there were at least two full regiments gathered, more than enough to take the bridge. With volunteers still coming in from outlying towns, they had almost a thousand militiamen now, as many men as the British force. Proctor felt a pride in his countrymen. They had no lack of courage or discipline.
He braced his feet as they marched 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, “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.”
By that time, they had reached the bottom of the hill. The British soldiers guarding the bridge saw that they were badly outnumbered and retreated across the river. As soon as the last ones were safely across, they began to pull up the wooden planks, rendering it impassable.
The colonel ran ahead to the bridge, leather apron flapping against his legs. “Stop that! Stop! That's our bridge, to our homes—you leave it be!”
In town, the column of smoke grew larger and sparks shot into the air. No direct order was given, but a consensus was reached, and the militia began to move with all the rapidity and force of a nor'easter.
The minutemen from Acton went first because they had bayonets and boxes loaded with cartridges for a faster rate of fire. Their fifer, a blond boy as young as Arthur looked, played “The White Cockade,” a quick little Jacobite song the British thought seditious. The Concord minutemen followed after them. Proctor and the Lincoln minutemen came next, finishing the front ranks.
Most of the casualties would be there in front. Everyone knew it but no one held back. The militia companies filled out the middle ranks behind them, followed at the rear by the unorganized volunteers who answered the alarms.
As the formation swept down the hillside, the Redcoats fled the bridge and collided with a second company coming up from the town to support them. While they milled, confused for a moment, frantically sorting out their order on the western bank, the militia column spread out along the eastern causeway across the river. Close enough to exchange fire, but out of range of the British bayonets.
The Redcoats finally began to form a three-deep firing formation. When their flankers ran toward the end of the militia lines, Proctor and others aimed their muskets.
“Hold your fire,” Captain Smith bellowed. “We're not to start it.”
But I already did start it
, Proctor thought.
And then he pushed that thought aside. Pitcairn had been ready to shoot Captain Parker, knowing that he was in no danger himself. And that shot would have started a war as sure as Proctor's had. Now he would do what ever he had to do to make things right again.
“Once they do start it,” Smith ordered, “aim for the brightest coats first—that'll be their officers.”
“The crossed white straps make for a nice target,” Amos whispered to Proctor.
Proctor's heart pounded. He'd already faced their guns once. Waiting was harder, now that he knew what was coming. A gun cracked and a puff of smoke went up from the front of the outnumbered British line. Proctor swallowed, but kept his own finger frozen.
Two more British shots went off.
Still the militiamen around Proctor held their fire.
Then the front row of Redcoats let go with a ragged, unordered volley. One of the Acton minutemen went down, his chest burst open, spurting blood. The fifer dropped, his tune cut off in mid-note. A second volley came from the British line and a few more soldiers fell around Proctor. Still, the minutemen waited for the order.
“Fire! For God's sake, fire!”
Chapter 5
“Fire!”
The cry spread from one end of the militia line to the other. Proctor aimed for the reddest coat
He braced his feet as they marched 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, “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.”
By that time, they had reached the bottom of the hill. The British soldiers guarding the bridge saw that they were badly outnumbered and retreated across the river. As soon as the last ones were safely across, they began to pull up the wooden planks, rendering it impassable.
The colonel ran ahead to the bridge, leather apron flapping against his legs. “Stop that! Stop! That's our bridge, to our homes—you leave it be!”
In town, the column of smoke grew larger and sparks shot into the air. No direct order was given, but a consensus was reached, and the militia began to move with all the rapidity and force of a nor'easter.
The minutemen from Acton went first because they had bayonets and boxes loaded with cartridges for a faster rate of fire. Their fifer, a blond boy as young as Arthur looked, played “The White Cockade,” a quick little Jacobite song the British thought seditious. The Concord minutemen followed after them. Proctor and the Lincoln minutemen came next, finishing the front ranks.
Most of the casualties would be there in front. Everyone knew it but no one held back. The militia companies filled out the middle ranks behind them, followed at the rear by the unorganized volunteers who answered the alarms.
As the formation swept down the hillside, the Redcoats fled the bridge and collided with a second company coming up from the town to support them. While they milled, confused for a moment, frantically sorting out their order on the western bank, the militia column spread out along the eastern causeway across the river. Close enough to exchange fire, but out of range of the British bayonets.
The Redcoats finally began to form a three-deep firing formation. When their flankers ran toward the end of the militia lines, Proctor and others aimed their muskets.
“Hold your fire,” Captain Smith bellowed. “We're not to start it.”
But I already did start it
, Proctor thought.
And then he pushed that thought aside. Pitcairn had been ready to shoot Captain Parker, knowing that he was in no danger himself. And that shot would have started a war as sure as Proctor's had. Now he would do what ever he had to do to make things right again.
“Once they do start it,” Smith ordered, “aim for the brightest coats first—that'll be their officers.”
“The crossed white straps make for a nice target,” Amos whispered to Proctor.
Proctor's heart pounded. He'd already faced their guns once. Waiting was harder, now that he knew what was coming. A gun cracked and a puff of smoke went up from the front of the outnumbered British line. Proctor swallowed, but kept his own finger frozen.
Two more British shots went off.
Still the militiamen around Proctor held their fire.
Then the front row of Redcoats let go with a ragged, unordered volley. One of the Acton minutemen went down, his chest burst open, spurting blood. The fifer dropped, his tune cut off in mid-note. A second volley came from the British line and a few more soldiers fell around Proctor. Still, the minutemen waited for the order.
“Fire! For God's sake, fire!”
Chapter 5
“Fire!”
The cry spread from one end of the militia line to the other. Proctor aimed for the reddest coat
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