Tale of a Patriot Part One

by Grandpa Casey

TALE OF A PATRIOT

  PART ONE

  Written by

  GRANDPA CASEY

  This Story is fictional any depiction of a person or place is purely coincidental

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  AM I BRITISH OR AM I AN AMERICAN?  I kept questioning myself after I read the first paragraph of the newspaper.  The question keeps repeating itself as I continue to read the rest of the article.  I think this must be some kind of mistake, so I read it again. After reading it for the third time, I lean back in my seat to analyze what I read.  After a while, I mumble.  “How can this be; this can’t be right?  We were at peace with England the other night.”

  I never thought this would actually happen. Men like John Hancock, Samuel Adams, and others were clamoring for this for a long time. I never thought their vocal antics would succeed. It’s easy to get caught up in the frenzy of a good speech, but I believed that the people were smarter than this. Like most of the Colonists, I also wanted equal representation in England. I was all for forcing England to accept us as equals but not like this.  

  Still in disbelief, I read the article again: In Mid-April of 1775, British Soldiers marched into Lexington Massachusetts. They had orders to arrest Samuel Adams and John Hancock. Armed Minutemen, as some liked to call themselves, were waiting for them in a clearing called Lexington Green. The night before, riders rode from Boston to Concord warning everyone by shouting, “THE BRITISH ARE COMING THE BRITISH ARE COMING.” Once warned, church bells rang out, alerting the farmers of the upcoming danger.

  That morning, while waiting for the British to arrive, their neighbors brought out food and drinks. The Patriots attitude turned from serious to jovial. Some passed the time away by playing cards, others enjoyed their favorite beverage, a few even napped. Reality set in when the British marched into town. When the Colonists see how many British are approaching, one of them blurts out, “we should have brought more men. It’s like going to a gun fight with a club”.

  With muskets loaded, they form a line to prevent the British from going any further. Standing several feet apart, the Patriots taunt the British Soldiers. They were shouting things like, ‘better to be dead than wear red’,’ so what are you going to do now’, ‘I met Your Sister, and she looks meaner than you’. The rest of their taunts were too vulgar to mention.    

  Being professional soldiers, the British endured the taunts as they waited for orders. At first, the British Officer was perplexed, he never encountered a situation like this before and needed time to think. His first inclination was to shoot the one who mentioned his wife looks like the business end of a horse. He only held back because he was ordered not to fire unless fired upon.

  He thinks. Great, how do I get out of this mess? I can’t fight back, but I can’t let the insults pass. My wife was hoping we could make this land our home; however, after this I don’t know. Maybe a show of force will work. I never should have let my Father talk me into joining the Army. Oh well, here goes, he tells the Patriots, “you men are interfering with the King’s troops; you must stand aside and let us through. If you do not, you will be arrested and taken to Boston, there you will be put on trial for inciting a riot and promptly hanged.” 

  Hearing this only angered the Patriots more; their leader responded; “turn around and go back to Boston.  The only way you’ll pass is when we’re all dead.”  The Patriots cheer as the leader continues; “we don’t want you here.  Now go home; go on, be on your way.” 

  Having enough of the insults the Officer turned to his men and ordered, “Men form two firing lines. Soon we’ll dispatch these Yankee swine.” 

  The British formed the firing lines in front of the Patriots. The British Officer is hoping this bluff will work. Instead of fleeing the Patriots followed suit. Suddenly, as if on cue, both sides aimed their loaded muskets at one another. Each side stubbornly stood their ground; silently daring the other side to shoot or leave. No one said anything or moved a muscle for several minutes. Sweat started beading on several foreheads. The sweat was caused by a combination of fear and the strain of holding muskets motionless for so long. Suddenly, someone fires their musket. Instinctively, everyone else fires their weapons. When it was over, several American Patriots lay wounded and dead. The Patriots, not expecting this, panicked and ran away. The British, after loading their casualties on their supply wagons, continued their search for Samuel Adams and John Hancock. Unable to find them; they marched on to Concord to fulfill the rest of their mission.

  Unable to rationalize the insanity of what I just read I mindlessly stare out the stagecoach’s window.  My Father looks confused; he is puzzled by the silence and blank stare on my face.  He expected me to be vocal and jolly.  He also expected me to continue with more questions about Plymouth.  Before reading the newspaper, I would not stop talking about the trip.   

