by Ron Carter
Revere stopped and turned to Adams for an explanation.
“This is Mrs. Thomas Hancock, John’s aunt, and Dorothy Quincy, his fiancée.”
Revere rose and bowed. “It is my pleasure.” He resumed his seat and turned to Hancock. The ladies walked back to the reception room. “Warren sent me so you could prepare for whatever’s going to happen.”
“Is Gage after us, or the munitions at Concord?”
“We don’t know.”
Hancock raised one eyebrow. “We’ll assume he’s after both.”
“Does anyone know when he’s coming?” Adams asked.
“No.”
“The question is, do we stay or do we leave?” Adams re-sponded.
Hancock bristled. “I’m staying. I’ll carry a musket against them.”
Adams shook his head. “You’re needed elsewhere.”
Revere interrupted. “Anything you want me to carry back? any message?”
Adams stood. “Keep us informed.”
Revere nodded and reached to shake the hands of both men and of Jonas Clarke. Revere had his hand on the doorknob when the sound of a running horse brought him up short and he turned, trying to see through the next room out the front window. The horse slid to a stop and the rider hit the ground running, banging on the front door.
“It’s Ira Halsted,” Clarke exclaimed and strode quickly and threw the front door open.
“There’s a British captain and four regulars down at the tavern asking about a man riding a gray horse. Is Revere here?”
“Yes.”
“They’re armed. I don’t know what they want.”
“Are they coming here?”
“They’re asking where this place is. No one’s told them yet.”
Clarke turned to Revere. “Go a quarter mile east of where you came in. There’s a rise there, and you’ll be hidden behind it for the first half mile. Go now.”
Revere darted out the back door and sprinted for the barn. Two minutes later the barn doors burst open and he swung onto the back of the mare and kicked her into a run, across the road, angling left, cresting the rise with the horse stretching at every stride, and then he was out of sight.
He held the mare to a stampede gait for a mile, feeling the smooth reach and pull of her driving haunches, then took the slack out of the reins and slowly worked her back, talking to her, and then he pulled her to a stop. She stood spraddle legged, blowing, battling for wind, sweat running, nose dripping. He dismounted and walked her for several minutes while her breathing slowed, and she stopped and shook herself hard and the saddle rattled and popped. He led her to a small stream and let her drink for a moment, then pulled her head up, waited, and let her take more.
He remounted and turned her southeast, angling back for the road to Menotomy at a walk. Then he raised her to a trot for a time, then a walk. He glanced up at the sun and gauged the time to be a little after one o’clock. He looked about at the gentle roll of the greening hills and the spring flowers opening their blues and reds and yellows, and he could not remember a more beautiful spring day. He rode on in the sunshine.
The buzzing whirr of the ball and the pop of the musket six hundred yards distant came nearly as one and froze Revere for a split second. The mare jumped, frightened, and Revere socked his blunted spurs into her flanks and lay low on her neck as she leaped to a full-out gallop. He looked back over his right shoulder and saw the white smoke from the road and the red coats of the twelve mounted soldiers. Two more clouds of white smoke appeared and two more balls sang and missed, and then he heard the thump of the distant muskets.
Patrol! I chanced into a patrol! Why are they shooting? Do they know? It doesn’t matter. They’ll never catch me. I’ll be at the Mystic in five minutes, and once I hit the river they’ll never find me. Come on, catch me if you can!
He slowed the mare to a hard lope until he sighted the pond north of the Menotomy Road, then angled south, skirting the lake, to the upper waters of the Mystic River. He followed the river down past Cooper’s Tavern, then northwest to Mystic, across the Medford Road. He angled south, following the river until he came to the place it opened wide and shallow, and he jumped the mare in and plowed through to the east side of the river. He stopped in a huge, dense growth of oaks and waited, the only sounds the lapping of the river and the squeak of the saddle as the mare caught her wind.
He patted the sweated neck and murmured, “We wait here until the roads are clear.”
