brought their guns to a level. There was a
flash, a white cloud, and bullets whistled over their heads. Once more
he took aim, as did others, and several redcoats fell. Before he could
reload, the serried ranks disappeared, marching rapidly towards
Lexington. The minute-men hastened on, and at the tavern of Mr. Brooks
he sent another bullet into the ranks of the retreating foe.[62]
[Footnote 62: "We set out upon our return. Before the whole had
quitted the town we were fired on from houses and behind trees, and
before we had gone half a mile we were fired on from all sides, but
mostly from the rear, where the people had hid themselves in houses
till we passed." "Diary of a British Officer," _Atlantic Monthly_,
April, 1877.]
[Illustration: NORTH BRIDGE The minute-men stood under the trees at
the right; the British, the other side of the river]
"Scatter now! Get upon their flank! Pepper 'em from behind walls and
trees!" shouted Colonel Barrett, who saw that it would be useless to
follow the retreating enemy in battalion order, but each man, acting
for himself, could run through fields and pastures and keep up a
tormenting fire.
Acting upon the order, Roger and James Heywood ran through a piece of
woods towards Fiske Hill. They came upon a British soldier drinking at
a well by a house.
"You are a dead man," shouted the redcoat, raising his gun.
"So are you," said Heywood. Their muskets flashed and both fell, the
Britisher with a bullet through his heart, and Heywood mortally
wounded.
From rock heap, tree, fence, and thicket the guns of the minute-men
were flashing. The soldiers who had marched so proudly, keeping step
to the drumbeat in the morning, were running now. No hurrah went up as
at sunrise on Lexington Common. There was no halting at Buckman's
tavern, where they had fired their first volley. Their ranks were in
confusion. Officers were trying to rally them, threatening to cut them
down with their swords if they did not show a bold front to the
minute-men, but the Yankees seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere.
Bullets were coming from every direction, yet the British could see no
men in line, no ranks at which they could take aim or charge with the
bayonet. They were still twelve miles from Boston, and their
ammunition failing. They were worn and weary with the all-night march,
and were hungry and thirsty. The road was strewn with their fallen
comrades. The wounded were increasing in number, impeding their
retreat. Their ranks were broken. All was confusion. Every moment some
one was falling.[63] Blessed the sight that greeted them,--the brigade
of Earl Percy, drawn up in hollow square by Mr. Munroe's tavern, with
two cannon upon the hillocks by the roadside. They rushed into the
square and dropped upon the ground, panting and exhausted with their
rapid retreat.
[Footnote 63: "They were so concealed there was hardly any seeing
them. In this way we marched between nine and ten miles, their numbers
increasing from all parts, while ours was reducing by deaths, wounds,
and fatigue, and we were totally surrounded with such an incessant
fire as it is impossible to conceive. Our ammunition was likewise near
expended." "Diary of a British Officer," _Atlantic Monthly_, April,
1877.]
Roger halted a few minutes on Lexington Green, where the conflict
began in the morning. He saw the ground stained with the blood of
those who had fallen,--crossed the threshold where Jonathan Harrington
had died in the arms of his wife. Across the Common the house and barn
of Joseph Loring were in flames, set on fire by the British.
Earl Percy's troops were ransacking the houses a little farther down
the road. In Mr. Munroe's tavern they were compelling old John Raymond
to bring them food, and because he could not give them what they
wanted, sent a bullet through his heart.[64]
[Footnote 64: "We marched pretty quiet for about two miles, when they
began to pepper us again. We were now obliged to force almost every
house in the road, for the rebels had taken possession of them and
galled us exceedingly; but they suffered for their temerity, _for all
that were found in the houses were put to death._" "Diary of a
British Officer," _Atlantic Monthly_, April, 1877.
Earl Percy made the tavern of Mr. Munroe his headquarters.
"A party entered the tavern and, helping themselves, or rather
compelling the inmates of the house to help them to whatever they
wanted, they treacherously and with ruthlessness shot down John
Raymond, an infirm old man, only because he, alarmed at this roughness
and brutal conduct, was about leaving the house to seek a place of
greater safety." Hudson's _Hist. of Lexington_.]
[Illustration: MERRIAM'S CORNER]
Once more the British were on the march.
Roger, rested and invigorated, ran through a pasture, crouched behind
a bowlder, rested his gun upon it, and sent a bullet into the ranks.
