JONATHAN HARRINGTON’S HOUSE Jonathan Harrington was wounded where the stone now stands, and fell dead at the doorstep of his houseJONATHAN HARRINGTON’S HOUSEJonathan Harrington was wounded where the stone now stands, and fell dead at the doorstep of his house
Jonathan Harrington was wounded where the stone now stands, and fell dead at the doorstep of his house
Seven minute-men have been killed, nine wounded. Captain Parker sees that it is useless for his little handful of men to contend with a force ten times larger, and orders them to disperse.
The redcoats look down exultantly upon the dying and the dead, give a hurrah, and shoot at the fleeing rebels.[60]
Jonas Parker will not run.
“Others may do as they will, I never will turn my back to a redcoat,” he said a few minutes ago. He is on his knees now, wounded, but reloading his gun. The charge is rammed home, the priming in the pan, but his strength is going; his arms are weary; his hands feeble. The redcoats rush upon him, and a bayonet pierces his breast. He dies where he fell.
With the blood spurting from his breast, Jonathan Harrington staggers towards his home. His loving wife is standing in the doorway. He reaches out his arms to her, and falls dead at her feet.
Caleb Harrington falls by the meetinghouse step. A ball plows through the arm of John Comee, by Mr. Munroe’s doorway.
The Britishers are wild with excitement, and remorselessly take aim at the fleeing provincials. They have conquered and dispersed the rebels. Colonel Smith joins Major Pitcairn, and, glorying over the easy victory, they swing their hats, hurrah for King George, and march on towards Concord.
Roger Stanley, asleep in the old farmhouse on the banks of Concord River, was aroused from slumber by his mother.
“Roger! Roger! the meetinghouse bell is ringing!” she shouted up the stairs to him.
With a bound he was on his feet, raised the window and heard the sweet-toned bell. He understood its meaning, that the redcoats were coming. Quickly putting on his clothes, he seized the powder-horn and bullet-pouch which his father carried at Louisburg.
“You must eat something, Roger, before you go,” said his mother.
A moment later and his breakfast was on the table, bread and butter, a slice of cold beef, a mug of cider.
“There’s no knowing when I shall be back, mother, for if the war has begun, as I fear it has, I shall be in the ranks till the last redcoat is driven from the country.”
“I know it, Roger. Your father would have done just what you are doing. I know you’ll do your duty. You won’t show the white feather. Here’s some lunch for you,” she said, putting a package into his knapsack.
“Good-by.”
ROBERT MUNROE’S HOUSE Joseph Comee, a minute-man, was wounded at the doorwayROBERT MUNROE’S HOUSEJoseph Comee, a minute-man, was wounded at the doorway
Joseph Comee, a minute-man, was wounded at the doorway
Her arms were about his neck; tears were on her cheeks as she kissed his lips.
He ran across the meadow to the village. The minute-men and militia were gathering. In the stillness of the morning they could hear the report of guns far away, and knew that they of Sudbury and Acton were hearing the alarm. People were hurrying to and fro in the village, loading barrels of flour into carts, removing the supplies purchased by the Committee of Safety. Reverend Mr. Emerson was there with his gun and powder-horn. Many times Roger had listened to his preaching. It was gratifying to see him ready to stand in the ranks with his parishioners. He told the women not to be frightened, and smiled upon the boys who took off their hats, and the girls who courtesied to him.They heard, far away, the drumbeat of the advancing British.No messengers had arrived to inform the minute-men of Concord what had happened at Lexington; for Doctor Prescott did not know that British muskets had fired a fatal volley.From the burial ground Roger could look far down the road and see the sunlight glinting from the bayonets of the grenadiers, as the red-coated platoons emerged from the woodland into the open highway.Major Buttrick with the minute-men and Colonel Barrett with the militia formed in line by the liberty pole.“Prime and load!” his order.
He ran across the meadow to the village. The minute-men and militia were gathering. In the stillness of the morning they could hear the report of guns far away, and knew that they of Sudbury and Acton were hearing the alarm. People were hurrying to and fro in the village, loading barrels of flour into carts, removing the supplies purchased by the Committee of Safety. Reverend Mr. Emerson was there with his gun and powder-horn. Many times Roger had listened to his preaching. It was gratifying to see him ready to stand in the ranks with his parishioners. He told the women not to be frightened, and smiled upon the boys who took off their hats, and the girls who courtesied to him.
They heard, far away, the drumbeat of the advancing British.
No messengers had arrived to inform the minute-men of Concord what had happened at Lexington; for Doctor Prescott did not know that British muskets had fired a fatal volley.
From the burial ground Roger could look far down the road and see the sunlight glinting from the bayonets of the grenadiers, as the red-coated platoons emerged from the woodland into the open highway.
Major Buttrick with the minute-men and Colonel Barrett with the militia formed in line by the liberty pole.
“Prime and load!” his order.
Roger poured the powder into the palm of his hand, emptied it into the gun, and rammed it home with a ball. Never had he experienced such a sensation as at the moment. He was not doing it to take aim at a deer or fox, but to send it through the heart of a fellow-being if need be; to maintain justice and liberty. He could die in their defense; why should it trouble him, then, to think of shooting those who were assailing what he held so dear?
“I am doing right. Liberty shall live, cost what it may,” he said to himself as he poured the priming into the pan.
On in serried ranks came the British.
“We are too few, they are three to our one. We must cross the river and wait till we are stronger,” said Colonel Barrett.
