FSF, January 2009 Page 3

  Arthur's lips rolled into a grim frown, and he set off for Concord at twice the pace he'd had before. Proctor jogged after him, but his thoughts trailed behind. How could his gift have been so wrong? Why hadn't he seen the Redcoats firing at the militia?

  The fields and farmyards along the road were empty. At Hartwell's farm, a trunk full of valuables had been left beside the barn. When Proctor and Arthur crossed the bridge at Tanner's Brook, even the tavern was empty. Closer to Concord, at Merriam's Corner, three generations of Merriams had gathered to barricade the road.

  "The British killed men at Lexington,” the youngest Merriam shouted. Proctor tensed, waiting to hear how he'd started the shooting, but the other man continued without mentioning it. “They shot Robert Munroe's head off and stabbed Everett Simes—Oh, hey, there Arthur."

  "We were there,” Arthur said. Proctor's glance shifted from face to face. Maybe fifteen men, all brave and angry. What would they say if they knew he'd been the first to shoot?

  The youngest Merriam, outside without a hat, brought them cups of fresh water. “They shot Jonathon Harrington in front of his own home,” Michael Merriam told them. “He bled to death on the doorstep in front of his wife and children."

  "They'll do the same to you,” Proctor said, wiping water from his chin. “There's no way you'll stand against them."

  "We don't mean to. We're just watching the road until they come, then we'll fall back and join the militia in Concord."

  "We'll see you there then,” Proctor said. “We have to muster, and report what we saw."

  They said their good-byes and continued on toward Concord. The last stretch of road ran beneath the shadow of Arrowhead Ridge. “We could pick them off from up there,” Arthur said. “While they were marching below."

  "Reckon we could,” Proctor replied. Picking off a few of them wouldn't make any difference to Robert Munroe or Everett Simes, but it might make the Redcoats slower to shoot the next time. Or quicker. That Major Pitcairn meant business.

  Drums and fifes played in the distance, coming toward them—several companies of militia marching toward Lexington. He and Arthur stepped to the side of the road. He only saw young faces like their own—the minutemen. His company from Lincoln was among them.

  A sense of relief flooded Proctor.

  "It took you long enough,” he said. He fell in with the column, saluting Captain Smith, a competent and usually taciturn man just a few years older than himself.

  "Brown,” Smith said. “We marked you down for absent."

  "I went into Lexington with Munroe and Everett Simes, saw the shooting there."

  "Was it as bad as we heard?"

  Proctor swallowed hard, wondering how much of it was his fault. “Worse. There must be close to a thousand Redcoats, and the major of the marines is fearless."

  "We're bound to see more fighting today, now that they started it,” Smith said. “Captains Barrett and Minott of the Lexington minutemen are leading this group, so we're just here to provide support. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir.” Firmly.

  "Then fall in."

  "Sir, can I keep Arthur with me?"

  Smith looked back at Arthur, saw the intensity in his eyes, and said, “You can. But Arthur?"

  "Yes, sir?” His voice trembled.

  "You're not to put yourself in the way of any exceptional danger. Your mother would have my hide if you did."

  "It's a bit late for that,” Arthur said angrily, but Proctor had taken his arm and let the column pass. They exchanged greetings with the rest of the men as they went by, until Proctor saw a familiar face—sandy hair and an open smile above a cleft chin—and fell in beside him.

  "Amos Lathrop,” he said. “Good to see you."

  "I understand you already heard the British guns.” He pushed his cheek out with his tongue, then said. “Do you always have to be so impatient to do everything?"

  Proctor smiled from habit, though he didn't feel it inside. But Amos was his best friend. Being the only one to work their farm, and not having much family on either side, he didn't have many close friends. What time he did have for socializing this past year, he'd spent pursuing Emily. “Where's the rest of the militia?"

  "Their captains voted to guard the town center,” Amos said. “The minutemen companies voted to meet the Redcoats on the road. So here we are."

  Proctor made a quick count of the line. There were only a hundred minutemen present. “You know how many Redcoats there are?"

