Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1

by Ron Carter

  “Where is the Reverend Mr. Olmsted?” Warren demanded, his voice ringing.

  “Inside,” answered the scowling officer. “He is being questioned.”

  “On what authority?”

  The officer thrust out his chin belligerently. “A warrant of the Crown.”

  “A warrant to do what?”

  “Search this church for contraband arms.”

  “I will see that warrant, sir!” Warren thrust out his hand and stood still, staring at the officer, waiting.

  “The colonel has the warrant.”

  “Then I will see the colonel.”

  Thorpe strode up behind them and they turned for a moment, and Thorpe barked, “What is the meaning of this travesty?” His jowls shook with anger.

  The officer bit down on his anger, turned on his polished boot heel, and with the four men following, marched through the soldiers, to the open doors, and into the church. When they cleared the doors and their eyes adjusted to the dancing firelight, the four colonials instantly slowed in disbelief.

  Twenty soldiers armed with muskets and bayonets held burning torches at intervals down both walls, with dirty, oily smoke rising to collect against the ceiling. In the dancing yellow firelight, thirty more armed soldiers were systematically moving through the chapel, one row of pews at a time, leaving nothing untouched in their search for the muskets. Two soldiers had lifted the pulpit from its foundation, searching. Silas Olmsted stood defiantly behind the pulpit, beside the door to his quarters, mouth clamped shut, chin high, eyes staring straight ahead, while Mattie clung to him, silent tears running. A soldier stood beside them, musket and bayonet at the ready.

  To the left of Silas, in the choir cove, the five sets of quilting frames were leaned unbolted against the wall, the quilts torn. From overhead, in the bell steeple, came sounds of guttural cursings and boots on the stairs and things behind moved. Near the center of the chapel stood an officer, hands on hips, face a study in dispassionate efficiency as he watched and directed the regulars. The four men strode down the center aisle, pushing soldiers aside as they confronted him.

  “I am Joseph Warren of—”

  The officer cut him off. “I know who you men are.” His eyes were flat and cold, his face disciplined, controlled, disinterested.

  “By what authority are you—”

  Again he cut Warren off by thrusting a folded sheet of paper forward, and Warren took it and unfolded it. The single word “WARRANT” was printed at the top in large, bold letters.

  To: Colonel Arnold Norse,

  42nd Regiment,

  His Majesty’s Royal Marines

  This date you will instantly select a detail of men sufficient in number and arms to search the South Church in the City of Boston for contraband arms, specifically, seven muskets, which are reliably reported to be stored or hidden within said church or on the grounds thereof. You are authorized to take whatever reasonable actions are necessary to enforce this warrant, including the use of firearms or other weapons as seems appropriate, avoiding if possible, of course, the harming or destruction of private property or the shedding of blood.

  Dated Monday, April 17, 1775, 8:20 p.m.

  Signed, General Thomas Gage.

  Warren handed the document to John and paused a moment while John quickly read it and handed it on to Thorpe. Warren turned hot eyes back to the colonel. “I presume you are prepared to pay for the damage to the quilts and frames.”

  A smile flickered for a moment. “Petition the king for damages.”

  Warren pointed. “Why is our minister detained by an armed soldier?”

  “Resisting the warrant.”

  “You know he’s harmless. Release him.”

  “If we find those muskets he will be arrested and tried for treason.”

  “You’ve desecrated this church enough! Yesterday morning, and now again tonight. There is nothing here for you to find. I demand you stop this blasphemy and leave now.”

  A broad, condescending smile spread as the officer spoke. “Only General Gage can stop us before our search is finished, unless you choose to lead that rabble in the streets to try.”

  “What do you plan to do? occupy our church permanently?”

  “Until the search is completed.”

  “I demand to talk with our minister.”

  “You have one minute, and I will be present.” Colonel Norse turned and led them down the aisle to Silas.

  “Are you all right?” John asked, pain in his eyes.

  Olmsted smiled. “Fine. Mattie’s just frightened.”

  “Did they harm you?”

  “No harm.”

  “Did you resist the warrant?” Warren asked.

  Silas paused to pick his words and glanced at John for a split second before he spoke. “I told this officer there were no muskets in the church. He put me under this armed guard and brought in all these men, and you see what they’re doing.” He gestured to them as they continued their systematic search.

  Warren turned squarely to the colonel. “How did he resist your warrant?”

  One corner of the colonel’s mouth curled for a moment. “General Gage will get my full report. If you have a protest, file it with the general.”

  “Release this man now.”

  “Your minute is up. Leave now or you will all be detained under armed guard with your minister.” He reached to pluck the warrant from Thorpe’s hand and pointed towards the big chapel doors. “You have one half minute to be off the church grounds.”

  Warren spoke to Silas. “We’ll be back.”

  He turned on his heel, and they picked their way back through the bustle of soldiers and out the front doors, when John reached to slow Warren, and spoke with quiet intensity as they walked. “That officer means to provoke us into a confrontation. He all but invited us to lead the people outside into a fight that will result in shooting. That’s what this is all about. He wants us to start it.”

