~*~
Hours later I weeded in one of Mathew’s coats as the west wind bit with ice. The warm spring weather had drained away the second my husband had left. I blew hot air on my frozen fingertips covered in dirt when I heard the subtle thunder of men marching. It had too much rhythm to be a natural sound, and was muffled by the dirt and gravel of the highway in front of my house, the North Road, but it was distinguishable nonetheless. Thud-thud-thud-thud, thud-thud-thud-thud. Men marching toward fate is an eerie noise whose meaning cannot be mistaken for anything other than anxiety or doom.
There is a sense of tragedy within a military. No, it’s not just the presence of a soldier that brings about this feeling of calamity and catastrophe; it’s not just that a soldier wears a sword, holds a musket; it’s also not just that a military man can endeavor to kill. It’s the knowledge that destiny is riding beside the soldier. Flanked close, predestination, whether grave or triumphant, is the mistress of a soldier.
While I wiped the moist earth from my hands, I knew not what the future was with the redcoats. Shots fired in Lexington? Men dead? I couldn’t believe it. Surely, the shots were merely gunpowder—a normal warning tactic. Or was the powder truly mixed with lethal lead balls? Please, please, let there be peace, I whispered to the black soil as I stood.
I walked gingerly to my house. Once inside, I took off both Mathew’s coat and the lavender apron that shielded me from staining my mossy green dress from the dirt, hung them on hooks, then with shaking hands, found a cup of cold coffee to indulge.
I stood at one of the windows at the front of the house, sipping the bitter black brew, waiting for the crimson color to cut up the road, but instead saw all manner of men—Provincial men—hurrying over the North Bridge, and there on the west side of the bridge was Cherry and my Mathew waving an arm in the direction of the copse behind our house. Had I truly been that involved in the garden that I hadn’t heard what looked like hundreds of men run up the hill west of my property?
Apparently.
My white knuckles gripping the coffee cup was evidence enough of my nerves. I took a deep, shaky breath, hoping to calm myself. But the thudding of men, professional soldiers marching greeted my ears. I looked back at the highway, over the North Bridge and there they were, the blood-bedecked soldiers. The last few Provincial men raced up the hill, as the Regulars arrived on the east side of the bridge.
Although the clouds hung low, they never did shed one drop of moisture. The wind was steady and strong, and there was enough sun peeking through the clouds to see the gleam of the redcoats and their bayonets as they approached.
I raced to the other side of the house, in the parlor, to see that my husband and the other militiamen stood on the hill, just northwest of the house, looking down at the Regulars making their march.
Then, I flew back to the kitchen where I saw a gorgeous gray horse smoothly sail over the North Bridge with a captain and lieutenant leading what looked like hundreds of lobsterbacks. I sipped more coffee, and counted the rows of soldiers. Four men in a row. One—two—three—four—five—six . . . ten . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . and more . . . My God. Two hundred? Almost two hundred men marched across the North Bridge while the captain in a huge black hat with gold feathers plumed over the edge sat in front of my property talking with a couple of his lieutenants.
My fingers nervously rapped against my lips as I watched the captain look down at a piece of paper then up, inspecting the countryside and then me. I gasped as I realized I had walked out of the kitchen and stood on the porch with three Regular officers staring at me.
Could I have been more thoughtless? I could have kicked myself for my careless actions and blinked as the captain waved at me.
Quivering, I waved back.
Not more than a couple rods from me, I saw the young captain give me a small smile and then talk to his officers. At that instant, to my utter dismay, the captain spurred his horse, and he came trotting up my drive to me with one of his lieutenants, or was it another captain? I chewed a wild mint leaf I had picked from the Concord’s widened shores earlier that morning—my morning absolutions, both forgiving the river and hating it—while the officers approached.
“Good morning, miss!”
Tonguing the mint to the side of my mouth, I nodded and croaked, “Morning.”
“I am Captain Parsons and this is Captain Laurie. We were wondering if we might trouble you for some information.”
“They hid all the cannons under my corset.”
All right, now, I’ll admit I’m not the best when I’m nervous, but there’s something about being nervous and angry that can make me a bit of a lunatic. I internally cringed at my bawd statement, when both the captains began to laugh, then laugh in hysterics.
“Oh . . . oh . . . she’s got a sense of humor!” Captain Laurie exclaimed.
I arched my brow at being talked to as if I weren’t in their presence—Lord, I detested that—but held a tiny grin on my face, the same kind of granite smile I had seen Jacque bestow when he was his most uncomfortable.