The sun had set and long shadows were creeping when he tightened the saddle girth and remounted the tired horse. He walked her south along the river to the second fording place, waded back across where the Meford Road passed Winter Hill, and again dismounted to listen and watch.
In full darkness he remounted and turned southwest on the Medford Road, a weary man riding a weary horse in the darkness. The full moon was rising when he reached Charlestown. He worked his way through the narrow streets and stopped near the outskirts, with the smell of Boston Harbor and the Charles River strong. He dismounted stiff before a small white house and cautiously rapped on the door.
“Who’s there?”
“Revere. Open up, Conant.”
The door opened and a man slipped out and closed it quickly, and the two stood facing each other in the moonlight.
“What brings you here?”
“Things are happening. We think Gage is sending troops to take our munitions, and maybe Adams and Hancock.”
“When?”
“No one knows.”
“How? March troops down through Roxbury and then up through Cambridge?”
“We don’t know. We think maybe by longboat, across the Back Bay to Lechmere and then across open farmlands, at night, so no one sees. When they do it, they might barricade the Neck and seal up the harbor so no one can leave Boston to tell about it.”
Revere paused. “When they move, we’ve got to spread the alarm out to our people in the country. I’ll try to get through myself to warn people, but we need something in addition to that. I’ve got a plan. I’ll see to it that lanterns are hung in the North Church steeple on the Boston side of the Back Bay. If they move by land, one lantern will be hung. If they move across the Back Bay, two lanterns. You watch at night. When you read the lanterns, spread the word to get the militia and the minutemen up for action. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“One more thing. If the British troops move, I’m going to get across the river in my boat in the dark and hope they don’t see. Meet me down at Putnam’s pier on your side and have a horse ready. I’ll ride to Concord to help spread the alarm.”
“I understand.” Colonel William Conant looked closely at Revere in the moonlight. “Where have you been? You’re a mess and you look exhausted.”
“To Lexington, and dodging British patrols all the way back. They’re shooting. Be careful. Take care of yourself, Conant. And watch for the lanterns.”
“Done.”
Revere remounted and picked his way to the Charlestown ferry and watched to be certain there were no British troops patrolling or guarding before he boarded in the dark. The moonlight turned the bay to countless jewels, and Revere breathed deep in the clean sea air. The ferry jammed into the dock on the Boston side and the ramp dropped, and Revere led the mare down to the dock with her hooves stamping hollow on the heavy planking, and he remounted. He tapped lightly with his spurs and the mare moved east and south through the outskirts of town, and then he angled back west to his home. He led her quickly into the small barn, stripped the saddle and blanket, and was unbuckling the bridle when he sensed sound behind. He spun and faced the black silhouette of a man in the doorway, the silver moonlight behind, and he crouched, ready.
“It’s me, Sievers. Warren sent me to find you. We were worried maybe the British took you.”
“They tried.”
“Warren said to tell you. The British got the list of everything buried or hidden at Concord. They know about the cannon and po
wder and supplies. All of it. The committee’s making a plan to move it all before the British can take it. He wants you to be ready to ride as a messenger on a minute’s notice. You and Dawes.”
______
Notes
It was suspected that General Thomas Gage was dominated by his handsome American wife, Margaret Kemble Gage (see French, The Day of Concord and Lexington, p. 61).
The attitude of General Gage that asserting his power firmly would cause the Americans to submit meekly and the reaction of his own troops to his lack of firmness and decision by calling him “Tommy” and “Old Woman” when not in his presence are established in French, The Day of Concord and Lexington, pp. 11–16.
The incident depicted in this chapter in which the British shoot at Paul Revere on the night of April 16, 1775, is fictional.
As shown in the novel, Revere did make arrangements to alert those across the river from Boston regarding British troop movements. The plan involved showing lanterns in the Boston North Church steeple if the British moved their forces at night: one lantern if they marched their troops south over the Neck, then northwest to Concord; two lanterns if they moved the troops across the Back Bay by boat to Lechmere Point. (See French, The Day of Concord and Lexington, pp. 66–67.)