  Warren turned narrowed eyes towards John as he considered. “You’re right. We’ve got to clear the streets before that happens.”

  He strode boldly into the street and raised his arms to the milling, sullen crowd and waited for silence.

  “Our minister has not been harmed. They are searching the church under a regular warrant. We will petition the king for redress of the wrongs they have done, but for now, go back to your homes. Leave now. Abide the law. Go back to your homes.”

  John and Tom walked to his left side, Thorpe to his right, and they raised their hands with Warren.

  “Let it be on their shoulders to breach the peace, not ours,” John called. “They are here under a warrant. Let them finish their business. We will have our day later.”

  Revere and Dawes stepped from the crowd and turned and began calling, “Go home. We’re finished here for tonight. Go back to your homes.”

  For twenty tenuous, explosive seconds the six men in the street stood their ground, fearing that the detaining of their minister under force of arms and the occupation and search of their church were too much, that this time the British had pushed too hard, gone too far. The grumbling crowd milled, and then, first one at a time, then in small groups, they began to break away and disappear into the dark streets. John felt the muscles between his shoulder blades begin to relax, and then he quietly exhaled his held breath, while Dawes and Revere worked with the dwindling crowd until they faded away from the torches and were gone. Unnoticed, one figure remained hidden in the shadows of the trees, a shawl drawn about her head, watching, waiting.

  The six men stood on the cobblestones and waited until the street was vacant and silent. Then John said quietly, “We need to talk.”

  “My home,” Warren said.

  Ten minutes later they were seated around his dining table with one lamp burning.

  At the church, the lone figure huddled in the shadows across the street from the churchyard quickly darted forward and crouched behind a great oak while she carefully studied the officers inside the rin
g of regulars. She moved back into the shadows and dodged to the corner, then down the side street, and again hid behind a tree while she went over every detail of each officer. Suddenly she froze and waited until a young lieutenant turned his face in her direction in the yellow torchlight and she saw the deep-set eyes and the scar in the eyebrow. He was working his way down towards the well at the rear of the yard, talking with the regulars as he moved. She moved silently as a shadow opposite him, waiting.

  At Warren’s home, John leaned forward on his forearms on the table while the others faced him, waiting, watching intently while he spoke. “This afternoon my wife and some women took seven muskets to the church for Silas to deliver to the militia. That was between four and five o’clock.”

  Tom started and Warren reared back in his chair and Thorpe opened his mouth to speak, but John held out a hand to keep them silent while he continued. “The women succeeded. They got the muskets in without the British knowing.”

  Thorpe exclaimed, “I heard about it later, and I think it should have been discussed before those women and children were used that way.”

  Warren was incredulous. “You had women smuggle seven muskets into the church in broad daylight?”

  “Yes. The militia has to have them. It was the only way any of us could think of.”

  Warren stared at the tabletop while he worked with his racing thoughts. “The risk! Did you think of the risk?”

  “I did. The plan was theirs, not mine, but I was responsible. I let them do it.”

  Warren shook his head. “Brilliant, but fearful. It was a lot to ask of women.”

  John continued, face drawn, eyes flat. “That warrant was signed by Gage at eight-twenty p.m. It says ‘seven muskets.’ He knew the number, and he knew the description, all within three hours.”

  Warren sobered. “If the women got them past the soldiers, how did he know?”

  The question stopped all sound, all movement for several moments.

  Tom grasped John’s arm. “Besides Margaret, who else?”

  The ticking of the clock could be heard as John collected his thoughts. “Phoebe and Kathleen. Willums. Hobson. Weems. Some of the children.”

  “Which children?”

  “Priscilla. Mercy. Trudy. Faith. Adam. I think that was all.”

  “Did their men know?”

  Thorpe interrupted. “I didn’t know until Phoebe and Kathleen got back with a wild story. I took strong offense I was not told, John.” For a moment Thorpe’s face darkened. “There was risk. I should have been told.”

  John’s eyes dropped for a moment. “I decided the fewer who knew, the better. I left it to the women to tell their husbands, and to decide. If that was wrong, I’m sorry.”

  Thorpe settled back in his chair.

  John spoke. “The children were never told what was going on. That leaves the women. Which of them could have leaked it?”

  Thorpe jerked forward. “I can vouch for Phoebe and Kathleen. They weren’t out of my sight from the time they got home until I left to come here.”

  Tom cleared his throat and all eyes turned to him. “If one of them leaked it by accident, it might have reached Gage by morning, but not within two hours. He signed the warrant at eight-twenty, and that means Gage found out about it earlier, maybe an hour.” Tom paused, and his eyes swept the faces of the others before he set it squarely in front of them. “That wasn’t an accident.”

  A prickly sensation moved up their spines to set them tingling with the sick realization. If Tom was right, there was a traitor among those who knew about the muskets, someone close enough to General Gage to get secrets to him on an hourly basis, perhaps a minute-by-minute basis. They glanced quickly at each other in the dim lantern light and felt the hair on their necks rise, and for a moment they looked away, or at the tabletop, unprepared for what eyes might reveal, and then they looked at Tom.

  “Who, Tom?”

