“Let the troops pass by, and don’t molest them unless they begin first,” Captain shouted.

        “On no account will you fire or even attempt it without orders,” replied an angry, distant voice. The tension built up, hovering like a cloud of smoke; nobody spoke, and none inhaled a single breath. “Ye villains, ye rebels, disperse! Damn you, disperse!” 

       The voice was so hateful, so soulless, so destructive. It could cleave through morale as a sword did through flesh. And yet, despite this, no response. All was silent, still as a pond, until someone made a horrible mistake.

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       It had been a nervous day and a dingy night. The grass, which sparsely covered the dusty ground, was fresh and green, with several small drooping flowers of yellows and whites scattered here and there. Horses neighed in their stables, people slept in their houses, and all was akin to how it had been a few weeks before, the first night that our spies had heard would be full of British activity. 

       No updates on the Brits had arrived yet, and the atmosphere was becoming more tense with each passing second. Breath was rushing from my lungs; it felt like there wasn’t enough air to replace it. Exhausted and thoroughly bored, our ragtag force prepared for another round of drilling by our lead man, Cap’n Parker. And another round did come, though the drills were growing shorter in duration and farther apart in occurrence. We watched and waited; we waited some more. And at long last, we got a sign. 

       The silence broke as the Old North Church’s tall stone steeple was alight for a moment with the illumination of two lanterns. And so, we prepared, for this night would be one stained with the blood of many soldiers, remembered forever.

       Frenzied movements echoed across the field like a fly’s wings beating. Guns loaded, swords sharpened, nerves went awry as the moment drew closer. Hands shaking, legs locking, I stood and waited for something more to happen. Not a soul could bear the suspense a moment longer; we all wanted to know our fate – would we live or die at the hands of these monsters? – and the time we’d learn this would arrive soon.

       “Joe, when the dust clears, if I ain’t alive no more, just know that I cared for ya’, alright?” nervously muttered my closest companion, Mike, under his breath.

       “You won’t die. We won’t die. Tonight will be just like that war with the French and Indians we won,” I asserted, trying to comfort him.

       “I hope,” he replied skeptically, “I hope.”

       Gesticulating and murmuring, Mike and I continued to converse, slowly moving away from our party. Suddenly, heavy hooves pounded the dry, sandy dirt, thumping in a droning cadence. It grew closer, turning from vibrations in the tightly packed dirt to louder stomps. Dust flew into the distant sky, but not for long. The rider slowed down, concealing each mighty step of his animal. Revere had finally arrived with the message.

       “The Regulars are coming! The Regulars are coming!” Revere hurriedly and discreetly declared to our group, riding past to deliver the news to the others.

       “Saptern and Elliot! O’er here! Now!” boomed Parker.

       “Yes sir!” we mindlessly reported, marching into formation. We only had to wait a tad longer, for soon they would be here.

       Stumbling and staggering from the harsh wake-up call, a few more soldiers arrived, all just as nervous as we were. One went by Noah, another by Asher. There were a few others, though now I cannot recall their names. Parker announced something to us, but I was distracted by talking with Mike. We heard something akin to boots stomping on the ground but ignored it. Soon, it became louder, and we looked up from our conversation.

       That was when we saw the Redcoats dressed to the nines in red togs with black hats atop their cruel complexions. Fierce, highly trained soldiers, able to handle the musket and sword. Their mere presence made us stop and reconsider what we were doing. How foolish could we be to challenge such a great force as them? Even so, they had a weakness. Their motivations were weak. We were fighting for pride, liberty, and our family. They were fighting for their lives and their king because they had to. 

       They marched and rode closer, closer, closer, brandishing their swords and bayonets and loading their muskets. They would strike fear in any army, but not us. We would stand our ground and fight until we could no longer do so. In only a few moments, they had arrived. It was time for an encounter with the most feared army of them all.

       A cacophony of stomps and silent whispering filled our ears, war’s symphony. As the red grew brighter, our fear rose higher. Adrenaline flowed through our veins akin to the liquor which gratefully we shoved down our gullets during long nights at the Tavern. We weren’t as sure of ourselves as we had been before. The land was not abuzz with the same laughter and boastfulness as it had been in that Tavern when our beer-addled brains were sure we would be the victors of this dreadful battle. Alas, we still stood firm as the finest swords. Both sides were neat in orderly lines as our captains gave us commands.

       “Let the troops pass by, and don’t molest them unless they begin first,” Parker shouted.

       “On no account will you fire or even attempt it without orders,” responded a distant voice. Everyone became tense with the realization that someone might disobey and shoot their guns. “Ye villains, ye rebels, disperse! Damn you, disperse!”

       Shaking, the tight grasp on my musket was lost, and at that exact moment, my finger slipped. I fired the shot; the shot heard ‘round the world.

       The bellowing blast of exploding gunpowder pushed me back a few inches, the sour smell of combustion filling my nose. And so, every remaining soldier fired, some out of instinct, some from memory, and others from training. As the smoke settled, around 12 Redcoats had been shot, and seven of our militia had collapsed. I turned around, eyes flickering back and forth, searching for Mike. And I found him, though the friend in me wishes to this day that I hadn’t. He had collapsed on the ground, clutching his arm. Once he lifted his hand to inspect the damage, blood poured from the wound like a thick red waterfall. He grabbed it again, grimacing.

