Coming of Age

Over the last five years, life in the Bay State seemed to be in a constant state of turmoil. Tariffs on glass, lead and several other items were responded to by the colonists with boycotts. Unrest grew to a fevered pitch until, on March 5th, 1770, the Boston Massacre occurred. Three years later, a group of men dressed as Native Americans boarded a ship and tossed its cargo of tea into Boston Harbor. Their action was dubbed the Boston Tea Party. It was easy to see how a fourteen-year-old boy who lived twenty miles from the big city could be easily confused by the state of the world.

Henry, the oldest of three children, worked at the Hartwell Tavern owned by his parents. Most of his duties involved caring for the guests’ horses, tending the vegetable garden, and helping wherever his parents needed him to fill in. As with most boys Henry’s age, he had plans for a more exciting life. Once he turned sixteen, he would find work exploring this great country. He had listened to tavern guests talk about all the places they had been and things they had seen. This would be his life in three more years. His father had given him a musket for his thirteenth birthday, and he had already killed several rabbits and his first deer, all of which ended up on the inn’s menu.

Recently, a different group of men began staying at the inn. Some were well-dressed, with aristocratic mannerisms and speech while others were tradesmen and still others were dock workers, farmers, and laborers. The one thing they all had in common was the organization they belonged to, called the Sons of Liberty, and their common goal of kicking the British out of the colonies. What shocked Henry was that his father had also become a member of this organization.

Henry began spending his evenings eavesdropping on the meetings the Sons of Liberty conducted next to the fireplace in the main room. They would discuss Red Coat troop strength and movement, who was now in charge of which fort, and what did they have for cannon strength. As time went on, he learned the names of these men. William Dawes, Paul Revere, the Adams brothers, and many others cycled through the tavern at one time or another. Henry heard the name of a man from Virginia, called George Washington, mentioned occasionally, but he never saw him.

Members of the Sons of Liberty continued to come to the tavern on a regular basis, but so did the British soldiers. When the Red Coats stayed overnight, Henry could always feel a tension between the soldiers and the tavern staff. It was as though both sides knew there was going to be trouble; it was simply a matter of who was going to start it. Fortunately, no one ever did.

It started during the evening of April 18th, 1775. William Dawes came thundering up Old Concord Road, calling out to all that lived along the way, “The Red Coats are Coming, To Horse, To Horse, The Red Coats are Coming.” When he got to the tavern, my father had a fresh horse waiting for him.

“What happened to Paul Revere? This was supposed to be his leg of the run,” my father asked.

“The British caught him shortly after he started out. It’s all me now, but I’m almost done.”

“Godspeed, my friend. I’ll see you at the Lexington Bridge.”

My father and I watched as he sped off to warn the rest of the patriots. As Dawes rode out of sight, my father turned to me and looked me straight in the eyes.

“Henry, I’m leaving now. I need you to stay here and protect our family.”

“But father, I want to fight too. I’m a good shot, and I’m sure you can use me.”

“This isn’t up for discussion, son; you need to stay here.”

With that, he turned, mounted his horse, and galloped off. I stood there for several minutes, torn between my anger at being left out of the fight and feeling guilty about disobeying my father if I go. In the end, I saddled a horse and headed for battle.

I arrived near the bridge as the sun was breaching the horizon. On one side of the bridge stood the British Army resplendent in their red coats with black and white trim, standing at attention in orderly rows, muskets ready to be shouldered. Facing them from the opposite side of the bridge were the Colonial militiamen. There were some men in uniform, but the majority of the soldiers were wearing their everyday work clothes. None of the colonists displayed any form of military bearing, and some looked as though they would run for cover at the drop of a hat. I spotted my father standing defiantly with several of the militia leaders in the front rank, daring the British to come across.

The standoff lasted for several minutes as the British officers demanded that the rebels disperse while the militiamen hurled insults back at the soldiers. It was time for things to escalate. An officer gave the order to present arms, and every soldier pointed his musket at a man on the other side of the bridge. The standoff was about to end.

As I scanned the line of Red Coats, I noticed one soldier had my father directly in his sights. He was about to kill him, and I could not allow that to happen. I raised my musket and fired—the bullet knocking the Red Coat to the ground. The rest of the battle was a prolonged blur.

Days later, I was told that my bullet was referred to as “The shot heard round the world.” I just know it was the shot that saved my father’s life.