Once my Woollacott leg had been extended, I looked elsewhere. I remember my maternal grandmother, Grace Belle (Young) Nault, attending DAR meetings in Peterborough, New Hampshire in the 1950s. So I contacted the New Hampshire Chapter and gave them her particulars. They responded quickly that my patriot was a Private Reuben Law. Initially I was a bit disappointed. "Guess no Order of Cincinnati for me," I mused. But I googled his name and got several hits on a Private Reuben Law, who was in the Acton Militia.
"It has to be him, how many Reuben Laws can there be."
My further researched confirmed my suspicions. Then I wondered what he might have thought on that fateful day. The Acton Militia was formed in September 1774 and the militiamen were paid eight pence a half day. They drilled twice weekly. Their Captain was Isaac Davis, a determined and principled man. Some of Reuben's kin and I am sure many other friends joined the Militia, which I surmise increased the camaraderie. So when three shots were fired early on April 19, 1775, signaling an alarm, what did Reuben think? And what did he think throughout the day? Perhaps at the end of the day, he realized that it was far different than any others. But how soon, if ever, did he realize the magnitude of what happened that day at the bridge
"It has to be him, how many Reuben Laws can there be."
My further researched confirmed my suspicions. Then I wondered what he might have thought on that fateful day. The Acton Militia was formed in September 1774 and the militiamen were paid eight pence a half day. They drilled twice weekly. Their Captain was Isaac Davis, a determined and principled man. Some of Reuben's kin and I am sure many other friends joined the Militia, which I surmise increased the camaraderie. So when three shots were fired early on April 19, 1775, signaling an alarm, what did Reuben think? And what did he think throughout the day? Perhaps at the end of the day, he realized that it was far different than any others. But how soon, if ever, did he realize the magnitude of what happened that day at the bridge
19 April 1775 Concord, Massachusetts
Chapter One
On route from Concord’s North Bridge
Acton, Massachusetts, American Colonies
19 April 1775
I’ve got to get home.
That recurring thought had helped to keep Reuben Law tied to reality as he returned with the Acton militia from a horrific, April 19, 1775 morning at Concord’s North Bridge. The events had been too intense and had occurred in such rapid fire fashion for Reuben to process and comprehend the full meaning. He had not been so overwhelmed since his father’s death years earlier. He felt as though a colossal serpent was within him and didn’t know when the next undulation would roil his stomach, only that it would. But Reuben’s inner essence, whose existence had been created in part from his forebears’ experiences, had born witness to a similar horror over one hundred years earlier on Doon Hill at Dunbar, Scotland.[1] His soul comprehended what Reuben was still incapable of understanding on this morning.
His morning began with three reverberating musket shots rousting him from his sleep. The shots were a call to arms for the Acton Militia. He wondered if it would be just another routine alarm, or something more. As he exited the house, his mother foreboded dread and pleaded with him not to go. The image of his hand wringing mother continued to haunt him as he hustled to his Captain’s house in an eerie pre-dawn light. Along the way, twinkles from his favorite constellation soothed him, and when he arrived at Captain Davis’s house, he was eased further. His Captain’s presence reminded him of a similar calming influence he had received from his father’s whenever his young world had been shaken. The marching to The Bridge with the fifing and camaraderie depleted his pent up adrenaline and emboldened him. He was inspired until he spotted a bearskin mitre cap of a Grenadier, the elite of the British troops, rising above a sea of red coats. Reuben’s stomach became queasy as his serpent fluttered.
As the Acton Militia marched to the bridge and past other militia companies on the western side of the river, the harmony of warbling birds, punctuated with chirps and occasional gurgles from eddies swirling under the bridge, comforted Reuben. The water, once past the bridge, returned to a lazy flow and became soothing, a symphony, replayed every spring since creation and part of the world order. But on this April morning, the troops massed fifty yards from each other seemed out of order. A musket roared, and Reuben’s serpent ripped through his stomach. Smoke billowed, muskets roared again and Captain Davis’s chest exploded like a star, spewing a crimson shower of flesh. When the volleying ended, the Captain’s blood flowed as effortlessly as the water beyond the bridge. The exhilarating aroma of gunpowder that had heightened the Minutemen’s camaraderie as they practiced in their Captain’s yard was left to bygone days. Its pungent odor now permeated Reuben’s lungs as the horror at Concord’s North Bridge was being seared into his soul.