REVEREND WILLIAM EMERSON’S HOUSE—THE OLD MANSE The conflict at the Bridge was in plain view from this houseREVEREND WILLIAM EMERSON’S HOUSE—THE OLD MANSEThe conflict at the Bridge was in plain view from this house
The conflict at the Bridge was in plain view from this house
They were only two hundred. They filed into the road, marched past the Reverend Mr. Emerson’s houseto the north bridge, crossed the river, and came to a halt on a hill overlooking the meadows, the village, and surrounding country. They could see the British dividing,—one party crossing the south bridge and going towards Colonel Barrett’s house to destroy the supplies collected there; another party advancing to the north bridge. Roger saw groups of officers in the graveyard using their spy-glasses. A soldier was cutting down the liberty pole. Other soldiers were entering houses, helping themselves to what food was left on the breakfast-tables or in the pantries. Colonel Smith and Major Pitcairn rested themselves in Mr. Wright’s tavern.
“I’ll stir the Yankee blood before night, just as I stir this brandy,” said Pitcairn, stirring the spirit in his tumbler with his finger.
A party of British crossed the south bridge, made their way to Colonel Barrett’s house, and burned the cannon carriages stored in his barn.
Roger was glad to see Captain Isaac Davis and the minute-men of Acton march up the hill to join them. Captain Davis was thirty years old. He had kissed his young wife and four children good-by.
“Take good care of the children, Hannah,” he said as he bade her farewell.
Twice a week he had drilled his company. He was brave, resolute, kind-hearted. His men loved him because he demanded strict obedience. They had stopped long enough at his home for his young wife to powder their hair, that they might appear neat and trim like gentlemen when meeting the British. They werethirty-five, all told. Keeping step to Luther Blanchard’s fifing of the White Cockade, and Francis Barker’s drumming, they marched past the men from Concord and formed on their left.
THE WHITE COCKADE.THE WHITE COCKADE.
WRIGHT’S TAVERNWRIGHT’S TAVERN
“Order arms!” They rested their muskets on the ground and wiped the perspiration from their foreheads.
Men from Westford, Lincoln, and Carlisle are arriving. They are four hundred now. The officers stand apart, talking in low tones. The redcoats had crossed the bridge to the western bank.
“Let us drive the redcoats across the river,” said Captain Smith.
“I haven’t a man that is afraid,” said Captain Davis.
He was heavy-hearted in the early morning when he kissed the young wife and took the baby from the cradle in his arms, but is resolute now.
“Attention, battalion! Trail arms! Left in front! March!” Luther Blanchard pipes the tune, and the battalion—the men of Acton leading—descends the hill.
The redcoats had recrossed the river and were taking up the planks of the bridge. A moment later muskets flash beneath the elms, and maples along the farthest bank and there is a whistling of bullets in the air. Roger’s heart is in his throat, but he gulps it down. Another volley, and Captain Davis, Abner Hosmer, and Luther Blanchard reel to the ground. Never again will Hannah receive a parting kiss, or the father caress the baby crooning in the cradle.[61]
“Fire! For God’s sake, fire!” shouts Major Buttrick. Roger cocks his gun, takes aim at the line of scarletbeneath the trees and pulls the trigger. Through the smoke he sees men throw up their arms and tumble to the ground. The scarlet line dissolves, the soldiers fleeing in confusion. No longer is Roger’s heart in his throat. His nerves are iron and the hot blood is coursing through his veins. King George has begun the war; no longer is he his subject, but a rebel, never more to owe him allegiance.
The forenoon wore away. The British were returning from Colonel Barrett’s, having destroyed the cannon carriages, thrown some bullets into a well, and broken open several barrels of flour. It was past noon when they formed in line once more to return to Boston.
“We will head them off at Merriam’s Corner,” said Colonel Barrett.
The planks which the British had removed from the bridge were quickly replaced. The minute-men crossed the stream, turned into a field to the left, and hastened over the meadow to the road leading to Bedford. It was past three o’clock when they reached Mr. Merriam’s house. Roger saw the British marching down the road. Suddenly a platoon wheeled towards the minute-men and brought their guns to a level. There was a flash, a white cloud, and bullets whistled over their heads. Once more he took aim, as did others, and several redcoats fell. Before he could reload, the serried ranks disappeared, marching rapidly towards Lexington. The minute-men hastened on, and at the tavern of Mr. Brooks he sent another bullet into the ranks of the retreating foe.[62]
NORTH BRIDGENORTH BRIDGEThe minute-men stood under the trees at the right; the British, the other side of the river
The minute-men stood under the trees at the right; the British, the other side of the river
“Scatter now! Get upon their flank! Pepper ’em from behind walls and trees!” shouted Colonel Barrett, who saw that it would be useless to follow the retreating enemy in battalion order, but each man, acting for himself, could run through fields and pastures and keep up a tormenting fire.
Acting upon the order, Roger and James Heywood ran through a piece of woods towards Fiske Hill. They came upon a British soldier drinking at a well by a house.
“You are a dead man,” shouted the redcoat, raising his gun.
“So are you,” said Heywood. Their muskets flashed and both fell, the Britisher with a bullet through his heart, and Heywood mortally wounded.
From rock heap, tree, fence, and thicket the guns of the minute-men were flashing. The soldiers who had marched so proudly, keeping step to the drumbeat in the morning, were running now. No hurrah went up as at sunrise on Lexington Common. There was no halting at Buckman’s tavern, where they had fired their first volley. Their ranks were in confusion. Officers were trying to rally them, threatening to cut them down with their swords if they did not show a bold front to the minute-men, but the Yankees seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere. Bullets were coming from every direction, yet the British could see no men in line, no ranks at which they could take aim or charge with the bayonet. They were still twelvemiles from Boston, and their ammunition failing. They were worn and weary with the all-night march, and were hungry and thirsty. The road was strewn with their fallen comrades. The wounded were increasing in number, impeding their retreat. Their ranks were broken. All was confusion. Every moment some one was falling.[63]Blessed the sight that greeted them,—the brigade of Earl Percy, drawn up in hollow square by Mr. Munroe’s tavern, with two cannon upon the hillocks by the roadside. They rushed into the square and dropped upon the ground, panting and exhausted with their rapid retreat.
