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“If superstitious people get to skip the thirteenth of something, so do I.” – P.D.
The British may not have taken possession of Lexington by the time I arrived, but I was sure they were on their way. My voice was soon reduced to a scratchy whisper from warning the locals. I dismounted and pulled Zippy from her saddlebag after my horse collapsed in exhaustion. Rays of sunlight began to peek over the horizon, and I started to make my way back to the town green to join the others in the coming conflict. On the way, I spotted a barrel and decided to hide Zippy in it. I told her, “There’s no use risking both of our lives, Zippy. You’d better stay here out of sight. I’ll come back for you if I make it out alive.” We hugged until it got a bit awkward. I dropped Zippy into the barrel and replaced its lid, knowing not if I would see her cute big eyes ever again.
The instant my foot stepped from the dusty road onto the town green, a rolling drumbeat rung out from the countryside outside town. I attempted to back up onto the road and step back onto the green, hoping the drumbeat would be repeated, but I was disappointed. Ducking and weaving, I dodged the bullets that I could only imagine must have been flying close overhead as I crossed the green. I saw a man amongst the assembled militiamen who was seated on an impressive white horse. Running up to him, I repeated a variation of my missive, “The British are coming, sir!”
The man leaned down and squinted at me. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I thought for a minute. “My name is Pritchard Olin Jambalaya Daviess, or did you know that?”
“Go fetch a gun from one of the men and gird thy loins with courage and any belt which may be necessary to maintain the upright nature of your breeches. We fight in twenty minutes!” He turned his horse so I was facing a portion of the animal I didn’t wish to address for fear it would respond. After wandering through the crowd of men and a handful of women attempting to pass as men, I found someone with an extra musket. As the drumbeat of the British drew ever nearer, the men began to shuffle about anxiously. Looking back on that fateful morning and its importance to the war, I have no qualms in saying that these were the finest soldiers to ever grace the Western Hemisphere—myself included, of course. There were only eighty of us, but we could’ve passed for at least ninety if the person counting had misplaced his spectacles. What we lacked in formal training, we made up for in heart, ambition, tenacity, and an indomitable spirit that never asked, “Why?” unless we felt there was a good reason to.
I’m sure some of the other delegates to the congress were there somewhere. There’s not much use signing papers and sending people to fight for something if you’re not willing to stab a bayonet into someone’s foot or load a couple of cannons. A few hundred feet away, lines of red blobs came into view. I rubbed my eyes, fearing they were a mirage caused by staring into the dawning sun, but it was them alright. With every passing drumbeat, the British—those heavy-handed, tea-swilling, yellow-teethed, we-eat-our-fish-with-chips redcoats—stepped nearer to the Lexington green. I skipped around to work out my nervous jitters. The British ceased their march, and a staring contest ensued.
When asked which party was the first to shoot on Lexington green, historians will present a laundered list of theories which range from plausible yet incorrect to hilarious yet even more untrue. I’ll dispel any and all question on the issue—you know, because I was there. And because it was me. I used the shoulder of the man in front of me to keep my musket steady. Then, I took aim at a British regular standing in the front row of their marching column and fired a shot. I missed by a mule. My musket ball struck a redcoat two down in the arm.
In that moment when the battle seemed so hopefully skewed in our favor, the redcoats began to fire musket volleys of their own, sullying all chances of our victory. I must clarify a nuanced point before continuing. I am not now, nor have I ever been craven. For the purpose of others-preservation, specifically the preservation of a certain miniature mule whose name is Zippy, I chose to cry out, “I’ve been hit!” Taken out of context, this superficial lie would appear to be an example of cowardice on my part. I disagree—back to the story.
I sashayed from the battlefield at great speed as musket balls whizzed about me. The smell of black powder—and wig powder—hung in the cool morning air. Most of my fellow militiamen must have been focused on the preservation of others’ lives as well. They left the battlefield almost as quickly as I had. From behind a large tree, I watched with several others as the British resumed their marching formation and proceeded up the road toward Concord. I know that, upon reading this, some will no doubt label me a deserter. I’d like to spin it a different way and term myself a “desserter,” someone who does anything necessary to live through a minor skirmish in order to enjoy at least one more after-dinner treat with loved ones.
In the intervening years, I’ve asked around for recommendations of war histories. I skimmed through one once, and I’ll admit that I was appalled to see how little credit we in Lexington received compared to the boys over in Concord. We were the first ones to be shot at! At the very least, we deserve a commendation from a minor council or government assembly for standing our ground, however briefly, before exiting the town green to save our skins.
After the annoying and headache-inducing drumbeat of the British had been replaced by various rooster crows and the lowing of cattle, Lexington’s residents poured into the green to tend the sick and wounded. They’d been watching the whole time from a safe distance as though we were participating in a pageant. I proceeded to search for Zippy who, moments before, I’d been so desperate to preserve my life for.
The more I looked for my miniature mule, the less confident I felt that I’d be reunited with her. In those days, the colonies were filled—the wordsmith might even say replete—with barrels of many varieties, so it was no easy task. It’s a good thing Zippy and I had a prearranged signal for just such occasions when one of us lay hidden in plain sight from the other. It’s been compared to the call of a turtle with distemper. If that comparison seems oddly specific, that’s because it is.
I heard a faint “Hee-haw” from somewhere close at hand. I looked about me and spied a barrel in which was draped what appeared to be a deceased redcoat.
I came up behind him and shouted, “Boo!” just to make sure he was good and dead. After pulling out the redcoat, I found my mule curled up in the bottom of the barrel. I can only surmise that the lad was thirsty and thought the barrel was used for the collection of rainwater. Then, upon removing the lid, the soldier leaned into the barrel, and Zippy did her part for the war effort, offing him. My poor mini mule didn’t have any way of escaping from the barrel after he flopped into it. If you’re one of those people who feels they should berate me for leaving Zippy untended in a barrel, I’ll point to the lack of any statutes at the time or at present making it illegal to leave children, animal or human, in confined spaces for any length of time.
You may be wondering, “Pritchard, why does the title of this section mentions badgers if you didn’t tell any amusing stories about one?” To be honest, I can’t remember why I wrote that, but I’m not going to start second-guessing myself now. I’m in too deep. I’ll also admit that, for asking such a question, you, dear reader, are proving to be much more inquisitive than I expected when I began writing this memoir. I only hope my love of detail and foggy memory do not disappoint.
Until this moment, I forgot the most important event to take place that day, April 19, 1775. I took a musket ball to the coat! It was an exciting day in the Daviess household. Zippy and I rejoiced that I had a war wound in my jacket. That kind of wartime apparel damage simply can’t be fabricated. The hole must have been torn as I sashayed at high velocity from the green to adjoining cover. At the time, I couldn’t wait to rub it—quite literally—in the faces of the congressional delegates who lacked similar signs of close battlefield proximity.