Monday, April 17, 1775
Chapter V
* * *
Matthew.” John’s whisper came sharp in the dark, and Matthew stirred in his bed, then settled.
“Matthew, wake up.” John gently shook his shoulder.
Matthew’s eyes opened, and for a moment he stared unseeing in the blackness before his brain identified the voice and the faint, square, gray shape of his open bedroom door.
He looked up at John, crouched over his bed, still holding his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” he said, and swallowed dry.
“I need your help. Get dressed. Be quiet.”
Three minutes later Matthew walked fully dressed, carrying his shoes, into the shadows of the parlor, where John sat at his workbench with one lamp glowing. John was hunched forward, working the metal of the trigger assembly of the seventh, and last, musket. The trigger pull was too stiff; the sear had to have a whisper of metal removed and smoothed. It would take fifteen more minutes of delicate work.
John spoke without looking up. “Get the unfinished musket from the pantry.”
Matthew set his shoes on his work stool next to John’s and walked to the pantry. He rolled the long, oval-braided rug to one side, raised the trapdoor with the recessed brass ring, and lifted the top musket, wrapped in oil cloth and tarp, from beneath the floorboards. John untied it on his workbench while Matthew glanced at the clock. Nearly five o’clock, Monday morning.
“What’s happened?” Matthew asked. “What time did you get home?”
“After midnight.”
“Did they get Revere?”
“No, but they tried. A patrol shot at him out west of Menotomy.”
“How did you find out?”
“Tom was here twenty minutes ago.”
Matthew stiffened and his eyes widened. “Has the shooting started?”
“Probably not. The soldiers were nearly half a mile away, probably shooting just to shoot. A patrol was in Lexington looking for him.” John paused for a moment. “It’s too close. We need time but we can’t slow it. It’s happening on its own terms.”
“Did he get to Adams and Hancock?”
“Yes.”
Matthew took a moment to order and weigh his thoughts.
Frustration was in John’s voice. “We could be at war any time—today, tomorrow.” He pointed at the musket. “Once it starts, we’ll be too late with the muskets in the pantry. Too many British patrols in the streets. We’ve got to get these to the church today so Silas can get them to the militia. We may be too late now.”
Matthew’s face clouded. “Five blocks? You’re worried about five blocks?”
John nodded, eyes narrowed. “There were four British patrols in the streets when I came home, and they were stopping everyone, checking everything. That’s what I need you for. Walk from here to the church right now and count the patrols. I have to know.”
Matthew glanced at the musket while he worked with his shoes.
For fifteen months John had worked quietly at his workbench in the night by candlelight, setting up the vises to lock the long barrels in place, then twisting the drill bits by hand to bore them out. With the precision of a master clockmaker, he fit the smoothbore barrels exactly to the .60-caliber balls they would fire. Such precision was necessary in order to prevent gas leakage around the ball and to increase speed, range, and accuracy. At seven pounds, the Dunson muskets were three pounds lighter than the cumbersome Brown Bess issued to British regulars, and at distances above eighty yards, more than twice as accurate. The bore in the Brown Bess was bigger than the .75-caliber balls, and allowed gas leakage as the ball rattled up the barrel, bouncing slightly from side to side. At fifty yards the Brown Bess ball began to drift; at eighty yards it was out of control; at one hundred yards, marksmen agreed that what you aimed at usually had little to do with what you hit. The single virtue of the Brown Bess was that the huge .75-caliber ball struck like the kick of a mule. The .60- caliber Dunson musket ball was big enough; the Brown Bess ball was excessive.
Matthew quickly brushed and tied back his shoulder-length hair with a leather thong, shrugged into his coat, and disappeared out the front door.
At five-twenty John slipped the finished trigger assembly into its port in the smooth, oiled oak stock, settled the musket barrel into place, and tightened the setscrews. By five-thirty the hammer, powder pan, pan cover, and frizzen were in place, with the V-shaped spring locked beneath to operate the pan cover. John forced a tiny steel pin through the touchhole to be certain the passage was clear from the pan to the firing chamber, then sorted through half a dozen flints to select one. He loosened the thumbscrew on the hammer, set the flint, and twisted the setscrew tight, solid.