Roger halted a few minutes on Lexington Green, where the conflict began in the morning. He saw the ground stained with the blood of those who had fallen,—crossed the threshold where Jonathan Harrington had died in the arms of his wife. Across the Common the house and barn of Joseph Loring were in flames, set on fire by the British.
Earl Percy’s troops were ransacking the houses a little farther down the road. In Mr. Munroe’s tavern they were compelling old John Raymond to bring them food, and because he could not give them what they wanted, sent a bullet through his heart.[64]
MERRIAM’S CORNERMERRIAM’S CORNER
Once more the British were on the march.
Roger, rested and invigorated, ran through a pasture, crouched behind a bowlder, rested his gun upon it, and sent a bullet into the ranks. He was delighted when Doctor Joseph Warren came galloping over the hill. The doctor said he left Boston in the morning, rode to Cambridge and Watertown, then hastened on to Lexington. He was glad the minute-men and militia had resisted the British. While talking with Roger and those around him, a bullet whizzed past the doctor’s head, knocking a pin from his ear-lock.
The rattling fire of the minute-men was increasing once more,—answered by volleys from Percy’s platoons. The British, smarting under the tormenting fusilade, angry over the thought that they were being assailed by a rabble of farmers and were on the defensive, became wanton and barbaric, pillaging houses, and murdering inoffensive old men.
Roger was delighted to hear from Jonathan Loring, one of the Lexington minute-men, how his sister Lydia, fearing that the British would steal the communion cups and platters belonging to the church of which her father was deacon, took them in her apron, ran out into the orchard, and hid them under a pile of brush.
Pitiful it was to see Widow Mulliken’s house in flames,—wantonly set on fire by the red-coated ruffians.
Roger saw a soldier deliberately raise his gun, take aim, and send a bullet through the heart of Jason Russel, an old gray-haired man, standing in his own door. Again, at closer range, he took aim at the retreating column.
His indignation was aroused as he listened to the story told by Hannah Adams, a few minutes later. She was in bed in her chamber, with a new-born babe at her breast, when two redcoats entered the room. One pointed his musket at her.
“For the Lord’s sake, do not kill me,” she said.
“I am going to shoot you,” the soldier replied, with an oath.
“No, you mustn’t shoot a woman,” said the other, pushing aside the gun, “but we are going to set the house on fire, and you must get out.”
With the babe in her arms, she crawled downstairs and into the yard.
The soldiers scattered the coals from the fireplace around the room, and left, but the older children ran in and put out the flames.
MUNROE TAVERN Lord Percy’s headquartersMUNROE TAVERNLord Percy’s headquarters
Lord Percy’s headquarters
At Mr. Cooper’s tavern was a ghastly sight; upon the floor lay the mangled bodies of Jason Wyman and Jesse Winship, two old men, who had come from their homes to learn the news. They were drinking toddy, when the head of Earl Percy’s retreating troops arrived, and fired a volley into the house. The landlord and his wife fled to the cellar. The British swarmed into the tavern, mangled the bodies of thetwo old men with bayonet thrusts, and scattered their brains around the room.
In the morning Roger had felt some qualms of conscience as he took aim at the scarlet line of men by Concord River, but now to him the redcoats were fiends in human form. It gave him fresh courage to see Samuel Whittemore, eighty years old, come running with his musket, taking deliberate aim, firing three times, and bringing down a redcoat every time he pulled the trigger. But a soldier leaped from the ranks, ran upon and shot the old man, stabbed him with his bayonet, beat him with the butt of his musket, leaving him for dead.[65]
Roger swung his hat to welcome Captain Gideon Foster of Danvers, and his company, who had marched sixteen miles in four hours, coming upon the British at Menotomy meetinghouse. A moment later they were in the thick of the fight.
It was a thrilling story which Timothy Monroe had to tell, how he and Daniel Townsend fired, and each brought down a redcoat, and then ran into a house; how the British surrounded it, and killed Townsend; how he leaped through a window and ran, with a whole platoon firing at him, riddling his clothes with bullets, yet escaping without a scratch.
Again Roger rejoiced when he learned that before Earl Percy reached Menotomy a company of men had captured his baggage wagons, killing and wounding several British soldiers, and that the attacking party were led by Reverend Philip Payson, the minister of Chelsea.
It was almost sunset when Roger held his horn up to the light once more, and saw there was little more than enough powder for one charge, and that there were only two bullets in the pouch. He decided to put in all the powder and both bullets for his parting shot. Another half hour and they would be under the protection of the guns of the frigate Somerset. The minute-men were getting so near and were so determined that Earl Percy ordered the cannon to unlimber and open fire, while the soldiers, almost upon the run, hastened towards Charlestown.
Roger, having reloaded his gun, made haste to overtake them. Looking along the road, he saw a crowd of panic-stricken people—men, women, and children—fleeing from their houses. The picture of the scene of Menotomy had stamped itself into his memory. This last shot should be his best. Not now would he crouch behind a fence, a tree, or bowlder. He would confront the murderers like a man. He walked deliberately forward. He was by a farmhouse, so near the last file of soldiers which had halted to ward off the minute-men a moment, that he could see the whites of their eyes. He aimed at the cross-belt of a man in the middle of the file, and pulled the trigger. He caught a glimpse of a man falling, but found himself reeling to the ground. A bullet had pierced his breast. The British passed on. A woman came from the house, and looked down into his face.
“A drink of water, please marm,” he said.
She ran to the well, sank the bucket into it, brought a gourd full, and came and crouched by his head while he drank.
“Thank you, marm.”
He looked up into her face a moment.
“I think I am going,” he whispered.
She pillowed his head upon her arm, laid back the hair from his manly brow, and fanned him with her apron.
“Please tell her,” he whispered.
“Tell who?”
She bowed her head to catch the word.
“Tell—Rachel.”
The mild blue eyes were looking far away. A smile like the light of the morning came upon his face. One more breath, and he was one of the forty-nine who, during the day, gave their lives that they might inaugurate a new era in the republic of God.
