The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles (70 page)

As the British officers shouted commands, the three companies hastily formed up and faced about. In a moment, their cadenced marching hammered the planks of the bridge. Hosmer’s drum beat furiously in answer.

Barrett spurred down the hillside to the head of the column, his eyes narrowed against the April sun. Philip and O’Brian reached the road, turned left after the men ahead of them. Across the murmuring river, Philip could see little except a rush and flash of scarlet-clad forms. The light infantry companies were dividing, one moving to each flank of the third company, which now faced toward the far end of the bridge.

The men of this company were drawn up in street-fighting formation—three ranks, one behind the other. The sun shone on the brown barrels of their muskets, flashed from their bayonets as the first rank knelt. The second rank moved up close behind.

Barrett shouted, “Faster cadence, drummer!”

Boldly, the colonel headed his horse out ahead of the double file. The first in line were men from the town of Acton, Philip believed.

Barrett rode to within shouting distance of the bridge as half a dozen redcoats frantically started trying to rip up the planks on the far side.

“Leave the bridge alone!” Barrett bawled in a threatening voice.

Philip heard no order given. But suddenly the muskets of the kneeling front rank of the central British company exploded.

Smoke—spurts of fire—

At the head of the militia column, the captain of the Acton contingent pitched over.

Hosmer’s drumming stopped in mid-beat as he toppled. Blood from his throat spilled red over his drumhead—

Barrett’s horse screamed and shied from the thunderous volley. Somewhere Buttrick’s voice rang out:

“Fire, for God’s sake—
fire!”

Drawn up two by two in the long column, only the foremost militiamen had a clear shot. But seconds after the British fired, and without any specific command, the men in the rear of the column broke for both sides of the road.

Philip ran to the right, O’Brian the other way. Over the racketing of the muskets, Philip heard the Irishman’s enraged yell:

“God damn it, they are firing ball!”

Philip dropped to one knee in the marsh grass. He hit the musket’s muzzle to send powder through the touchhole, braced the piece against his shoulder—and for one awful instant amid the shouting, the rattling fire from the militiamen, the confused yells and orders, the blowing smoke, his very will seemed frozen—

Across the narrow bridge, he saw an officer down. Another fell. The kneeling front ranks scrambled up, dropped behind to permit the second rank an unobstructed aim. Finally, Philip’s finger tightened—

Tightened—

Taking an eternity, it seemed.

It had come.

In the cries of pain, the corpses of the drummer and the Acton captain, he heard and saw the end of the settled world he’d hoped for—

Gone. All gone this April morning—

He fired.

He reeled back against the musket’s kick, saw a light infantryman at the far end of the bridge spin and sprawl on his face. Whether Philip’s own ball had scored the hit, or a ball fired from another of the crackling muskets, he did not know for certain.

But he knew an era had ended and another had begun, for himself and for all the shouting, cursing Americans who leveled their weapons and continued firing on the King’s soldiers across the river.

The colonials never fully understood the reason for what happened next.

Over the long months in which the conflict had been building to this climax, many who had openly predicted that war would come had, at the same time, reminded their listeners of one more fact. Haphazardly drilled, poorly equipped Massachusetts farmers would be no match for regimental troops that had fought honorably all over the world—and won.

And yet, with his own eyes, Philip witnessed the astounding aftermath of the exchange of volleys—one from each side.

Even as he crouched in the long grass and frantically rammed home his next load, he saw the crack British light infantrymen break ranks. Carrying or dragging their dead and wounded, they plunged back up the road to Concord.

Not in formation. Running—like a mob in panic. Their passage raised clouds of dust.

No one could explain the frantic retreat. Was it caused by the surprising courage of the double file that had marched down the hillside to confrontation without cover? Was it produced by the American musket fire, a thunder more intimidating in its noise than its accuracy? Or was it the result of the British simply never expecting any resistance at all?

Whatever the reason, the redcoats fled. Without plan and without pattern, they fled—while Barrett rallied his men, Philip among them.

