Two men were waiting at the riverside to row Revere across the Charles in a boat he had been hiding throughout the winter. When they discovered that Revere had forgotten the cloth, one led them to his sweetheart’s house and gave a whistle. The girl came to the window. When she heard their problem, she stripped off her petticoat and threw it down. The flannel was still warm when it was passed to Paul Revere.
Since the Somerset was guarding the river’s mouth, the men had to row east to reach the old Battery at Charlestown. From there Revere was to go on alone. Conant and his men had spotted the signal from the steeple, but they said that the road to Concord was now filled with British officers, who were acting casually, as though they were not on patrol. But one had already asked a patriot for directions to Clark’s tavern. Apparently their information was faulty and they didn’t know that Jonas Clark was a clergyman. The question was more evidence, though, that Gage’s men intended to seize Adams and Hancock.
Revere thought he might be able to slip past the patrol. He asked for a horse, and one of Charlestown’s wealthiest merchants, John Larkin, volunteered his best animal. Getting from Joseph Warren’s house to Larkin’s stable had taken one hour. Lexington was twelve miles to the north and west. At 11 P.M. Paul Revere set off to warn Massachusetts’ two most notorious rebels that the redcoats were coming after them.
William Dawes, the messenger who had already set out overland, was a twenty-three-year-old shoemaker who had won Joseph Warren’s respect by smuggling out two of Boston’s cannon from under General Gage’s nose. For Billy Dawes the blockade of Boston was a lark, and he enjoyed seeing how often he could slip past the British guard at Boston Neck. His allegiance to the patriots was personal; he had once knocked down a British soldier for insulting his wife. After that, Dawes had moved his family to Worcester, and although General Gage had prohibited gold from leaving the town, Dawes had devised a way to smuggle out his reserves. He began to wear cloth-covered buttons on his waistcoat instead of brass ones. When the British guards had tired of joking about his eccentricity, Dawes began sliding gold coins inside the cloth.
By now he knew most of the guards at the Neck. Sometimes he played drunk, which usually got him past the checkpoint. This night, he hung about and waited until a squad of soldiers marched to the gate on a routine patrol. The guard was a friend, and when the soldiers passed out of Boston, Dawes trailed after them and headed for Lexington. He had started earlier than Paul Revere, but his route was five miles longer and he faced the same British patrols assigned to keep any patriot from getting through to sound the alarm.
—
Like Boston, Charlestown was surrounded by water—the harbor to the east, the Charles River to the south and west. Paul Revere rode through town, past Breed’s Hill and Bunker Hill, and across another slender neck of land that General Gage had not attempted to close off. Revere passed over it and onto a stretch of marsh and scrub brush. He intended to head west for the same direct route Billy Dawes was taking. The alternative was a swerving river road to Menotomy. There the two roads joined and, except for one bend near the Munroe Tavern, led directly to Lexington.
Revere’s ride took him past a spot along the road where a slave named Mark had been hanged twenty years earlier for poisoning his owner with arsenic. Still in chains, the rotted skeleton had been left as a warning to other slaves, and to Paul Revere it had become a marker on the way to Lexington. The moon was shining brightly. Revere was almost past the desolate moor when he spotted two British officers on horseback in the shadow of a tree. By the time he saw them, he was close enough to make out their holsters. One started toward Revere, the other rode farther up the road to cut him off. Instead, Revere wheeled his horse smartly and went at full gallop for the narrower Mistick road. John Larkin’s horse was quicker and surer than the officer’s heavy parade horse, and when Revere had gone three hundred yards he was sure he could stay ahead. The British horse got mired down in clay, and Revere was alone and heading for Lexington.
He rode without stopping until he reached the town of Mistick, where he woke up the captain of the Minute Men. All of the towns had drummers trained to beat an alarm and men to ring the steeple bells. In Mistick, a cry went up, “The regulars are out!” The Minute Men grabbed their muskets and sent their wives and children with any money or jewels to hide in the swamp. From Mistick on, Revere began to shout an alarm in front of each house along the road to Lexington.
