The Immortal American (The Immortal American Series) (40 page)

“No. I’m staying close to you.”

“Damn it, Violet, please.” Mathew looked warmly at me, but then on a sigh said, “Our children will probably give me white hair by the time I’m thirty with your genes in them.”

And that was what broke me. Tears streamed down my face, feeling cold and shocking me, but down they came. God, how I wanted children with him.

He wiped at my tears then kissed my cheeks. “All right, all right, dear wife, come with me. Just . . . don’t get shot.”

I already had, but he didn’t need to worry about that just yet. So I nodded and smiled. It wouldn’t matter if I was shot or not. It just mattered that he not get hurt.

Jacque was right, the Regulars were making their way out of Lexington a few minutes later. Mathew’s pocket watch read it was four in the afternoon, and as soon as the field piece was made incapable of firing, the militia began their attack. There were more than twice as many redcoats now. Flanking the long red line were fresh troops, eagerly searching the woods for something to fire at.

I paralleled Mathew at all times, and now Sam was stationed next to me. Mathew’s platoon was beginning to get very good at finding the perfect covering and firing upon the Regulars, then racing away without injury. The Regulars were a walking red target. They did not fare as well.

Within a half hour the Regulars and Provincial militias all approached the small village of Menotomy. I noticed that the fresh Regular troops were getting very good at firing into the woods, and the Provincials were beginning to get arrogant—not a good combination. I could understand the Provincials’ cockiness. Throughout the last few hours the other town’s militia’s kept pouring in men. Sam had told me that Colonel Barrett, who was no longer the commanding officer, had thought that at least four-thousand militia, minutemen, and other Massachusetts men who wanted to join the fight crouched in the woods, firing on the redcoats. Four-thousand.

Perhaps because there were so many militia, not soldiers who had been trained into obedience, all hell broke loose as the redcoats entered Menotomy.

“Shit,” Sam offered as we watched several militiamen get shot as they approached the redcoats. Some militiamen were hiding behind houses, and if they were found by the Regulars, the redcoats shot the men and barged into the house that the militia soldiers were hiding behind, firing off more shots in the house. The cacophony of hundreds of shots being fired made my ears feel like they might be bleeding from the inside, then men emerged from the copse and fought in the open.

“Go,” Sam yelled at me and shoved me away from him. He pointed with his eyes away from the village, away from the turmoil.

The militia was chasing after the Regulars—both armies running into the town of Menotomy, firing their muskets, and I noticed that the skirmish was transforming into something even more brutal—hand-to-hand combat.

“Go!” Sam yelled again.

I shook my head, watching the world blaze on fire, but let him shove me away. Then, he turned and ran for the village. Orange flames licked a barn close-by and burned my brain. I hadn’t thought this would happen. We were supposed to just snipe at the Regulars, make them sorry for what they had done in Lexington and the North Bridge, then when we ran them back to Boston, we’d all have a good laugh at the Regulars expense. No. No. This was not supposed to happen.

Mathew.

Like an earthquake rupturing my senses, I had to find him. I had to find Mathew.

He was my everything.

I packed a bullet into my rifle and began running, my eyes searching for the bright red orange of Cherry. I raced into the outer skirts of the fighting. Men were wrestling, hitting and punching with their muskets, or bayonet for the redcoats, or using knives or their own fists. Not the whole lot of the militia joined in the face-to-face fighting, and I’d wager that most of the militia were still burrowed in the woods, but it was enough to look like complete chaos. Where was Mathew? He was right beside me when some of the militiamen ran into Menotomy, then Sam had yelled at me, and when I looked again Mathew was gone. He had to be in here, somewhere.

I saw a redcoat on his belly who was gripping at the grass. He was coating the lush green lawn with his red blood. His shoulder was gaping, and then I noticed his red coat was mushrooming darker at the center of his back. He looked up at me, blinking, and oddly smiled.

“An angel . . .” Then his head heavily fell against the ground.

I pivoted and looked for Cherry. I saw many horses, but none as bright a red as Mathew’s sorrel. I got into an altercation with a redcoat, who punched my ear, then upon seeing my face said, “Oh, pardon me, miss.”

I broke his nose with the butt of my rifle and ran away from him.

My ear throbbed, and when I checked it was bleeding. I heard the beating of my heart better. It was a loud infernal noise, amplifying the picture before me of fighting men, vicious fists, wicked sharp edged knives, wounded flesh, and so much blood. From my periphery I caught sight of a bright red orange. Cherry!

He was without his owner.

I ran to the horse, grabbed the reins, and looked into the gelding’s eyes, as if I could find where Mathew was from those dark brown, tormented orbs. Cherry had a fingerbreadth gash on his right shoulder, but otherwise appeared to be fine. I thought for a moment that I should race Cherry out to safety, but my need to find Mathew was too great. I wrapped the reins around Cherry’s neck and smacked him on his rump to release him from me. He burst into a fast gait. Then, as if worried, he halted, turned just his head to look at me, but decided against being my hero, and ran for the hills. Something I had promised I would do, but knew even at the time I couldn’t fulfill.

I swallowed and quickly perused the Provincial men that lay on the green grass of the Common. Mathew had been wearing white breeches, the same breeches he wore loosely when we’d heard the bell chime in the very early morning and give its warning that the Regulars were coming out. He’d made love to me against the counter afterward, his breeches pushed down past his hips.

I searched for white breeches with black riding boots, and a fine blue overcoat—wait! He’d taken off his overcoat in the warmth of the afternoon. He was just wearing his linen white shirt and a royal blue waistcoat. He hadn’t had time for stiff collars or any such affair. He’d worn mostly white save for the vest and overcoat.