  Tom shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know. But one thing I don’t understand. If whoever told Gage knew the exact number of muskets, then that person also had to know who took them in and how. If that’s true, then why didn’t Gage arrest the women?”

  Silence hung thick.

  Warren cleared his throat. “Maybe he feared public reaction, or he’s waiting for morning, or he wants to arrest their husbands too. We don’t know that, and we don’t know how he learned about the muskets. It could have been accidental, but I don’t think so. No matter how it happened, we can’t wait. We have things that must be handled now. What do we do about the church? about Silas?”

  At the churchyard, in the dancing torchlight, the lone figure watched as Lieutenant Buchanan made his way to the last regular, glanced at the well, and then started to return towards the front of the building. She stood and strode rapidly into the street, and the nearest regulars levelled their muskets and ordered, “Stop or we shoot.”

  She did not stop.

  The lieutenant turned, eyes narrowed as he watched her approach. He glanced up and down the street, then walked directly towards her.

  “As you were,” he said quietly to the regulars. “Go on back to your posts. I’ll take care of this.” The regulars brought their muskets back to order arms, and moved back to their stations, to stare back with suspicion at a young British lieutenant meeting a colonial girl in the night.

  The lieutenant stopped on the sidewalk, and Brigitte stopped in the cobblestone street, six feet from him. She did not hesitate. “You told them, didn’t you?”

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am. Told who what?”

  “About the muskets. You knew.”

  The lieutenant thrust his head forward, studying Brigitte’s face in the shadow of the shawl, and suddenly his eyes widened. “You’re the young lady who was here this afternoon and—”

  He remembers! He remembers me! Brigitte cut him off. “Yes, I am. You knew and you told them, and they’ve seized our church.” Her eyes were hot, indignant.

  The lieutenant glanced downward towards her feet, and a faint smile flickered. “Quick recovery. Your foot, I mean.”

  Brigitte tossed her head, and her mouth became a straight line. “You knew I wasn’t hurt and you knew about the muskets. You informed, and you came to help violate the church.”

  The lieutenant’s face sobered, and his eyes narrowed, and he spoke with quiet intensity. “I suspected your foot wasn’t hurt, but I told no one, because suspicions prove nothing. And I knew nothing to tell about the muskets. That came from someone else, not me.”

  Brigitte’s heart leaped. He did not betray! She cast her eyes downward for a moment. “Then, sir, I apologize. I thought—”

  “Your name, ma’am.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Is that important?”

  “It is. I have to detain you to be questioned by Colonel Norse.”

  She recoiled. “What?”

  “You said too much. You seem to know about the muskets. The colonel will want to find out where they are now.”

  Brigitte blanched and shrank back a step, and realized for the first time that she had been so intensely caught up in her need to know if the lieutenant had reported her that she failed to see the obvious. She stopped and squared her shoulders. “I am Brigitte Dunson, daughter of John Dunson of the Committee of Safety. I was the one who brought the muskets. I’m responsible.”

  “We know you brought them in those quilting frames. What we don’t know is who has them now. I’ll have to take you to—”

  Again she cut him off. “What is your name, sir?”

  “My name?”

  “It will be important to our militia, and they’ll certainly hear it.”

  He shrugged. “Lieutenant Richard Arlen Buchanan, Forty-second Regiment, Royal Marines. Will you please come with me?”

  “I will not. You can arrest me and take me by force, but I will not come.” She stood erect, feet planted apart, head high, eyes blazing defiance.

  He paused for a time, pondering the delicate ques
tion of whether he was going to drag a colonial girl kicking and screaming in the night to Colonel Norse.

  In frustration he said, “Do you know where the muskets are now?”

  “I do not. I believe the militia has them.”

  He glanced at the regulars, then at the other officers for a long moment, then turned to Brigitte. “Miss Dunson, go home. Just turn around and get home as fast as you can.”

  “You’re not going to arrest me?”

  “What’s the point? We know how the muskets got here and that you and half a dozen women and children did it, and we know who they are. What we’re after now is the men who got them. If you don’t know that, what’s the point in arresting you?”

  “You’re not taking me to colonel whoever-you-said?”

  “No. You said you don’t know who has the muskets now. I believe you.”

  “Just like that? You believe me? Why?”

  In the long pause, Brigitte stared into his eyes deeper than she had ever stared at anyone, and in them she saw compassion and honesty, and she thought she saw need, and her heart leaped.

  The brisk, piercing voice startled both of them. “Lieutenant Buchanan! Is something wrong?” Their heads turned to see Colonel Norse walking towards them.

  “No, sir. The young lady was looking for her family. She’s just leaving.”

  He turned back to her and saluted and growled, “Move. Now.”

  She backed into the street, spun, and was gone.

  Ten minutes later she silently entered her room through the window she had left open, changed into her nightclothes, and slipped between the freshly laundered sheets. She lay on her back for a long time, staring at the ceiling, remembering. Lieutenant Richard Arlen Buchanan.

  Halfway across town, at the home of Joseph Warren, the men who had gathered around the table in the candlelight silently struggled with Tom’s question. If Gage knew who the women were who had smuggled the muskets into the church, why were they not arrested?