FSF, January 2009

by Spilogale Authors

  "Oh, Proctor!” She wrung her hands. “Father says those rebels—that mob behind the tea party and everything since—they want to start a war!"

  He shook his head. “No, no one wants to start a war."

  "Brown!” The voice was stronger as the other three militia men marched around the bend.

  "I have to go, Emily."

  She stared meaningfully at the yellow ribbon tied to his canteen. “If my affections mean anything to you at all, Proctor Brown, you will not be part of any mob tonight."

  The creaking on the porch had stopped. Bess sat with her chin on her chest, the darning egg naked in her lap. Impulsively, Proctor took Emily's hand and leaned close to whisper. “You know the secret I told you, about the ... the things I see?"

  "Yes,” she said. “But what has that to do with—"

  "Sometimes I can see a short ways into the future. You might call it scrying."

  "It sounds like you mean witchcraft.” She tried to pull her hand away but he held on tight.

  "It's not like that,” he said. “It's like ... like the parable of the talents. God gave me this talent, and He meant me to use it, not bury it. I used it tonight, and I saw the Redcoats marching back to Boston. There won't be any war."

  Emily yanked her hand away and covered her mouth.

  "You done courting there, Brown?” Everett Simes's voice said, right behind him.

  "Yes, sir, I am,” Proctor said. He straightened up, slid his thumb under his powder horn strap to readjust it, and gave Emily a firm nod. “I was just telling Miss Rucke here there's nothing for her to worry about."

  "Good eve, Miss Rucke,” Everett said, squinting toward the east to see if dawn had poked its nose over the horizon. “Or maybe it's good day. It'd be best if your father didn't come out to visit you. With his support of the governor and all, he might find a welcome made of tar and feathers."

  "It's so pleasant to be threatened on my own front porch. I see the kind of company you've decided to keep, Mister Brown. Be so good as to call on me again when you can come alone.” She went over to the rocker and shook the slave awake. “Come, Bess, we should go inside. It's dangerous to be out here. Good day, gentlemen."

  "It won't come to shooting,” Proctor assured her.

  He stood watching the closed door for a moment before he rejoined the others. As they marched toward Lexington Green, he thought about whether he needed to go back to repair the situation with her. She was high-spirited—he loved that trait in her, though it meant she upset easily. She'd be fine once the current commotion had passed.

  The air grew colder and the men's breath frosted as they chatted. When the conversation came back around to the British, it shoved Proctor's thoughts back to that golden coin in his vision. He was sure God meant him to see it, but he didn't know what it meant.

  Lexington was close. They passed the burying ground, with grave markers thrust up from the darkness like tripstones. The four men went more quietly.

  Cattle lowed uneasily in the common pen as they came to the green. Lexington Green was a triangle where the country roads joined together headed for Boston. They passed the schoolhouse at the wide end and crossed the open grass toward the meeting house that sat at the point. Small groups of militia men moved like shadows across the green; maybe a dozen others, their faces lit by lanterns, gathered around a cask of ale outside one of the houses that faced the green.

  "Don't look like they're ready for the Redcoats,” Munroe muttered. “If'n they're comin'."

  "Don't look like there's more'n fifty men here total,” Everett said.

  "But a thousand Redcoats are marching from Boston!” Arthur said. “How will we fight ‘em?"

  "There won't be any fighting—"

  Proctor's opinion was interrupted by a ragged volley of musketfire east of the green. He fumbled for his powder horn.

  Old Munroe laughed at him, planted the butt-end of his weapon in the ground and leaned on it. “I think that's thems as made up their minds to enter Buckman's tavern."

  That's when Proctor heard casual whoops and laughter from the same direction. But of course—you couldn't carry a loaded weapon into a tavern. He relaxed, chuckling at himself.

  "We could go to the tavern,” Arthur suggested hopefully, and his uncle glared at him.

  "That'll be the best place to find Cap'n Parker,” Munroe said. “He uses it as his headquarters when the militia drills."

  As they headed toward the tavern, a man came out and crossed the road toward the green. Proctor would've walked past him, but Monroe stopped and lifted his chin in greeting.