By Arlington, he was back on the main road and galloping along easily. Even with the detour, the trip from Charlestown had taken just under an hour, and it was a little before midnight when Revere reined in his horse at Jonas Clark’s neat two-story parsonage. Sergeant William Munroe, who owned the tavern down the road, was considered the militia’s most alert noncommissioned man, and he had taken charge of the seven-member guard at the house.
Paul Revere told him that he must go inside.
Sergeant Munroe replied that the family and their guests had retired for the night. If he let Revere in, the noise would disturb them.
“Noise!” Paul Revere said. “You’ll have noise enough before long! The regulars are coming out!”
He rapped loudly on the door.
The Reverend Clark opened an upstairs window and demanded to know what was going on.
Revere said he must see John Hancock.
In the dark the clergyman didn’t recognize him and said he couldn’t let strangers into his house. But John Hancock, in bed but not asleep, recognized Paul Revere’s voice. Opening his window, he called cheerfully, “Come in, Revere! We are not afraid of you.”
—
The British troops had waded ashore and were huddling, chilled and wet, at Phipps’s farm on the western bank of the Charles as they waited for their marching orders from Colonel Smith. In the dark, their boots and trouser legs soaked and muddy, the men tried to puzzle out the reason they hadn’t moved for an hour.
Even when dry, British uniforms had been designed for splendor, not comfort. Under the bright-scarlet coats heavy with linings and piping and brass buttons, other garments also constricted the troops—tight white or red waistcoats above knee breeches cut close enough to chafe. Wide belts cinching in at the waist. Stiff collars rubbing against the neck. Cumbersome hats jammed down on temples they had greased and powdered white. When they passed in review, the effect could be magnificent. But on a march the British soldier was trussed and bound. With provisions and arms, he lugged about one hundred and twenty-five pounds on his back.
A little before 1 A.M.—almost two hours from the time they had landed—food for the day’s march was brought ashore and passed out. Most of the men had packed their own provisions, and they threw the army rations away.
—
The Minute Men at Lexington had been storing gunpowder and musket balls all winter for a morning like this. The town had also bought a drum, and veterans of the French and Indian War had taught a boy of sixteen named William Diamond to beat out battle calls. As their captain the Minute Men had elected John Parker, who had once fought against the French as a ranger and was now a big-boned forty-five-year-old farmer with seven small children. He had alerted his men the previous afternoon when he got the first report of unusual British patrols along the Lexington road. Most of the militia had spent the evening at Buckman’s Tavern near the town’s green, awaiting Parker’s orders. After Paul Revere confirmed that British regulars were on their way, Captain Parker told his men to fall in on the green. It was about 1 A.M.
Lexington’s Minute Men were hardly formidable. Only seven hundred and fifty-five people, five of them slaves, lived in the town, along with four hundred cows. Since gunpowder was too expensive and scarce to waste on target practice, the men had been summoned to the green only once or twice before. The oldest of Parker’s men was sixty-three, but that was not odd, because, with the French and Indian War over for eleven years, all the men with military experience were older than the usual fighting age. Of the seventy-seven Minute Men who answer
ed Captain Parker’s first call, fifty-five were more than thirty, and father-and-son teams were commonplace. At that first muster, six families had furnished twenty-nine of the men. One quarter of them were related to either Captain Parker or his wife.
When Parker told his men that Britain’s best-trained and best-equipped forces were on their way to Lexington, few greeted the news with bravado. The men voted to disband, go to their homes and lie low. They would do nothing to provoke the British soldiers.
Then, sometime during the next four hours, that obvious and sane decision was reversed.
—
At Jonas Clark’s parsonage, not far from the green, the household was awake and active. Billy Dawes had joined Paul Revere there, and after a brief rest they rode off to warn the Minute Men of Concord. John Hancock had dressed and was busy cleaning a sidearm. He knew that his proper place was out on the green with the Lexington Minute Men. When the Reverend Clark couldn’t dissuade him, Samuel Adams reminded him that fighting was not their business. Why risk giving the British the triumph of capturing them? Adams’ message was underscored by a verse the British troops had adopted lately to keep cadence as they marched:
“As for their King, John Hancock
And Adams, if they’re taken,
Their heads for signs shall hang up high
Upon that hill called Beacon.”
