Despite the seriousness of Gideon’s news, my spirits were high as I helped Mother in the kitchen the next morning.
She looked up when she heard me humming. “’Tis good to hear someone singing.”
“How could I not sing on such a lovely morning? The rest of the day looks to be fair too.”
“I hope you’re right, for your father rode to Concord at first light.” Her expression was pensive, and the circles under her eyes told me she hadn’t slept well.
I paused as I put on my apron. “Father told you what General Gage may be planning?”
“He did. He also told me how he came to learn of it.” Her dark brows lifted in question. “Was the messenger present when you went to the study?”
“Yes.”
Mother looked at me with furrowed brow. “I don’t like it that a man I’ve never met slips into my home . . . partakes of my food, and who knows what else.”
I was surprised by her sharpness. “I’m sorry I took the pudding without asking. The man had traveled far, and I thought he might be hungry as well as thirsty.”
“Does this man have a name?”
“He does, though whether ’tis his true name, I don’t know. I only know that to disclose it could endanger his life.”
Mother turned contrite. “You needn’t apologize for keeping your secret or taking the pudding. You are but being trustworthy and hospitable.” She sighed and looked up from the griddlecakes she stirred. “I don’t like change. Lately, ’tis all I find. The threat of war . . . people taking sides and not speaking to each other . . . strangers stealing into my house at all hours of the night.”
She paused and attempted a smile. “In time, I shall grow used to it, but there are moments when I wish we could go back ten years when things were more settled and when . . .” A look of sadness crossed her face, and I knew she thought of Jonathan.
“Ten years ago, you . . . we . . . didn’t have Bethy.”
She lifted her shoulders as if she were physically closing the door on her grief. “Yes,” she agreed. “Sweet Bethy. What would we do without her?”
Though change didn’t suit Mother, I welcomed it like the dawning of a new day. Not knowing what the next weeks or months would bring was exciting. I didn’t delude myself into believing the future would be easy, but whether difficult or dangerous, I looked forward to playing an active role in whatever lay ahead.
***
Now that the weather was moderating, I began to spend more time outdoors. One particularly fine day, I saw Father pacing off the south field in preparation for spring plowing and planting. Seeing him, I hunted through the dead growth in the kitchen garden to see if any herbs or plants were beginning to sprout.
Even though I took pleasure in the warmer weather, thoughts of impending war were never far from my mind. The Mayfield militia now drilled three times weekly, and I came upon Israel teaching Ben how to clean and load the squirrel gun.
“’Tain’t powerful enough to hurt anyone ’less you get up real close, but if me and Pa and Mr. Stowell march off to fight the redcoats, you’ll be the man here.” Israel paused and looked at his brother. “Besides defending Ma and Jane, you gotta take care of Goodwife Stowell and Abigail and Bethy. You hear me?”
The twelve-year-old boy nodded solemnly.
My heart constricted at Israel’s words, and instead of joining them in the barn, I slipped quietly away so they wouldn’t know I’d heard. “Not Ben,” I whispered. “He’s too young for killing.”
The terrible picture weighed heavily on my mind, and the next day I found Father and told him what I’d overheard.
“You need to show me how to shoot Jonathan’s musket.”
Father’s mouth opened, but before he could say anything, I hurried on. “Israel’s squirrel gun can’t be relied on. And with you and the Boatricks off fighting . . .” I straightened my shoulders. “I may not know how to shoot a gun, but I know enough about war to realize that when fighting starts, it may spread through the colonies . . . maybe even here.”
Father looked away, his gaze moving over the barn and fields that made up our home. “I pray to God it will never come to that.”
“So do I, but if it does—” I moved to face him. “If it does, I need to know how to defend Mother and Bethy.”
“You are right,” Father said after a long moment.
The following evening, Father retrieved Jon’s musket from the rack above the fireplace. “Come,” he said, leading me to the entryway. Handing the gun to me, he said, “First you must make yourself familiar with its weight and heft. Carry it around . . . lift it . . . aim it.”
The gun’s heavy weight surprised me, and I soon discovered that the long muzzle made it ungainly and difficult to balance and aim.
“It will come with practice,” Father assured me.