  Finally, worried about my continued silence, he asks me, “What’s the matter Joe? Don’t be sad; I brought you with me to Plymouth to do some business and have some fun. Don’t fret, we’ll return. If we get the planting done in time we’ll bring your Brother and Mother to Plymouth’s Summer Festival. You’re not still disappointed about loosing the knife-throwing contest,are you?” He pats my shoulder and continues talking. “Well, take heart, there’s always next time.”

  After giving my father the newspaper, I continue looking out the window.

  After reading the story, he puts the paper on his lap and says, “I’ll be the son of a neutered hog. They finally did it. The fools finally started a war.”      

  Trying to forget about the article, I close my eyes and recall the events of the past few days. Every year, the local farmers would ban together and herd, the animals they want to sell, to Plymouth’s Annual Auction. But not this year. So my dad, needing help transporting our two Pinto yearlings and two mares, took me along.

  While watching the auctioneer, in action, I was amazed at how skillfully he managed to get the bidders to increase their offers. We actually sold the horses for more than my dad expected to get.

  Since the coach to Lexington didn’t leave until the next day, we spent the night in town. Dad wanted to get home and start planting. Now, instead of borrowing, he can pay cash for the two new plows, that are waiting for us in Lexington. His plan is, after plowing and planting our fields, to hire himself out, along with me and my younger Brother Luke, to plow the fields of other farmers.

  Dad promised to give me and Luke a share of the profits. I was looking forward to having some spending money in my pocket. Nothing impresses the girls more than having a little jingle in your pocket to spend on them.   

  After selling the horses, my dad showed me the sights. I saw where the Pilgrims landed, the old fort, and other landmarks. The loading docks impressed me the most. I never saw so many ships before; actually, that was the first time I saw an ocean sailing vessel. We went to bed late and slept the morning away.

  Before leaving on the afternoon coach, I bought a newspaper. I wanted to catch up on the latest news. I thought the headline THE SHOT HEARD AROUND THE WORLD was about another tax that England imposed on the American Colonies. I never expected this. A war began while I was away. My family’s farm is only a few miles outside Lexington. Since there are no British Soldiers stationed in Lexington, I felt like we had been invaded. I know we are British Subjects, but I couldn’t help feeling that way.       

 
With the ride almost over, I wonder if any of my relatives were part of the standoff. Like most Colonists, I am a second-generation American. Many of us still have grandparents, mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters in England. Like my father and most of the Colonists, I too want self-rule, not total separation.

  Now, the question of, AM I BRITISH, OR AM I AN AMERICAN, is something that every man, woman, and child will have to decide.

  The ones who want to stay with England call themselves Loyalists. The ones who want to separate from England are called Patriots. The undecided ones have no name. The British came up with a unique name for all of us; they call us “Yanks.” 

  I open my eyes when the driver shouts “WHOA”. We arrived at our overnight rest stop. While unhitching the horses, our stagecoach driver is told to take a different route and not to make the scheduled stop in Boston. The British have blockaded the city and are preventing anyone from entering or leaving. During dinner, my dad smiles when the driver tells us about the change in our route to Lexington. The reason for his happy demeanor is the cancellation of the two-hour layover in Boston. During the layover, while the driver has fresh horses hitched to the stagecoach, my dad has a list of items to buy. Before we left home, my mom gave him that list and instructed me not to let him forget about it.

  After breakfast, we board the stagecoach and the driver steers the horses towards an old logging trail. It’s deep in the woods and not kept up anymore. At least not since the loggers abandoned it. Several years of abandonment can do strange things to any road; from ruts caused by the run off of rainwater to trees and bushes growing in its center. With all the ruts in the road, the ride is uncomfortable. Several times, we helped the driver remove knocked down trees and boulders that blocked the road. As luck would have it, two miles outside of Lexington the stagecoach brakes down. The last rut caused the right rear wheel to collapse.

  Looking at the damaged wheel, my dad says, “Joe it’s a good thing we packed light.” As I hand him his satchel he continues, “I’d hate to carry more than during our two mile walk.”

  Before we leave the wagon, the driver asks my dad, “Sir, may I impose on you to let the livery stable know where I’m at. Also tell him to send a new wheel, with men to help me put it on. I plan on staying with the stagecoach and horses. I’m afraid if I leave them; they may not be here when I come back.” After my dad agrees, the driver continues, “Sir, you’ll save valuable time, if instead of following the road you cut through the woods. When you get to the clearing, you’ll see Lexington.”

