The Bastard

by John Jakes

  The regulars are coming out.

  From the slant of the sun, Philip judged the time to be near eleven o’clock. He stood next to O’Brian on the Muster Field, a high hilltop place well back from the north side of the road that led west from the river bridge.

  As the mounted officers resumed their conference, he wiped his sweating forehead. Squinted at the white clouds sailing calm and stately overhead. His mouth was dry, with a metallic taste. Was this how it felt when a man faced death in battle?

  Because there was no longer any doubt that the stage was set for conflict. Just down the hillside, invisible from the Muster Field to which the militiamen had retreated, British units in their brilliant, blazing red had crossed the bridge to the west side—

  It still seemed unreal.

  So did the whole morning. Since first light, he’d lived through a terrifyingly swift sequence of events. Events far different from any his wildest imagination had ever conjured in Auvergne. Or London or Boston, for that matter.

  Through it all, he’d searched for Anne. He hadn’t seen her—nor her father, thank God.

  Perhaps he’d only missed her by moments. But that was no comfort. Not now.

  ii

  He and O’Brian had arrived in Concord at dawn. People were everywhere: armed men tramping in from the hills, others still moving stores to new hiding places. In dooryards, women gathered with their sleepy children, whispering, their faces drawn.

  About six o’clock, a scout brought news from Lexington.

  Many companies of British soldiers were indeed on the march. At Lexington green, the arriving redcoats and Captain Parker’s minutemen had exchanged shots. The scout had spurred his horse away at the first sounds of firing. Thus, he couldn’t answer what seemed to be everyone’s question—including O’Brian’s:

  Were the British firing ball or only noisy powder?

  The scout swiped at his mouth. “I do not know. But I think it probable they were using ball.”

  The man could offer no more definite information as to who had fired first, the Crown soldiers or some hot-tempered colonial. But the stunning truth spread throughout the village in a few minutes, casting a new pall—

  Shots exchanged.

  A war of words had turned to a war in fact.

  The Concord companies formed up and marched out toward Lexington before seven, to probe the enemy’s strength.

  A slender country fellow Philip knew as Hosmer beat time on his drum as they trudged east in the steadily brightening light. At that hour, the column comprised not many more than a hundred men, drab in their plain shirts, their farm-muddied boots and trousers.

  Someone let out a yell, pointed. Away in the east, Philip and the others spied the head of what seemed a great red serpent crawling along the level road to meet them—

  Several hundred grenadiers and light infantrymen at least. Preceded by their musicians thudding drums and tootling fifes. Bayonets glittered in the rising sun. Ornamental plates on the tall black caps of the grenadiers winked like mirrors. Crossbelts and pipe-clayed breeches showed brilliant white. The music and the sound of their coming filled the countryside.

  Colonel Barrett reined in, scowling. A moment later he ordered his companies to turn about and countermarch. The men in the colorfully faced red uniforms pouring along the road far outnumbered Barrett’s force. There might be as many as five hundred or a thousand approaching, their brave music louder by the moment.

  So on Barrett’s order, the Concord companies preceded their enemies back to the village, keeping in surprisingly good formation and showing no panic. But their own riffling drum and single fife were all but drowned out by the massed instruments behind them.

  A strange procession indeed, Philip thought as he tramped back into town. He and his companions marched—even joked—as if that immense scarlet serpent didn’t exist—

  The officers spurred ahead to warn the women and old men to retreat to their homes. The flood of armed redcoats would be sweeping into Concord before another hour was up—!

  The militiamen kept in their ranks and halted on command. Philip again searched the scurrying clusters of townspeople for a glimpse of Anne. He didn’t see her.

  He reflected with a grim amusement that the colonials had almost behaved like a sort of advance honor guard for their foes—music competing against music in the warmth of the April morning. Toward the end, Hosmer had actually picked up and matched the cadence of the British drums.

  As the British tattoo grew still louder, officers and townsmen argued briefly. Some, the Reverend Emerson for one, wanted an immediate confrontation right in the village. Barrett finally overruled the hotter tempers. The supplies in town had now been reasonably well hidden, he said. No one as yet had a clear indication of how thorough—or how violent—the British search would be.

  “And if it does come to battle, the longer we wait, the better. We’ll have more men from the neighboring towns.”

  Many questioned Barrett’s decision loudly and angrily. But no one disobeyed when he gave the order for the men to march.

  They headed up the road in the direction of North Bridge and the high ground of the Muster Field. On the way, scouts reported that the British bandsmen had broken formation. Retreated to the rear of the column. Some light infantry companies were leaving the road, scaling the ridge on their right to search for hostile forces—

  Once across the bridge, Barrett ordered his officers to clear the hillside of a considerable number of townsmen and farm families who had waded the river to watch any forthcoming action. Looking back during the ascent to the Muster Field, Philip saw red and white uniforms through the trees lining the road from Concord.

  Six or seven companies of light infantry, it looked like. Moving westward—no doubt to find the supplies at Barrett’s farm.

  The colonel left Major Buttrick in command as the country soldiers reached the hilltop. Barrett galloped off to his farm for a last-minute check of the hidden stores.

