John Hanc.o.c.k and Samuel Adams hear the drumbeat; Hanc.o.c.k seizes his gun.

"This is no place for you; you must go to a place of safety," said Reverend Mr. Clark.

"Never will I turn my back to the redcoats," said Hanc.o.c.k.

"The country will need your counsels. Others must meet the enemy face to face," was the calm, wise reply of the patriotic minister.

Other friends expostulate; they cross the road and enter a thick wood crowning the hill.

"Stand your ground. If war is to come, let it begin here. Don't fire till you are fired upon," said Captain John Parker, walking along the lines of his company.

The sun is just rising. Its level beams glint from the brightly polished gun-barrels and bayonets of the light infantry of King George, as the battalion under Major Pitcairn marches towards Lexington meetinghouse. The trees above them have put forth their tender leaves. The rising sun, the green foliage, the white cross-belts, the shining buckles, the scarlet coats of the soldiers, and the farmers standing in line, firmly grasping their muskets, make up the picture of the morning.

Major Pitcairn, sitting in his saddle, beholds the line of minute-men, rebels in arms against the sovereign, formed in line to dispute his way. What right have they to be standing there? King George is supreme!

"Disperse, you rebels! Lay down your arms and disperse!" he shouts.

Captain John Parker hears it. The men behind him, citizens in their everyday clothes, with powder-horns slung under their right arms, hear it, but stand firm and resolute in their places. They see the Britisher raise his arm; his pistol flashes. Instantly the front platoon of redcoats raise their muskets. A volley rends the air. Not a man has been injured. Another volley, and a half dozen are reeling to the ground. John Munroe, Jonas Parker, and their comrades bring their muskets to a level and pull the triggers. With the beams of the rising sun falling on their faces, they accept the conflict with arbitrary power.

"What a glorious morning is this!" the exclamation of Samuel Adams on yonder hill.

[Ill.u.s.tration: JONATHAN HARRINGTON'S HOUSE Jonathan Harrington was wounded where the stone now stands, and fell dead at the doorstep of his house]

Seven minute-men have been killed, nine wounded. Captain Parker sees that it is useless for his little handful of men to contend with a force ten times larger, and orders them to disperse.

The redcoats look down exultantly upon the dying and the dead, give a hurrah, and shoot at the fleeing rebels.[60]

[Footnote 60: "We then formed on the Common, but with some difficulty.

The men were so wild they could hear no orders. We waited a considerable time, and at length proceeded on our way to Concord, which we then learned was our destination." "Diary of a British Officer," _Atlantic Monthly_, April, 1877.]

Jonas Parker will not run.

"Others may do as they will, I never will turn my back to a redcoat,"

he said a few minutes ago. He is on his knees now, wounded, but reloading his gun. The charge is rammed home, the priming in the pan, but his strength is going; his arms are weary; his hands feeble. The redcoats rush upon him, and a bayonet pierces his breast. He dies where he fell.

With the blood spurting from his breast, Jonathan Harrington staggers towards his home. His loving wife is standing in the doorway. He reaches out his arms to her, and falls dead at her feet.

Caleb Harrington falls by the meetinghouse step. A ball plows through the arm of John Comee, by Mr. Munroe's doorway.

The Britishers are wild with excitement, and remorselessly take aim at the fleeing provincials. They have conquered and dispersed the rebels.

Colonel Smith joins Major Pitcairn, and, glorying over the easy victory, they swing their hats, hurrah for King George, and march on towards Concord.

XVII.

BEGINNING OF A NEW ERA.

Roger Stanley, asleep in the old farmhouse on the banks of Concord River, was aroused from slumber by his mother.

"Roger! Roger! the meetinghouse bell is ringing!" she shouted up the stairs to him.

With a bound he was on his feet, raised the window and heard the sweet-toned bell. He understood its meaning, that the redcoats were coming. Quickly putting on his clothes, he seized the powder-horn and bullet-pouch which his father carried at Louisburg.

"You must eat something, Roger, before you go," said his mother.

A moment later and his breakfast was on the table, bread and b.u.t.ter, a slice of cold beef, a mug of cider.

"There's no knowing when I shall be back, mother, for if the war has begun, as I fear it has, I shall be in the ranks till the last redcoat is driven from the country."

"I know it, Roger. Your father would have done just what you are doing. I know you'll do your duty. You won't show the white feather.

Here's some lunch for you," she said, putting a package into his knapsack.

"Good-by."

[Ill.u.s.tration: ROBERT MUNROE'S HOUSE Joseph Comee, a minute-man, was wounded at the doorway]

Her arms were about his neck; tears were on her cheeks as she kissed his lips.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Route of the British to Concord.]

He ran across the meadow to the village. The minute-men and militia were gathering. In the stillness of the morning they could hear the report of guns far away, and knew that they of Sudbury and Acton were hearing the alarm. People were hurrying to and fro in the village, loading barrels of flour into carts, removing the supplies purchased by the Committee of Safety. Reverend Mr. Emerson was there with his gun and powder-horn. Many times Roger had listened to his preaching.

It was gratifying to see him ready to stand in the ranks with his parishioners. He told the women not to be frightened, and smiled upon the boys who took off their hats, and the girls who courtesied to him.

They heard, far away, the drumbeat of the advancing British.

No messengers had arrived to inform the minute-men of Concord what had happened at Lexington; for Doctor Prescott did not know that British muskets had fired a fatal volley.

From the burial ground Roger could look far down the road and see the sunlight glinting from the bayonets of the grenadiers, as the red-coated platoons emerged from the woodland into the open highway.

Major b.u.t.trick with the minute-men and Colonel Barrett with the militia formed in line by the liberty pole.

"Prime and load!" his order.

Roger poured the powder into the palm of his hand, emptied it into the gun, and rammed it home with a ball. Never had he experienced such a sensation as at the moment. He was not doing it to take aim at a deer or fox, but to send it through the heart of a fellow-being if need be; to maintain justice and liberty. He could die in their defense; why should it trouble him, then, to think of shooting those who were a.s.sailing what he held so dear?

"I am doing right. Liberty shall live, cost what it may," he said to himself as he poured the priming into the pan.

On in serried ranks came the British.

"We are too few, they are three to our one. We must cross the river and wait till we are stronger," said Colonel Barrett.

[Ill.u.s.tration: REVEREND WILLIAM EMERSON'S HOUSE--THE OLD MANSE The conflict at the Bridge was in plain view from this house]

They were only two hundred. They filed into the road, marched past the Reverend Mr. Emerson's house to the north bridge, crossed the river, and came to a halt on a hill overlooking the meadows, the village, and surrounding country. They could see the British dividing,--one party crossing the south bridge and going towards Colonel Barrett's house to destroy the supplies collected there; another party advancing to the north bridge. Roger saw groups of officers in the graveyard using their spy-gla.s.ses. A soldier was cutting down the liberty pole. Other soldiers were entering houses, helping themselves to what food was left on the breakfast-tables or in the pantries. Colonel Smith and Major Pitcairn rested themselves in Mr. Wright's tavern.