I’m a western girl. Born in Wyoming. Raised on gunfights, pony express and the transcontinental railroad. Circle the wagons. Don’t fence me in. The Revolution for me has always been far away both in miles and times. I never owned it. Through this winter’s readings, I learned a lot. Impressed by Winthrop, intrigued by lithobolia. I never owned it.
So imagine my surprise today that standing on the green at Lexington I suddenly felt like crying at the enormity of what had taken place there. I listened politely to the British officer of the 10th Regiment as he explained April 16, 1776 from the point of view of the regulars, then I walked out to the middle of the green. Men died right here. The first eight Americans to die for my freedom. There’s the porch that cradled Jonathan Harrington as he died from his wounds. His wife’s broken heart should be counted among the casualties of the day as she watched his life slowly drain away.
- Jonathan Harrington Home
Later we walked on a small section of the Battle Road near Hartwell Tavern. The narrow avenue is tree lined, edged with rock fences. Peaceful and beautiful today. But once again I felt like crying. For fleeting moments I could feel the adrenaline that coursed through the minutemen’s veins as they lay in wait in the trees and behind the fences at Blood Angle. They believed in themselves and what they knew to be right – enough to defy everything they knew. Stand against a King chosen by God, against an empire, against the finest fighting force in the world. Yet, on the wind I could also catch the scent of the fear of the regulars. Young and obedient. Valiant and unaccustomed to being at the disadvantage. Running a gauntlet 16 miles long.
I own it now.
- Fire!