  With our bags, over our shoulders, we take the drivers advice and head into the woods. Since it was mostly downhill, we make good time. I try not to laugh when my dad steps on some slippery leaves and on one foot, he slides several feet downhill. If it wasn’t for a big oak tree getting in his way, he would have slid further. After giving the tree a kiss, my dad straightens his clothes, looks at me and miles.

  Finally, we’re out of the woods and just like the driver said, we see Lexington. Even with all the mishaps, we still arrive earlier than expected. The new route is considerably shorter, but not something, I want to take again.  

  After notifying the livery stable’s owner, where the coach is, we go to the general store, where my dad pays for the two plows along with some of the items that my mom wanted.

  With that accomplished, we go outside and sit on a bench, waiting for Luke to arrive. Tired of waiting, I ask my dad, if I can walk around and see if any of my friends are in town. Dad waves me away as he tips his hat to take a nap.

  I walk around the town twice. No one is around; even the ones who live in town are gone. Then I remember it’s the start of planting season, so they must all be working in the fields. To get spending money, my friends that don’t work in their family’s business, will hire themselves out to work the fields. I was hoping to talk to them and get some firsthand information about what happened here. 

  While walking around town, I notice something strange. All the horse traffic was on the right. We’ve always ridden our horses on the left side of the road. In the Civilized World, everyone rode on the left-hand side. No one rode on the right. 

  I ask a passerby, “when did this happen, why is everyone riding on the right?” 

  The passerby replies, “we decided to do this at last last night’s town meeting. No longer will we be ruled by England’s laws. Some even wanted to change the way we speak; thankfully, the majority voted that down. German just wouldn’t do and Dutch is only spoken by a few. I myself would have preferred French, but no one agreed, which is good because I can’t speak that either. We finally concurred that to learn a new language is something we didn’t want to do. So, as other towns did, we decided to show our contempt for England by changing the way we ride our horses on the roads. It’s something I believe will catch on throughout the Colonies.” 

  As I look around, I wonder if we are really at war with England. Except for the horses being ridden on the right side of the road, nothing seems to have changed. Then it hits me, to find the latest news, I need to buy a newspaper. While approaching, The Lexington Daily, the editor comes out and posts a sign. A special printing just became available and I was eager to read the latest news. I wanted to know what happened when the British arrived in Concord. At the rest stop, the stable owner’s son told us the British retreated to Boston and put blockades across all the roads leading in and out of town. He also mentioned his Father is one of the Minutemen that have Boston surrounded. After buying the paper, I walk back to the general store and sit down next to my dad, who is still sleeping. Before I begin to read the paper, my dad starts snoring. I don’t know how my mom can stand it.

  Ignoring my dad’s snoring, I read the editor’s note. After interviewing several of our brave minutemen and witnessing the interrogation of two British prisoners, I’m able to piece together what happened to the hapless Brits. Realizing, this is going to be more of a story; than a dry account of what happened, I eagerly read on.

  When the British entered Concord, with the aid of a map supplied by a Loyalist, they stop in the church’s courtyard.

  The British Officer points to an old well and tells two of his soldiers, “according to the map, that old well has an entrance to a cave. This is where most of the muskets will be. I need one of you to go down there and tell me if this is correct.” 

  The two soldiers go up to the well and drop a rock into it. They barely hear a thump as the rock hits the bottom. The British Officer, realizing the two will not fit into the well, sends three more men, along with the shortest and skinniest one in the group, to the old well. The skinny trooper, whom everyone affectionately calls “Short Shirt”, strips down to his shirt pants and boots. Grabbing a lit lantern, Short Shirt is boosted up on the wall of the well; puts one foot into the bucket and is lowered into the well.

  Reaching the bottom, Short Shirt looks around and sees a small opening. Reluctantly, he steps into the mud and crawls through the small opening. Entering the room, which is high enough for him to stand in, he notices that it could have held an arsenal, but now it’s empty.

  Ten minutes go by before Short Shirt, steps into the bucket and shouts, “OK, BRING ME UP. I found what I came for and please hurry, it really smells bad down here.” 

  After struggling to reel, Short Shirts, to the top, no one would help Short Shirt out of the bucket. He was covered with brown filth and smelled terrible. As he struggles, to get out of the bucket, he drops the object he carried out of the well. Finally, on the ground, Short Shirts picks up the rusted musket, that he dropped earlier, and brings it to the Officer to inspect.

