The Gentle Rebel (16 page)

Nathan watched as four men gathered around and carefully picked the wounded boy up. As they moved slowly forward, Nathan asked, “How is he?”

“Very bad.” The doctor shook his head and added, “I cannot offer you much hope, Mr. Winslow.”

“He can’t die!” Nathan whispered, but the doctor only shook his head and followed the others. Nathan stood there helplessly until Laddie came to touch his arm; then they
followed. In less than half an hour, they had reached a small house located on a slight promontory overlooking Lexington. Silas Lewis, a thin, silver-haired man, and his wife Sarah lived alone there, and the doctor had Caleb placed in their bedroom.

Nathan and Laddie watched as he cleaned the wound, listened to the heart, then put a clean bandage on. He stood, and looked across the bed at Nathan. “I’m afraid the bullet has pierced the lungs.”

“Can’t you get it out, Doctor?” Laddie pleaded.

He looked at the pair, and there was compassion in his gray eyes. “It would be impossible.” He moved toward the door, and paused long enough to say, “I would to God I could offer you hope, but the only hope now is in God.”

“You’re not leaving?” Nathan exclaimed with a start.

“I must,” the doctor said, then asked with a curious look at Nathan, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Why, no.”

“I met you with your brother at a meeting. I’m Dr. Warren.” He hesitated, then said, “He may wake up—or he may not. In any case, I cannot help him—and I am needed for other things. God help you, Mr. Winslow—God help us all!”

Then he was gone. Nathan swallowed hard, then slumped in the chair beside the bed. Laddie’s throat ached, and she went to stand beside his chair. They could hear a clock ticking in the next room. Bright sunlight, like bars of solid gold, fell across the bright counterpane that covered Caleb, and the smell of freshly broken ground from the field drifted into the room. Slowly the hours passed, and Caleb lay there, his eyes closed, breathing so shallowly that at times there seemed to be no life at all. Once Mrs. Lewis came in and brought fresh water to bathe the dying boy’s face, but Nathan did not seem to notice. He was crouched over the chair, his face pinched and thin, his eyes blank.

Laddie went out shortly after noon and stood on the front porch. The yard was filled with men, and their voices were
tense and angry. One voice, louder than the rest, came from a powerfully built man with a Kentucky rifle in his hands. “ . . . won’t be no way for them lobster backs to git back to Boston ’cept on the Menotomy Road—and that’s where we’ll catch ’em.”

“There ain’t but a hundred of us—or less!” A thin, angry voice argued. “How we goin’ to face all them Redcoats?”

“There’s more of us than you think, Wilkins,” the big man said slowly, and there was a grim smile on lips. “There’s six assembly points spotted along the road, and the Committeemen west of Sudbury River and west of the Concord River will be at the North Bridge—and besides that, the Minute Men are come in from all over! I’d say we’ll have maybe five hundred by the time them Redbacks come back down that road!”

A shout went up, and for the next fifteen minutes Laddie stood there trying to comprehend what was happening. She had just decided to go in when she heard someone call out “Laddie! Laddie Smith!” and turned to see Moses Tyler running up the hill.

He pulled up in front of her, his face red. “I—I seen Dr. Warren down on the road. He said that Caleb was shot—and he said . . .”

She saw him swallow hard; then when she said, “He’s very bad, Moses,” he began to cry. It was not a graceful crying. He dropped his musket and several of the men looked curiously as he slumped down with his back against the wall, sobbing and choking on the tears.

Finally when he grew quiet, he stood up and said, “I gotta see him, Laddie!”

“He won’t know you, Moses.”

“I gotta see him!”

Laddie looked into the boy’s intense face, nodded, and led him inside. They passed into the room, where Nathan was slumped down, staring at Caleb’s still face. “Nathan, Moses is here.” Laddie was shocked to see hatred leap into Nathan’s
eyes. He leaped out of the chair and grabbed Moses by the arm, raising his fist to strike, but Laddie stepped between them, pleading, “Nathan—don’t!”

He stopped, looked down at the small form of Tyler, and said bitterly, “Well, are you satisfied now? You’ve got him killed!” He whirled and plunged out of the room blindly, his feet echoing on the floor beyond.

“I better go with him, Moses,” Laddie said quickly. “You can sit with Caleb.”

She reached the porch in time to see Nathan walking rapidly across the yard, his head down. She moved quickly, catching up with him as he reached a copse of hickory trees. “Nathan—you can’t leave!” she said.