With a show of reluctance, Hancock agreed that Adams was right and had his chaise prepared for their escape. But before they could get away, another dispute arose. Dorothy Quincy, who had left her father in Boston, announced that she would be returning to his side the next day.
“No, madam,” said Hancock. “You shall not return as long as there is a British bayonet left in Boston!”
Miss Quincy snapped, “Recollect, Mr. Hancock, I am not under your authority yet. I shall go to my father’s house tomorrow!”
Lydia Hancock reasoned with the young woman, and Dorothy agreed to remain outside Boston for the time.
—
Riding away from the parsonage, Paul Revere and Billy Dawes came upon Samuel Prescott, a young doctor from Concord, who was heading home after an evening with his Lexington sweetheart. When Prescott heard where they were going, he volunteered to go along. He said the people of Concord knew he was a devoted Son of Liberty, and they would take his warning more seriously than an alarm sounded by strangers.
The three men had ridden halfway down the five-mile road when Dawes and Prescott stopped at a house to wake its owner. As he cantered two hundred yards ahead, Paul Revere spotted British officers hiding under a tree, just like the two men who had almost intercepted him earlier. Revere called to his companions, but it was too late. Four officers descended on them with pistols drawn.
“God damn you, stop!” one said. “If you go an inch further, you are a dead man.”
Prescott turned sharply, and all three Americans tried to escape. But the officers kept them in their sights and shouted that they would blow their brains out if they didn’t turn off into a nearby pasture. Billy Dawes took advantage of the darkness to flap his leather breeches and yell, “Haloo, boys! I’ve got two of them!” His call confused everyone, and Dawes whipped his horse around and dashed down the road. A little farther, though, he pulled up short in his excitement and his horse threw him. Dawes’s ride was over for the night.
In the pasture, the British had prepared a makeshift jail. As they were forcing Revere into it, Samuel Prescott wheeled about, jumped his horse over a low stone wall and sped down the road to Concord. Revere spied a grove not far away and made for that. Just as he reached it, six officers emerged from the shadows, seized his bridle, put pistols to his chest and ordered him to dismount. One of the officers asked what town Revere had come from and when he had left it. He seemed surprised by the answers. “Sir,” he said, “may I crave your name?”
“My name is Revere.”
“What? Paul Revere?”
“Yes.”
As more proof of his fame, the other soldiers began to curse him and his exploits as a messenger. But the officer told him not to be afraid. No one would hurt him.
Revere thought he saw a way of turning his capture to good use. He assured the soldiers that they weren’t going to achieve their goal that night.
The spokesman protested that they were only out looking for some deserters down the road.
Revere said he knew what they were after. But since he had already alarmed the countryside along their route, they would find five hundred men waiting in Concord. In fact, one man had told him there’d be fifteen hundred.
A major from the Fifth Regiment stepped forward, clapped a pistol to Revere’s head and said if he didn’t tell the truth, he’d blow his brains out.
When Revere repeated his story, the officers withdrew a few paces and murmured among themselves. When they returned, they ordered Revere to get back on his horse but they took away his reins. “God, sir,” said the major, “you are not to ride with reins, I assure you.” He passed them to an officer on Revere’s right.
The patrol had picked up four other men suspected of being messengers. The British formed a circle around them and started toward Lexington at a good pace.
“We are now going to your friends,” the major warned Revere, “and if you attempt to run, or we are insulted, we will blow your brains out.”
Revere said the major could do as he pleased.
As he rode, Revere was harassed. “Damned rebel,” the British called him and warned that he was in a critical situation. His reins were turned over to a sergeant with instructions that if Revere tried to run he should be killed. They were about half a mile from Lexington when a gun went off in the distance.
