‘THEY WANTED A FIGHT, SO WE GIVE ‘EM ONE”

          I, Daniel Springer, was one of the two-score-plus men that stood under arms, on Lexington’s green, early that Wednesday morn. It was just comin’ on to daybreak, and the weather was right pleasant for the middle of April. Yet, me stomach growled nevertheless, ready for a cup o' coffee and some eggs, as we'd been been standin' here for more'n an hour, already.

          Some say we were lookin’ for a fight. Well.... maybe some were. I, meself, I’m not one to be ridden roughshod over.... not by anyone. Still, I was a hopin’ that them Reg’lars, seein’ us there and not backing down, would just turn around and go back to Boston-town from whence they came. Man, was I wrong.

          Turns out, them wasn’t reg’lar Lobsterbacks. Them was Grenadiers, the King’s own elite, the toughest of ‘em all. They marched into town, took one look at us and wheeled around to face us, and I’m here to tell ya.... I was scared spit-less. It was obvious that bunch was spoilin’ for a fight.

          Now, I’m a tough man.... a blacksmith, by trade.... and I’ve done me share of fightin’, especially back in me younger days when this was all frontier, with red-heathens skulkin’ about. But this here was different.

          We were simple militia, made up of townsfolk and farmers and such, not professional soldiers. In our minds, we were here more as a show of defiance than anything.

          A red coated officer on a white gelding demanded we lay down our arms and disband, but t’weren’t none of us havin’ any of that. Ain’t nobody layin’ hands on me gun but me.

          Cousin John, Cap’n of our militia, had earlier spoke boldly about “if’n they want a war then let it begin here”, but now.... facing a much larger force than we’d expected, he did the right thing. John give us the order to fall back slowly. We were to retire, but with our weapons, in hand.

          Suddenly, a shot was fired.... from where, I know not; but that surely opened the ball. The Grenadiers fired upon us, and I took out at a run for a low stone wall just behind us.

          Prince, Judge Estabrook’s man, was the first of our number to fall; a bullet in his breast. There were others, too. Several, in fact, lay dead or wounded on the common green. 

          The soldiers advanced, the morning sun now gleaming off fixed bayonets, and Cousin John gave the order to scatter, every man for himself. He and I took to the woods, as did most of the others.

          We found out later that the British sacked our town, ripping it apart in search of weapons and gunpowder that we’d secreted away the night before, thanks to Mr. Revere’s midnight warning.

          From Lexington, the soldiers marched on Concord, where they met more’n a thousand of our neighbors, all loaded for bear.

          In the noontime, we received word that the Reg’lars had taken a lickin’ at Concord and were now marchin’ for Boston-town; and that militia from neighboring towns were attacking all along their line of retreat.

          Not to be left out, we took off for the road between Lincoln and Lexington. There, John positioned us atop the Bluff, overlooking the Boston Road. As the column of Reg'lars come abreast our position, we opened up with our long rifles, droppin’ a red coated officer, as well as, several soldiers.

          They rallied, sending skirmishers to dislodge us from our positions, and we took off into the brush, only to set up further along the road to ambush ‘em again and again. It was hot, mean work, it was. From behind a rock or a tree or some such cover, you take a position and sight down the barrel at one of them red coated buggers, all jammed together, marchin' side-by-side, one right after the other, down the rock-walled lane. You take aim, slowly let out your breath, and squeeze the trigger. Past the gun smoke, you see the effect of your shot, and within half a minute, you've reloaded, ready to do it, again. All the time, takin' care not to get shot, ye'self.

       And that's how it went, all afternoon long. Take three or four shots, then hit the woods runnin', two jumps ahead of the skirmishers; makin' your way further along the road, to set up and do it all over again. I’m tellin’ you, friend, I shot that ol’ squirrel rifle of mine ‘til I was plumb sick of reloadin’ the dang thing.

       But then, they did come a askin' for it. They wanted a fight, so we give ‘em one.... all the way back to Boston-town.