He stopped abruptly, glared at her with anger lighting his eyes; then it faded and he seemed to sway from side to side, and he whispered, “I can’t stay and watch him die, Laddie! I can’t do that!”

“You’re his brother, Nathan. What if he wakes up—and none of his people are there?”

He shut his eyes, stood there for a long time, it seemed; then he opened them and said, “All right—let’s go back.”

They made their way back to the porch, arriving at the same time as Dr. Warren. He looked at Nathan, then explained, “I thought I’d come back to see the boy.”

Nathan said nothing, but Laddie replied, “Thank you, Dr. Warren.”

They went inside, and Moses looked up with tears in his eyes. “Dr. Warren! He just woke up!”

“Caleb!” Nathan shouldered the doctor aside and knelt beside the bed. “Caleb!”

Laddie could see that Caleb’s eyes were open, and he said weakly, “Nathan!”

The doctor had moved to the other side of the bed, his eyes searching the boy’s face, and he put a hand on the pulse at Caleb’s throat. “Dr.—Warren—” Caleb said, his eyes turning to him. “I knew you’d be in the fight.” Then his eyes shifted
back to Moses, and he asked in a reedy whisper, “Did we whip ’em, Moses?”

Moses started to speak, but couldn’t for the tears that choked him. “What’s wrong with Moses?” Caleb turned back to Dr. Warren. “Didn’t we—turn the Redcoats back?”

Warren shook his head, his face a mask, then said, “You’d better talk to your brother, son.” He gave Nathan a warning look and drew back.

Nathan knelt beside Caleb, and heard the labored breath and the rasp in the chest. But Caleb struggled to speak. “Nathan—I’m sorry—about the way it’s been—with us.”

“It’s all right, Caleb,” Nathan said, tears running down his cheeks.

“No—no, it’s not all right—for brothers to have bad feelings.” He lifted a hand and Nathan took it; then he said, “I know you don’t believe in this war—” He paused and his eyes fluttered so that Dr. Warren leaned forward quickly, but then he seemed to grow stronger. “I guess I got shot, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Caleb!”

“It hurts bad—Nathan.” Then Caleb asked, “Am I going to die?”

Nathan sobbed, and Dr. Warren said quietly, “I’m afraid so, my boy.”

The words did not seem to disturb Caleb. He lay there quietly, and the room was still. Finally he said, “Nathan, you tell Mother and Father about how I died—and say that I wasn’t afraid!”

His eyes closed then, and Laddie’s heart leaped, but he wasn’t gone. He lay there, and for the next hour he seemed to float between two worlds. He would lie still for a time; then he would open his eyes and take up where he had left off. His mind was clear; he gave messages for some, and once he said, “Nathan?—it’s a good thing I was converted at that meeting two years ago, wasn’t it?” He smiled and said, “I’d hate to die if I hadn’t found Jesus that time—I sure would be afraid to die . . .”

Finally he said, “What are the Minute Men doing, Moses?”

“Gettin’ ready to fight the British, Caleb.” Moses said. He had kept back to the wall, but now he came to reach a dirty hand out to his friend. “I—I wisht it was me ’stid of you that got shot!”

“No, you gotta go on and fight, Moses.” He lifted his head and his voice grew stronger, his eyes fully open. “Oh, I can’t help! I can’t help you fight!”

“Caleb!” Nathan caught his brother, and the boy’s eyes fixed on him.

“Nathan—they’re going to fight the British! I got to help! I got to help!” He began to struggle and Nathan held him fast, and then suddenly he fell back. His chest pumped as he fought for breath; then he reached up and put his arm around Nathan’s neck, whispering in a voice that rattled, “Nathan—I can’t help!” Then suddenly he looked up at his brother. “You have to do it for me, Nathan!”

Nathan stared into Caleb’s eyes and saw the life draining out, but again the arm around his neck tightened, and Caleb pleaded, “Nathan—you’re my brother! Please—please, Nathan—go help them! Help them!” And then he opened his eyes and asked: “Will—you help—Nathan? For me . . . ?”

And Nathan cried with a loud voice that shook the room, “Yes! Yes, Caleb, I’ll fight! Don’t be afraid—I’ll fight for you!”

He held the body close, and then he heard the words so faint that he barely caught them: “Nathan! Thank you, brother!”

Then Caleb went limp, and when Nathan laid him back, there was a smile on his lips. Dr. Warren reached out and closed his eyes, then said in a tight voice, “Brave boy! Brave boy!”

Nathan laid his hand on Caleb’s hair, brushed it back, then rose and walked out of the room, his face a mask. He turned at the door, saying, “Laddie, stay with him till I get back.” Then he was gone.