He was delighted when Doctor Joseph Warren came galloping over the
hill. The doctor said he left Boston in the morning, rode to Cambridge
and Watertown, then hastened on to Lexington. He was glad the
minute-men and militia had resisted the British. While talking with
Roger and those around him, a bullet whizzed past the doctor's head,
knocking a pin from his ear-lock.
The rattling fire of the minute-men was increasing once
more,--answered by volleys from Percy's platoons. The British,
smarting under the tormenting fusilade, angry over the thought that
they were being assailed by a rabble of farmers and were on the
defensive, became wanton and barbaric, pillaging houses, and murdering
inoffensive old men.
Roger was delighted to hear from Jonathan Loring, one of the Lexington
minute-men, how his sister Lydia, fearing that the British would steal
the communion cups and platters belonging to the church of which her
father was deacon, took them in her apron, ran out into the orchard,
and hid them under a pile of brush.
Pitiful it was to see Widow Mulliken's house in flames,--wantonly set
on fire by the red-coated ruffians.
Roger saw a soldier deliberately raise his gun, take aim, and send a
bullet through the heart of Jason Russel, an old gray-haired man,
standing in his own door. Again, at closer range, he took aim at the
retreating column.
His indignation was aroused as he listened to the story told by Hannah
Adams, a few minutes later. She was in bed in her chamber, with a
new-born babe at her breast, when two redcoats entered the room. One
pointed his musket at her.
"For the Lord's sake, do not kill me," she said.
"I am going to shoot you," the soldier replied, with an oath.
"No, you mustn't shoot a woman," said the other, pushing aside the
gun, "but we are going to set the house on fire, and you must get
out."
With the babe in her arms, she crawled downstairs and into the yard.
The soldiers scattered the coals from the fireplace around the room,
and left, but the older children ran in and put out the flames.
[Illustration: MUNROE TAVERN Lord Percy's headquarters]
At Mr. Cooper's tavern was a ghastly sight; upon the floor lay the
mangled bodies of Jason Wyman and Jesse Winship, two old men, who had
come from their homes to learn the news. They were drinking toddy,
when the head of Earl Percy's retreating troops arrived, and fired a
volley into the house. The landlord and his wife fled to the cellar.
The British swarmed into the tavern, mangled the bodies of the two
old men with bayonet thrusts, and scattered their brains around the
room.
In the morning Roger had felt some qualms of conscience as he took aim
at the scarlet line of men by Concord River, but now to him the
redcoats were fiends in human form. It gave him fresh courage to see
Samuel Whittemore, eighty years old, come running with his musket,
taking deliberate aim, firing three times, and bringing down a redcoat
every time he pulled the trigger. But a soldier leaped from the ranks,
ran upon and shot the old man, stabbed him with his bayonet, beat him
with the butt of his musket, leaving him for dead.[65]
[Footnote 65: He was not dead, however, but lived many years.]
Roger swung his hat to welcome Captain Gideon Foster of Danvers, and
his company, who had marched sixteen miles in four hours, coming upon
the British at Menotomy meetinghouse. A moment later they were in the
thick of the fight.
It was a thrilling story which Timothy Monroe had to tell, how he and
Daniel Townsend fired, and each brought down a redcoat, and then ran
into a house; how the British surrounded it, and killed Townsend; how
he leaped through a window and ran, with a whole platoon firing at
him, riddling his clothes with bullets, yet escaping without a
scratch.
Again Roger rejoiced when he learned that before Earl Percy reached
Menotomy a company of men had captured his baggage wagons, killing and
wounding several British soldiers, and that the attacking party were
led by Reverend Philip Payson, the minister of Chelsea.
It was almost sunset when Roger held his horn up to the light once
more, and saw there was little more than enough powder for one charge,
and that there were only two bullets in the pouch. He decided to put
in all the powder and both bullets for his parting shot. Another half
hour and they would be under the protection of the guns of the frigate
Somerset. The minute-men were getting so near and were so determined
that Earl Percy ordered the cannon to unlimber and open fire, while
the soldiers, almost upon the run, hastened towards Charlestown.
Roger, having reloaded his gun, made haste to overtake them. Looking
along the road, he saw a crowd of panic-stricken people--men, women,
and children--fleeing from their houses. The picture of the scene of
Menotomy had stamped itself into his memory. This last shot should be
his best. Not now would he crouch behind a fence, a tree, or bowlder.