He started at the sound of padded feet entering from the bedroom wing and turned to face Margaret, wrapped in her robe, standing in the archway in her thick felt slippers. He glanced at the clock.
“Where’s Matthew?” she asked, and yawned.
“Outside.”
Her eyes widened. “Doing what?”
“Looking for British patrols. We’ve got to get these muskets to the church.”
She strode to his side, eyes suddenly alert, serious. “Has something happened? Did they get Revere?”
“No, but they shot at him. We’re out of time.”
For long moments their eyes locked as the impact settled into Margaret. Her eyes dropped for a moment, then shifted to the musket, and her thoughts went to Matthew, and then to John, and she spoke quietly. “John, I’m terrified. What would I do if . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she stood next to him in the lamp glow, vulnerable, defenseless, sick in her soul with the growing realization of what was coming.
He had no reply. He sat quietly, wishing he knew what to say, wanting to reach out, but he had no words, no assurances, no comfort.
She swallowed and turned in the silence and walked to the fireplace. She worked with the leather bellows until the banked coals glowed and caught, and she fed shavings, then sticks, until flames licked. She stared into the bright, dancing flames for long moments in silence, unmoving, needing to cry out, to have someone pluck the dark foreboding from her heart, knowing it could not be. She sighed, then padded silently back to the bedroom to get dressed.
John stared into the dark archway after her passing, wrenched, torn, because he could not stand between her and her fears as he always had. This time, forces beyond control were only moments away from a cataclysmic collision that would send their world reeling and would leave their life, their family, their home, their country changed forever. There was no comfort in the truth. He could only push the blackness from his mind and try to endure the grab in his heart while he continued work on the musket.
H
e cocked the hammer, slowly squeezed the trigger, felt with approval the smooth working of metal on metal in the action, and watched the hammer fall. The flint struck the steel frizzen and drove it upwards while it knocked sparks into the exposed pan. John set the finished musket on his workbench and sat in the lamplight for a moment, shoulders slumped, staring at the musket in deep thought. Within days the weapon would be used to kill. No matter whom it killed, no matter the cause, he felt the tightening in the pit of his stomach with the knowledge that he had created it. He jumped and sucked air at the sound of the door opening.
Matthew stepped into the room, eyes wide in the early- morning light. “Four patrols between here and the church, one right at the churchyard. We’re not going to get the muskets down there today.”
John jerked from his work stool and paced. “We have to.”
“How?”
John ran his hand over his hair, anxious, frustrated. “I don’t know yet.”
Margaret walked through the archway and looked at Matthew. “Help with the kettles and get the water.”
While John rewrapped the finished musket and hid it beneath the pantry floor, Matthew and Margaret hung two huge, fire-blackened kettles on the heavy swivel arms in the fireplace, anchored in the stone and cement wall by two iron bolts, each arm being eighteen inches long and one inch in diameter. Matthew picked two water buckets from beside the kitchen door and walked out into the hush of early morning. He returned in minutes with both of them full, dripping, set them down on the braided rug at the back door to let the drip absorb for a moment before he walked to the fireplace, poured the water into the kettles, and then turned to go back out.
Margaret dipped water into a pan and set it on the stove, then transferred burning sticks from the fireplace to the stove firebox, followed by kindling, and closed the firebox door clanging and set the draft. She worked in silence, preoccupied, apprehensive.
John studied her and remained silent, comprehending vaguely the awful compulsion rising in her mother’s heart to protect her own, her nest. She saw meaning in the chaos of the Boston streets only as it affected her offspring, her husband, her home. And should war come, it would be she who would have to accept and hide the soul-destroying fear while she kept her offspring fed and clothed; and it would be she who wore a brave face and said brave words to shield them from the demons that rode heavy in the daylight and waked them crying in the night.