  "Good evening to you, Cap'n."

  The man stopped. Parker was a tall man in his mid-forties, with a large head and high brow. He coughed into his hand, sick with consumption—both his eyes and his cheeks were sunken—but too stubborn to give in to it. “Good evening, Robert. Who're your friends?"

  "These are the Simes, cousins from up by Lincoln,” Munroe answered. “And this is Brown. We picked him up on the road in."

  "We're grateful for your hike, but it doesn't ‘pear as though we'll see any Redcoats tonight after all,” he told them, his voice stronger than Proctor expected. “I'm giving men permission to disperse to their homes."

  Everett sighed loudly. “But if I go home now I'll have to plow and my ox in't fit for it."

  Parker smiled and excused himself to take the same message over to the men gathered at Munroe's house. Arthur yawned and stared down the road toward Boston. “Guess we wasted our time."

  "Not Proctor,” Munroe said. “At least he had the chance to visit his sweetheart."

  "And next time I see her, I can tell her I was right, that nothing happened,” Proctor said.

  He was shifting the bag and horn on his shoulder for the march back home when a man ran onto the green shouting, “The Regulars have passed the Rocks—they're half a mile away!"

  Arthur's young face vacillated between thrill and terror. “What do we do?"

  "Keep a cool head,” Proctor said. “This'll be peaceful."

  Captain Parker headed back toward the tavern, pausing only long enough to send a man sprinting to the belfry outside the meeting house. In a second, the bells were clanging.

  Munroe chased Parker across the green. “Hey, cap'n!"

  Parker paused at the sound of his name. “Seems I spoke too hastily,” he said. “Would you parade with my company?"

  "That's why we came,” Munroe said firmly.

  Young Arthur pushed past his uncle. “I can stand in line too."

  Everett grumbled, “And do exactly as he's told."

  "Thank you all,” Parker said, and hurried off, calling for his drummer to beat to arms. The other three men moved to join the rest of Parker's company, but Proctor stood still.

  He had seen the Redcoats marching back to Boston. Nothing was going to happen.

  "You coming, Brown?” Everett said sharply.

  Proctor nodded, a bit numb, and followed them.

  For the next few moments, Lexington Green looked like an ant hill stirred up with a stick. A small boy beat his drum while the bells continued to ring their alarm overhead. Captain Parker shouted at the men to form a line at the wide end of the green. Men from the tavern reloaded their weapons as they ran to obey. Proctor and the other three took a spot on the far right end of the line. Anxious families gathered by the schoolhouse.

  One of the Lexington militia men left the line to go speak to his wife over by the schoolhouse. Parker ran him down, and shoved him back in line. “The time for second thoughts is done! Form up!"

  Old Munroe loaded his musket, fitted the ramrod in place under the barrel. He nudged Proctor. “You might want to feed that weapon if you plan to empty its guts."

  "I'll wait,” Proctor said. He looked down the line of men and made a quick count. “If it's sixty of us against a thousand Redcoats, there won't be any shooting."

  Arthur finished loading his fowling piece. “Here they come,” he said, his voice shaking. “
Here they come now."

  The Lexington drum was drowned out by the sound of other drummers, and the first Redcoats marched around the bend beyond the meeting house. To judge by the brogue, an Irishman set the pace—his accent carried across the green as he yelled the soldiers on. They came fast, for all their delay in getting this far, and once they started, they seemed to keep on coming, a long line of red uniforms stretching as far as the eye could see. Proctor tried to count them too, but the dawn twilight blurred their numbers. His heart began to pound—there were hundreds, maybe even a thousand of them. They formed a line with startling alacrity, several ranks deep, as wide as the green, not more than seventy yards away.

  But they would march back to Boston—he was sure of it.

  Three British officers on horses rode onto the green and galloped at the center of the colonial line. One waved a sword and yelled, “Throw down your arms! You rebels, throw down your arms, damn you!"

  A light flashed at the throat of the officer who shouted, and a sharp pain stabbed Proctor's eyes.

