Part 38 (1/2)

”I'll stir the Yankee blood before night, just as I stir this brandy,”

said Pitcairn, stirring the spirit in his tumbler with his finger.

A party of British crossed the south bridge, made their way to Colonel Barrett's house, and burned the cannon carriages stored in his barn.

Roger was glad to see Captain Isaac Davis and the minute-men of Acton march up the hill to join them. Captain Davis was thirty years old. He had kissed his young wife and four children good-by.

”Take good care of the children, Hannah,” he said as he bade her farewell.

Twice a week he had drilled his company. He was brave, resolute, kind-hearted. His men loved him because he demanded strict obedience.

They had stopped long enough at his home for his young wife to powder their hair, that they might appear neat and trim like gentlemen when meeting the British. They were thirty-five, all told. Keeping step to Luther Blanchard's fifing of the White c.o.c.kade, and Francis Barker's drumming, they marched past the men from Concord and formed on their left.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE WHITE c.o.c.kADE.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: WRIGHT'S TAVERN]

”Order arms!” They rested their muskets on the ground and wiped the perspiration from their foreheads.

Men from Westford, Lincoln, and Carlisle are arriving. They are four hundred now. The officers stand apart, talking in low tones. The redcoats had crossed the bridge to the western bank.

”Let us drive the redcoats across the river,” said Captain Smith.

”I haven't a man that is afraid,” said Captain Davis.

He was heavy-hearted in the early morning when he kissed the young wife and took the baby from the cradle in his arms, but is resolute now.

”Attention, battalion! Trail arms! Left in front! March!” Luther Blanchard pipes the tune, and the battalion--the men of Acton leading--descends the hill.

The redcoats had recrossed the river and were taking up the planks of the bridge. A moment later muskets flash beneath the elms, and maples along the farthest bank and there is a whistling of bullets in the air. Roger's heart is in his throat, but he gulps it down. Another volley, and Captain Davis, Abner Hosmer, and Luther Blanchard reel to the ground. Never again will Hannah receive a parting kiss, or the father caress the baby crooning in the cradle.[61]

[Footnote 61: ”The fire soon began from a dropping shot on our side, when they and the front company fired almost at the same instant.”

”Diary of a British Officer,” _Atlantic Monthly_, April, 1877.]

”Fire! For G.o.d's sake, fire!” shouts Major b.u.t.trick. Roger c.o.c.ks his gun, takes aim at the line of scarlet beneath the trees and pulls the trigger. Through the smoke he sees men throw up their arms and tumble to the ground. The scarlet line dissolves, the soldiers fleeing in confusion. No longer is Roger's heart in his throat. His nerves are iron and the hot blood is coursing through his veins. King George has begun the war; no longer is he his subject, but a rebel, never more to owe him allegiance.

The forenoon wore away. The British were returning from Colonel Barrett's, having destroyed the cannon carriages, thrown some bullets into a well, and broken open several barrels of flour. It was past noon when they formed in line once more to return to Boston.

”We will head them off at Merriam's Corner,” said Colonel Barrett.

The planks which the British had removed from the bridge were quickly replaced. The minute-men crossed the stream, turned into a field to the left, and hastened over the meadow to the road leading to Bedford.

It was past three o'clock when they reached Mr. Merriam's house. Roger saw the British marching down the road. Suddenly a platoon wheeled towards the minute-men and brought their guns to a level. There was a flash, a white cloud, and bullets whistled over their heads. Once more he took aim, as did others, and several redcoats fell. Before he could reload, the serried ranks disappeared, marching rapidly towards Lexington. The minute-men hastened on, and at the tavern of Mr. Brooks he sent another bullet into the ranks of the retreating foe.[62]

[Footnote 62: ”We set out upon our return. Before the whole had quitted the town we were fired on from houses and behind trees, and before we had gone half a mile we were fired on from all sides, but mostly from the rear, where the people had hid themselves in houses till we pa.s.sed.” ”Diary of a British Officer,” _Atlantic Monthly_, April, 1877.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: NORTH BRIDGE The minute-men stood under the trees at the right; the British, the other side of the river]

”Scatter now! Get upon their flank! Pepper 'em from behind walls and trees!” shouted Colonel Barrett, who saw that it would be useless to follow the retreating enemy in battalion order, but each man, acting for himself, could run through fields and pastures and keep up a tormenting fire.

Acting upon the order, Roger and James Heywood ran through a piece of woods towards Fiske Hill. They came upon a British soldier drinking at a well by a house.