He would confront the murderers like a man. He walked deliberately
forward. He was by a farmhouse, so near the last file of soldiers
which had halted to ward off the minute-men a moment, that he could
see the whites of their eyes. He aimed at the cross-belt of a man in
the middle of the file, and pulled the trigger. He caught a glimpse of
a man falling, but found himself reeling to the ground. A bullet had
pierced his breast. The British passed on. A woman came from the
house, and looked down into his face.
"A drink of water, please marm," he said.
She ran to the well, sank the bucket into it, brought a gourd full,
and came and crouched by his head while he drank.
"Thank you, marm."
He looked up into her face a moment.
"I think I am going," he whispered.
She pillowed his head upon her arm, laid back the hair from his manly
brow, and fanned him with her apron.
"Please tell her," he whispered.
"Tell who?"
She bowed her head to catch the word.
"Tell--Rachel."
The mild blue eyes were looking far away. A smile like the light of
the morning came upon his face. One more breath, and he was one of the
forty-nine who, during the day, gave their lives that they might
inaugurate a new era in the republic of God.
XVIII.
BESIEGED.
Thomas Gage, governor, commanding his majesty's forces in America, was
sitting in the Province House, greatly disturbed in mind. The
expedition to Concord had not resulted as he expected. The troops had
marched out bravely, destroyed a few barrels of flour, disabled half a
dozen old cannon, burned some carriage wheels, but had returned to
Boston on the run like a flock of sheep worried by dogs. The Tories
had informed him that a couple of regiments could march from one end
of the continent to the other, but the events of the preceding day
were opening his eyes to a far different state of affairs. Till within
a few hours the country had been at peace: farmers following the plow;
blacksmiths hammering iron; carpenters pushing the plane. All had
changed. Thousands were under arms, gathering at Cambridge and
Roxbury. The Colonies were aflame,--not only Massachusetts, but New
Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Connecticut. The troops which marched to
Concord so proudly were back in Boston,--not all: twenty-three had
been killed, two hundred wounded and missing. Eighteen of the officers
had been killed or wounded. Governor Gage could not gainsay the fact
that the citizens were victors. They had followed the troops to
Charlestown till nightfall, like a swarm of angry hornets. A great
army was closing around him, cutting off his supplies. No more fresh
beef or mutton would be for sale in the market; no teams would bring
potatoes and cabbages for the soldiers. What would King George say?
What would the ministry think? What would they do? How would the
people of England regard his administration of affairs? The unexpected
had happened. He had not dreamed of such an uprising. What course
should he pursue? All Boston was in commotion. People were packing
their goods on carts, loading them on boats to flee from the town.
Women were wringing their hands, children crying, fathers walking the
streets with careworn faces, not knowing whither to go or what to do.
Officers were gathering at the Province House awaiting orders and
talking of what had happened, and smarting under the thought that the
retreat had been a flight and almost a panic. It was a humiliating
reflection that disciplined soldiers had been put upon the run by a
rabble of countrymen. Earl Percy, after a sleepless night, weary and
travel-worn, was gladly welcomed by Governor Gage. He told the story
of the retreat.
[Illustration: Province House.]
"If it had not been, your excellency, for my timely arrival, I fear
few of Lieutenant-Colonel Smith's troops would have escaped, as they
were completely exhausted, their ammunition gone, and the men upon the
run. I am free to say that I was completely astonished. I formed my
brigade in hollow square, and his men threw themselves on the ground
with their tongues lolling from their mouths," he said.
"It is plain that you marched none too soon," the governor replied.
"I cannot account for such a sudden uprising. I saw very few rebels.
There were no organized bodies of rebels to be seen,--not more than
twenty or thirty in a group; but they were all around us, firing from
fences, rocks, trees, ditches, houses. If we charged and drove them,
they were back again the moment we resumed our march. I must admit
they were brave and persistent. They were like so many wasps," said
the earl.
"I learn," said the governor, "that several thousand armed men have
already gathered at Cambridge and Roxbury. A loyal citizen informs me
they have been arriving through the night in great numbers. It seems
probable that we are to be hemmed in by the provincials for the
present, and must make preparations accordingly."