What was that for? the major asked Revere.
To alarm the country, Revere said.
The prisoners had become an impediment to the British. The major ordered the girths and the bridles cut on the horses of the other four suspects and told them they were free to walk home. Revere asked to be set loose with them. The major refused, but as they heard another round from the alarm guns in Lexington he admitted that if there was shooting ahead he couldn’t afford to be burdened with Revere.
He called a halt and asked a sergeant whether his small horse was tired. When the sergeant said it was, the major ordered Revere to alight and the sergeant mounted John Larkin’s fine animal. The British rode off, leaving Revere alone. To avoid being picked up again, he moved into a field. He was weighed down by his riding boots, but he began picking his way back to Lexington. Joseph Warren had directed him to warn John Hancock and Samuel Adams. Revere had accomplished that mission. If Concord was going to be alerted on this night, Samuel Prescott would have to do it.
—
With John Parker of the Lexington Minute Men facing the gravest decision of his life, the two most famous patriots in America were only steps away. Dorothy Quincy heard John Hancock slip away to consult with the militia on the green. Captain Parker never said afterward that either Hancock or Samuel Adams had persuaded him to reverse his decision to send his men home, and yet something changed his order, because at about 5 A.M. William Diamond again beat on his drum, and the Minute Men reassembled on Lexington Green. When they heard reports of the British advancing, some of them slipped away in the darkness. But others arrived to replace them. Captain Parker’s thirty-eight men were strung across the green in one thin line, with enough men left to start a second file behind them. When the British regulars approached, the Lexington Minute Men were to stand fast, not firing, but not cowering. That mild show of defiance could be taken as a compromise. Or a provocation.
—
Paul Revere reached the parsonage a second time just as John Hancock’s chaise was being loaded for his flight. He and Samuel Adams were leaving the women behind. Even if the British officers recognized John Hancock’s aunt and Miss Quincy, they wouldn’t harm them. Adams and Hancock were taking shelter with a clergyman’s widow at Woburn. Revere was to join them, as well as Hancock’
s clerk, John Lowell, and Sergeant Munroe from the Lexington militia. At the door Hancock protested once more. He assured his audience, “If I had my musket, I would never turn my back on those troops.”
They had traveled about a mile when Hancock remembered that a trunk he had left behind in John Lowell’s room at Buckman’s Tavern was filled with papers that would incriminate other patriots. Lowell and Revere agreed to retrieve it. Once again, Revere rode across the green. Captain Parker now had about sixty Minute Men arrayed in front of him. But Dorothy Quincy, who was examining the formation from the parsonage, could see how badly armed they were.
Hancock’s trunk was on the tavern’s upper floor. From the window, Revere looked down the road and watched the British troops drawing near. Their commander was Major John Pitcairn of the Marines, who was known in Boston as an agreeable and honest man who went to church on Sundays and swore blue oaths the rest of the week. Close by was the major who had captured Revere. With Lowell’s help, Revere got the trunk downstairs and into a carriage. Pitcairn had brought his troops to a halt as he and his officers rode toward Captain Parker.
Riding past the scene, Revere heard Parker telling his Minute Men to let the troops march by and not molest them unless they acted first. Moving off the green, Revere headed for Woburn to deliver the trunk. He was facing away from the green when he heard a shot and turned his head. But he could see only smoke rising in front of the British soldiers. Then a great shout went up, and every British gun seemed to be firing.
—
The British major who had captured Paul Revere—his name was Mitchell—had raced back to report to Colonel Smith what Revere had told him on the Lexington road; the colonel had taken his information seriously. Revere had said there were at least five hundred men marshaling to meet the British, perhaps three times that number. Since it had been close to 4 A.M., Colonel Smith sent back to General Gage for the reinforcements he had been promised—Lord Percy leading eight hundred more men. Now Revere’s threat was confirmed by the alarm guns Colonel Smith could hear across the countryside and by the bells pealing in every church steeple.
Patriots Page 25
