The Schoolmaster's Daughter (10 page)

“I've been there,” Benjamin said.

“Have you now?” Ezra looked at him, impressed.

“He's the commanding officer of the Concord militia—that's him on the bay, higher up the ridge.”

“And I hear there is a cache of arms hidden on his property,” Ezra said, peering through the spyglass. “Including cannon.” Benjamin wanted to say that this was so, that he had helped smuggle and assemble the field pieces, but before he could Ezra said, “Our weaponry—that's why the British have come to Concord. Have a look.”

Benjamin took the spyglass, raised it to his eye, and miraculously he could see the column of soldiers marching out from the village, passing beneath trees that were just beginning to leaf out.

“Now, this raises the question,” Ezra said and then paused. Benjamin's father and older brother were forever posing questions. “How is it they know that cannon are hidden at Barrett's farm?”

Benjamin lowered the spyglass. “Somebody told them?”

“I suppose so.”

“But who?”

“That, Benjamin, is a very good question.” He took the spyglass raised it to his eye once more. “It's one thing for you and I to know about the cannon at Barrett's farm, but how do you suppose word of it got to General Gage in Boston?”

The name of the hill was Punkatasset, and the men gathered on its slopes watched as the column of soldiers advanced slowly toward the river and crossed the narrow footbridge, and there they halted as their commanders engaged in consultation. Finally, there was a decision to divide—one detail remained at the bridge, while the other continued on toward Colonel Barrett's farm, and about a half mile up the road a portion of that detail was also left to stand guard, facing the provincials on the hill above them.

It was mid-morning and the heat of the day seemed to increase by the minute. More and more provincials arrived from nearby villages, Acton, Carlisle, Chelmsford, and Sudbury—fathers, sons, grandfathers; cousins, uncles. Church bells continued to sound in the distance. Ezra estimated that at least four hundred men were gathered along the ridge, while there might be half as many lobsterbacks between North Bridge and Barrett's farm.

“I heard there was shooting this morning,” Benjamin said.

“On Lexington Green, at dawn,” Ezra said.

“Who started it?”

“Don't know. Don't matter now. Been waiting a long time for this day.”

“We going to just stand here?”

“We'll see.” Ezra looked Benjamin up and down with a critical eye. “I see you didn't bring a fowling piece, but then I understand you're better at killing fish.”

“I wasn't exactly planning on coming out here …”

“I reckon. A gun would get wet in them clam flats anyway.” He picked up his haversack and slung it over his shoulder. “Stick by me, will you? If things get hot, I do the shooting and you reload.”

Benjamin was relieved but didn't want to show it. He nodded once.

At one point, a man from Lincoln named Nichols walked down the hill unarmed, intending to negotiate. When he reached the bridge, he spoke calmly with a captain for a good while. They might have been discussing crops or the price of a cow. Word went around on the hill that Nichols was English-born, a fact which seemed to suggest that a settlement might be achieved so everyone could go home. There were jokes about fields needing to be tended and children waiting to be conceived. It was getting very hot, standing in the sun. Finally, Nichols climbed back up the hill, took his gun, and said he was going back to Lincoln. A few others left as well, but most continued to wait on the hill.

When smoke rose above the trees in Concord, the provincials became agitated. Sitting on his horse, Colonel Barrett hollered,
“Will you let them burn the town down?”
And the men, shouted,
“No!”
The colonel gathered the elders together and, after a brief confab, word was passed along the hill that no one was to fire unless the redcoats fired first.

Ezra gave his powder horn and cartridge pouch to Benjamin, which he slung from his shoulders, the straps making an X across his chest and back. “Use your teeth to tear open the paper roll containing ball and powder,” Ezra said. “Put a little of the powder into the pan of the firing mechanism, once I have it half-cocked, and then pour the rest of the powder down the barrel of the musket. Then the lead ball goes down the barrel, followed by the wadded-up paper, which keeps the ball from rolling out as I raise the gun up to my shoulder. Finally, you ram everything down snug, using the wide end of this iron rod, which slides out of this tube on the underside of the barrel. See?” He looked at Benjamin, who nodded his head. “We work together,” Ezra continued, “we should be able to get off two or three shots in a minute.” He watched Benjamin slide the rod back down the tube, and added, “It might get to the point where it's better not to bother doing that each time. Just stick the rod in the ground, but don't lose the damn thing.”