I saw Mother and Bethy leave the sitting room to watch. Bethy’s eyes were wide, but Mother’s looked angry.
“This is not what I raised my daughter to do,” she said in a voice that, despite its loudness, wasn’t quite steady.
“’Tis not what I like either,” Father replied. “But since all the men may be gone in a few days or weeks, I think it wise that one of you knows how to shoot a musket.” That said, we returned to our lesson.
On the second evening, instead of sitting by the fire with my mending, I learned how to break down the musket and clean it. The next evening brought a lesson in loading and priming the gun. Since powder and lead balls were scarce, they were hoarded for actual fighting. Going through the motions without firing left me frustrated and feeling only partially prepared.
A week passed, and still there was no word of redcoats raiding Concord. I gave thanks every night, and each morning I listened for the pounding hoofbeats of a messenger coming to tell us of the raid.
***
It was George Hawks who brought the news that April morning, riding his lathered horse down the lane to our house. He called to Father, who was carrying a sack of seed out of the barn. “It’s come, Nathan! War’s begun!”
Dropping the sack, Father hurried to his friend. “Where?” he called.
“Lexington!”
I set down the basket of eggs and hurried after Father, my blue skirt and petticoat tangling around my legs.
Mr. Hawks reined in his horse, the sound of the animal’s labored breathing filling the morning air. “Redcoats left Boston last night, headed for Concord to destroy our arms.” He panted. “They fired on the Lexington militia mustered on the commons . . . killed several and routed the rest.”
Father’s mouth tightened as he placed his hand on Mr. Hawks’s booted leg. “What about Concord?”
Before Mr. Hawks could answer, the village church bells began to ring, their loud peal carrying the two miles to our farm.
“Reverend Whipple’s sounded the alarm.” Mr. Hawks looked down at Father. “As for Concord, I don’t know. The rider only said the redcoats left Lexington and are marching toward Concord.” There was a moment of tense silence. “Are we still to meet south of Millbrook fork in Ashley’s pasture?”
Father nodded. “Pass along the word if you see any of the committeemen.” His voice turned harsh. “We’ll make them pay for what they did in Lexington . . . make them pay every step of the way back to Boston. The bells will bring men from all over the countryside to harass them so bad they’ll wish they’d never left Boston. By nightfall, hundreds will have joined us.”
Noticing me for the first time, Mr. Hawks gave me a quick nod. “I need to alert Josiah Ryder and those along Tipple Road in case they didn’t hear the bell.” Whirling his horse, Mr. Hawks lifted a hand and urged his horse back up our tree-lined lane.
Father started for the house. “Tell Ben to saddle Jumper and the other two horses,” he called over his shoulder. “Then go help Jane fix food for us to take.”
“Do Thomas and Israel know?”
Father pointed to the north field where both men were hurrying toward the barn. “They’ve heard the bells.”
I left to find Ben, my basket of eggs forgotten. I spied him as I rounded the barn, coming at a hard run from the pasture.
“What’s wrong?” Ben hollered. “Why’re the bells ringin’?”
“Redcoats killed some Lexington militiamen this morning,” I called. “Father wants you to saddle all the horses.”
It took Ben a minute to reach me. “Redcoats!” he repeated, his voice cracking with excitement. He shook his head as he joined his steps with mine, looking like he didn’t quite believe it had finally happened. His eager voice went on. “I’m gonna ask yer father to let me go with ’em. I’ve been practicing, and I’m right good at firin’ the squirrel gun.”
My stomach tightened at the thought of Ben tagging after the men—tightened even more as I pictured Father taking cover behind a tree or stone fence to fire at the well-trained redcoats. “You’re to stay here,” I replied. “’Tis the horses Father wants you to help with. Hurry and get them saddled.”
I skirted the well house and made my way to the kitchen, where the smell of ham and breakfast still lingered. Jane came around the table as soon as I walked through the door. “What are we to do, Mistress Abigail?”
I knew by her worried expression that she’d not only heard the tolling bells, but Father’s words as he’d hurried into the house as well.
“What did Mr. Stowell tell you to do?”
“He . . . he said to pack some bread and cheese . . . and a flask of water. Said to do the same for Pa and Israel.”
