The Yankee Tea-party | Page 9

retreated from Concord, followed and did some execution with my firelock. But one of 'em shot me in the shoulder, and I couldn't point my gun any more. I waited till the enemy had got a considerable distance on the road towards Boston, and then managed to reach my house--but such a house as I found it! The windows were broken in, the doors torn off their hinges, and the furniture broken and thrown about in heaps. I called for my father and wife, but received no reply. I crawled up stairs, for I was nearly exhausted from loss of blood, and there I found my father and oldest child stretched on the floor dead. The old man had his gun still clenched in his hand, and he had, no doubt, done the enemy some damage with it. But his face was beaten in, and he had two or three bayonet stabs in his breast. The little boy had been shot through the head. I was a pretty tough-hearted man, but I fainted at the sight; and, when I came to myself, I found my wife and the youngest child bending over me crying. How they did hug and kiss me when they saw me revive! I think I did as much to them, for I never expected to see them alive. My wife told me that the old man would fire at the British as they were passing the house, and some of them stopped, broke open the doors, and knocked the things about. The old man and the little boy ran up stairs, while my wife and the other child ran from the house towards a neighbor's. As she ran away, she heard the muskets fired, but couldn't stop, as she thought the rascals were after her. She had returned as soon as she knew they were far on the road. I didn't grieve long; but sent her for the doctor at Lexington to dress my wound. Boys, boys, I've made many a red-coat pay for the lives of that old man and child. I hated them enough before, but that day's work made me all gall!" The memory of gratified revenge lighted up the old man's eyes as he spoke. He was a man of stern spirit, and no thought that such revenge was wrong ever crossed his mind.
"I can tell you folks of something more about that retreat from Concord," continued Davenport. "The story is generally known up around the country here, but some of you may not have heard it. It's about old Hezekiah Wyman, who gained the name of 'Death on the pale horse.'"
"I heard the story, and saw the old man on his white horse," remarked Kinnison; "but it will interest the young men, no doubt--so drive on."
[Illustration: HEZEKIAH WYMAN.]
"Well, you see," began Davenport, "the window of old Hezekiah Wyman's house looked out on the ground where the British shot our men at Lexington. The old man saw the whole affair, and it made him so savage that he vowed to revenge his countrymen if he fell in doing it.
"'Wife,' said he, 'is there not an old gun-barrel somewhere in the garret.'
"'I believe there was,' said she; 'but pray what do you want with it?'
"'I should like to see if it is fit for service,' replied he. 'If I am not mistaken, it is good enough to drill a hole through a rig'lar.'
"'Mercy on me, husband! are you going mad? An old man like you--sixty years last November--to talk of going to war! I should think you had seen enough of fighting the British already. There lies poor Captain Roe and his men bleeding on the grass before your eyes. What could you do with a gun?'
"The old man made no reply, but ascended the stairs, and soon returned with a rusty barrel in his hands. In spite of his wife's incessant din, he went to his shop, made a stock for it, and put it in complete order for use. He then saddled a strong white horse, and mounted him. He gave the steed the rein, and directed his course toward Concord. He met the British troops returning, and was not long in perceiving that there was a wasp's nest about their ears. He dashed so closely upon the flank of the enemy that his horse's neck was drenched with the spouting blood of the wounded soldiers. Then reining back his snorting steed to reload, he dealt a second death upon the ranks with his never-failing bullet. The tall, gaunt form of the assailant, his grey locks floating on the breeze, and the color of his steed, soon distinguished him from the other Americans, and the regulars gave him the name of 'Death on the pale horse.' A dozen bullets whizzed by