Thomas Gage, governor, commanding his majesty’s forces in America, was sitting in the Province House, greatly disturbed in mind. The expedition to Concord had not resulted as he expected. The troops had marched out bravely, destroyed a few barrels of flour, disabled half a dozen old cannon, burned some carriage wheels, but had returned to Boston on the run like a flock of sheep worried by dogs. The Tories had informed him that a couple of regiments could march from one end of the continent to the other, but the events of the preceding day were opening his eyes to a far different state of affairs. Till within a few hours the country had been at peace: farmers following the plow; blacksmiths hammering iron; carpenters pushing the plane. All had changed. Thousands were under arms, gathering at Cambridge and Roxbury. The Colonies were aflame,—not only Massachusetts, but New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Connecticut. The troops which marched to Concord so proudly were back in Boston,—not all: twenty-three had been killed, two hundred wounded and missing. Eighteen of the officers had been killed or wounded. Governor Gage could not gainsay the fact that the citizens were victors. They had followedthe troops to Charlestown till nightfall, like a swarm of angry hornets. A great army was closing around him, cutting off his supplies. No more fresh beef or mutton would be for sale in the market; no teams would bring potatoes and cabbages for the soldiers. What would King George say? What would the ministry think? What would they do? How would the people of England regard his administration of affairs? The unexpected had happened. He had not dreamedof such an uprising. What course should he pursue? All Boston was in commotion. People were packing their goods on carts, loading them on boats to flee from the town. Women were wringing their hands, children crying, fathers walking the streets with careworn faces, not knowing whither to go or what to do. Officers were gathering at the Province House awaiting orders and talking of what had happened, and smarting under the thought that the retreat had been a flight and almost a panic. It was a humiliating reflection that disciplined soldiers had been put upon the run by a rabble of countrymen. Earl Percy, after a sleepless night, weary and travel-worn, was gladly welcomed by Governor Gage. He told the story of the retreat.
Province House.Province House.
“If it had not been, your excellency, for my timely arrival, I fear few of Lieutenant-Colonel Smith’s troops would have escaped, as they were completely exhausted, their ammunition gone, and the men upon the run. I am free to say that I was completely astonished. I formed my brigade in hollow square, and his men threw themselves on the ground with their tongues lolling from their mouths,” he said.
“It is plain that you marched none too soon,” the governor replied.
“I cannot account for such a sudden uprising. I saw very few rebels. There were no organized bodies of rebels to be seen,—not more than twenty or thirty in a group; but they were all around us, firing from fences, rocks, trees, ditches, houses. If we charged and drove them, they were back again the moment we resumed our march. I must admit they were brave and persistent. They were like so many wasps,” said the earl.
“I learn,” said the governor, “that several thousand armed men have already gathered at Cambridge and Roxbury. A loyal citizen informs me they have been arriving through the night in great numbers. It seems probable that we are to be hemmed in by the provincials for the present, and must make preparations accordingly.”
Fast and far the alarm had gone. Twenty-four hours and it was one hundred miles away, and Robert Walden of Rumford with bullet-pouch, powder-horn, and musket was on his way, as were Colonel John Stark, Captain Daniel Moore of Derryfield, and hundreds of others in New Hampshire, Israel Putnam, Thomas Knowlton of Connecticut, and their fellow-citizens, all animated by one thought,—to resist the armed aggressions of the myrmidons of the king. There was a brave heart behind Rachel’s quivering lips when she pressed them to Robert’s.
“Roger is sure to be there. Tell him I think of him every night before I go to sleep.” Little did they know that he was being borne to his last resting-place on the banks of the winding river.
Robert was glad to learn when he reached Medford that John Stark was to be colonel of the New Hampshire troops.
Tom Brandon was working day and night to help people obtain passes from General Gage and leave the town. More than five thousand closed their houses and took their departure.[66]The governor would notallow any one to take their guns or swords, or anything which would in any way contribute to the success of the provincials.
The soldiers from Rumford, having unbounded confidence in Robert Walden, elected him lieutenant. When General Artemus Ward, commanding the troops at Cambridge, asked Colonel Stark if he had a trustworthy young man whom he could recommend to execute an important order, Lieutenant Walden was selected and directed to report at general headquarters. He was kindly received and informed he was to negotiate with the British for an exchange of prisoners.
Mounted upon his horse, Lieutenant Walden rode to Charlestown Neck, and from thence to the top of Bunker Hill to obtain a view of Boston and the harbor. He saw the warships were swinging at anchor in the stream. Across the river were the silent streets of the besieged town. He could distinguish the home of Captain Brandon, and the Green Dragon Tavern,—its doors closed. It was not these buildings, however, that most interested him, but a mansion on the slope of Beacon Hill, with its surrounding grounds,—the Newville home. The window of Miss Newville’s chamber was open, the curtain drawn aside. His spy-glass made it seem very near. How would she greet him were they to meet again? Would she be changed by the changing circumstances? Would she, daughter of a loyalist, deign to notice him, a rebel? Blessed vision! A figure in white appeared at the window. It was she for whom he could lay down his life, if need be. Oh, if he could but reach out his hand to her,—hear once more the voice that had thrilled himin the past! She stood by the window, looking upon the flowers blooming in the garden. The vision was but for a moment, for the window was soon closed and the curtain drawn. He descended the hill, rode through the village to the ferry landing, displaying a white flag. It was answered by the waving of another on the deck of the Lively warship. Then a boat brought a lieutenant of the fleet to the shore.
“Who are you and what do you want?” the curt question of the Britisher.
“I am commissioned by the commander-in-chief of the provincial army to ask if it will be agreeable to General Gage to make an exchange of prisoners?”
“The rebel army, you mean.”