  "Did you see that light?” he asked.

  "No,” Munroe said. He was staring at the same officer. “Wouldn't mind a little light to aim by."

  Uncertainty fluttered in Proctor's throat. It was the light, the same one from his vision, but he had no idea what it meant. He reached into his hunting bag for a ball to load his musket. They might have to make one volley, just so the Redcoats could save face when they retreated.

  He had his ramrod in the barrel when Captain Parker approached the British officers. Parker met them eye to eye, speaking quietly; they blustered back, shouting orders at him to disarm his men.

  A cry came down the line. “Don't fire unless fired upon.” Everett took up the order and repeated it to Arthur. “Hold your fire—we're not to start any war."

  "But if they start it, we'll give it back to them,” Munroe said. He put his flints and lead balls into his hat and set it on the ground before him for quicker reloading. After a second, Everett copied him.

  Proctor finished loading his weapon and looked up to see the situation had quickly deteriorated. Two mounted officers cantered across the green, while the third one, the one with the golden light, shouted at Captain Parker.

  "Who is that?” he asked.

  "Sounds like Major Pitcairn,” Munroe said. “According to those what know him down in Boston, he's a real firebrand. Fearless in battle. The men go wherever he leads."

  That made Proctor even less easy of heart. The mass of Redcoats had grown so deep it was impossible to see if more were coming. Meanwhile, flashes of brown and russett showed behind the stone walls surrounding the green, where men too cowardly to join the line of the militia took cover. Women and children bunched by the cattle pen and between the houses that lined the commons, straining for a view.

  The Redcoats took up their battle cry, shouting, “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” The roar made Proctor's skin goose pimple. He saw Arthur pale, and Everett swallowed nervously.

  "There won't be any shooting,” Proctor whispered.

  Captain Parker finally turned away from Pitcairn, who was left mouth open in mid-rage, and walked back toward his company of militia.

  "They won't listen to reason and mean to disarm us,” he shouted down the line. “And we'll have none of that. Take your arms and disperse, go home at once."

  "What do we do?” Arthur asked his uncle, looking more like twelve than fifteen.

  "We'll disperse, that's the order,” Everett said.

  Proctor breathed a sigh of relief; maybe he could stop by and talk to Emily on the way home, make things better there.

  As the other men in the line started to break away in groups of two and three, Munroe pointed across the road behind them. “Let's stay off the main road. We'll circle the burying ground and cut back through the trees."

  "That sounds good,” Everett said, and he bent to pick up his hat and flints.

  But Pitcairn chased after Captain Parker, circling his horse and shouting. “Order them to lay down their arms, or by God every man on this field will end the day dead! Surrender, or you will die!"

  He pulled his pistol, as if sixty or more armed men at point blank range were nothing to fear, and aimed it at the Lexington militia captain. The golden coin of light at his throat was blindingly bright. Proctor squinted, realizing that he was the only one who saw it.

  And then time slowed down, just like a fish swimming beneath the frozen surface of a winter pond. Pitcairn's horse stamped and whinnied. Pitcairn leaned over and aimed his pistol at Captain Parker's back, clearly intending to shoot.

  Proctor felt a knot of tightness in his chest, the same as when he scryed. The other militia men had all turned away, or left. No one else could save Lexington's captain.

  "Hey!” Proctor raised his musket and aimed it at the shining circle of light.

  He heard a bang, like a chair slamming into the wall. When the smoke cleared from the end of his muzzle, Pitcairn stared at him. Untouched. He lowered his gun quickly before anyone could see what he'd done.

  "Boy, what did you just do?” Munroe asked.

  Scattered popping already echoed around the green and a second later the Redcoats’ line erupted in a wall of smoke shot with flame. Proctor turned to answer Munroe just in time to see the old man's head split open by a lead ball, flinging him backward in a spray of blood.

  What had he done? It wasn't supposed to happen this way. This wasn't what he'd seen.

  While these thoughts roiled through his head, his training kicked in and he started to reload. The jumbled Lexington militia responded to the Redcoats with ragged shots, but when the second British rank fired, men all around Proctor threw themselves to the ground.