“Then that’s what you must do.”
“Yes’m.” She moved back to the table and began to slice off big slabs of bread. Though worry showed on her face, her strokes were quick and sure.
“It will be all right,” I said in an effort to reassure her. “Mr. Stowell and your pa and Israel know how to take care of themselves.”
She nodded, her ruffled cap slightly askew. “Yes’m,” she repeated, and I sensed that like me, she hoped my words proved true.
I lit a candle and ran down the steep steps to the cellar, where rounds of yellow cheeses sat next to crocks of butter on a shelf above casks of cornmeal and salted fish. In my haste, I almost dropped the cheese as I grabbed three apples. They were starting to shrivel, but I hoped the men would still enjoy them.
Urgency drove me back up the stairs where Bethy waited. As soon as I set down the food and the candle, she wrapped her arms tight around me and buried her face in the waist of my apron.
“I’m scared, Abby,” she whispered. “What if the redcoats shoot Father like they did those men in Lexington?”
I pulled her close and ruffled her dark curls. “They won’t, Bethy.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Remember that Father fought in the French and Indian War. He knows how to fight and take care of himself.”
Bethy pulled away and looked up at me, her large eyes dark with worry. “Are you sure, Abby . . . sure nothing bad will happen to him?”
I returned her steady gaze. “As sure as anyone can be without actually knowing.”
“Like faith?” she asked.
“Like faith.”
She nodded and seemed to take comfort in my words. They comforted me as well. Perhaps if I said them often enough, I’d come to believe them.
I had just finished slicing cheese when my parents came into the kitchen. Though the spring day was warm, Father wore a coat over his vest and carried his long rifle with a powder horn and lead balls secured by a strap over his shoulder.
For a moment, no one spoke. In the silence, I noted that Mother’s dark eyes were unusually bright. Seeing them and her unsteady mouth almost undid me. Then Mother and Father both began talking at once, Mother asking if the bread and cheese were ready and Father reminding Jane to fill a flask with water.
My fingers were clumsy as I folded the cheese and bread in a cloth and put the bundle and the apples into Father’s knapsack. All too soon, the five of us were walking out to the barn, where Ben and his father and Israel stood by the horses.
Goody Boatrick was there too, her plump arms folded tightly at the waist of her bibbed apron, her white-capped head shaking vigorously as she spoke firmly to Ben. “No,” she said. “Your pa already said ye was to stay home with me’n Janie.”
“But, Ma . . .”
Father’s voice brought Ben’s tongue to a halt. “Your place is here to look after the women. They’ll need someone to chop wood and see to the milking, and I expect all the rocks the plow turned up in the cornfield to be piled next to the fence.”
Ben knew better than to say anything besides, “Yes, sir,” to my father. Even so, it was obvious how badly he wished to go with the men.
Father cleared his throat and looked at Bethy and me—she standing as tall as she could and trying to be brave, me with a hand on her shoulder and my head held high. We were all that remained of the Stowell children.
Bethy ran to Father and circled his waist with her arms. Father bent his head and spoke in a low, comforting voice, and I saw Bethy nod her head. After Father had untangled her arms from his waist, she went to Mother.
I approached Father, and though I didn’t hug him, I badly wanted to. Instead, I met his eyes and set my trembling lips in a firm line. The dreaded war had finally begun, and if nothing else, I would show him a brave face.
“Keep safe, Father.”
“You know I shall, just as I know you and your mother will look after things while I’m away.”
I nodded and continued to hold his gaze.
“Then I can leave with my mind at ease.”
Head high, I remained where I was as he made his farewell to Mother. With so many watchful eyes, there was no outward display of affection, but I knew they had not been so restrained in Father’s study.
Then the three men mounted their horses and rode up the lane, our calls of Godspeed following them.
Disappointed at being left behind, Ben looked ready to burst into tears, and Jane was openly crying. Only Goody Boatrick stood solemnly with Mother and Bethy and me.
Her face was anxious as she turned to Mother. “I can’t believe ’tis begun. Even with all the talk and drillin’, I kept hopin’ ’twould never happen. Didn’t you, Mistress Stowell?