Fast and far the alarm had gone. Twenty-four hours and it was one
hundred miles away, and Robert Walden of Rumford with bullet-pouch,
powder-horn, and musket was on his way, as were Colonel John Stark,
Captain Daniel Moore of Derryfield, and hundreds of others in New
Hampshire, Israel Putnam, Thomas Knowlton of Connecticut, and their
fellow-citizens, all animated by one thought,--to resist the armed
aggressions of the myrmidons of the king. There was a brave heart
behind Rachel's quivering lips when she pressed them to Robert's.
"Roger is sure to be there. Tell him I think of him every night before
I go to sleep." Little did they know that he was being borne to his
last resting-place on the banks of the winding river.
Robert was glad to learn when he reached Medford that John Stark was
to be colonel of the New Hampshire troops.
Tom Brandon was working day and night to help people obtain passes
from General Gage and leave the town. More than five thousand closed
their houses and took their departure.[66] The governor would not
allow any one to take their guns or swords, or anything which would
in any way contribute to the success of the provincials.
[Footnote 66: For a week after the affair at Lexington and Concord,
Governor Gage refused the request of the people to leave the town, but
the growing scarcity of provisions compelled him to permit their
departure.]
The soldiers from Rumford, having unbounded confidence in Robert
Walden, elected him lieutenant. When General Artemus Ward, commanding
the troops at Cambridge, asked Colonel Stark if he had a trustworthy
young man whom he could recommend to execute an important order,
Lieutenant Walden was selected and directed to report at general
headquarters. He was kindly received and informed he was to negotiate
with the British for an exchange of prisoners.
Mounted upon his horse, Lieutenant Walden rode to Charlestown Neck,
and from thence to the top of Bunker Hill to obtain a view of Boston
and the harbor. He saw the warships were swinging at anchor in the
stream. Across the river were the silent streets of the besieged town.
He could distinguish the home of Captain Brandon, and the Green Dragon
Tavern,--its doors closed. It was not these buildings, however, that
most interested him, but a mansion on the slope of Beacon Hill, with
its surrounding grounds,--the Newville home. The window of Miss
Newville's chamber was open, the curtain drawn aside. His spy-glass
made it seem very near. How would she greet him were they to meet
again? Would she be changed by the changing circumstances? Would she,
daughter of a loyalist, deign to notice him, a rebel? Blessed vision!
A figure in white appeared at the window. It was she for whom he could
lay down his life, if need be. Oh, if he could but reach out his hand
to her,--hear once more the voice that had thrilled him in the past!
She stood by the window, looking upon the flowers blooming in the
garden. The vision was but for a moment, for the window was soon
closed and the curtain drawn. He descended the hill, rode through the
village to the ferry landing, displaying a white flag. It was answered
by the waving of another on the deck of the Lively warship. Then a
boat brought a lieutenant of the fleet to the shore.
"Who are you and what do you want?" the curt question of the
Britisher.
"I am commissioned by the commander-in-chief of the provincial army to
ask if it will be agreeable to General Gage to make an exchange of
prisoners?"
"The rebel army, you mean."
"I said provincial, but if it suits you any better to think of the
Americans as rebels, I will not object. We are rebels against tyranny
and oppression, as I trust we always shall be. We have several
officers of the king's troops in our hands, and you have some of our
men. If an exchange is desired by General Gage, I am empowered to
arrange the details," Robert said with calm dignity.
The Britisher bowed, and the boat pulled back to the ship, returning
again after a time with an officer commissioned to make arrangements
for the transfer.
The sun was nearing the hour of noon, three days later, when
Lieutenant Walden, accompanied by General Putnam, Doctor Warren, and a
detail of soldiers, conducted the British officers and men to the
ferry landing, meeting Major Moncrief and other British officers, with
the provincial prisoners in their keeping. The British soldiers, with
tears upon their faces, thanked Doctor Warren for the kind treatment
they had received. The Americans had no thanks to give for what they
had received on the strawless floor of the jail, the prison fare for
food. Lieutenant Walden had engaged a dinner in the tavern. The
landlord set forth his choicest wine. Putnam and Moncrief, being old
acquaintances, chatted of the days at Ticonderoga while partaking of
the viands and quaffing glasses of madeira.
"While the white flag is waving we will not let our differences mar
the pleasure of the hour," said Doctor Warren, who delighted the
company with his wit. Dinner over, there was a shaking of hands,
expressions of personal good-will, and courteous salutes. With the
furling of the white flag they were enemies once more.