  The sun grew hotter.

  The British companies advanced across the bridge. Three deployed on the river’s west bank. The other four marched on toward Barrett’s, to the steady thumping of the drums.

  Soon Barrett came riding back, having circled wide to elude the searchers. He dismounted on the brow of the hill and surveyed the situation down at the bridge.

  All the time, more men arrived. From the south, from the north, they flowed in singly and in groups. The sun kept climbing toward the zenith.

  Philip and the others fidgeted while Barrett spoke with his officers. The morning wind blew warm across the hilltop.

  Word circulated that Barrett was gambling on the main thrust of search and seizure being aimed at his farm. Perhaps all that the redcoats left in town wanted to do was show their authority—by means of their presence.

  Before long, however, he was proved wrong. About ten, a man slipped across the river. He reported that the leader of the expeditionary force, a Lieutenant Colonel Smith, had established a command post at Wright’s. His soldiers were scouring the town for stores.

  With restraint, the spy said. The townspeople were not being abused—or even touched. But sacks of bullets and barrels of flour were being pitched gleefully into the millpond by the redcoats. That remained the extent of the damage to the moment—

  The whole action seemed hesitant, Philip thought. It was as if the British still hoped to bring the colonists to heel without violence. Could the report from Lexington have been exaggerated? The possibility helped him breathe a little easier—

  Especially about Anne. Wherever she might be in town, her safety seemed more certain than it had a few hours ago.

  Then, just before eleven, the black plume of smoke climbed into the sky.

  From the Muster Field, it wasn’t possible to see what buildings were afire. But the meaning of the smoke column seemed unmistakable. One of Barrett’s adjutants confronted him angrily:

  “Damn it, sir, will you let them burn the town down?
”

  A few moments later, Barrett gave the command to load with ball.

  iii

  Hosmer struck up his drumbeat again. In a column of twos, the country soldiers marched to the edge of the hill and started down.

  From his position alongside Martin O’Brian, Philip saw the Irish farmer grin a hard grin. And realized Barrett’s strategy had been sound. The double file trailing away ahead and behind surely must total five hundred by now. The three British companies on this side of the bridge appeared to number no more than a hundred or a hundred and twenty at most.

  Barrett sat his horse at the crest of the hillside. As Philip and the others trudged past, he kept repeating a stern command:

  “Don’t fire first. If there’s to be shooting, don’t fire first!”

  Philip’s heart beat hard, almost matching the rhythm of Hosmer’s drum. Below him, the head of the column reached level ground, turned in the direction of the bridge. The whole proceedings still did not seem quite real—

  Except for that black pillar of smoke over the treetops that screened out all sight of the village.

  “Hah, look! They’re scurrying back!” O’Brian rasped cheerfully.

  As the British officers shouted commands, the three companies hastily formed up and faced about. In a moment, their cadenced marching hammered the planks of the bridge. Hosmer’s drum beat furiously in answer.

  Barrett spurred down the hillside to the head of the column, his eyes narrowed against the April sun. Philip and O’Brian reached the road, turned left after the men ahead of them. Across the murmuring river, Philip could see little except a rush and flash of scarlet-clad forms. The light infantry companies were dividing, one moving to each flank of the third company, which now faced toward the far end of the bridge.

  The men of this company were drawn up in street-fighting formation—three ranks, one behind the other. The sun shone on the brown barrels of their muskets, flashed from their bayonets as the first rank knelt. The second rank moved up close behind.

  Barrett shouted, “Faster cadence, drummer!”

  Boldly, the colonel headed his horse out ahead of the double file. The first in line were men from the town of Acton, Philip believed.

  Barrett rode to within shouting distance of the bridge as half a dozen redcoats frantically started trying to rip up the planks on the far side.

  “Leave the bridge alone!” Barrett bawled in a threatening voice.

  Philip heard no order given. But suddenly the muskets of the kneeling front rank of the central British company exploded.

  Smoke—spurts of fire—

  At the head of the militia column, the captain of the Acton contingent pitched over.

  Hosmer’s drumming stopped in mid-beat as he toppled. Blood from his throat spilled red over his drumhead—

  Barrett’s horse screamed and shied from the thunderous volley. Somewhere Buttrick’s voice rang out:

  “Fire, for God’s sake—fire!”

  Drawn up two by two in the long column, only the foremost militiamen had a clear shot. But seconds after the British fired, and without any specific command, the men in the rear of the column broke for both sides of the road.

  Philip ran to the right, O’Brian the other way. Over the racketing of the muskets, Philip heard the Irishman’s enraged yell:

  “God damn it, they are firing ball!”

  Philip dropped to one knee in the marsh grass. He hit the musket’s muzzle to send powder through the touchhole, braced the piece against his shoulder—and for one awful instant amid the shouting, the rattling fire from the militiamen, the confused yells and orders, the blowing smoke, his very will seemed frozen—

  Across the narrow bridge, he saw an officer down. Another fell. The kneeling front ranks scrambled up, dropped behind to permit the second rank an unobstructed aim. Finally, Philip’s finger tightened—

  Tightened—

  Taking an eternity, it seemed.