“I did. Hoped and prayed.” Mother lifted her narrow shoulders like she was inwardly telling herself she must be strong. “Pray God they’ll all come home safe.”
Goody Boatrick sighed and set out for the laundry house while Jane dejectedly followed us back to the house.
As soon as we entered the kitchen, I turned to Mother. “When do you think they’ll be back?” It was a question in all of our minds. Jane waited at the door to hear her answer.
Mother took a deep breath. “I do not know. I truly do not know.”
“A day? A week?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated. Moving from the fireplace, she placed her hands on my shoulders. “If the militia means only to harass the soldiers back to Boston, they may be back by the morrow. Thursday at the latest. But if”—she stopped, and her fingers tightened—“if the redcoats engage the militia in battle—” She paused again, and her gaze shifted to Bethy, then to Jane. “We must each be brave and pray,” Mother said. “Now . . . at meals . . . at bedtime. Each time you think of your fathers, you must be brave and pray.” Mother reached out a hand to Bethy and nodded to Jane to join us in prayer.
“But ’tisn’t meal or bedtime,” Bethy stated.
“God has invited us to call out to Him in times of trouble,” Mother answered. “This is a time of trouble.”
Though she smiled at Bethy, I knew that behind the smile was the urge to cry. I saw tears shimmer in her eyes as the four of us joined hands and knelt on the wooden floor of the kitchen, heard them quiver through her voice as she, instead of Father, led us in prayer.
***
Although we attempted to return to our chores, no one was successful. Mother twice left off making a chicken pie, once while cutting up the chicken and again when she crimped the edges of the crust. Her pie crusts were always flaky and tender, but I feared the one today would be lacking in both. As for Jane, she flitted from room to room as if she weren’t certain what to do next, and Bethy followed me so closely I seemed always to trip over her.
Never one to wait patiently, I’d resolved what I would do while watching the men ride away. Instead of enduring the endless waiting to learn what our militiamen and the redcoats were doing, I intended to ride after them and watch from the height of Hardy Hill.
The year before, when Jonathan had been so sick and I’d made my frantic ride to fetch Prudence Blood, I’d flung myself without thought onto Jumper’s back, riding bareback with my dress bunched up as I’d clung to the horse’s mane. Not so today. Today I would don breeches to better stay on the horse.
It was close to noon before I could elude Bethy and carry out my plan. Hurrying up to Jonathan’s darkened room, I opened one of the shutters and went straight to the drawer that held the clothes I needed: the pair of breeches and shirt Jonathan had left behind when he’d gone to Harvard College in Cambridge three years before. Once I was dressed, I pulled on his old, scuffed boots and snatched his wide-brimmed hat from the peg. Not wanting to be seen, I used the front door to leave the house and slipped out to the barn.
The inside was dim and cool, and though I’d vowed not to ride a horse for a good long while, Dolly was my quickest means of seeing what was happening along the Concord-Lexington road. Taking Ben to open gates would also be helpful. Besides, he was as eager as I to see the soldiers.
He was carrying a large rock from the cornfield to the stonewall separating the pasture from the meadow, his scrawny frame struggling with each step. Instead of calling to him, I set out across the pasture, finding unexpected pleasure in not being encumbered by my long skirt and petticoat, especially when I climbed the wall.
Ben didn’t see me until I was almost there. Lifting his hand to shade his eyes, he stared for a long moment, his stance wary.
Waving, I called in a soft voice. “’Tis I . . . Mistress Abigail!”
Ben continued to stare as if he doubted his eyes. To reassure him, I removed Jon’s hat so he could see my blonde hair.
Reassured, he scrambled over the wall. “For a minute, I thought ’twas Master Jon. Why are you wearin’ his clothes?”
“I mean to ride to see what’s happening between the militia and redcoats. Would you like to come?”
“Would I!” Ben’s freckled face split into a grin. “Better’n most anything, though my ma’ll likely give me a lickin’ when she finds out.” He paused and shook his head. “Ma won’t like it above half, and I doubt yours will either.”
“We’ll ride cross county so no one will see us.”
Seeing me in Jon’s clothes seemed to have unsettled him so much that he followed me to the barn without saying another word. Leading Dolly to the mounting block, I was soon astride her. Ben furtively led Dolly out of the barn and through the gate. After closing it, he climbed atop the gate and scrambled on behind me.