The colonel led his troops over the bridge. At the east end, a young, tow-haired redcoat lay on his face, shot through the back. Caught by a ball when the front rank moved away so the second could fire? Who would ever know?

Philip trudged by the fallen soldier. The boy’s shoulders moved slightly. He was still alive. One of the Americans spat on him. But no one touched him.

The militiamen followed Barrett, moving in ragged formation. Some three hundred yards from the bridge, the colonel led them up a hillside. On command, they sprawled in the long meadow grass behind a low stone wall, to await orders or the next action.

In the distance, Philip spied companies of grenadiers in their tall, glossy black caps moving out from the blowing smoke that still hid most of the village. The grenadiers—reinforcements for the bridge—met the noisy, panic-stricken light infantrymen running the other way. Perhaps there was some plan to re-form the entire force, return and confront the enemy. It never materialized. In a few minutes, all the troops had disappeared back into the smoke.

Philip lay with the grass tickling his cheek. He was still stunned by the significance of the brief battle.
They had fired on the King’s troops.

The other men resting behind the wall were equally stunned—and equally quiet. After their first triumphant yells at the bridge, a strange silence had settled on them. It continued as the tramp of more marching feet sounded from the direction of the river.

Philip raised on one elbow, caught sight of the companies that had marched to Barrett’s re-crossing the bridge at quick-step. He glanced down the line of the wall, searched for an officer. But Barrett, Buttrick and the others in charge had disappeared.

He asked about them. A man four places down said they’d crept away along the ridge to survey the town at closer range. There was no one to issue a command to fire as the four companies tramped by along the road directly below—well within musket range.

Not a shot rang out. Barely a mumbled curse could be heard from the men crouched behind the stone wall. Did they all feel what he felt? Dread? One skirmish did not make a successful revolution—

The noise of the returning companies gradually died away. A jay circled in the hot, still air above the watching farmers. The bird shrilled at them.

By noon, the British expeditionary force had taken the road back to Lexington. Concord lay quiet in the April light.

Everywhere, it seemed, men were running again. Excited now, jubilant. Making bawdy, contemptuous jokes about the Crown soldiers.

The hilltops around Concord were black with running figures—musket-armed countrymen still pouring in from all points of the compass. Many marched in across South Bridge.

Receiving hasty orders in the village street, they hurried out again to climb and move along the ridges that overlooked the highway back to Lexington and Boston.

When the fact of the British departure was certain, Philip and the rest had descended the hillside and raced back to the village. There, along with other chagrined officers and men, they discovered the cause of the smoke that had precipitated the march from the Muster Field, and the subsequent volleys.

Far from burning the town, grenadiers under Smith’s command had simply found several gun carriages among the stores cached in Concord’s meeting house. They had dragged the carriages into the open and set them alight. Philip stared ruefully at the charred, smoldering remains. He shook his head with a dour amusement. So easily did war begin. By a mistake, a wrong judgment—

All around him, men with muskets kept moving out toward the east. North of the village he saw them thick on the ridges. Someone in the crowd seized his arm.

He whirled, recognized O’Brian, his blue eyes fierce.

“Come along, come along, Philip! We’re to give chase. We’ll chivy them all the way back to Boston, damned if we won’t!”

“Pack of strutting peacocks!” another man yelled. “Marching with their God damn fifes and drums—we showed ’em, I’ll say!”

“Aye,” a third agreed. “They fired ball and they’ll get ball in return—from now on.”

The trio, including O’Brian, disappeared in the dust and commotion.

Philip wiped his forehead. Sweat trickled beneath his shirt. He searched the faces of the excited people clustering outside their homes and near the meeting house—where the remains of the gun carriages finally collapsed into ash.

No sign of her. Not anywhere. With a weary sigh, he started for the east edge of town.

“Philip?”

He turned, blinking into the smoke and glare. He was afraid in the depths of his soul that his ears had played him false. And false hope was worse than none—

A patch of smoke cleared. He saw her.

Her plain gray dress was stained, torn at the sleeves, wet all around the hem. Her chestnut hair was tangled. Something seemed to turn and break inside of him. Tears welled in his eyes as he shouldered the musket and ran toward her.