       “Oh gosh, Mike!” I exclaimed, feverishly grabbing bandages from my bag. “Here-ah, golly-let me… hold on,” I said, taking some, cutting them with my knife, and wrapping the wound. “Blasted lobster backs! They belong in the booby-hatch!”

       Michael gave a light chuckle in response. “We best get you somewhere safe,” I remarked, grabbing his uninjured arm and lifting it over my shoulder as I helped him get off the ground and walk to the side of the pathway. We made it just a moment before the Brits began their march on Concord again.

       “Attention!” shouted the huffy Redcoat in command of the raiding party; “March onwards!” They marched in formation, mindlessly stomping on any of our dying and wounded soldiers they passed over. If we had taken a moment longer to move out of the path, Mike would not have survived the battle.

       As the dirt settled down upon the land, Parker called us over. “We may have let them get away, but we won't let them arrive back,” he proclaimed to our troop. “We’ll gather here, hide, and once they come through once more to return to Boston, we fire.” And so, we prepared to attack the Lobsterbacks when they were most unprepared.

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       T’was only a mere five more hours 'till the Brits were stomping closer, but they seemed in a rush. It hadn’t been the self-satisfied return we’d expected; they weren’t carrying as many munitions as we thought they would. But they were running from our men! It was a laughable sight, one of the most feared armies in our corner of the world, cowering away from soldiers of their several colonies! But it would still do; they wouldn’t expect this, for they did not think such a small army could ever beat theirs. And so, as they ran through, we shot with loaded muskets and began to follow.

       The ground was soft with bright, bristly green grass below our boots, and the wind whooshed over our hats as we gave way to a chase; Mike stayed back to nurse his wound, along with our doctor. We ran through tall grass, trees, and rivers. It became repetitive, a constant rhythm: shoot, run, hide, reload, dodge, shoot, run, hide, reload. That was until a stray soldier with too much courage decided he would either win this battle or die trying. He stopped, turned, faced me, and began to jab at me with his bayonet. To fight back, I pulled out my knife from its hip-mounted sheath. It was now a battle to the death.

       It was a tense dance of death. He would slash at me, shoot, and dodge; I would block and fire back. It ceased when he took a moment to reload, stepping backward to protect himself from my pushing attack. I took the opportunity to prepare and stab him, hitting his bayonet with a clang. My knife bounced off the bayonet; I stabbed once more. This stab hit his arm, releasing a trickle of blood upon being dislodged. He dropped the musket and pulled out his dagger with the hand of the opposite arm. We then slashed at one another, trying to get the upper hand until a stray shot from a retreating Redcoat hit him in the neck.

       With a shocked expression on his grim complexion, he collapsed, gasping for air. I tightened my grip on the dagger, knowing what to do. It pained me to kill him, but that was what war was all about. Sacrifices had to occur.

       “Please,” he cried, then paused, taking a breath. “Don’t do it,” he rasped. “I have… a family,” he croaked, his sorrow making me tear up.

       “I’m sorry. Forgive me for this,” I whispered, plunging the dagger into his chest, then his head. I wanted to end his misery as fast as possible, for I could no longer bear to witness his suffering. Wanting to give him some respect, I checked his badge. It read, “Christopher.”  I wouldn’t forget him for his stubborn bravery. Alas, I moved on, wiping my dagger of his blood, pushing onwards to catch up with the Captain. We had nearly arrived in Boston.

       “Let them retreat! Hold your fire!” announced Parker to some confusion. Why should we stop now? Why shan’t we continue and kill them for trying to take our supplies for battle? These questions were uttered throughout the group, though it didn’t matter; Parker’s orders would not lay upon a disobedient ear. To be frank, we were tired; no soul wanted to continue fighting either way. And so, we began to cheer as the British cowered away from us into the safety of their cities.

       But someone didn’t want to stop, a soldier of our troop. His name was Joshua Williams, and he was stubborn as a mule; if he wanted something done, he would get it done. And now, he yearned for those British soldiers to be dead. That man could not stand to see them survive after what they had done to him and his family. He bravely stomped out of formation, following the Redcoats.

       “Williams! What are you doing?!” demanded Parker. “Stop!”

       The exclamation fell on ignorant ears; the man continued. Stomping and clashing his boots upon the ground, he fired his weapon into the group of Redcoats, and in return, the poor man got shot several times. First in the torso, leading him to collapse, upon which he took a bullet to the head. I could see the look of regret on his face, but it was too late. He closed his tired eyes and passed away. It was a sad sight to see.

       Alas, we won. We had finally won the battle. We had proved to our families and ourselves that maybe we weren’t so worthless. That day was a great day, a day for relaxation and celebration. But first, we would have to return home through the sad, war-tainted grass, tall trees filled with bullet holes, sinuous rivers, and still ponds. It was a depressing trip through the memories of the battle which had just occurred.

       What happened that day stuck to both armies’ reputations as a bee does to honey. The British loss boosted our morale and nearly quadrupled the size of our newly formed Continental Army. We and the British both learned valuable lessons of war that neither side would forget from then on.

-Caleb S.