The songs of robins in newly leafed trees reassured me that all of Massachusetts hadn’t suddenly gone mad, and the cows and sheep grazed as placidly as they’d done the day before, which added to the reassurance. Over the past months, tension and rumors had increased—some true, others exaggerations or lies. Pealing church bells had twice sent militia and committee men streaming into Charles Town and Cambridge. The sight of so many had been enough to quell General Gage’s enthusiasm for sending redcoats out of Boston to search for hidden stores of gunpowder and ammunition in Salem and Mystic. Until now.
As Ben opened and closed gates, his excitement was such that he couldn’t stop talking. “When do ya think we’ll catch up with them? Do ya think there’ll be actual fightin’, or is it but another scare?”
“I don’t know, Ben. I truly don’t know.”
Today, shots had actually been exchanged between colonists and soldiers. I knew without doubt Uncle William and Cousin Enoch had been among those gathered on Lexington common. Pray to God they hadn’t been wounded or killed.
We were nearing Hardy Hill when we heard the sudden crack of musket fire and saw distant puffs of smoke.
“Fightin’!” Ben said, the excitement in his voice joined by a quiver of fear.
My heart slammed hard against my chest as I urged the mare toward Hardy Hill, where I hoped to catch sight of Concord village and the road leading back to Lexington. What was happening? Was it redcoat or patriot guns we’d heard?
Someone was already on the hill when we reached the top. At first I thought ’twas a boy left behind like Ben, but then I realized the petite form on the horse was Prudence Blood.
When I halted the mare, Mistress Blood spoke, her voice raspy as if from lack of use. “Mistress Abigail.” Clearing her throat, she pointed to the valley below us, the greening pastures and meadows, stone fences and trees. “War and fighting,” she went on, “same as I dreamed two nights past. Many will be wounded or die before this day is done.”
I stared in amazement at the rows of tightly formed redcoats marching in retreat along the Concord-Lexington road. Seen from the hill, they looked like the red toy soldiers Jonathan had once played with. Unlike toys, though, these soldiers had fired on the Lexington militia, killing and wounding.
A stone wall bordered the length of the snaking road. Crouched behind it, I saw dozens of militia and committeemen, the glint of their muskets clearly visible from the hilltop—simple farmers and storekeepers and blacksmiths setting themselves against better-armed and -trained soldiers. As if by some unheard command, the patriots fired quick shots at the advancing soldiers, then ran, still crouching, and took cover behind the wall farther along the way.
Ben and I dismounted and hurried to peer between trees at the fighting. I pressed a hand to my suddenly dry mouth as several redcoats crumpled and fell and others broke ranks and fired at our men. Smoke from the conflict obscured my view, but the cacophony of rapid shots continued, interspersed with screams of pain.
I momentarily closed my eyes to shut out the horror. “Dear Lord,” I prayed. “Please don’t let it be Father.” A ragged sound from Ben made me amend my words. “Please keep all our men safe.”
Hearing me, Mistress Blood turned, her small black eyes filled with compassion. “Your father and the Boatricks will come to no harm this day, nor will any of the Mayfield men and boys. But the soldiers—”
Her voice broke, and for a moment, there was only the sound of gunfire and the distant pealing of bells to the south and east of the battle. “I have dreams from time to time but never one as vivid as this last one.” She swung her arm in a wide arc. “Men are gathering from everywhere—Lincoln, Bedford, Watertown—and they’ll hound and shoot at those poor soldiers every step of the way back to Boston.”
“You sound like a blasted Tory,” Ben said.
“I’m naught but Prudence Blood, and I care naught for politics. I feel sorrow for all who die or who need my help . . . yea, even those ye call lobsterbacks.”
Giving me a nod, she set her horse down the hill toward the fighting. Unlike Ben and me, who’d come empty-handed to watch, Mistress Blood had come prepared to help. I noted the bag tied to the back of her saddle and heard the clink of water and tincture bottles. I suddenly felt childish and selfish. In my rush to find out what was happening, I’d failed to give any thought to how I could be of help in our first fight for freedom from England.