“I said provincial, but if it suits you any better to think of the Americans as rebels, I will not object. We are rebels against tyranny and oppression, as I trust we always shall be. We have several officers of the king’s troops in our hands, and you have some of our men. If an exchange is desired by General Gage, I am empowered to arrange the details,” Robert said with calm dignity.
The Britisher bowed, and the boat pulled back to the ship, returning again after a time with an officer commissioned to make arrangements for the transfer.
The sun was nearing the hour of noon, three days later, when Lieutenant Walden, accompanied by General Putnam, Doctor Warren, and a detail of soldiers, conducted the British officers and men to the ferry landing, meeting Major Moncrief and other British officers, with the provincial prisoners in their keeping. The British soldiers, with tears upon their faces,thanked Doctor Warren for the kind treatment they had received. The Americans had no thanks to give for what they had received on the strawless floor of the jail, the prison fare for food. Lieutenant Walden had engaged a dinner in the tavern. The landlord set forth his choicest wine. Putnam and Moncrief, being old acquaintances, chatted of the days at Ticonderoga while partaking of the viands and quaffing glasses of madeira.
“While the white flag is waving we will not let our differences mar the pleasure of the hour,” said Doctor Warren, who delighted the company with his wit. Dinner over, there was a shaking of hands, expressions of personal good-will, and courteous salutes. With the furling of the white flag they were enemies once more.
Ships were arriving from England bringing General William Howe, General Henry Clinton, and General John Burgoyne, with several thousand troops to carry on the war. Every morning Miss Newville heard the drums beating the reveille and in the evening the tattoo. Many officers called at the hospitable home of Honorable Theodore Newville to enjoy the society of his charming daughter, who received them with grace and dignity.
With no fresh provisions in the market, the dinners given by Mr. Newville to the generals Howe, Clinton, and Burgoyne was not so elaborate as that to Lord Upperton, but more appetizing than those on shipboard while crossing the Atlantic. It was a pleasure to General Howe to escort Miss Newville to the dining-room, sit by her side, and listen to a voice thatcharmed him by its purity and sweetness. A lady so highly endowed, and with such grace of manner, would adorn any home,—even the drawing-room of her majesty the queen.
The home of Mrs. Martha Duncan, with its shrubbery and garden neatly kept, was selected by General Howe as a residence. He hoped it would not greatly inconvenience her; he would gladly remunerate her for any trouble he might make. It would be a pleasure to have her for a hostess. His own servant would attend to his personal wants.
“Of course, mother,” said Abraham, “we cannot prevent him from taking possession of our home; we may as well make the best of it, accept the inevitable, and spoil the Egyptians if we can. He seems to be a gentleman, a man of honor, and will, doubtless, pay us well. Besides, possibly we may learn something that can be turned to good account, if we keep our eyes and ears open, and our wits about us.”
“It will be only a plain table, my lord, I can provide. Since the provincials have closed around us, the market has been bare of provisions,” said Mrs. Duncan.
“I am aware of it, madam, but I doubt not you will be able to furnish appetizing food, possibly a joint of roast mutton from the flocks of sheep accessible to us on the islands in the harbor, a fresh mackerel or cod. We are not yet shut in from the sea, and possibly we may soon have free access to the surrounding country, for I hear there is much discontent among the provincials, and their numbers are rapidly melting away, now that the first excitement is over,” responded Lord Howe.
“Possibly I may be able to provide early vegetables,—lettuce, dandelions, greens, asparagus, and water-cresses, my lord, if you will allow my negro servant, Cato, to pass the patrol to Charlestown,” said Mrs. Duncan.
“I will give him such permission,” he replied, writing a pass, directing the sentinels along the wharves, and the marine patrol in the harbor, to pass the negro servant, Cato.
Not only Cato, but Mrs. Duncan and her son, Abraham, ship-carver and artist, were attentive to the wants of General Howe, receiving shining guineas in return. It was a pleasure to the British commander, just arrived from England, to talk with a young gentleman so well informed and of such attainments as the son of his hostess.
“I dare say, Mr. Duncan, you are quite well acquainted with the country around Boston?” said his lordship.
“I have been up the Charles and Mystic by boat many times, my lord, and visited Cambridge to enjoy the festivities of Class Day, and the orations of graduates at Commencement. I have rambled the Roxbury fields and pastures for strawberries, and am pretty well acquainted with the various localities.”
General Howe spread out a map and asked many questions in regard to the surrounding hills, valleys, woods, and cleared lands. He was surprised to see how well Mr. Duncan could sketch them in with his pencil upon the map which Ensign De Berniere had drawn. Lord Howe introduced him to Generals Pigot and Clinton, who were pleased with the intelligent replies to their questions.
There came a day in June when Abraham heard General Howe say to the other commanders that the Charlestown Hills ought to be occupied at once, for fear the rebels might seize them. Were they to do so, Boston might be bombarded, and the ships driven from their anchorage.
“Doctor Warren and General Ward ought to know that,” Abraham said to himself.
There were only a few words in the letter which Abraham Duncan tucked under the cuff of Cato’s coat-sleeve the next morning, when he stepped into his boat to cross the river and gather young asparagus and water-cresses for General Howe’s dinner. Cato was directed to hand the slip of paper to Deacon Larkin’s negro, Jim, who would know what to do with it.
Faithful and true to their kind-hearted masters were Cato and Jim, passing the letter from hand to hand, till it reached Doctor Joseph Warren in consultation with General Artemus Ward and the committee of safety in Cambridge.
“Bunker’s Hill is to be occupied at once.”[67]
That was all, except an ink blot.
“It is authentic,—from a trustworthy Son of Liberty,” said Doctor Warren.
“It has no signature,” said General Ward.
“Therefore is not treasonable. Besides, it does not state who is to occupy Bunker’s Hill,—the British or ourselves,” the doctor replied.
“How do you know it is genuine—from the writing?”
“No; the hand is disguised. Nevertheless, I know the writer. He informs me that the British intend to take possession of Charlestown Heights.”[68]
“Are you sure it is authentic information?”