  Some of them went down for a different reason. Everett had taken a ball through his leg and was trying to staunch the flow of blood. Arthur stared at his uncle; his shaking hand spilled gunpowder everywhere but into his barrel. Behind them women screamed and children shrieked, some running forward through the gunfire to check on their husbands and fathers, others scattering to their homes.

  Across the green, British officers shouted for the next rank of soldiers to step forward while the first finished reloading. Proctor tugged on Arthur's sleeve. “We best be on our way."

  "I'm staying! I'm—"

  "You take him,” Everett said through gritted teeth.

  Proctor didn't need permission. He grabbed the back of the boy's coat and dragged him across the road toward the cemetery. They ran with their heads down as the guns cracked and another round of lead buzzed over their heads. Behind them, a Redcoat shouted “Fix bayonets!” Proctor held on to Arthur, running past the smithy and into the graveyard, among the crosses and headstones.

  "We aren't going to take that,” Arthur said, twisting to get free. “We aren't just going to let them march in and tell us what to do and shoot us. We have to get my uncle!"

  Proctor tightened his fist on the boy's jacket and kept running. He glanced at his musket—the firing pan was empty, the hammer down—he'd shot a second time but he couldn't recall aiming or pulling the trigger.

  What he did recall was the way the Redcoats concentrated their fire around him, because he'd been the first to shoot. And Robert Munroe, who had survived the Indian wars alongside Proctor's father, was dead.

  How was he going to explain himself to his father?

  Or to Emily?

  Shouts behind them were followed by random shots. Proctor pushed Arthur's head down as they ran into the cover of the trees. “Left,” he said, guiding the boy with a shove—they'd have to get back to the road before they ran into the swamp.

  Proctor's vision from the scrying came back to him again. He hadn't just lied to his mother, he'd lied to himself.

  The smoke of muskets.

  The taste of black powder.

  The Redcoats running.

  Why had he assumed they were marching back to Boston? They were chasing the militia. And why in God's name had he felt compelled
to shoot at Pitcairn, the officer with the golden coin at his throat?

  "We need to find our company and report,” he told Arthur, who was too stunned to respond. The real battle was only beginning.

  They clambered over the stone wall when they came to the road. There was a light on in Emily's house. He couldn't stop to speak to her now, but he'd come back later to set things right.

  Meanwhile, signs of the country rising were all around them. Warning beacons on hilltops to the west alerted other towns, and the fitful wind carried snatches of church bells ringing the same message north and south.

  They lost those signs when they rounded Fiske's Hill and passed under the high bluff that sheltered the road. Arthur stumbled, and Proctor hooked an arm under his shoulder and hauled him along. The poor kid was probably exhausted. Before Proctor could say anything encouraging to him, hoofbeats sounded on the road behind them.

  "Let's hide,” he whispered. The road was lined with boulders and loose stones, topped with logs. Proctor banged his knee on a stump end as they vaulted a low spot and crouched behind cover. Arthur tried again to reload his fowling piece.

  Proctor reached out, stopped him, and stood. The rider was a boy, a colonial, galloping hard toward Concord.

  "Hey! Hey, what's the news?"

  The boy reined in, kicking up dirt as he turned around. “The Redcoats shot the militia at Lexington. They're marching for Concord!"

  "We were at the green when they started shooting,” Proctor said. “They shot Robert Munroe in the head."

  Arthur pushed forward. “Do you have any word about Everett Simes? He was injured—we had to leave him behind."

  "I don't know the names,” the boy replied, “but they bayoneted some of the injured men, speared them like they were fish."

  Proctor's jaw dropped open. Arthur started back for Lexington but Proctor grabbed him.

  "I need to carry the warning ahead,” the boy explained as his anxious horse spun in circles. Proctor said, “God speed."

  As the hoofbeats faded down the road, Arthur tried to pull free of Proctor's grip. “We've got to go back."

  "There's no help for your uncle now.” His own voice sounded hard to him despite the evenness of his words. “There'll be plenty of shooting ahead."