  "I've heard,” Amos said. “But somebody's got to go out to meet ‘em."

  The beat of the drum steadied Proctor's nerves and marching gave him a moment to think. If he was the only one who could see the golden medallion shining at Pitcairn's throat, then it must be some kind of witchcraft. But what was it for and what could he do about it?

  The companies left the road, threading their way among the rocks to take up a position along the hilltop overlooking Tanner's Creek. A dozen or so Merriams, retreating from their homestead, joined the line. Proctor reloaded his musket. All around him, men arranged their balls and flints and horns in the manner they preferred for fast reloading. Proctor kept his ready for another quick retreat.

  The sun was up now and he was thirsty, so he took a sip from his canteen. He curled the yellow ribbon around his finger while he took a second sip, thinking of the curls in Emily's hair. Around him, men whispered to their neighbors about the coming battle.

  Proctor—and Arthur, he reminded himself—were the only men in these companies who had ever been in battle before, and that had only been a few hours previous. But here their line stood, ready to face the most efficient and deadly military in the world. The “deadly” aspect was chief in his mind.

  "Let's bow our heads in prayer,” Captain Barrett, in charge of the Concord minutemen, called out. Proctor put both hands around the barrel of his musket, propped butt-end in the soil, and bowed his head.

  "Heavenly Father,” Barrett said. “You bring these tribulations upon us as a chastisement because we fall away from Your Holy Word. Use Your rod to guide us back into Your safe pastures. And beat off the English wolves. Amen."

  "Amen,” Proctor said, echoed by a hundred other voices. He knew what some of the men would say, that talents like his, skills they'd call witchcraft, were part of any falling away from the Holy Word.

  Were they right? If he knew how to fashion a charm like Pitcairn's, would he make it for himself? Was it a Christian gift, made with God-given skill, like his mother insisted their talents were? Or was it made with some other kind of magic?

  Sunlight glinted sharp off movement in the road at the far edge of the horizon, and the wind carried the faint sound of drums rattling out a quick march. A double line of British regulars came into view. The sun behind them reflected on their arms and turned their coats as red as blood.

  "Them's the ones who stabbed my uncle,” Arthur told Amos and a few other men near by.

  Amos didn't change his expression, but he let off a low, skeptical whistle.

  A British officer rode ahead on his horse, twisting in his saddle to shout orders. Proctor wondered if it was Pitcairn, and then felt certain that it was. The drummers changed their cadence and the Redcoats spread out over the fields, forming a skirmish line opposite the minutemen. Men around Proctor began to speak up.

  "Cap'n, there're too many of them."

  "We could hold this hill for one or two rounds, but they'll flank us."

  "Don't care for the looks of that, sir."

  Proctor agreed with them, and his first resolve to do something to even the score melted away like dew.

  "We'll stay here until they get within a hundred rods,” Barrett said finally. “Delay them that long, give more men time to rally in town. Then we'll make an orderly retreat."

  Proctor tightened his fist on his weapon, and he saw Amos and a few other men nodding. They could do that much.

  If they had the chance. The Redcoats skirmish line came fast, looking eager to en
gage and expecting to win any contest of arms. They were less than a quarter mile away when Barrett signaled to the drummer and the colonials began their retreat. Proctor was frustrated at his powerlessness, but also quietly relieved. He checked over his shoulders once or twice to see if the British were gaining on them. But the militia drummers matched the rhythm of the British drummers, beat for beat, with the fifers playing similar tunes. It would have felt like one of the parades he'd seen in Boston were it not for the deadly circumstances of that morning.

  They marched into Concord with the British still a quarter mile behind them. The rest of the militia companies were lined up in formation on the high hill across the road from the meeting house. The liberty pole stood behind them, a thin reed stark against the pale sky, next to a pole flying the town flag. The minutemen hurried up the hill to join them.

  As the officers shouted the retreating into the new formation, Proctor looked below. Even with all their forces together, the Redcoats still outnumbered them two to one. And they swept down the road like a scythe at reaping.