“I have no doubt of it. The writer is in position to learn what they intend to do. He is a very quiet man, but has his eyes and ears open. It is not the first time he has shown his devotion to our cause. You say he has not signed it; true he has not written his name, not even the initials, yet his signature is upon the sheet,—the insignificant ink-blot. It would not be accepted as testimony in a court-martial, but it is sufficient for me,” said Doctor Warren.
With the letter came a copy of a proclamation issued by General Gage. No longer were the selectmen of any towns in the Province of Massachusetts to have anything to say. Martial law was to supersede civil authority. The provincial soldiers were rebels and traitors who must lay down their arms at once and go home, if they would hope for pardon; but there was no pardon for Samuel Adams and John Hancock, who must pay the extreme penalty of the law for inciting the people to rebel against their kind and lenient king.
“We ask no favor of King George; he began the war, we will end it,” said the soldiers as they read the proclamation.
If the British regarded Charlestown Heights of such importance, why should not the provincials seize them? It must be done. Twilight was still lingering on the western horizon when the troops selected for the expedition paraded on Cambridge Common. Colonel William Prescott was to command them. He had fought at Louisburg, and was cool and brave. With uncovered heads the regiments stood in front of the meetinghouse while Reverend Mr. Langdon, president of the college, offered prayer. Lieutenant Walden, having been upon Bunker Hill, led the way, followed by soldiers from Connecticut and Massachusetts, and two carts loaded with picks and shovels. They marched in silence. Lieutenant Walden conducted them across the Neck and up the slope of the Hill. It was nearly midnight before it was decided just where Colonel Gridley should mark out the contemplated fortifications.[69]Lieutenant Walden conductedCaptain Nutting and ten sentinels to the ferry landing. They were but a little distance from the frigate Somerset at anchor in the stream. Farther up, towards Lechmere’s Point, were the Glasgow, Cerberus, and Symetry. Down the river, off Moulton’s Point, lay the Lively and Falcon.
Leaving the sentinels to guard the shore, he rode to the summit of the hill, where the men were hard at work, delving in silence with pick and spade. There were not sufficient implements for all, but when one was out of breath, another took his place, and before the first glimmer of dawn appeared, the trench had been made breast deep.
“Four o’clock and all’s well!” came from the sentinel on the Somerset, but a moment later a sheet of flame and a white cloud burst from the side of the Lively, and the roar of a gun broke the stillness of the morning.
The thunder rolled far away, arousing the British army, the people of Boston, General Gage, and Lord Howe from their slumbers. Berinthia Brandon, from her chamber window, beheld the warship Lively shrouded in smoke. Upon the green hill, where, the day before, the farmers had been swinging their scythes, and where the partially cured hay was lying in windrows, she could see a bank of yellow earth. Again the thunder of the guns jarred her window, but at a signal from the Somerset the firing ceased.
Before sunrise all Boston was astir, moving towards Copp’s Hill, gazing from windows and roofs upon the growing fortifications. Generals Gage and Howe ascended the steeple of Christ Church and looked atthe embankment with their telescopes.[70]A little later officers were hurrying along the streets with orders to the several regiments to be ready to march at a moment’s notice. Drums were beating; battalions moving towards Long Wharf, the selected rendezvous, from whence the troops were to be transported in boats to Moulton’s Point, ascend the hill, and send the provincials flying from their chosen position.
Such was the information brought to the Brandon home by Abraham Duncan.
“You will have a splendid chance to see the battle from the housetop,” he said to Captain Brandon.
Cannon carriages were rumbling through the street, passing the Brandon home, wheeling into the burial ground, and coming into position. The gunners loaded the pieces and lighted their port fires, waved their lint-stocks, and touched them to the priming. Flames and smoke belched from the muzzle of the guns with deafening roar, sending the missiles upon the fortification.
While the cannoneers were reloading the guns, Berinthia, upon the housetop with a telescope, saw a man leap up from the intrenchment and stand in full view upon the bank of earth, swinging his hat and shaking his fist.
“Oh father! mother! it is Tom! He’s swinging his hat! Just see him!” she cried.
Again the cannon flamed, but with the flashing Tom leaped back into the trench and was safe from the shot.
“I’m glad he’s there. He’s got the true stuff in him,” said Mr. Brandon.
“I’m afraid he’ll be killed!” exclaimed Mrs. Brandon, manifesting the mother’s solicitude and love.
“I glory in his pluck,” said Berinthia.
People came from other sections of the town to behold the impending battle.
“May we presume to trespass upon your hospitality, Captain Brandon,” asked Mr. Newville, “and, if you have room, see this approaching contest from your housetop?”
“Certainly. We give you and your family hearty welcome. We doubtless shall see it from different political standpoints; you are truly loyal to the king; my sympathies, as you know, are with the provincials, but that shall not diminish our personal friendship or my hospitality,” Captain Brandon replied, escorting Mr. and Mrs. Newville and Miss Newville to the top of the house and providing them seats.
The forenoon wore away; Mrs. Brandon was busy preparing a lunch, and Chloe soon had the table elaborately supplied with ham, tongue, the whitest bread, appetizing cheese, doughnuts, and crumpets. The company partook of the collation, drank each a glass of wine, and then ascended to the roof again.
Berinthia informed Ruth that Tom was in the redoubt. She had seen him through the telescope, standing on the embankment and waving his hat.
Lieutenant Robert Walden, at the moment, was five miles away, in Medford town, delivering a message to Colonel John Stark to hasten with his regiment to Bunker Hill.
The meetinghouse bell was ringing the hour of noon when the drummer beat the long roll for the parading of the regiment. The men filed past the quarter-master’s tent and each received a gill of powder in his horn. And then with quickened step they crossed the Mystic and hastened along the road.
