The Immortal American
Chapter Twenty: It Begins
Not at all subtle, the militia had their fifers and drummers playing a cheerful tune as they strolled down the hill, muskets in hand or any other weapon they could find on their farm. A few young men—boys, really—held axes or butcher knives.
Rushing to another window, I saw Captain Laurie, looking up the hill, then shouting out some kind of order for his men as his horse curled in a tight circle, then trotted back toward the Old North Bridge. The men who stood guard of the highway followed him to the west side of the bridge.
A Regular lieutenant nodded toward Captain Laurie and his retreating men. Captain Laurie rode close to the lieutenant and spoke as his eyes shot toward the approaching militia.
Colonel Barrett was at the front, just like the Regular officers were always in head of their men, so too was my husband, which made me stop breathing and choke. After I finally inhaled, I ravished more of the wild mint leaves. Damn it. I hated just standing, watching, waiting. It was this thought that made me snap, my jaw clenched tight, and I threw the coffee cup on the floor, feeling satisfied as the white porcelain shattered into a tiny white flakes, flakes like snow.
Making tight fists, I wondered what to do other than just watch as the militia, looking like a gigantic blob of men, faced the Regulars, usually a formidable sight, but against so many Provincial’s appeared puny and pathetic.
Colonel Barrett, on a white mare, faced the bridge with a scowl, his eyes scanning toward Concord from time to time.
Rushing to my kitchen, I saw out the east window that smoke from the town’s Commons spiraled toward the steel-colored clouds. It was a fair amount of smoke, but from the distance I couldn’t tell if it was a house or a barn or what, but obviously something massive was on fire back in Concord. Something was on fire, indeed.
I ran to the parlor again, where Colonel Barrett just finished shouting an order, and the militiamen formed a line on the highway, as the Regulars stood guard of the west side of the bridge. The militia marched two lines at a time that snaked down the road looking like a multi-speckled dragon, like pictures of the Chinese dragons of war. Colonel Barrett, on horseback, strode back up the hill beside my house and consulted with other officers, including my husband who had ridden up the hill with the colonel.
What could I do? What could I do? My heart pushed at my ribs as I stared at Mathew making his way back down to the highway, making me think my chest might explode at any minute. Colonel Barrett gave an order, and the men marched slowly toward the bridge. Their muskets were loaded with long flints, which meant that gunpowder and possibly bullets were inserted in their muskets as well. Then Captain Laurie screamed something to his men, and the soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder and made the short distance to the east side of the bridge.
Along the highway the Concord River had flooded, and the ditches that ran parallel to the road were smothered in smoky cold water. Was it the river? Was the river possessed by a demon who wanted more blood on her watery hands? Daganawida had told me about the spirits of water being the most clever of all, and how I was to flatter and play trickster to the river, to appease the never resting spirit. Or was the river merely a cold witness to my sister’s death, Kimball’s death? And now there were men with muskets who faced each other over that murky water.
Colonel Barrett began to slow his horse as a young militia captain I recognized as an Acton man, who’d always pestered my sister and I during the counties’ dances, walked in front toward the west entrance of the bridge. Beside the Acton man was a fifer who began a high-pitched, fast-paced, thrashing melody, and somewhere in the multicolored dragon was the beat of the drums.
The last of the Regulars retreating to the east side of the bridge stooped over and tried to pry some of the planks of wood free from the bridge as they passed.
“Stop harming the bridge!” a militiaman yelled.
Captain Laurie said something to his Regular troops, and the bridge was left alone.
Colonel Barrett could be heard giving orders not to shoot unless fired upon. Then he looked directly at Captain Laurie, waiting, it appeared, for the captain to make a further retreat or . . . God, what else could the captain do?
On the east side of the bridge Captain Laurie was in front of his men. His face was ruddy and even from the distance of my house, I saw his visage glistening with sweat. His eyes never focused on anything in particular or any one person, instead they bounced from the militiamen to his own, back and forth, thither and hither. He looked nearly mad by the time he screamed, and this I heard distinctly, “Formation for street firing!”
Captain Laurie’s men clustered around the bridge’s opening. They tightened in formation, appearing to be a smaller red blur at the end of the bridge. Although being just a woman with no military education, to me it looked like the perfect target at the end of the bridge. Instead of using the space provided, to appear more intimidating or to be a wider target, the Regulars looked like one sitting red duck.