No one on the ground matched his description, which for a breath, I let relief consume me.

Then, I was bumped into by a man, a man wearing scarlet. He turned toward me, distracted, I think, by my female face and for a moment we almost smiled at each other. It was Captain Parsons, of all people. He took in my face, my clothing, and finally my rifle.

He cocked his head to the side and frowned. “But you were so funny,” he said to me as if I had betrayed him in a most conniving way.

“And I’m not now?”

He actually snorted a chuckle. He looked utterly frazzled and spent, but then he bowed to me. I curtsied, as we both began to laugh. He took my hand in his, and kissed it. “It truly has been a pleasure, but I must bid you adieu.”

I curtsied again, and smiled. “Adieu, Captain.”

“Ah, there’s my horse.” And with that he found a gray mare and launched himself on the horse’s saddle. “I hope to see you again, brave little colonist. Perhaps without such a big gun though.”

“I, too, hope you never have to see me with my rifle again,” I said and arched my brow.

Captain Parsons touched the brim of his hat, that was intact, and galloped his horse to the east. The redcoats that were closest to the east side of the Common ran for the highway too. And I searched for a pair of white breeches and wide shoulders with blond hair. I looked mainly to the ground, but didn’t rule out that Mathew could be standing. Please, please, let him still be standing.

Small fights occurred around me, but most of the Regulars were trying to make for the highway. There were so many men laying, crawling, crying on the ground. Some just stood as they looked ‘round completely shocked.

I saw William, one of the boys in Mr. Whitely’s brick, crying. He stood over a young boy, not much older than him, it appeared, wearing the dreaded red uniform. William was mouthing over and over the words, “I’m sorry.” The boy on the ground did not have half his face.

I caught sight of Sam who smiled and waved at me, then shooed me away with one of his hands as Mr. Whitely looked upon me too. Mr. Whitely did not look friendly, so I avoided eye contact with him.

Then, I saw him, my beautiful husband. I saw him standing and shaking hands with another Concord man. They were smiling at each other like boys who had just managed to break a beaver’s dam—so proud of themselves. Then three Regulars came running past Mathew. One extended his arm in the direction of my husband. He had a pistol in his hand.

I dropped to one knee, while I placed the rifle sternly against my shoulder, took aim, and held my breath. Just before I shot, another gun fired. I shot too, and the redcoat with the pistol spun with the impact of the first bullet, then my shot made him levitate for a moment. The pistol took wings and soared far from the man, and his two comrades ran even faster away as the soldier suddenly let gravity take its hold and shove him dead to the ground.

Mathew looked at the redcoat then back at George, the man whom he had been shaking hands with. Mathew concernedly bent to make sure the Regular soldier was dead. My husband held his hand above the man’s nose, but after a few beats, straightened and nodded to George. Next they both looked in my direction.

“I told you to get away from the battle if hand-to-hand combat commenced,” were the first words out Mathew’s mouth. I didn’t care if he was reprimanding me. I began to smile and cry, and stood on shaking legs that let me run to him, and when finally embracing him, gave way.

He held me so my feet swayed from under me, and I released my rifle just before I held him about his neck as tight as I could without suffocating him.

“You were supposed to run for the hills. You promised me,” he whispered in my ear.

“I cannot lose you,” was my only defense, which made him hold me that much more.

There was still occasional gun fire as the redcoats made their retreat. They were running, and some of the militia were already making their way back into the woods to further escort the Regulars all the way back to Boston. The face-to-face fighting had ceased in Menotomy, and the lawn of the Common was littered with both dead and alive bodies, both Regulars and militia.

Mathew lowered me back to my feet. He held onto my waist as he looked down at me with a huge smile.

“What am I going to do with you?”

I shrugged and grinned back. “I think you’ll have to love me for the rest of your life.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ah, what a sentence. What cruel justice.”

I giggled. “I think ‘tis fair. After all, I’m going to love you for the rest of
my
life.”

His smile diminished slightly, and he cocked his head to the side. “You really do love me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do—”

And then Mathew convulsed, as if he’d been hit far too hard in the back, and grimaced.

Clutching at my waist to stay up, he fell on me nonetheless. I tried to hold onto him, wondering what happened. I leaned against his body, keeping him on his legs, abruptly aware of his weight, all his weight on me.

“Mathew,” I whispered in deep fright, finally realizing he’d been shot.

I heard a primal scream behind me and many shots were fired. The scream sounded again, and a few more discharges were heard, but then I only heard Mathew’s struggling breath and my incessant heart beating. Intensely I listened for his heart. But the beating was too rushed, too erratic, and I hoped to God that I was just hearing men’s hurried feet, racing to us for assistance.

I braced my legs more into the ground, and looked up into my surprised husband’s face. He coughed and spurted blood in a red cloud around me.

“
No, no, no, no
.” I shook my head and in one last effort, grabbed him about his waist, to hold him up, but he crumpled down, and I went with him. We both landed on our knees, me holding him upright by my failing legs.

Mathew made choking noises and gurgled blood, as I kept forcing him upright.

“Please, no . . .” I begged. I begged of God. I begged of my husband. I begged of this universe to please, please take the bullet back.
Please.

Mathew’s head fell on my shoulder, and I reached for his cheek, turning him to look at me. His beautiful sky blue eyes glistened.

“Wife . . .” He croaked.

“Mathew . . . my husband . . . my husband. Don’t leave me. Please.”

Blood lined his lips and he tried to smile for me.

I maneuvered my body and sat with Mathew sprawled on my lap, his fading face gazing ever more peacefully at me. I hiccupped for breath and sobbed as he reached for my cheek.

“I love you so much. You cannot do this to me. Don’t leave me. I have nothing without you.”