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“With so many Smiths about, why can’t any of them shoe my mule?” – P.D.
After the British skirmished with militiamen at Lexington and Concord, they returned to their stronghold at Boston. The colonial militias joined forces and locked the redcoats in the town, leaving them no chance of escape by land and me no chance of retrieving my sleeping mask. Sadly, Zippy and I weren’t able to return to our posh single daddy pad once the siege began. We were forced to sleep in haylofts and strangers’ homes for some time after.
Before you start to sympathize with the British, they did have access to the harbor, so they didn’t starve. The Bostonians didn’t starve either, but they weren’t too happy about being locked in their city with a bunch of our royal overlord’s goons. If my description of the redcoats has turned a bit sour, it’s because I still haven’t forgiven them for ruining a perfectly good jacket. Yea, even though I was British myself a few generations back, it was clear that those intervening decades hadn’t been good to those misty island-dwellers.
In the early days of June 1775, Zippy and I were milling about through the various regiments and brigades of the sieging militia. Word had spread that the colonial troops would move to occupy several hills—the high ground overlooking Boston—in order to fend off any attempts by the British to leave the city. I remember it like it was just today. Zippy and I were attempting to learn how to do that cat’s cradle string game. My miniature mule was having a much better time of it than I was. Various soldiers began passing along the news that we were to occupy Bunker Hill. It sounded pretty safe at the time, given its name.
My fellow militiamen marched while I surfed alongside. Once we’d arrived at Bunker Hill, basic trenches and earthworks were thrown together, but the rest of the time, we meandered through the hills, writing poetry and pressing leaves. On June 17th, the British marched out of Boston and prepared to do us battle. It wasn’t long before the redcoats began to shoot their cannons in our general direction. Within minutes, sporadic cannon fire was being exchanged by both parties. Again, fearing for Zippy’s safety, I ran from my position at the frontline. Someone called after me, “Where are you going? Shoot the deserter!”
I called over my shoulder, “It’s alright. I’ll be back in a minute. I swear I’m just preserving the life of this mule. I’m very fond of her.” They must’ve believed me, since I’m alive to write about it. I ran a quarter of a mile to a small copse and flung Zippy into an ancient sycamore tree where I felt she would be safe for the duration of the battle. Hitting Zippy in her leafy perch would’ve been like shooting a specific peg on the broad side of a barn—improbable at best. I figured no self-respecting British soldier would have such horrendous aim as to hit a small animal clutching to the branch of a sycamore tree.
As I returned to the makeshift battlements set up along the hill, I did feel a tinge of concern about tossing my daughter mule into a tree that I might not live to climb and reclaim her from. I was comforted by the thought that I’d raised a strong, independent lady mule who could fend for herself should the worst happen, and I become an amnesiac who no longer remembered her.
When I resumed my place at the frontline, one of the men in my regiment suffered a broken leg from a rather untimely cannonball. Fortunately, I blinked and missed the collision itself, but the aftermath was enough to make me ill. In that moment, I knew that it was my duty to avenge the man’s crippled leg. I set my remaining teeth, popped my head over the battlements, kicked back my musket, and fired at the distant red blobs aligned on the horizon. My eyesight was too poor for me to tell if I’d hit one of them, but it felt good knowing that the man hadn’t lost use of his leg temporarily in vain.
My heroic act was met with a tinge of criticism from my commanding officer, who began shouting, “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!” Not long after, another man in our regiment donned a pair of thick spectacles, kicked back his musket, and fired. I turned and asked the man next to me what had happened and was informed that the bespectacled man had wounded the distant redcoat while he was still polishing his coat buttons.
“Who fired that shot?” My commander bellowed to the group.
The spectacled sharpshooter leaned into sight. “It was me, sir. I did what you said. I swear I could see the whites of their eyes.” A violent case of what some military historians refer to as “the murmurs” spread through the men.
