Chapter 64
Boston to Lexington
April 18, 1775
JAMES HOLLOWAY fell asleep early. During the last two days he’d put in long hours. The General had sent him hither and yon to find leaders of different regiments to put together a force of about 700 men to go to Lexington and Concord to seize the weapons that had so long evaded him.
James had no idea when it would happen,
but it would be soon, he knew that. He also knew he would march to Lexington
and Concord with his regiment.
Dealing with the General had been
exhausting, so it had been a relief when the General ordered him to go to his
barracks and get as much sleep as he could.
He had been told by the General at
least five times to not say a word to anyone, including his fellow soldiers. James
certainly wouldn’t confide in Mollie Clark, with whom he had taken two walks.
They had pretended to meet by accident and only went a short distance together
to not upset her father.
Nor would he tell Sally Brewster. She
didn’t seem to care one way or another who was ruling Boston. People need fire
buckets no matter what government was in control, she claimed. She was totally
involved in her painting and not just on the buckets. Last week she had brought
out her drawings with the caveat, “They aren’t very good.”
“They’re very good, including the
drawing of me in uniform,” he had told her only to watch her blush as she did
whenever he complimented her. If he were to look for a wife, she would make an
excellent one, but it was a big if. Not just because he had so little money to
support a wife, the world around him was becoming more unsettled with talk of insurrection.
He knew the General was determined to
round up cannons, powder, cartridges, ammunitions, tents, shovels, food,
whatever might be used against the troops.
He also knew the General was under
pressure from London to solve the uprisings. He didn’t need the General to tell
him London did not understand the reality of Massachusetts.
James wasn’t sure if the General
understood either. Both from what he read and in his talks with Mrs. Gage, James
understood the point of view of the patriots as well as the army.
His parents had had an attitude
based on tales handed down from the time of Oliver Cromwell that the ordinary
man lived at the whim of whoever was in power, be it the mayor, landlord or king.
That people had the right to establish their own rules for their own lives
seemed unrealistic, but at the same time very appealing.
James always had had the ability to
fall asleep anywhere. Not recently.
Different thoughts ran through his
mind, but they disappeared almost as quickly as they came. On April 18, 1774,
his thoughts were of how the General had said to Lieutenant Colonel Francis
Smith and Major John Pitcairn, who were among the leaders of the planned march
and search mission, to not steal from the locals. When James turned on his left
side, he thought of the General saying, “I don’t want to hurt anyone or destroy
any property.”
How that would be possible with some
700 well-trained, armed men against the stubborn rebels, he wasn’t sure. James
often had feelings about things that came true. He had chalked up his worry
that something would happen to his wife when she was pregnant as just stupid
worry. It had come true. More than once, he had thought a thunder or hailstorm
would come. The times were not so numerous that James considered he had any
special gift. “I’m just observant,” he told himself.
Having a bad feeling about the mission
was natural considering all the tensions. If only the rebels didn’t fight about
paying taxes. If only the rebels would give up their damned weapons, things
would quiet down.
The men had many names: rebels,
patriots, colonists, loyalists … but loyal to whom? Not everyone was angry at
the King.
“Wake up, wake up.” James swatted at
his ear. He opened his eyes and tried to keep them open. Corporal Tilley came
into focus. He was holding a candle. “Get dressed. Full uniform. Cartridge
pouch, cartridges, everything. Be quiet as ghosts.”
James knew it was wrong to ask why.
An order was an order. When he sat up, he saw three of his fellow privates
struggling into their uniforms. Corporal Tilley was moving the room whispering
into the ear of each private.
There were whispers of “what is this
for?”
Corporal Tilley hearing the whispers
rushed over and took the speaker by the shoulders and whispered the order,
“Shut up.”
James was sure this was what the General had been planning.
Chapter 65
Boston to Lexington, Massachusetts
April 18-19, 1775
HAVING 700 MEN, more or less, in boots march through Boston streets without making any noise was impossible. They went in formation, four to a row by regiment. James knew from the planning meetings there would be 21 companies of Grenadiers and Light Infantry, the elite soldiers of the army. Grenadiers were chosen for their height and courage.