With the shot from the Symetry screeching around them, tossing the gravel in their faces, the men from New Hampshire crossed the neck of land, ascended the hill, and came into position by a low stone wall surmounted by rails. Lieutenant Walden’s company was nearest the Mystic River. Captain Daniel Moore’s came next in line. The regiment with Colonel Reed’s New Hampshire regiment extended to the foot of the hill, in the direction of the redoubt.
“You will inform Colonel Prescott that I have arrived with my regiment and am in position,” said Colonel Stark.
Riding towards the redoubt, Robert saluted General Putnam, who, mounted on a white horse, was going along the lines, telling the men to keep cool, save their powder, and aim at the cross-belts of the British.
It was a pleasure once more to meet Doctor Warren, who had been appointed general, but who had come as a volunteer to take part in the battle.
Colonel Prescott thanked Lieutenant Walden for the information sent by Colonel Stark. He did not doubt the men from New Hampshire would be as true as they were in the battles of Louisburg and Ticonderoga.[71]
Dismounting from his horse and giving it in charge of a soldier, Lieutenant Walden walked along the trench, looked over the embankment upon the British troops landing at Moulton’s Point and forming in two columns, one of which, he concluded, was intending to march along the Mystic to gain the rear of the redoubt and cut off the retreat of those within it. If such were the contemplated movement it would be mainly against the regiments of Stark and Reed. The other body of troops seemed to be forming to advance directly upon the redoubt.
While he was thus gazing, a hand clasped his arm; turning, he beheld Tom Brandon.
“I’ve been wondering if you wouldn’t be round here somewhere,” said Tom.
“And I have been wondering where you would be,” Robert replied.
“And so you are a lieutenant?” queried Tom, looking at the epaulet on his shoulder. “I congratulate you.
“The whole family are on the roof to see the battle,” he continued.
“Perhaps you can bring them a little nearer with my telescope,” said Robert, handing him the instrument.
Tom rested it on the embankment and looked towards the house.
“There’s a crowd of ’em on the roof,” he said, “father, mother, and Berinthia. There’s a man with a white wig,—Mr. Newville, I guess; and there’s a girl talking with Berinthia—Ruth Newville.”
With quickened pulse Robert adjusted the glass to his vision. Others than those mentioned by Tom were upon the roof, but one figure alone engaged his attention. Oh, if he could but know how she regarded the impending battle! Possibly since the events on Lexington Green and at Concord bridge her sympathies had been with the king. No, he could not think it. The instincts of one so noble, good, and large-hearted must ever be opposed to tyranny and oppression. Whether favoring or opposing the course of the Colonies, what matter to him? What probability of their ever meeting again? If meeting, would she ever be other than an old acquaintance? Never had he opened his heart to her; never by word or deed informed her that she was all the world to him. To her he would be only a friend of other days.
He could see a tall man in a general’s uniform walking along the British lines. He halted, took off his cocked hat, stood erect, and said something to the soldiers. He concluded it was General Howe, telling them they were a noble body of men, and he did not doubt they would show themselves valiant soldiers. He should not ask them to go any farther than he himself was willing to go. Robert and Tom could hear the cheer which the soldiers gave him.
The columns began to march,—that commanded by General Howe along the bank of the Mystic; thatby General Pigot straight up the hill towards the redoubt.
Robert ran to the spot where he had left his horse, but it was not there. He hastened down the slope, past the Connecticut troops under Colonel Knowlton, and reported to Colonel Stark, who was directing his soldiers to take up a rail fence in front of his line and reset it by the low stone wall, and fill the space between the fences with hay from the windrows.
“It will serve as a screen,” he said.
Stepping in front a short distance, he drove a stake in the ground.
“Don’t fire till the redcoats are up to it,” was his order.
The sun was shining from a cloudless sky. They upon the roof of the Brandon home saw the scarlet columns of the British moving along the Mystic and towards the redoubt, the sunlight gleaming from their muskets and bayonets, the flags waving above them, the men keeping step to the drumbeat; the great guns of the fleet and those on Copp’s Hill flaming and thundering; white powder-clouds floating away and dissolving in thin air. They saw puffs of smoke burst from the heads of the advancing columns and heard the rattle of muskets. Cannon-shot plowed the ground and tossed up the gravel around the redoubt. Only the six cannon of the provincials were replying. Nearer moved the scarlet line. Again a rattling volley, with no answering musket shot from fence or embankment. What the meaning of such silence? Suddenly a line of light streamed from the river to the foot of the hill, and like the lightning’sflash ran along the embankment and round the redoubt. A rattle and roar like the waves of the sea upon a rocky shore came to their ears across the shining waters. Men were reeling to the ground, whole ranks going down before the pitiless storm. The front ranks had melted away. For a few moments there was a rattling like scattered raindrops, and then another lightning flash, and the British were fleeing in confusion.
Mr. Newville clenched his hands.
“I fear the king’s troops are discomfited,” he said.
Mrs. Newville with a long-drawn sigh covered her face with her handkerchief as if to shut out the unwelcome spectacle.
“The redcoats are beaten!” Berinthia exclaimed.
“It is too soon to say that, daughter. The battle is not yet over; the king’s troops would be cowardly were they to give up with only one attempt.”
Like a statue, her hands tightly grasping the balustrade, her bosom heaving with suppressed emotion, Ruth gazed upon the spectacle, uttering no exclamation. Taking the telescope, she turned it upon the scene, beholding the prostrate forms dotting the newly mown fields. It was not difficult to distinguish Lord Howe, the centre of a group of officers. He was evidently issuing orders to re-form the broken lines. Colonels, majors, and captains were rallying the disheartened men. In the intervals of the cannonade from the fleet a confused hum of voices could be heard, officers shouting their orders. Beyond the prostrate forms, behind the low stone wall and screenof hay were the provincials, biding their time. Officers were walking to and fro,—one middle-aged, with a colonel’s epaulets, evidently commanding the troops nearest the Mystic River. A subordinate officer of manly form was receiving orders and transmitting them to others. Where had she seen one like him? Long she gazed with unwonted bloom upon her cheeks.