Benjamin felt the cartridge pouch hanging at his side. “How many?”

“Twenty-three balls.” He looked away. “We'll find more, off dead and wounded.”

Smoke now billowed into the sky above the village. Orders were shouted and the provincials were organized in a column and a company from Acton led them down the hill. Colonel Barrett remained on horseback on the ridge, hollering that they should not be the first to fire. Benjamin walked beside Ezra through the tall grass. The air was filled with bugs and the sound of the men's equipment rattling with each step.

“I wish I had a gun,” Benjamin said.

“So do I.”

When they were about halfway down the hill, shots were fired. Benjamin couldn't tell where they came from—the reports seemed to roll up and down the hillside. Immediately, the line of provincials broke apart and firing commenced. The redcoats fired as well and quickly the air was filled with smoke, making it difficult to see. The sound of gunfire was constant, and again the echo off the hill made the barrage of noise seem to be near and far, as though there were fighting off in the distance as well. Clumps of earth leapt into the whistling air. Men were sprawled on the ground, bleeding into the grass. Amid the shouting, Benjamin heard Ezra's voice below him, and he ran down the hill. He took a cartridge from the pouch, tore it open, the taste of gunpowder filling his mouth, and together they reloaded the musket.

The redcoats on the near side of the river were falling back, and a few attempted to tear up planks in the bridge. But some were felled in the effort, and soon all the soldiers abandoned the bridge. The provincials continued to descend the hill—no order now, and men fired at will. Ezra took aim and fired, but there was too much smoke to see what he hit. He and Benjamin ran down the hill to level ground. Across the river, the redcoats were trying to organize themselves in lines, but they seemed to be having difficulty. Their shots, indicated by white bursts of smoke from the muzzles of their guns, did not slow the provincials' advance. As they started across the bridge, the redcoats began running back toward the village, leaving their own dead and wounded behind.

The smoke stung Benjamin's eyes and he hated the taste of gunpowder. He wanted nothing more than to lie down on the grassy riverbank and take a long drink of water.

Abigail was walking home from Dr. Warren's when a boy rode a swaybacked gray mare into Dock Square, shouting about fighting in Lexington. A great jostling crowd gathered about him. Shots had been exchanged on Lexington Green at dawn. Dozens of provincials had been killed and wounded. The redcoats then marched on to Concord, burning everything in their path. People in the crowd contributed what they had heard. Last night's expedition that had gathered on the Common was led by Lieutenant Colonel Smith, who was fat and incompetent, but his second in command was Major John Pitcairn, and that one there, Pitcairn, a man in a bloodied butcher's apron shouted, he be a strong advocate for just such a smart action: burn a few villages and the entire rebellious sentiment would itself go up in smoke. An old woman leaning on a walking stick surmised that the reinforcements that had left Boston this morning—perhaps a thousand soldiers—had been sent for so that the expedition might cut a wide swath of destruction through the countryside.

She asked the boy, “How'd you come by all this?”

“'Twas a fisherman,” the boy said, his voice cracking with excitement. “He heard it from a girl who had come running down to the marshes by Lechmere Point, and he rowed for Boston, shouting the news across the Charles. I was on the shore, there near the Mill Pond, helping my uncle caulk his boat.”

Abigail gathered up her skirts and rushed home. People were running everywhere, like ants, going in every direction. There was yelling from windows above the streets. When she reached School Street, pupils were fleeing the small building that housed the Latin School. Father, dressed in his wig and black robe, stood in the doorway, shouting in Latin.

She met him as he came out the gate. He seemed unsteady on his feet and didn't resist when she took his arm as they walked up the street toward home. He continued to mutter, in Latin.

When they reached the house, Mother came out on the front stoop. “I just heard—”

“I know,” Father said. “Perhaps this nonsense will finally be over.”

“Mother, has Benjamin—”

“No,” she said. “He's not come home.”

