~~~~
The waiting was terrible.
Fourteen-year-old Will Leighton lay stretched out flat on his stomach behind a granite wall, his musket propped between two boulders and trained on the ominously still road along which the King's troops would come.
Easy! He told himself, his heart pounding. You're a man now! A grownup! But he was so tense he felt sick. So jittery he kept forgetting to breathe. Off to his right, several others, all members of the Woburn militia under Major Loammi Baldwin, also lay hidden. None of them looked as nervous as he felt. Eyes flinty beneath their tricorns, they stared toward the road.
Waiting.
Will tried to imitate their gritty expressions, but all he could hear was the fierce pounding of his heart. His elbows dug into the spongy, rain-soaked earth. Dampness seeped up through his clothes, chilling his skin, making him shiver. In the maple above, a chickadee flitted from branch to branch, trilling its innocent song: chickadee-dee-dee; chickadee-dee-dee.
And from fifteen feet away, Baldwin spoke the words they'd all been waiting for:
"Here they come. Get ready, boys, to let 'em have it."
And now Will felt a sensation like needles prickling all up and down his spine as he heard it too: Dogs, barking an alarm from somewhere down the road. Distant shouts, sporadic musketfire, the steady rattle and stamp of hundreds of approaching men. Will's hand went sweaty and began to shake. Any moment now, the king's troops, on their way back to Boston after what everyone said was terrible fighting at Concord, would come around the bend and into view.
He swallowed, the taste of fear metallic on his tongue. Nearby, his cousin Tom narrowed his eyes, spat, and brought his musket to full-cock.
"Oh, we'll let 'em have it, all right. Come on, you bastards . . . We've been waiting for this moment for years."
And come they did. Will's eyes widened and his heart quailed as the troops, nearly a thousand men strong, streamed around the bend like a river of blood. They were an awesome and terrible sight. Mounted officers in scarlet coats rode alongside them waving swords and barking orders. Sunlight flashed from bayonets, gorgets and pewter buttons. But closer scrutiny revealed the signs of battle. Many, limping painfully, had all they could do to walk; others were borne on litters and in carts, and still others were so bloody that their breeches, snow white only hours earlier, were as red as their wool coats. There was exhaustion in their eyes. Desperation in their faces.
But Will, who'd heard all about what had happened at both Lexington and Concord earlier this day, felt no pity.
And neither did Baldwin as he roared, "Fire!"
From both sides of the road, a barrage of musket shot slammed into the unsuspecting troops, catching them in a deadly crossfire. Horses, screaming, bolted in terror. Soldiers fell dead as colonial muskets banged out, instantly cutting them down. Redcoat officers, shouting commands, sent their horses charging to and fro, trying to restore order and organize the troops into fighting formation, and soon answering volleys of shot were plowing into the surrounding trees and enveloping the rocky pasture in thick, acrid smoke.
Discharging his musket and retreating behind a massive oak, Will reloaded, his hands shaking so badly that he spilled half his black powder down his leg. He rammed the ball and wadding home, his nerves shot as all around him yelling minutemen ran past, diving behind rocks and trees to aim and fire and reload once more. He brought his musket up again, just in time to see a wild-eyed young ensign break rank and sprint toward them from out of the drifting smoke, leaping a stone wall and yelling at the top of his lungs, "Come out and fight fairly you cowards, you damned rebel wretches! Show yourselves and do battle like brave men, not skulking Indians!"
"Gillard, get back!" shouted a redcoat captain, splendid in scarlet and white, the blue facings of his uniform proclaiming him to be one of the King's Own — and sent his horse charging down on the runaway ensign at a full gallop.
Tom narrowed his eyes and raised his musket. "He's mine, the son of a bitch."
And fired.
Will would remember it for the rest of his life: The deafening roar of Tom's musket. Half the young ensign's face going up in a fountain of blood. His body seeming to trip and somersault, rolling over and over in the just-greening grass before it slammed up against the granite wall that Will had just vacated.
"Got 'im!" crowed Tom, thrusting his musket skyward a second before a ball sliced through his neck, instantly killing him.
Will had no time to react, for at that very moment the captain's horse exploded out of the smoke, sailing over the stone wall like an apparition. Five feet from where the ensign lay screaming in agony, he pulled the animal up and leaped from the saddle. Ignoring the lead whining about him, he ran to the young soldier, lifted him in his arms and carried him back toward the fretting, wild-eyed horse.
Will stood transfixed. Never had he seen such steely courage, such selfless devotion to a subordinate. The captain's hawkish face was hard, his eyes the December-ice clarity of aquamarine, and as he turned his back on Will and gently hoisted the soldier up into the saddle, Will knew he was going to have to kill him.
He leaped out of hiding.
Fired.
And oh my God missed.
The captain turned his cool, level stare on Will, one pale, arched brow lifting with the sort of surprised annoyance that any well-seasoned warrior might show a colonial bumpkin trying to irritate the finest army in the world. Will's stomach flipped over. Nausea strangled his throat. Too terrified even to reload, he froze as the captain picked up his ensign's musket and trained it dead-center on Will's chest. The blue eyes, so competent, so self-assured, so very, very dangerous, narrowed a second before the redcoat would have blown him into eternity.
"Don't shoot!" Will squeaked, and his voice cracked, revealing his age — or rather lack of it.
The captain realized Will's youth at the same moment the weapon discharged and jerked the musket skyward, trying to deflect his fire. Flames roared from that long and terrible muzzle, shooting straight over Will's head. The gun's fierce kick, combined with the unnatural angle at which it had been fired, threw the officer off balance. As he stepped backward to regain it, his heel sank into a hollow in the soft April earth and he fell straight into the wall of granite, the musket flying from his hand and the back of his skull striking one sharp, lichen-caked boulder with an awful, thudding crack. For a moment, he seemed to gaze up at Will in astonishment as he lay there spread-eagled against the rocks; then the pale blue eyes lost focus and clouded over, their thick lashes coming down like a curtain on the last act as his head slid sideways, leaving a smear of blood on the boulder behind him.
For a moment, Will stared at the dead man in horror.
Then he turned and fled.
Letter from General Thomas Gage, Commander-In-Chief of His Majesty's forces, to Lucien de Montforte, His Grace the Duke of Blackheath . . .
My dear Duke,
I regret to inform you that whilst on a mission to Concord to seize arms that the rebels had secreted there, your brother, Captain Lord Charles de Montforte, was engaged in fighting and fatally injured. From all accounts, His Lordship fought bravely and selflessly, bringing glory to his family's name and tears throughout his regiment upon confirmation of his death.
Enclosed herein is the regimental gorget taken from Lord Charles's body immediately prior to burial in Concord, along with a letter that his servant, Billingshurst, found propped on his desk the day of his death. His dress regimentals will follow. I hope that these will bring you some comfort in this darkest of hours. Your brother was greatly respected and admired by both superiors and subordinates; he was ambitious and supremely confident in his own abilities, but like the best-loved commanders, never crossed that fine line into arrogance. He was an asset to this army, to his country, and a beloved friend to all who knew and served under and with him.
Respectfully yours,
Genl. Thomas Gage
The Wild One Page 81