  The Officer, holding a handkerchief over his face says, “I sent you down there for muskets and look what you bring me. What am I supposed to do with that thing?” 

  Disappointed, the Officer orders Short Shirt to go to the livery stable and wash up.  What the British didn’t know, is
the Patriots were forewarned and removed all the firearms and ammunition before the British arrived. As a joke, the Patriots left behind those rusted muskets and broken lances for the British to find. 

  Now, about that foul smell, after they removed the weapons, out of the old well, the Patriots emptied the contents of an outhouse into it.  They knew they couldn’t use the dried up well anymore, so it didn’t matter.  After the British leave, the Patriots plan to dismantle the old well and fill in the hole. With that done, they will search for a place to dig a real well.  The growing town needs more water. The only thing keeping them from digging a new well is hiring a Dowser. Unfortunately the only one around is in stuck in Boston.  

  Now, with their mission a flop, the British marched back towards Boston. As they approached the North Bridge, several Patriots block their path. This time both sides expected a fight. After two volleys, the Patriots retreated allowing the British to continue towards Boston. At both confrontations, the Patriots accomplished nothing. They weren’t able to stop the British. This angered them so much; the outnumbered Patriots changed their tactics, and continued fighting the British.

  After agreeing to the tactic, one Patriot said, “If we can’t stop them, we’ll at least hurt them.” 

  The Patriots knew that British Soldiers travel in columns of two.  Not so, with the Patriots, they hid behind trees, bushes, fences, and anything else that offers concealment.  As the British passed, the Patriots fired at them and before the British could retaliate, they ran away. They did this all the way to Concord.

  Because of the way the British train their soldiers, the Patriots hit and run tactics severely hampered them.  Unless ordered, British Soldiers are not allowed to fire their weapons. By the time they get those orders, the Patriots are gone and waiting for them down the road.

  At the end of each confrontation, the British stop to load their dead and wounded in their supply wagons.  After the second ambush, the British Officer dismounts his horse, gives it to a soldier and sends him to Boston for reinforcements.   

  Only in open areas are the British safe from the Patriots.  At about the halfway point, between Lexington and Boston, the British enter a large clearing. In the middle of the clearing, the Officer lets his men have a much needed rest. 

  While resting, the Officer has guards posted. Two in front and three in the rear of the group.  He wants to be warned, if the Patriots come out of the woods, while his men are digging graves for their dead comrades.  Since, several supply wagons are full of dead soldiers; room needs to be made for the wounded that can barely walk. 

  Since there is nothing left, but a road with trees and bushes on both sides, between them and the safety of Boston. They need to travel as fast as they can; without the look of a scared mob.

  As they prepare to dig the graves, one forward guard runs towards them shouting, “EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING, SIR COME OVER HERE.”   He stops when he gets the attention of the Officer and continues shouting as he points to the woods, “THE REINFORCEMENTS, THE REINFORCEMENTS, THE REINFORCEMENTS; THEY’VE FINALLY ARRIVED.”   

  A rescue party of over several hundred men, in wagons, emerges out of the woods. After loading the wounded and dead on the wagons, as the Officers meet, the two groups wait for orders.  

  The Officer, who commanded the reinforcements, takes command of all the troops.  He is more knowledgeable on fighting against hit-and-run attacks.  He mounts his horse and calls the troops to attention. 

  As he rides up and down the line, he says, “MEN, here are the things I want you to do.  Line up in four columns.”  He waits until they do what he requested.  “Now, arrange yourself by height, with the shortest men in rows one and four.  Then I want the tallest men in rows two and three.”  Again, he waits until his order is accomplished.  “Good, now do not shoulder your muskets; cradle them in your left arms.  Now listen carefully to what I have to say. The side fired upon and the row next to them, without waiting for orders, will shoot back.  The other two columns will stand at the ready, and wait for another attack.” 

  The Officer’s horse must sense danger and acts nervous. “By doing this, when attacked, we’ll be able to deliver a massive volley of fire at the attackers before they can run away.  Your huge cluster of musket balls will level everything in its path; small trees, tall weeds, and cowardly Yankees.  Using this tactic, if we’re immediately attacked, from the other side of the road, we’ll have men ready to fire at them.”  