“Quiet! Order in the ranks! If any of you fancy staying alive, surrender your munitions and powder to that man.” That nameless, bespectacled man was the true hero of Bunker Hill. Sadly, no poem captures his bravery and prudence in seeking medical attention to better his eyesight. Shot after shot was fired by that man’s steady hand. Every few seconds, he fired a well-aimed shot and handed off the musket to the eager hands of one of our regiment to reload. He then grabbed a loaded musket from a pile close at hand and, again, opened fire on the King’s finest regulars.
In the late afternoon, the British began to advance upon our positions in waves. They stepped forward. We exchanged fire. They retreated. We ceased firing—except for good old spectacles. Then, the cycle would begin again. If a redcoat so much as tripped or removed their hat to wipe the sweat from their brow, we really let them have it. We reserved the heaviest artillery for them.
Following some much-needed practice, I was able to reload a musket every ten minutes. My hands were a blur, but not because of their speed. I had a headache again—this time, from the commanding officers’ carrying on. Pardon my phonetic interpretation, but it sounded like, “Atten-hut! Fi-ahyuh!” intermixed with many guttural noises which cannot be translated into even archaic English.
Throughout the battle, one soldier nearby played some dramatic musical covers on a fife. He wasn’t very good. I suppose that’s why the British seemed to be aiming at him specifically. I never learned his name, but when he fell wounded, I sauntered over and relieved him of his fife. Once I’d determined—it took me a few minutes—which end was the mouthpiece, I blasted forth lilting melodies on that instrument until the cows came home. For some strange reason, my fife playing attracted many cows from the surrounding countryside. They were brave animals to risk drawing near the battlefield. Their presence terribly confused the British, leading them to withdraw for an hour or so to regroup.
When I wasn’t playing the fife, I’d shout things to bolster the spirits of the men and clever actresses around me. Things like, “Let them eat lead!” or “A thrashing shall be their recompense!” or “Go away! We don’t want any!” My cries were sufficient to keep both deserters and desserters at their posts. However, once the British began to gain ground and charged our positions bayonets-first, I’ll admit that I again chose an others-preservation approach to my battlefield egress. By that point, we were practically out of ammunition, so there wasn’t much to stick around for. We could’ve fought hand-to-hand with sharpened sticks, but I fear bringing a stick to a knife fight would’ve ended in disaster. No, in this amateur warfighter’s opinion, it’s far better to live and fight from a distance another day.
As I trotted from the battlefield, a determined redcoat gave me chase. I threw everything I had at him, emptying my pockets of the few trifles they contained, including my fife. Looking back, I wish I’d kept it. Zippy and I could’ve started a band. When I neared the sycamore in which Zippy was perched, I cried, “Zippy, jump into my arms!” My mule poked her head out of the leaves in the uppermost branches of the tree and did her best impression of a swan dive, sailing through the air toward the redcoat pursuing me. Before he could lift his arms to deflect my mule, Zippy struck him hooves-first in the head, knocking him unconscious or worse—probably worse.
British reinforcements were pouring over the hilltops in the distance, so I cradled Zippy in my arms and hurried to the relative safety of somewhere else. I rejoined my regiment and awaited further marching orders. Two days later, my commanding officer, Jill—or was it Bart—handed me a letter during mail call. The envelope was marked, “Confidential! Important!” Using Zippy’s razor-sharp teeth, I sliced open the envelope and my pinkie.
The letter was addressed, “You blundering oaf.” Boy, that greeting brought back memories from little league cricket. The letter read in part, “Where in blue blazes are you? The second congress began a month ago, and I’ve been stalling for weeks. I bet this whole time you’ve been gallivanting around the colonies with your mule. If you’re not in Philadelphia in two weeks, don’t bother darkening my doorstep again.” The letter wasn’t signed, and while some turns of phrase reminded me of Cousin Sammy, I’ve always harbored a sneaking suspicion that it was written by John Adams. That man never appreciated my two-handed waves or my cheery disposition.
You might question how I received a letter with such specific, time-sensitive instructions in an age when travel was anything but formulaic. If you’re thinking along these lines, you must live in the distant future when mail or other communication media yet un-invented is carried much, much faster than present methods—by canal or cheetah, perhaps. No, we just gave it our best guess in those days. By the time I reached Philadelphia to rejoin the congress, I would either be a few days early or seven months late.
