Standing before a collection of men who were his neighbors and friends, Captain John Parker was at a loss for words. He found himself unable to muster up a pat response, or find a witty saying that could ease the apprehension that he shared with men he had gathered together in defiance of the orders issued by officers of the King. In time, he knew he would have yield to the regulars now assembled before him. But he was determined to do so only at the last possible moment, and only after making it clear that they were simply giving ground, and not the principles which had compelled them to make this stand.

Behind Parker, Ned Smith waited with growing concern. Though he could feel the shoulders of his companions on either side rub his as they shuffled about nervously, the young farmer felt very much alone. Absentmindedly, he fingered his weapon’s lock as he watched, waited, and prayed.

Ned was no stranger to this piece. He had used it to slay many a squirrel, and, when the occasion presented itself, a rabbit. These little forays beyond the neatly plowed fields of his family farm had been, for him, an enjoyable break to the monotony of daily chores that made those who farmed here as hardy and tough as the land they tended. Whether he sallied out on his own or in the company of friends, the excitement of hunting his prey, and putting his skills to a test, never failed to bring joy to what would have been an otherwise drab and uneventful existence. Perhaps that was why he answered the call by the local militia captain. The militia company was, for Ned, an adventure, a chance to shed the last vestiges of his childhood and stand with the men of his community, for the first time, as an equal.

While such whimsical goals had sufficed to get him into the ranks then, Ned was quickly becoming aware that it would take more than that to keep him rooted to this spot as he watched as untold numbers of tall grenadiers marshaled before him. This was no longer a game that was being played out by radical politicians. It was no longer a pleasant diversion from the drudgery of farming the rocky plot of earth his father had willed to him. This was a serious matter. These were soldiers of the King, the finest musketeers in the world. Everything from the bayonets that caught the glint of the early morning sunlight to the cold, hard expressions worn by the soldiers who made up the long red ranks told young Ned Smith that trouble was but a hair’s breadth away.

On either side of him stood his fellow militiamen, men who had been encouraged by their community leaders, families, and peers to stand up for what they had been told were their rights. Now, like Ned, they stood there in silence, arranged in what passed for a line of battle. Each and every one of them watched the swift, precise movements of professional soldiers arrayed before them. Everything about the English, from the ominous sight of their unsheathed bayonets, to the solid ranks that seemed to stretch across the green and beyond, made Ned and his companions painfully conscious of their own vulnerability. “They’re like a machine,” the youth muttered to no one in particular. “They’ll sweep us aside like so many cinders.”