“They’re a’comin’!” the rider shouted as he crested the hill.
He was a small man, but he had a big voice, and he pulled his fine horse up with a flourish, filled with self-importance as the militia crowded around him. “I been to Concord, and I been watchin’ the Redcoats comin’ out of there—and they’re shot all to pieces!”

“The Redcoats?” Dr. Warren demanded. He stood there, his gray eyes intense in the midday sun. “Who fought them?”

“Why, the Minute Men, ’course!” the rider said. He begged a drink and after a long pull from a bottle, he wiped his brow and said, “The British can’t leave the road, and our men been shootin’ them to rags from behind stone walls—must a’killed a hundred of the suckers at least!”

A shout went up, and Warren smiled. He had been hard put to it to hold the men together, for none of them were ready to face the British regulars in open battle on a field. But this was different! He got up on a stone, called for silence; then when it came, he said, “Well, here we are, and none of us thought we’d be fighting a war on a fine spring morning here in Lexington—but we are. It was not of our making. They shot our men down without mercy.” A cry of anger followed this and he said, “We’ll have the cost of that blood out of the Redcoats, won’t we, men?”

“Tell us what to do, Warren!” a single voice yelled, and an echo of consent rose.

“All of you with muskets go over there—” He waited for the group to form, then said, “Mason Bates, you’ll be captain of these. Those of you with rifles, I’ll be your captain.”

“Why don’t we stay together?”

Warren smiled patiently at the tall man who asked the question. “Because a musket shoots one hundred paces and a rifle carries four hundred. Now, they’re coming, so listen carefully. The Redcoats will have to stay on that road. They’re hurt already, and we’ll hurt them worse on the next ten miles. At least half that stretch is lined with stone walls. Get behind those walls, let them get twenty feet away, then rise up and cut them down!”

“But they’ll fire a volley at us!”

“Fall down as soon as you shoot and let the volley go over your heads—then get up, run down the road and do it again!”

“There they come—just like I said!” the rider yelled. “I gotta ride some more!”

He tore down the road, yelling at the top of his lungs, but nobody watched. They were straining their eyes, trying to see the approaching Redcoats. Warren said, “You musketmen, get going! Riflemen, we’ll wait here and give them a welcome.”

The men with muskets scurried off, and Warren said, “We’ll get behind that pile of logs next to the road.” He led them to a pile of walnut logs that had been felled and trimmed, then said, “Keep down until they’re in range—” He stopped suddenly and every man in the group turned to see what had stopped him. He was staring at a tall man who carried a fine Kentucky rifle in his hands—a rifle that the doctor had last seen on the wall of Silas Lewis’s house. Dr. Warren studied him, then said quietly, “Mr. Winslow, I think you should think before you do this thing.”

The men saw the tall man stare at the doctor, and his eyes were like blue ice. “I’ll leave if you say so, Dr. Warren. But I’ll be fighting whether you take me or not!”

Warren gazed steadily at Nathan, and finally he said, “As God wills then.”

“No, as
I
will, Dr. Warren! I’ll fight in this thing, but I won’t blame it on God.”

Warren’s eyes flashed, but he only said, “Can you use a rifle?”

Nathan stared at him, and there was no trace of pride in his voice as he said, “I can shoot better than any man in your group.” Then he waved the muzzle of the rifle toward the distant figure of a rider who had just appeared on the road. “I intend to prove that right now.”

“It’s too long a shot!” someone complained.

But Warren said, “If you want to be in this war, Winslow, you can begin right now.”

Nathan nodded, and his face was pale. The officer was tearing down the road, and was yelling something. He stopped three hundred feet away, made his horse rear, then swung around and started back the other way. He had not gone twenty feet when Nathan’s bullet struck him between the shoulder blades and he fell like a broken doll into the dust.

A yell went up, and one man struck Nathan on the shoulder, shouting, “You got him, Winslow!” But there was no joy on the young man’s face, Warren saw, and he commanded, “Take cover! They’ll be here in ten minutes!” As the men scattered, he came to stand beside Nathan and said, “I’m sorry about your brother.” He gave a curious stare at the silent young man, then shook his head and moved behind a tree.

Nathan Winslow reloaded and stood there in the fine summer air of April and waited for another target.

Major Pitcairn looked up wearily into the pale face of Charles Winslow. He had not slept all night, and the nightmare he had gone through had drawn deep lines into his face. “What is it, Mr. Winslow? I have to report to General Gage, so I can’t—”