  No sooner than the last Brit enters the wooded road, the Patriots attack. The shock of losing several men takes the Patriots by surprise; so they change their tactics. Now, after firing at the British, the Patriots would immediately drop to the ground and wait for the British to fire their weapons before running away. This happened repeatedly, until the British reached the safety of Boston.

  As I finish reading the newspaper, I lay the paper on my lap and think, WOW that is some story…

  I’m startled, when someone behind me says, “SO, how was your trip?” When I regain my composure, my brother Luke continues, “Joe, what do you think should we wake our dad up?”

  I get up and hug my brother, “Luke, it’s good to see you.” Then, I look at my dad, who is sleeping peacefully and say, “I think we better wake him, it’s getting late.”

  Dad, while still groggy, helps us secure the luggage and plows on the empty hay wagon. Not wanting to feel crowded, I volunteered to stand behind Luke and lean against one of the plows.  

  As we ride out of town, I ask, “Luke, what do you think of the new riding law the council passed the other night?” 

  Luke replies, “I’m for anything anti-British; once you get used to it, it’s not bad. The hardest part is remembering which side of the wagon to sit on.” 

  During the short ride, I decide I want to get involved in the conflict. I can’t shake the feeling that we were invaded and; in my mind, that’s not right. For now, the best I can do is tending to the crops. An Army still needs food, horses, and other things grown and raised on a farm. My father, like other Patriots, agrees to take promissory notes from the Continental Army until Congress authorizes payment. Some enterprising entrepreneurs will sell to both sides.   

  As we approach the farm, I ask my father, “Why do some British Soldiers call us Yanks?  When they do, why do you and others just smile and say thanks?” 

  After a long pause, dad replies, “it’s a game that some of us play.  It makes some of the soldiers mad when we say thanks and walk away.” 

  What I didn’t realize at the time is when a Brit calls someone a Yank; he is trying to belittle him. The Colonists, refusing to be intimidated decided that the word Yank is a badge of honor. Lexington’s Tinsmith proudly displayed a sign “Manufactured by a Yank” over his shop’s door. Another had “Yank You,” embroidered on his vest. Not to be outdone, one Patriot had “Yankee and Proud,” put on the back of his vest. Mrs. B. Ross, the town’s embroiderer, couldn’t keep up with the orders for customized vests and scarfs, including banners. The ones who couldn’t afford the embroidering would sew macaroni on their vests or hats. 

  When the newspaper wrote about how Molly helped a cannon crew load their cannon; the girls stitched “WAY TO GO MOLLY” on their dresses. Some even tried joining the Army. Unfortunately, the Army didn’t accept female combatants. Many formed groups that would aid our Militia by caring for its wounded. They even convinced the Militia to show them how to load and fire muskets; if overrun by the British, they wanted to defend themselves.     

   In the coming months, a call “TO ARMS” is a rallying cry in every city, town, and village throughout the Colonies.  Even though my parents are Patriots, they also were against me joining what they called, Washington’s Army. Like all parents, they didn’t want their boy to become injured or worse. 

  The idea of receiving money to fight the British appealed to many, especially those with no jobs.
  I believe the older boys joined Washington’s Army, for a fancy uniform, to impress the young women.  Like them, I also wanted a fancy uniform to impress the fairer sex. 

  I would have joined earlier, but held back because of the promise I made to my parents. I promised them I’d stay until the end of the harvest.    

  It was a long harvest; I kept counting the days until it’s over. With the last of the hay stored in the barn, that night at the dinner table, my parents reluctantly decide to let me join the fighting. They knew if they forced me to stay, like so many others, I would probably run away. At least if they let me go, although unwillingly, they would know where I was and will be able to write to me. Some of my friends ran away from home, and their parents never heard from them again. My parents considered their decision the lesser of two evils.  

  As we were finishing dinner, dad says, “I don’t suppose I can convince you to stay?” 

  I reply, “Dad, if it wasn’t so late, I would have already been gone.” 

  The next morning, after having a hearty breakfast, I packed some food and clothes into a sack.  Bidding my family good-bye, I sling the sack over my shoulder, turn and walk out the front door.  As they stood in the doorway, watching me walk down the road, my dad with tearing eyes, did his best not to cry.  My mom could not hold back the tears and buried her head in her husband’s shoulder.  Luke just waved good-bye.  They all feared they would never see me again.