Harrington and Monroe, whom I had met in Boston at the "Wild Goose," waved their arms to us, and called out that it was doubtless true.
"Which way?" cried Foxcroft, standing up in his stirrups.
But the militia and Minute Men ran out without answering, and joined the line which was slowly forming on the green, while the old Louisburg drum rolled, vibrating sonorously, and the fife's shrill treble pierced the air.
There was a uniformed officer in front of the ragged line, shouting orders, gesticulating, pushing men into place; some sidled nearer to their comrades as though for shelter, many craned their necks like alarmed turkeys, a few huddled into groups, charging and priming their pieces—some threescore yokels in all, though others were running from the houses and joining the single rank, adding to the disorder and confusion. And all the while the old Louisburg drum thundered the assembly.
"Cardigan, which way are they coming?" cried Foxcroft, still standing up in his stirrups. "They say there are redcoats behind us and more in front of us!"
"Do those ragged rascals mean to face a British army?" exclaimed Mount, reining in his horse, which had begun to rear at the noise of the drum.
"Turn your horses, Jack!" I said, holding Warlock by the head; "turn back towards Concord!"
"There's redcoats on the Concord Road!" cried a woman, running out of a house close by. I saw her hurry across to the village green, carrying a sack of home-moulded bullets.
Jonathan Harrington caught her arm, took the bullet-pouch, kissed her; then she hastened back to the little house and stood at the window, peering out with white face pressed to the dark glass.
I flung myself astride Warlock, wheeled the restless horse, and ranged up alongside Mount.