_Atlantic Monthly_, April, 1877.]

The bell and the drumbeat, the lights in Buckman's tavern and the
other houses, the minute-men in line by the meetinghouse, had
quickened the imagination of the excited Britishers.

"The country is alarmed. It is reported there are five hundred rebels
gathered to oppose me. I shall need reinforcements." Such was the
message of Colonel Smith to General Gage.

He directed Major Pitcairn to push on rapidly with six companies of
light infantry.

"Jonathan! Jonathan! Get up quick! The redcoats are coming and
something must be done!"[59]

[Footnote 59: There were two Jonathan Harringtons. The fifer to the
Lexington minute-men was sixteen years old. He died March 27, 1854,
the last survivor of the battle, and was buried with distinguished
honors. See _Hist. Lexington_.]

Abigail Harrington shouted it, bursting into her son Jonathan's
chamber. He had not heard the bell, nor the commotion in the street.
Jonathan was only sixteen years old, but was fifer for the minute-men.
In a twinkling he was dressed, and seizing his fife ran to join the
company forming in line by the meetinghouse; answering to their names,
as clerk Daniel Harrington called the roll.

John Hancock and Samuel Adams hear the drumbeat; Hancock seizes his
gun.

"This is no place for you; you must go to a place of safety," said
Reverend Mr. Clark.

"Never will I turn my back to the redcoats," said Hancock.

"The country will need your counsels. Others must meet the enemy face
to face," was the calm, wise reply of the patriotic minister.

Other friends expostulate; they cross the road and enter a thick wood
crowning the hill.

"Stand your ground. If war is to come, let it begin here. Don't fire
till you are fired upon," said Captain John Parker, walking along the
lines of his company.

The sun is just rising. Its level beams glint from the brightly
polished gun-barrels and bayonets of the light infantry of King
George, as the battalion under Major Pitcairn marches towards
Lexington meetinghouse. The trees above them have put forth their
tender leaves. The rising sun, the green foliage, the white
cross-belts, the shining buckles, the scarlet coats of the soldiers,
and the farmers standing in line, firmly grasping their muskets, make
up the picture of the morning.

Major Pitcairn, sitting in his saddle, beholds the line of minute-men,
rebels in arms against the sovereign, formed in line to dispute his
way. What r