The militia, led by the Acton man—oh, what was his name? I was so glad to hear when he’d gotten married, hoping that would stop him from trying to pull me too close while we danced the pousette—kept a steady pace as he approached the bridge, only fifty yards from where Captain Laurie screamed, “Hold the line, boys. Tight formation!”
A lieutenant at the rear of the blood-colored blob shook his head, frowned, and gave out an order to flank the men who were making ready to shoot while in street firing position. The geranium target at the end of the bridge blurred with activity, but none of it looked organized. Then the redcoats tightened in on themselves all the more.
As Isaac Davis—yes! That was his name—marched over the threshold of the bridge, the tight scarlet ball aimed their muskets over their comrades shoulders, bayonets affixed, making the muskets sway like slithering snakes. And that was when a shot was fired. I jumped and shook as the report of the gunfire rattled my house. Gasping and holding my lips with my fingertips, another redcoat fired and Mr. Davis was no longer walking forward.
Another shot rang out, and the fifer who had stood beside Mr. Davis dropped. The music stopped, but the beat remained.
A man screamed, “God damn it! They’re firing ball!”
Another militiaman yelled, “Fire, fellow-soldiers! For God’s sake, fire!”
Then the militia, while marching forward, returned fire. The volley of popping noises was, at first, a loud bang, but then succeeded in no rhythm but steady enough so I could hear men yelling, but no coherent words could be made out.
Next another returning shot was fired in loud staccato booms of smoke and balls flying in the air, whistling past like gaps in a house can make during a Noreastern storm. Then the red blob became smaller and smaller, finally collapsing as the Regulars ran in retreat. It happened so quickly. First one man, then another and another ran, ran as fast as they could in no formation, no lines, away from the bridge. The fastest evacuation I thought possible to be executed by a hundred men. The Regulars were outnumbered more than four times, and to make matters worse, even I, a simple farmer’s daughter, had seen that they’d been outmaneuvered.
The retreat lasted mere seconds, and the militia stood on the bridge, some on the highway, in awe. What had just happened? There were men lying on the bridge and around the bridge. How many were dead? How many were injured? How many were just cowering, crying for their mothers?
Mathew, still on horseback, stood on the highway. He looked toward our house with a slight grin. The whole of the militia wore a crazed face. If I were to guess, they never would have thought they could have made the world’s strongest military run away. It was a collective face of four hundred men that was part stunned, part angry, and part rejoicing.
The jubilation commenced in a loud huzzah from someone in the crowd, then someone laughed, and the large mob whooped to God for their luck. A few men gave chase to the lobsterbacks, while others ran off, and some knelt to either pray or cry.
C
olonel Barrett screamed. His horse trampled the highway in a nervous pounding of her hooves, and finally the men listened. The colonel no longer had a reason to yell once the men stood still, so I couldn’t tell what he was saying. But by his pointing I gathered that some of the four hundred militia were to collect in the woods again behind my farm, and others were to secure the bridge.
Mathew asked something of Colonel Barrett who nodded. Mathew nodded himself, dismounted, and walked with Cherry up the drive to our house.
I stood in the kitchen fidgeting while I waited for Mathew, and within seconds he strode in on a big smile and thunderous confidence.
“Did you see?”
I nodded and ran to his ready arms. I had never been more terrified in my life as when I saw the Regulars shooting at my militiamen, at my husband. I had never felt my heart beat like that before. It was louder than the volley of gunfire, louder than four hundred men firing their muskets almost at the same time. I was sure my heart had galloped up into my throat, where I thought it might still be lodged.
I cried then, clutching onto Mathew with all my might. I never wanted to see anything like that again.
“Oh, oh . . . oh dear . . . what’s wrong, Violet? Didn’t you see that we got those damned redcoats running? Running, I tell you. Can you believe it? What are these tears for?”
I smacked him on his shoulder, hard. Harder than I’d wanted.
Mathew rubbed his shoulder, looking at me like I had just turned into a troll. No words came out of my mouth, or into my head, as I just stared at him, incensed he could be so . . . damned cocky at a time like this.
“Violet . . .”
Then I kissed him.
Yes, I was crazy, but I had just endured watching the man I loved being shot at. Somehow, God Almighty, he had survived.
Mathew lost his footing, and we bounced against the dark blue pantry in the kitchen. I clutched at his face, pulling him more into our kiss, inserting my tongue in his mouth, forcing my body against his, feeling him alive all over me.
Finally Mathew chuckled and pulled at my arms. He separated himself from my lips enough to say, “Were you worried about me, dear?”