“I must find him,” Abigail said.

“You shouldn't be out on these streets,” her father said.

Her father looked at the frightened, angry Bostonians that had filled School Street, and said, “War's begun—school's done.” He pushed his way by his wife and went into the house.

Remaining out on the stoop, Mother said, “We should all lock ourselves indoors and pray for deliverance. But where can Benjamin be?”

“I'll keep looking for him,” Abigail said as she started down School Street.

“Look at James's house,” Mother said.

“I doubt he'll be there, not now.”

“Find him, please. But be careful.” Mother turned and went inside, closing the door as though to keep a pestilence out.

Abigail worked her way through the crowd, heading down toward the waterfront. Benjamin's secret places—he was frequently drawn to the water. She went to Long Wharf, looking in doorways of taverns, sail lofts, and chandlers. She went by the ropewalk, but the men there hadn't seen Benjamin. Finally, she went to Anse Cole's clam shack and found his daughter alone there, sitting with her back against the shingles, mending baskets.

“Mariah, have you seen Benjamin?”

“No, I ain't, Miss,” Mariah said, getting to her feet. She had a shucking knife in one hand, a ball of hemp in the other. “Ain't seen him in days.” She was perhaps sixteen, thin and rather plain, but she had kind gray eyes and she took to Benjamin. Once last summer Abigail had come upon them in an alley off Salt Lane, kissing. He was frightfully embarrassed, but Mariah kept her arms about his neck a moment longer, possessively. “You look concerned,” she said now. “Has he not been home?”

“Not last night, no,” Abigail gazed out at the harbor. The water was glass, pastel blue. Ships at anchor seemed to rise up out of their reflections. “Tide's in, so he can't be clamming. Do you think he's out there fishing?”

“Could be,” Mariah said. She nodded toward a row of skiffs pulled up on the shore, tilted over on their keels, leaning this way and that, looking like sleeping animals. “But if he'd a gone out, he'd a taken one of my father's boats, and they're all here.”

“The sail loft.” Abigail looked toward the longer building at the end of the row of clam shacks. “Might he be there?”

Mariah raised a finger to her mouth and bit on a nail. She had strong hands from shucking, the fingers scarred from the sharp edges of seashells. “He wouldn't be up there, alone.” Again, the gray eyes, guarded now. She stood up and began to pick up a stack of baskets she'd been working on.

“Here, let me help you.” Abigail took up several more baskets, and followed Mariah into the clam shack, where they set them down. It was damp inside, smelling deeply of the sea, and Mariah led Abigail back outside.

“Thank you, Miss. It wasn't necessary for you to—”

“So you have no idea where he might be?” Abigail's tone was doubtful.

Mariah's eyes suddenly grew large with trepidation. “I wish I knowed. I been worried about him, all his running for your older brother and the Sons of Liberty. And now there's word of this fighting out Lincoln way.” Her eyes were pleading, for understanding, sympathy. “You know there will be more executions. Hangings from the Great Elm on the Common.”

Abigail took a step closer, and for a moment she almost thought the girl was going to fall into her arms, weeping. But she began gnawing on another fingernail, broken and cracked. “If you see him, Mariah, you tell him to get home.”

“I sure will, Miss. As I said, I been hoping he'd come by.”

“Good.” Abigail began to turn away, but then said, “Trimount. Did he go up there?”

Now the girl glanced toward the three hills that loomed above the waterfront and she seemed embarrassed as a blotchy flush came to her cheeks. “I don't venture up there with him, no.” She was so frightened now, earnestly so, as though confessing. “No, I don't go up the Trimount, not to the top anyway. Maybe the lower pastures a couple of times, but never all the way up, no.”

“I see,” Abigail said softly.

She began walking down along the beach, thinking of heading toward the Charlestown ferry landing, and then on to Mill Pond. When she was a ways down the beach, she looked back toward the row of clam shacks. Mariah was sitting on her stool again, back against the weathered shingles, gazing out at the harbor. Abigail began to turn and continue on, but then, farther down the beach, she saw someone, a man, peering out from the corner of the sail loft.