  Along the hilltop, townswomen were bringing food out to the men. Proctor snatched a warm piece of buttered bread from a pale, determined girl he'd never met. She glanced down at the Redcoats and hurried away with her basket before he could thank her. Arthur started after her, but Proctor put a hand on his shoulder and handed him the bread. While Arthur devoured that, Proctor reached in his pocket, crumbled off a piece of the cheese his mother had given him, and slipped it in his mouth, savoring the sharp taste.

  The British drums pounded and a thousand pairs of boots thumped in unison. Behind Proctor, the Concord militia officers debated a course of action.

  "What are we waiting for?” Arthur said. “Let's go and meet them."

  Eleazar Brooks, an old gray-haired veteran from Lincoln and a friend of Proctor's father, stood nearby them in the line. “No, not yet. It will not do for us to begin the war."

  "The war's already begun,” Proctor said, and told him what happened to Munroe and Everett.

  Brooks sucked his teeth. “That's unfortunate, especially for Munroe. He was a good man. Still, we must make sure the regulars are the ones as start the war."

  Up and down the line, it was the same thing. The older men were cautious and wanted to wait, while the young men were all for meeting the British and giving them a whipping.

  Would the young men feel different if they knew what Proctor knew? He doubted it.

  Captain Smith came running down the line, mopping sweat from his forehead. “More militia are coming in,” he said. “We're going to retreat across the North Bridge to Punkatasset Hill, until our strength is equal to theirs."

  "Another retreat?” Arthur asked, his voice cracking. “Why so far?"

  "The hill's a good choice,” the veteran Brooks said as Smith moved on, repeating the order. “It'll give us a clear view to see them coming. And it's a bigger field for us to make formation."

  Proctor was torn. If enough militia showed up, the British would have to back off, the way they should have done in Lexington—just like in his vision. But he wanted one more chance at Pitcairn too, and he wouldn't get that without more shooting.

  Once again the drums and fifes played, and once again Proctor retreated another mile, this time through the town and north. Their double file stomped on the wooden planks as they ran across the North Bridge, drowning out the sound of the drums.

  Punkatasset Hill was a broad field that looked over the Concord River and across the great meadows on the other side. You could see the center of town, so it was the perfect place to watch the Redcoats march in to occupy their homes.

  The sun climbed higher in the sky and the air grew warm. Men who had worn both vests and coats out the night before began to open or remove them. Proctor took another sip of tepid water from his canteen while British forces ran to take the bridge below. Half the group split off and continued up the road toward the mill where the Concord militia had hidden their munitions.

  "There must be Tory spies around,” old Brooks said, “if they know exactly where to go."

  Proctor found himself nodding agreement. One of the other Lincoln men nearby said, “I hear that Rucke up from Lexington is one of them. He moved out here with his daughter just so's he could spy on the militias."

  "That's a damned lie,” Proctor blurted out.

  "Says who?” The man who demanded to know was a few years older and a few inches taller than Proctor. He had a lopsided mouth that made it look like he was ready to bite someone.

  "Says me.” Proctor balled his fist and stepped right up into the slanderous fool's ugly face.

  Eleazar Brooks shoved between them, holding up his hand for peace. “Save it for the Redcoats, boys. We'll be needing both of you afore the day is out."

  Proctor pushed harder, but the other man backed away. “That'll be fine,” he said. “There'll be time to deal with Tory spies and any other sinners the way God wills after this day is over."

  At the other man's words, a cold knot tightened in Proctor's chest, different from the one he had when scrying. The only thing worse than a spy was a witch. In his mother's family, there'd been some killed in Salem for the sin of witchcraft. There was no way he could tell these men what he knew about Pitcairn, not without revealing himself, and putting him and his mother at risk.

  He turned back to his place in line, tightened his grip on his musket, and watched the Redcoats enter Concord.

  "I haven't ever heard anything like that about Miss Emily's father,” Arthur said quietly.