I nodded.
There was a knock on the kitchen’s door. I couldn’t let Mathew get too far from me, so I followed him like a lost soul. Mathew said, “one more minute,” to someone, shut the door, and smiled back at me.
“I have a minute.”
I nodded and tried for a grin. “I’m sorry I hit you.”
Mathew held onto my waist and let his smile enhance. “I think that was just concern for me, which flatters me to no end, dear.”
I giggled.
“You should have been a boxer, wife. You have a nasty good punch.”
“I’m sorry, again.”
“I’ll wear this bruise proudly, knowing how you love me and worry about me. Of course, if any of the men discover it, I’ll say I was in hand-to-hand combat with a Regular.”
“I think you should, yes.”
“Can I say I love you again?”
“Please. Yes, please.”
He kissed me first, thereupon whispered he loved me three times, then there was another knock.
Mathew huffed as he stormed to the door. “God damn it! I said I’ll be there in a minute!” He whipped the door open and there stood Colonel Barrett.
“Oh . . . sir,” Mathew stuttered.
Mr. Barrett gave me a small friendly smile before he waved Mathew’s harsh words away. “I’ve been a newly married man myself, once upon a time long ago. I understand the need for a minute here or there.” He came into our kitchen while both Mathew and I blushed. “Mrs. Adams.” He came over to me and gave me a soft hug. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to have some of the Regular soldiers who are wounded treated here. You have your man, Mr. Jones, on hand to help?”
“No,” I only offered.
Colonel Barrett dug his graying eyebrows in confusion for a moment, but then he sighed and nodded. “Reverend Emerson has some of the wounded, both Massachusetts’ boys and Regulars. I was hoping you could take care of some of them too. I’ve already sent a messenger to my wife, so she will come and assist you.”
I nodded while thinking I didn’t want to take care of any soldiers—ones that wore a woolen red coat or ones that wore casual clothing of the day. I wanted this whole damned thing to end. I wanted Mathew to stay close to me, mayhap get me back into our bed and make love to me or just be close. I didn’t want to stay at home, tending to strangers, but I nodded while Mathew looked down at me with pride growing in his warm blue eyes.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Colonel Barrett moved closer to the door, but then turned back toward me. “We’re leaving the Regular’s who died where they lay—for now.”
“How many are dead?” Mathew asked.
Colonel Barrett shrugged. “Not sure. Of the Regulars, it appears there were two or three. Probably more as we saw some of the Regulars take their wounded and perhaps dead to the Emerson farm, trying to hideout, I’d guess. Might be a couple around your farm, Adams. Could take a few privates to scout out your place, make sure all the redcoats are accounted for. Of the militia . . . Captain Davis was one of the first to fall.”
I gasped and held my fingers to my lips.
Colonel Barrett nodded gravely, but flicked a sympathetic grin to me. “He was a good man, very brave.”
I nodded.
“What are we going to do?” Mathew asked.
Colonel Barrett shot an apprehensive glance at me, but then answered, “A rather fat redcoat colonel and a few companies of grenadiers met the retreating men on the road. The colonel and grenadiers escorted their retreating comrades back to Concord where, if I were to take a guess, that bloated colonel will rest his men, let them eat, and then begin their way back to Boston.”
“What of the Regulars at your farm, Mr. Barrett? The ones searching for our militia’s arms?” I asked timidly.
Colonel Barrett sharply inhaled and nodded. “God damn, I forgot about them in all this hubbub. I have to make an order not to shoot unless fired upon. I have to—” And he was out the door.
“That was a very smart question to ask, darling, and very bright to remember. I forgot, even Colonel Barrett forgot,” Mathew said.
I smiled and held him one more time before he left, in a hurry to scout out the farm, then to be with his men. He said his good bye so quickly, I didn’t think he heard me tell him that he was my heart, my love.
Mrs. Barrett would be coming soon, if she wasn’t delayed by Captain Parsons and his entourage, but already the wounded, all scarlet coated, lay on my front yard, mostly taking care of themselves as I stood staring at them. There were only about ten of them, huddled together, some crying, some quiet and blanched, others looking in my house’s windows. I frowned at that, but went to fetch a small bucket and filled it as full as I could muster while still being able to carry it. Odd, but I could carry it rather easily. It must have been my nerves, amplifying my strength.