  It had come.

  In the cries of pain, the corpses of the drummer and the Acton captain, he heard and saw the end of the settled world he’d hoped for—

  Gone. All gone this April morning—

  He fired.

  He reeled back against the musket’s kick, saw a light infantryman at the far end of the bridge spin and sprawl on his face. Whether Philip’s own ball had scored the hit, or a ball fired from another of the crackling muskets, he did not know for certain.

  But he knew an era had ended and another had begun, for himself and for all the shouting, cursing Americans who leveled their weapons and continued firing on the King’s soldiers across the river.

  iv

  The colonials never fully understood the reason for what happened next.

  Over the long months in which the conflict had been building to this climax, many who had openly predicted that war would come had, at the same time, reminded their listeners of one more fact. Haphazardly drilled, poorly equipped Massachusetts farmers would be no match for regimental troops that had fought honorably all over the world—and won.

  And yet, with his own eyes, Philip witnessed the astounding aftermath of the exchange of volleys—one from each side.

  Even as he crouched in the long grass and frantically rammed home his next load, he saw the crack British light infantrymen break ranks. Carrying or dragging their dead and wounded, they plunged back up the road to Concord.

  Not in formation. Running—like a mob in panic. Their passage raised clouds of dust.

  No one could explain the frantic retreat. Was it caused by the surprising courage of the double file that had marched down the hillside to confrontation without cover? Was it produced by the American musket fire, a thunder more intimidating in its noise than its accuracy? Or was it the result of the British simply never expecting any resistance at all?

  Whatever the reason, the redcoats fled. Without plan and without pattern, they fled—while Barrett rallied his men, Philip among them.

  The colonel led his troops over the bridge. At the east end, a young, tow-haired redcoat lay on his face, shot through the back. Caught by a ball when the front rank moved away so the second could fire? Who would ever know?

  Philip trudged by the fallen soldier. The boy’s shoulders moved slightly. He was still alive. One of the Americans spat on him. But no one touched him.

  The militiamen followed Barrett, moving in ragged formation. Some three hundred yards from the bridge, the colonel led them up a hillside. On command, they sprawled in the long meadow grass behind a low stone wall, to await orders or the next action.

  In the distance, Philip spied companies of grenadiers in their tall, glossy black caps moving out from the blowing smoke that still hid most of the village. The grenadiers—reinforcements for the bridge—met the noisy, panic-stricken light infantrymen running the other way. Perhaps there was some plan to re-form the entire force, return and confront the enemy. It never materialized. In a few minutes, all the troops had disappeared back into the smoke.

  Philip lay with the grass tickling his cheek. He was still stunned by the significance of the brief battle. They had fired on the King’s troops.

  The other men resting behind the wall were equally stunned—and equally quiet. After their first triumphant yells at the bridge, a strange silence had settled on them. It continued as the tramp of more marching feet sounded from the direction of the river.

  Philip raised on one elbow, caught sight of the companies that had marched to Barrett’s re-crossing the bridge at quick-step. He glanced down the line of the wall, searched for an officer. But Barrett, Buttrick and the others in charge had disappeared.

  He asked about them. A man four places down said they’d crept away along the ridge to survey the town at closer range. There was no one to issue a command to fire as the four companies tramped by along the road directly below—well within musket range.

  Not a shot rang out. Barely a mumbled curse could be heard from the men crouched behind the stone wall. Did they all feel what
he felt? Dread? One skirmish did not make a successful revolution—

  The noise of the returning companies gradually died away. A jay circled in the hot, still air above the watching farmers. The bird shrilled at them.

  By noon, the British expeditionary force had taken the road back to Lexington. Concord lay quiet in the April light.

  v

  Everywhere, it seemed, men were running again. Excited now, jubilant. Making bawdy, contemptuous jokes about the Crown soldiers.

  The hilltops around Concord were black with running figures—musket-armed countrymen still pouring in from all points of the compass. Many marched in across South Bridge.

  Receiving hasty orders in the village street, they hurried out again to climb and move along the ridges that overlooked the highway back to Lexington and Boston.

  When the fact of the British departure was certain, Philip and the rest had descended the hillside and raced back to the village. There, along with other chagrined officers and men, they discovered the cause of the smoke that had precipitated the march from the Muster Field, and the subsequent volleys.

  Far from burning the town, grenadiers under Smith’s command had simply found several gun carriages among the stores cached in Concord’s meeting house. They had dragged the carriages into the open and set them alight. Philip stared ruefully at the charred, smoldering remains. He shook his head with a dour amusement. So easily did war begin. By a mistake, a wrong judgment—

  All around him, men with muskets kept moving out toward the east. North of the village he saw them thick on the ridges. Someone in the crowd seized his arm.

  He whirled, recognized O’Brian, his blue eyes fierce.

  “Come along, come along, Philip! We’re to give chase. We’ll chivy them all the way back to Boston, damned if we won’t!”

  “Pack of strutting peacocks!” another man yelled. “Marching with their God damn fifes and drums—we showed ’em, I’ll say!”

  “Aye,” a third agreed. “They fired ball and they’ll get ball in return—from now on.”