His stomach became queasy again as he and Militiamen neared the Davis homestead, a two-story house with a centered chimney, a steeply pitched barn and a windowed shed nearby. Reuben had always viewed the buildings as forming a fortress that protected the inner yard, symbolic of a strong, impenetrable Captain. Now, sobbing women and befuddled children filled the yard, and the buildings didn’t seem like a fortress at all.
Reuben left his comrades to speak to Hannah, his fallen Captain’s wife. He focused on a levering pole used to gather well water that rose above the crowd because it diverted his attention from the curious eyes that followed him as he wended his way to Hannah. When he took hold of Hanna’s hand, her head jolted up, and her sobbing ceased. He rested his other hand on their clasp as a confused Hannah waited. Reuben waited too, allowing the serpent to recede from his throat, and then he spoke.
[1] The Battle of Dunbar was on September 3, 1650, where the English Parliamentarian forces defeated the Scottish Royal Forces.
The above is a snippet from the first Chapter of "The Immigrant",
On route from Concord’s North Bridge
Acton, Massachusetts, American Colonies
19 April 1775
I’ve got to get home.
That recurring thought had helped to keep Reuben Law tied to reality as he returned with the Acton militia from a horrific, April 19, 1775 morning at Concord’s North Bridge. The events had been too intense and had occurred in such rapid fire fashion for Reuben to process and comprehend the full meaning. He had not been so overwhelmed since his father’s death years earlier. He felt as though a colossal serpent was within him and didn’t know when the next undulation would roil his stomach, only that it would. But Reuben’s inner essence, whose existence had been created in part from his forebears’ experiences, had born witness to a similar horror over one hundred years earlier on Doon Hill at Dunbar, Scotland.[1] His soul comprehended what Reuben was still incapable of understanding on this morning.
His morning began with three reverberating musket shots rousting him from his sleep. The shots were a call to arms for the Acton Militia. He wondered if it would be just another routine alarm, or something more. As he exited the house, his mother foreboded dread and pleaded with him not to go. The image of his hand wringing mother continued to haunt him as he hustled to his Captain’s house in an eerie pre-dawn light. Along the way, twinkles from his favorite constellation soothed him, and when he arrived at Captain Davis’s house, he was eased further. His Captain’s presence reminded him of a similar calming influence he had received from his father’s whenever his young world had been shaken. The marching to The Bridge with the fifing and camaraderie depleted his pent up adrenaline and emboldened him. He was inspired until he spotted a bearskin mitre cap of a Grenadier, the elite of the British troops, rising above a sea of red coats. Reuben’s stomach became queasy as his serpent fluttered.
As the Acton Militia marched to the bridge and past other militia companies on the western side of the river, the harmony of warbling birds, punctuated with chirps and occasional gurgles from eddies swirling under the bridge, comforted Reuben. The water, once past the bridge, returned to a lazy flow and became soothing, a symphony, replayed every spring since creation and part of the world order. But on this April morning, the troops massed fifty yards from each other seemed out of order. A musket roared, and Reuben’s serpent ripped through his stomach. Smoke billowed, muskets roared again and Captain Davis’s chest exploded like a star, spewing a crimson shower of flesh. When the volleying ended, the Captain’s blood flowed as effortlessly as the water beyond the bridge. The exhilarating aroma of gunpowder that had heightened the Minutemen’s camaraderie as they practiced in their Captain’s yard was left to bygone days. Its pungent odor now permeated Reuben’s lungs as the horror at Concord’s North Bridge was being seared into his soul.
His stomach became queasy again as he and Militiamen neared the Davis homestead, a two-story house with a centered chimney, a steeply pitched barn and a windowed shed nearby. Reuben had always viewed the buildings as forming a fortress that protected the inner yard, symbolic of a strong, impenetrable Captain. Now, sobbing women and befuddled children filled the yard, and the buildings didn’t seem like a fortress at all.
Reuben left his comrades to speak to Hannah, his fallen Captain’s wife. He focused on a levering pole used to gather well water that rose above the crowd because it diverted his attention from the curious eyes that followed him as he wended his way to Hannah. When he took hold of Hanna’s hand, her head jolted up, and her sobbing ceased. He rested his other hand on their clasp as a confused Hannah waited. Reuben waited too, allowing the serpent to recede from his throat, and then he spoke.
[1] The Battle of Dunbar was on September 3, 1650, where the English Parliamentarian forces defeated the Scottish Royal Forces.
The above is a snippet from the first Chapter of "The Immigrant",
Captain Isaac Davis leading his men from his home to Concord's North Bridge 19 April 1775