Trying to hinder the sloshing, I carefully set down the basin of clean water a few feet from the men, all of whom, but one, could walk. I raced back inside my house for sheets and cups and came back, carefully settling everything on the ground, including small corn cakes that Bethany had made yesterday. The young men stopped their crying and were very quiet while staring at me with dead eyes. Those boys would never be the same again, not after seeing men die. I filled the cups and gave each man the fresh well water.
We didn’t say anything to each other, the wounded and I. We just gave each other quick glances, and I tried for a calming smile. Only one boy could stammer a thank you as he drank the water and stared at his bleeding leg.
Then I heard it. I don’t know why I didn’t hear it sooner, but as I turned toward the highway there were more men marching toward the North Bridge. This time from the west side. Captain Parsons was returning.
Oh, God, couldn’t this dis
pute be over?
Just then I saw the bright red of Cherry. Mathew galloped to the east side of the bridge and a little past to a small hill. Just beyond the hill was a stonewall. Cherry ran his precious rider until I could no longer see him past the wall, but I did notice there were many men standing guard nearby. Since I knew the location as well as the back of my hand, I could guess that Mathew and a couple hundred men were stationed around the rounded hill, protecting the bridge, in a blind spot to me, and a blind spot to the marching hundred Regular soldiers.
I looked down at the wounded. There was one boy who had lost consciousness. Damnation. Glancing at the boy who had whispered his thanks earlier, I said, “That’s Captain Parsons on the highway, I’m sure of it. I think you should carry that boy and meet up with your other troops down on the highway. Not that you’re a bother to me, I love having bleeding guests, but you might feel more comfortable with your own.”
The brunette boy with blood dripping down his calf nodded and tried to stand on one leg. All of them helped each other up, but between the lot of them, no one could carry the concussed boy. They all made brave attempts, but in the end I pushed them aside, and somehow loaded the boy on my shoulders, thanking God the boy was probably only sixteen, if that, and skinny. I carried him down to the highway, while the rest of the wounded hobbled behind me.
As gently as I could, I set the boy down on the one dry spot wide and long enough to hold a man. I couldn’t tell why the boy wouldn’t open his eyes. He didn’t appear to have a wound on his head, and was breathing just fine. I hoped he’d just fainted. His face held the softness of youth with acne and the sparse hairs of early manhood above his lip. As I stood, I said to the group of wounded soldiers, “I—I—well, I wish you a full recovery.” Then I ran away.
Finally, up the hill to my house’s porch, I shuddered as I studied the highway where Captain Parsons approached with nearly a hundred men. The marching red line was a ways off and couldn’t have seen me, I hoped. Yet growing nervous, I hastily retreated into the house.
I took in a deep breath, weighing my choices, bit my lip and turned around in the parlor. Thanks to Bethany everything looked clean and tidy and smelled faintly of lavender, just like my sister had left the house. God, how I loved his house, how I wanted to have children in this house—Mathew’s children. I was furious at Mathew for being with his militia, but also fiercely proud that he was with his men. And all I really wanted was that picture I had developed of Mathew and me growing old together, having children, and living in love.
I grabbed an overcoat that hung on the couch. While rushing through the house, I noticed that it was another of my husband’s, this one black and simple, and hung past my hands. Rolling the cuffs, I walked through the kitchen, but then stopped. My rifle leaned against the wall in the corner beside the smaller blue pantry. The pan where gunpowder was to be filled was blackened, and even with all the oil in the world I couldn’t make it gleam. I genuflected before the rifle, fingering the cherry wood and the brass-color of the metal. I needed to have children that looked like Mathew, raised in the house where I had grown from babe to woman. I needed to fulfill that dream. How I cherished thinking the word, husband—the man who was bound to me, mine. I winced as I remembered Jacque saying those words. How ironic! Now I whispered them to myself—my husband, mine—and the words resonated with warmth and rightness.
Wrapping my hands around the stock of my rifle I prayed for destiny. It was my fate as a woman to have babies and live in a house filled with love, was it not? I was in love with my husband, and I was not about to let anything stand between me and my wishes, my desires, my husband. I’d already had so much taken from me, but not my husband. Not as I could do something about it. I righted myself as I tied the bag of lead balls and extra gunpowder to my belt then bulleted out of my house.
Just as I jumped from the porch I saw a black steed carrying a very familiar form to the other side of the wall, close to where Mathew was hiding. Wide shoulders, slim waist and hair so dark that it almost appeared blue . . .
Jacque.
Chapter Twenty-One: Not Supposed to Happen