and squeezed the trigger. For the next few moments, all he was aware of were the men beside him, the men he aimed at, and the mechanical process of reloading his musket. Dense clouds of bitter smoke obscured both sides of the river. Before the third ball left his musket he became aware that he no longer heard lead whizzing past him.
The British lines had broken.
Men were down around him. Some of the militia retreated from the carnage to regroup, while others ran toward the bridge to secure it. Proctor stood frozen.
The musket fog began to clear; the harsh taste of gunpowder filled his mouth. Across the river, the Redcoats were in full retreat toward Concord Green.
Just like in his scrying.
The British dead sprawled awkwardly in the road, while the wounded cried out in pain. One Redcoat clutched his belly and crawled on hands and knees after the retreating column, until he fell on his face and lay there moaning, gut-shot, bleeding to death. One of the militiamen crossed the bridge, pulled out his hatchet, and calmly split the Redcoat's skull. Proctor was not sure if it was cruelty or mercy. You killed a chicken in the yard that way, but not a man. And yet, didn't he want the British dead? Hadn't they done the same to Everett Simes?
While he stood there unsure of his own feelings or next action, men began to carry the colonial dead and injured toward the farm house on the hill.
“Proctor,” a small voice said beside him. “Proctor?”
He looked over and saw Arthur standing there, pale and trembling. His chin was slick with vomit. “Arthur?” Proctor asked, his heart lurching. “Have you been shot?”
“No. But I don't feel so good.”
Proctor grabbed Arthur's shoulder, turned him side-to-side to make sure he wasn't hurt. “Maybe you should go home and check on your mother and your sisters.”
“You sure that's proper?”
“I'm sure. The bridge is ours now. But don't go through the center of town. Cut through the pasture and go around behind the ridge, until you come to the Bedford Road. If that's clear, then take the road on home.”
“All right.”
“If you have to tell them about your uncle Everett, you do it straight-out, without details or embellishment,” Proctor said. “You don't want to upset them more than need be.”
Arthur nodded, but he continued to stand there. Proctor reached out and used his sleeve to wipe the spit off Arthur's chin. That made Arthur jerk his head away and scowl.
“I know what to do,” he said, wiping his own chin.
He ran off, leaving his hat on the ground with shot still in it. Proctor didn't have the heart to call after him, so he put the lead in his hunting bag and tucked the cap in his belt. When Arthur reached the bridge, he sprinted across, past the Redcoat who'd had his skull split open. Proctor watched him climb over the far hill and head off through the woods behind town.
He wasn't the only one to leave. Here and there, other men headed off in other directions, ignoring calls to return.
Proctor didn't understand. The work here wasn't done yet—you didn't plow a field without planting it too. There were still plenty of Redcoats on both sides of the bridge. Hefound Captain Smith making sure the last of their injured were removed uphill.
“What're we to do next, sir?” Proctor asked. “The Redcoats haven't exactly packed their kit for home yet.”
Smith looked past the bridge. “No, they haven't. Gather as many men as you can before they scatter more. We‘re caught between four British companies still on this side of the bridge, and the rest in Concord. Could be a hammer and an anvil if we're not careful.”
“I'll go do what I can,” Proctor said.
He went along the causeway and up the hillside, calling the men from his company and telling them to report to Captain Smith. He grew bolder as he went and started commanding other men to report to their officers too. “The fighting's not done,” he said again and again. “The Redcoats're coming
The British lines had broken.
Men were down around him. Some of the militia retreated from the carnage to regroup, while others ran toward the bridge to secure it. Proctor stood frozen.
The musket fog began to clear; the harsh taste of gunpowder filled his mouth. Across the river, the Redcoats were in full retreat toward Concord Green.
Just like in his scrying.
The British dead sprawled awkwardly in the road, while the wounded cried out in pain. One Redcoat clutched his belly and crawled on hands and knees after the retreating column, until he fell on his face and lay there moaning, gut-shot, bleeding to death. One of the militiamen crossed the bridge, pulled out his hatchet, and calmly split the Redcoat's skull. Proctor was not sure if it was cruelty or mercy. You killed a chicken in the yard that way, but not a man. And yet, didn't he want the British dead? Hadn't they done the same to Everett Simes?
While he stood there unsure of his own feelings or next action, men began to carry the colonial dead and injured toward the farm house on the hill.
“Proctor,” a small voice said beside him. “Proctor?”
He looked over and saw Arthur standing there, pale and trembling. His chin was slick with vomit. “Arthur?” Proctor asked, his heart lurching. “Have you been shot?”
“No. But I don't feel so good.”
Proctor grabbed Arthur's shoulder, turned him side-to-side to make sure he wasn't hurt. “Maybe you should go home and check on your mother and your sisters.”
“You sure that's proper?”
“I'm sure. The bridge is ours now. But don't go through the center of town. Cut through the pasture and go around behind the ridge, until you come to the Bedford Road. If that's clear, then take the road on home.”
“All right.”
“If you have to tell them about your uncle Everett, you do it straight-out, without details or embellishment,” Proctor said. “You don't want to upset them more than need be.”
Arthur nodded, but he continued to stand there. Proctor reached out and used his sleeve to wipe the spit off Arthur's chin. That made Arthur jerk his head away and scowl.
“I know what to do,” he said, wiping his own chin.
He ran off, leaving his hat on the ground with shot still in it. Proctor didn't have the heart to call after him, so he put the lead in his hunting bag and tucked the cap in his belt. When Arthur reached the bridge, he sprinted across, past the Redcoat who'd had his skull split open. Proctor watched him climb over the far hill and head off through the woods behind town.
He wasn't the only one to leave. Here and there, other men headed off in other directions, ignoring calls to return.
Proctor didn't understand. The work here wasn't done yet—you didn't plow a field without planting it too. There were still plenty of Redcoats on both sides of the bridge. Hefound Captain Smith making sure the last of their injured were removed uphill.
“What're we to do next, sir?” Proctor asked. “The Redcoats haven't exactly packed their kit for home yet.”
Smith looked past the bridge. “No, they haven't. Gather as many men as you can before they scatter more. We‘re caught between four British companies still on this side of the bridge, and the rest in Concord. Could be a hammer and an anvil if we're not careful.”
“I'll go do what I can,” Proctor said.
He went along the causeway and up the hillside, calling the men from his company and telling them to report to Captain Smith. He grew bolder as he went and started commanding other men to report to their officers too. “The fighting's not done,” he said again and again. “The Redcoats're coming
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