Again the scarlet lines advanced,—the foremost platoons halting, firing, filing right and left, that those in the rear might reach the front. Unmindful of the bullets pattering around him, the young officer walked composedly along the provincial line, from which came no answering shot. Seemingly he was telling the men to wait. Suddenly, as before, the screen of hay became a sheet of flame, and the scarlet ranks again dissolved like a straw in a candle’s flame, whole ranks reeling and falling, or fleeing to the place of landing.
Mr. Newville groaned aloud. Again Mrs. Newville covered her face. Captain Brandon, Mrs. Brandon, and Berinthia, out of respect to their guests, gave no sign of exultation; but from windows, roofs, doorways, and steeples, like the voice of many waters, came the joyful murmur of the multitude, revealing to General Gage, up in the tower of Christ Church, the sympathy of the people with the provincials.
No exclamation of satisfaction or disappointment fell from the lips of Ruth, still looking with the telescope towards the provincial line by the Mystic, and the manly figure of the officer receiving instructions from his superior.
There was a commotion among the troops in the burial ground before them.
“Fall in! Fall in!” General Clinton shouted. They hastily formed in column and marched down the steep descent to the ferry landing. From the tower of Christ Church, together with General Gage, Clinton had seen the discomfiture of Lord Howe and General Pigot, and, with three hundred men, was hastening to reinforce them, stepping into boats and crossing the river.
The people on the housetops needed no telescopes to see what was going on across the stream. Slowly the lines re-formed, the men reluctantly taking their places. They who had fought at Ticonderoga, who had won the victory on the Plains of Abraham at Quebec, never had faced so pitiless a storm.
“It is downright murder,” said the men.
They upon the housetops could see the British officers flourishing their swords, gesticulating, and even striking the disheartened soldiers, compelling them to stand once more in the ranks. Twice they had advanced, encumbered with their knapsacks, in accordance with strict military rule; now they were laying them aside. There were fewer men in the ranks than at the beginning of the battle, but the honor of England was at stake. The rabble of undisciplined country bumpkins must be driven from their position, or the troops of England would be forever disgraced. General Howe had learned wisdom. He had thought to sweep aside the line of provincials behind the low stone wall, gain the rear, cut off the retreat of those in the redoubt, capture them, and win a notable victory. He had not expected such resistance, such a destructive fire as had greeted the light infantry along thebanks of the stream. In the two attempts, he had discovered the weak place in the provincial line,—the space between the redoubt and the low stone wall. In planning the third movement, he resolved to make a feint of advancing once more towards the wall, but would concentrate his attack upon the redoubt, and especially upon that portion of the line least defended.
The summer sun, shining from a cloudless sky, was declining towards the western horizon. It was past four o’clock before the lines were ready. Once more the guns of the fleet hurled solid shot and shells upon the redoubt. Captain Brandon, looking from his housetop down upon the guns almost beneath him, saw a gunner ramming an inflammable shell into the cannon. The shell, with smoking torch, screamed across the river, aimed not at the bank of yellow earth on Bunker Hill, but at the houses in Charlestown.
“They intend to burn the village,” he said.
Soon flames were bursting from window, doorway, and roof. The wind, blowing from the south, carried sparks and cinders to the adjoining houses, glowing in the summer heat. A wail of horror from the people rent the air.
“That is mean, cruel, wicked, dastardly!” exclaimed Ruth, with flashing eyes. “It’s inhuman. I shall hate the man who has ordered it.”[72]
Through the previous stages of the conflict no word of approval or disapproval had escaped her lips.
“Ruth! Ruth! Don’t say that!” Mr. Newville cried, astonished by such an outburst of indignation.
“If General Gage were here I would say it to his face. What have those people done that their homes should be destroyed? They are not fighting the battle. Does he think that by burning the town he will frighten those men in the redoubt into submission? Were I one of them, I would die before I would surrender.”
Her eyes were flashing. In her earnestness she had removed her hat. The gentle breeze was fanning her heated brow. She stood erect, a queen in her dignity and beauty. Never had Mr. and Mrs. Newville dreamed that there was such pent-up fire in her soul, such energy, fearlessness, and instinctive comprehension of justice and right. Captain and Mrs. Brandon, Berinthia, and all around gazed upon her wonderingly and with admiration.
The fire was sweeping on,—leaping from building to building, licking up houses, stables, and workshop, reaching the meetinghouse, kindling the shingles on its roof, the clapboards upon its walls, bursting from doors and windows, climbing the spire to the gilded vane, burning till beams and timbers gave way; then came the crash,—a single stroke of the bell tolling as it were a requiem.
Under the cloud from the burning town the scarlet lines once more advanced,—not towards the screen of hay, but in the direction of the redoubt. With the glass Ruth saw the manly figure she had seen before, seemingly receiving instructions from his superior officer, and running towards the threatenedpoint of attack. The scarlet lines were mounting the breastwork. Men were firing in each other’s faces; thrusting with the bayonet. She could see a stalwart provincial in his shirt-sleeves beat out the brains of a Britisher with the butt of his musket, and the next moment go down with a bayonet through his heart. The manly figure was in the thick of the mêlée,—a half dozen redcoats rushing upon him. His sword was flashing in the sunlight as he parried their bayonets, keeping them at bay. Guns flashed, and the white powder-cloud shut out the scene. When it cleared, he had gone down, and the redcoats were swinging their hats. Their shout of victory came across the waters. Those around saw Ruth clasp her hand upon her heart.
“They are beaten, and he is shot!” she cried, sinking into Berinthia’s arms.
“Who’s shot?” her mother asked. There was no answer from the quivering lips.
“The excitement is too much for her,” said Mrs. Newville, as they bore her to Berinthia’s chamber.