  "Because it's a damned lie,” Proctor snapped under his breath. Immediately, he regretted it. “Forgive my intemperance, Arthur. It wasn't meant to be directed at you."

  "We'll show those damned scoundrels,” Arthur replied. “And we'll give them something back for what they did to my uncle. If I see any of them lying there injured, I'll bayonet them myself."

  Proctor swallowed his first real laugh since sunrise. “But you don't have a bayonet."

  "Then I'll use a hatchet,” the boy said, deadly earnest, eyeing the one in Proctor's belt.

  A barking dog slammed into Proctor's leg, knocking him off-balance, before it chased another dog up the hill and into the mass of confusion there. Men's dogs had followed them from their homes and farms and, not knowing that a battle had taken place miles away this beautiful morning, frolicked as if it were a picnic.

  In some ways the scene did resemble a church picnic. Laundry hung from the lines outside the house atop the hill. Women and children ran back and forth from town with food and news. Old faces mixed with young, the black faces of slaves and former slaves mixed with the white. The officers were dressed in ordinary clothes; the colonel in charge wore an old coat, a flapped hat, and a leather apron. Reverend Emerson, Concord's minister, was present in his dark coat, moving among the crowd, offering words of encouragement and prayers. Only the musket he carried gave sign that anything was out of the ordinary.

  Arthur tugged on his sleeve. “Look!"

  A column of smoke rose from the town below. “That appears like it's from the town hall,” Proctor said.

  Many of the militia men, including Proctor, were poised to charge down the hill, but the drums started beating, calling them to order. As they fell into a double line, he realized there were at least two full regiments gathered—more than enough to take the bridge. With other volunteers coming in from the outlying towns, they had maybe as many men as the entire British force.

  He braced his feet as they went down the slope. The colonel, in his leather apron, stomped along the length of the line. “Do not fire first,” he reminded the men every few steps. “Don't be the first to open fire."

  Proctor looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

  Down the line someone called out, “But what do we do once they fire on us?"

  The colonel paused to answer him. “Then you remember your training and fire as fast as you can. Aim low for their bodies.” That elicited murmurs of respect.r />
  At the bottom of the hill, the badly outnumbered British soldiers beat a quick retreat across the bridge. As the colonials continued their steady march down the long slope, a few Redcoats ran back onto the bridge and began to rip up the wooden planks, rendering it impassable.

  With the sound of the splitting wood still in the air, the colonel left the colonial line and ran ahead, leather apron flapping against his legs. “Stop that! Stop! That's our bridge, to our homes—you leave it be!"

  "Cap'n, can we shoot ‘em?” asked a man near Proctor, and a fellow just beyond him yelled, “That's our bridge!"

  Proctor clenched his jaw and gripped his musket tighter. All around him, the Concord men beseeched their commanders to attack. The sound of another plank ripped loose was followed, over the rooftops in town, by sparks shooting into the air and the doubling of the column of smoke.

  No single man gave an order, but a consensus was reached, just as in a town meeting, and the deliberate march downhill began to move as fast as a Nor'easter, sweeping Proctor along with it.

  The Acton fifer, a little blond boy about Arthur's age, played “The White Cockade,” a quick little Jacobite song the British thought seditious, and the minutemen from Acton ran to the front. The Concord minutemen jumped in behind them, and Proctor's Lincoln company came next, all forming the first line of attack. Most of the casualties would be in the front rows; everyone knew it, including Proctor.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The ordinary militia companies filled out the middle ranks, followed at the rear by the unorganized volunteers who answered the alarms.

  The Redcoats saw the minutemen sweeping toward them like a storm front, and they turned to run for shelter. At the same moment, a second company was running from town to provide support. The two units collided with each other just beyond the bridge, and in an instant, the western shore of the river became a jumbled mass of confused Redcoats, with frantic officers trying to sort them out.

  In sharp contrast, the front line of the minutemen spread along the causeway on the eastern side of the river. Proctor remembered the British order to fix bayonets on Lexington Green and was glad; with the river between them, the British had no way to make a similar charge.