She ran too, closing the distance between them with amazing speed. Dropping the musket, he swept his arms around her, kissing her tear-stained cheek, kissing her unashamedly in the smoky sunlight.

“Anne,” was all he could say at first. “Oh, Annie, oh my God, Annie—I thought I’d never see you again. Your father turned me away from Wright’s last night—”

“And told me about how he threatened you,” she said, half-laughing, half-crying as she wiped her eyes.

“Did Daisy find you? I sent a message—”

“Yes, she brought it. That’s why I’ve been searching for you all morning. Were you at the bridge?”

“I was. But I only got to fire one round before the redcoats ran.”

Her hands seemed all over his face, his arms. Squeezing, touching.

“You’re not hurt—?”

“No, no. Only two or three died on our side.”

“I’m such a sight—I look so terrible—” Her face was still wet with tears. She spoke in short, almost incoherent gasps. “We’ve been at the millpond, pulling out the flour barrels. The poor grenadiers—they were so polite. They neglected to crack the barrels open. The flour around the lids sealed them shut. So most of the flour is good as new. Philip, that fat, frightened puppy—” Her laugh was ragged. “—Smith, the commander—he paid for wagons and chaises to carry his wounded back along the retreat route.
Paid
for them! Gentlemen to the end!”

“Some of those gentlemen are shot down dead,” Philip told her. “I’m supposed to go up the road and find Barrett’s companies again. We’re to follow the redcoats and harry them, Mr. O’Brian said—”

“Smith ranted about the delay of the reinforcements he sent for. There may be many more troops marching out from Boston—”

“Annie, forget the troops.” He touched the freckles on her cheek, barely able to speak. “Last night, your father said—he told me—”

“That I’m going to bear a child? It’s true.”

“Why didn’t you speak of it before I left for Philadelphia? You knew it then, you must have!”

She answered quietly, “Of course I did. But I wouldn’t have used that to hold you—”

“Just what I suspected!”

“I’d have no man without love, Philip. And I want no man except you—” Her voice broke. She brushed at her tear-streaked face, embarrassed. “Truly, I never thought you’d come back. What—what happened in Philadelphia?”

A peculiar smile pulled up the corners of his mouth. “I almost bought a whistle. But it cost too much.”

“A whistle? Whatever are you talking about?”

“It’s not important,” he said, still smiling that strange smile.

“But the woman, Philip. What about her?”

He thought a moment, then said, “I’ll tell you one day. When we’re old and our child’s grown up, maybe. All you need to know now is that it’s done—and I know what I want and what I am.”

“What I hoped and prayed you’d turn out to be!” she whispered joyfully, hugging him.

“Annie, there’s nothing I can offer you—Christ, not even the certainty I’ll come back today. Who knows what kind of fighting there’ll be if we chase the British? But if I can come back, Annie, I want to marry you—”

“Not because you think you must,” she said with a shake of her head. “Not because of my father. Or for any other reason except—”

“That I love you,” he finished, kissing her.

Some passing men jeered and called him a yellow shirker, and why didn’t he get a move on? He paid no attention, his hands fierce against Anne’s back, holding her, feeling the warmth of her through the stained dress—and the trembling, too, as she wept her happiness.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, buried her face against his shoulder. “We’ll raise good strong sons, Philip. You’ll start a fine printing firm of your own and be a rich man—we’ll have a splendid house—”

“Annie, Annie—” He lifted her chin, caressed tears from her eyes. “That’s a good dream. But not a certain one. The fire’s broken out. Right here in Concord this morning. And in Lexington, they said—”

“Yes, eight or nine of Captain Parker’s best were shot down on the green. But you saw how the people rose up in the countryside—came to fight—”

“Still, it’s a terrible thing to think of what can lie ahead. The colonies locked in war with the strongest nation on earth—God knows what sort of future any man will have—”

“I
know!” she exclaimed, her face shining. “I know—now that you’ve chosen your side. You’ll live, and we’ll take what comes—and we’ll still be together when it’s done, you’ll see. What Sam Adams wants will happen now, it must—”