“Now, those smart colonists have us,” Captain Laurie said. “We can’t search this kind lady’s person for the cannons. Or can we?”
“No . . . although . . . no, we can’t,” Captain Parsons said, and stole a look at my chest before he continued. “Thank you for the laugh, good woman. Pray, may I ask for your name?”
Mathew had advised me to tell the redcoats, if asked, any surname other than his. Even though his cousin, the lawyer, John Adams, had defended the Regular soldiers who had been part of the Boston Massacre, it still wasn’t enough to have the name Adams not hated amongst the British-born soldiers. Samuel Adams had been a very busy man, making speeches and stirring tea parties.
“I am Mrs. . . .” I couldn’t think of any name, other than Adams. I wanted to say I was the wife of Samuel Adams himself. I wanted to watch the Regular officers’ greedy eyes, flickering to my chest and sometimes to my eyes, widen at the realization that I was someone of consequence. I was a woman to be reckoned with. “Beaumont,” I finally choked out.
Good heavens, of all the names to think of. Why hadn’t I just used my maiden name? Lord, what had I just said?
“Hmm.” Captain Parsons’s smile dimmed.
“Your husband is French?” Captain Laurie asked.
“Oh, my husband was born and raised here in Massachusetts. His grandfather was a Huguenot.” I tilted my head with no further explanation.
I was getting rather good at lying, I thought.
“Ah.” Captain Parsons leaned closer to me. “Is your husband a Huguenot also?”
“Oh, no,” I said and rolled my eyes at the Captain, like we were old friends who could tease each other. He liked this informality between us, and peeked again at my breasts to prove it. I continued, though I wanted to smack the men converging around me. “I converted him to His Majesty’s Church years ago. I wouldn’t have married the man otherwise.”
“What a bright woman you are.”
I let my eyes fall to the ground in feigned polite acceptance of the compliment.
“Would you mind telling me where the Barrett farm is located? I have on my map it’s a few miles west on this highway, but we’ve had some problems with the reliability of our maps.”
I swallowed and thought of Mrs. Barrett and her friendship with my mother. Mrs. Barrett was Colonel Barrett’s wife. Colonel Barrett was more than likely stationed only a few hundred yards away from me on the hill over my house. I thought of Mr. Barrett’s farm, one of the wealthiest, and how there had been a stockpile of weapons stored in his barn, but Mathew had informed me that the militia had moved it elsewhere. Most of it, at least.
I loved the Barretts, even though I abhorred their owning slaves. Still, I didn’t want any harm to come to anyone.
As if knowing my thoughts Captain Parsons let his horse walk closer to me, where he whispered, “Don’t worry, pet. No harm will come to these Barretts. We just ne
ed the arms—the cannons you claim to be on your slender body. I promise no harm will come to the Barretts themselves.”
“You promise me?”
Captain Parsons smiled and nodded.
“Your map is wrong,” I said quietly. “The Barretts are only two miles from here, and if you break your promise, Captain, I’ll hunt you down like I would a wolf that’s eaten my cattle.”
Captain Parsons let his smile widen, then he slid his eyes over my whole body. “I like you, you know? I’ve never met a woman with your sense of humor before.”
I let my smile widen, sure that my malicious designs were close to becoming palpable. Then, looking down at the highway, I noted nearly a hundred pairs of eyes curiously peering at me.
“’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Beaumont. I would like to meet your husband one day—the man who married such a rare creature such as you.”
I nodded and curtsied. “I’m sure you’ll meet him soon enough, Captain.”
At that the captain scanned the hill a couple hundred yards from my house, then looked back at my smiling, proud face. He bowed his head once and left with Captain Laurie following.
I watched through my kitchen’s thick glass window as Captain Parsons divided his troops in half and rode with now a hundred soldiers toward the Barrett’s farm. The other hundred was stationed on the low hill in front of my house, and there were a few other soldiers spanning the North Highway. Of the half that remained, the men were slight of build with long limbs, built for speed—light infantry, I guessed. After all, I was born during a war that savaged the whole world, and had gotten to know the difference between a heavily built grenadier and the light infantry, I thought I perused.
I hated wearing the damned dress, and threw on a pair of midnight blue breeches and a white shirt, grabbed my cold coffee, sipped, then raced to the parlor window, took another sip, then gagged as I watched the militia—young and old men, rich and poor—spread themselves, hundreds of them, on the hill then descend straight for the Regulars.