Grenadiers without their bear-fur
hats were taller than many. The hats made them more frightening.
The highly trained Light Infantry
had a reputation for courage and speed.
He caught a glimpse of Danny
carrying his drum. The batons were stuck between his chest and the leather belt
from which the drum was suspended. No drumming. They were under an order of
silence.
Winter had left. Spring had not
taken its place. The air was cold with a light wind.
James was sure that everyone
marching was curious about where they were going. He wasn’t going to tell them.
The Cambridge salt marsh stank of
sea, not the clean smell of waves breaking on a beach but of decaying leaves
and fish. The water was knee-high. The troops waded across leaving their feet
and legs wet.
On the other side of the marsh, they
waited and waited for boats to bring provisions. James had no idea what those
provisions were. He had no memory of the General discussing this aspect of the
exercise. Perhaps, he thought, it was when he was running errands.
Some of the officers were on
horseback but he couldn’t make out who was who. Clouds hid what moonlight there
was.
James wasn’t sure of the time that
everything was organized to move but he guessed it was about two in the
morning.
******
The troops had been marching for a good two hours. James was
tired. His work as an orderly reduced his physical training. He held his Brown
Bess in the correct position, but his fingers were stiff. His gun was loaded. His
pouch was stuffed with more powder and cartridges.
Over the tramping he heard owls
calling.
The troops marched down roads with
stone walls on each side. Woods or farms were behind those walls and behind
those were farmhouses, although only when the moon escaped the clouds could he
see them. No candles burned in the windows in the middle of the night.
In the distance, James heard bells.
A signal? Someone could have spotted them. This was the same he’d taken in
March on the General’s mission.
Mostly, he wanted to be back in his
bed surrounded by the snores of his fellow soldiers.
His boots and stockings were still
wet from wading through the salt marsh. The stocking on his left foot had
bunched, causing discomfort every time he put his foot down. He imagined breaking
formation, fixing it, then rushing to reclaim his space. Soldiers didn’t do
that, but he knew although he wore the uniform and although he would keep his
word, he was not meant to be a soldier.
As he marched, he knew finally, the
minute his contract was up, he would definitely find another life.
Regret?
If he regretted anything it was that
his wife and daughter had died and that he had not had control over the family
bakery. At the same time, had his life unfolded that way, the experiences he
would have missed.
James was aware he could always see
more than one side on any issue, leaving him confused. Knowing how farmers felt
about their land at home, he understood how the rebels felt here, but he also
had trouble imagining not having a king. Oliver Cromwell had pretty much proven
that was a bad idea. The stories of Cromwell’s fanaticism had been handed down
through the generations in his family about the same way the bakery had.
Danny’s drum was still quiet. He
could hear the hooves of the officers’ horses. He imagined he saw a man duck
down behind a stone wall, but in the moonlight. He credited it with just that —
his imagination.
At least he hoped it was his
imagination. Between Dr. Church and his own spying, he knew the farmers were
gaining strength, not just in stolen weapons, but they were training, using the
same manual as the British.
The sun began its climb bringing
light to the troops.
Danny began drumming to direct their
movements.
Even if the troops had been told the
goal in detail, James knew from listening to his last conversation between the General
and Lt. Colonel Smith they were to secure the North and South bridges and then
find the missing cannons.
Sunrise.
My God, James thought as his
regiment arrived at the North Bridge. The militia was waiting for them. Unlike
the British, they had no uniforms. Their clothes were the ones they wore to
work the fields and milk the cows. Their ages were from teenagers to
grandfathers. Are they as nervous as I am, he wondered? Or are they more so
being less well trained? How well trained are they? Had they sent for
reinforcements from other villages?
He chided himself for having
sympathy for his opponents.
Although they were not supposed to
fire, he heard a gunshot. He didn’t know if it came from the British or the
rebels. Pandemonium followed. Despite all the practice of orderly formations
with the front row firing and then marching to the back to reload, the soldiers
spread out and seemed to be firing at will.
The smell of gunfire was
overwhelming.
Danny? He didn’t have a gun. He had
promised to take care of him. Where was he? Then he heard the drum. In the
confusion, he wasn’t sure of the message.
Then his stomach was torn apart.
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