was brave, resolute,
kind-hearted. His men loved him because he demanded strict obedience.
They had stopped long enough at his home for his young wife to powder
their hair, that they might appear neat and trim like gentlemen when
meeting the British. They were thirty-five, all told. Keeping step to
Luther Blanchard's fifing of the White Cockade, and Francis Barker's
drumming, they marched past the men from Concord and formed on their
left.

[Illustration: THE WHITE COCKADE.]

[Illustration: WRIGHT'S TAVERN]

"Order arms!" They rested their muskets on the ground and wiped the
perspiration from their foreheads.

Men from Westford, Lincoln, and Carlisle are arriving. They are four
hundred now. The officers stand apart, talking in low tones. The
redcoats had crossed the bridge to the western bank.

"Let us drive the redcoats across the river," said Captain Smith.

"I haven't a man that is afraid," said Captain Davis.

He was heavy-hearted in the early morning when he kissed the young
wife and took the baby from the cradle in his arms, but is resolute
now.

"Attention, battalion! Trail arms! Left in front! March!" Luther
Blanchard pipes the tune, and the battalion--the men of Acton
leading--descends the hill.

The redcoats had recrossed the river and were taking up the planks of
the bridge. A moment later muskets flash beneath the elms, and maples
along the farthest bank and there is a whistling of bullets in the
air. Roger's heart is in his throat, but he gulps it down. Another
volley, and Captain Davis, Abner Hosmer, and Luther Blanchard reel to
the ground. Never again will Hannah receive a parting kiss, or the
father caress the baby crooning in the cradle.[61]

[Footnote 61: "The fire soon began from a dropping shot on our side,
when they and the front company fired almost at the same instant."
"Diary of a British Officer," _Atlantic Monthly_, April, 1877.]

"Fire! For God's sake, fire!" shouts Major Buttrick. Roger cocks his
gun, takes aim at the line of scarlet beneath the trees and pulls the
trigger. Through the smoke he sees men throw up their arms and tumble
to the ground. The scarlet line dissolves, the soldiers fleeing in
confusion. No longer is Roger's heart in his throat. His nerves are
iron and the hot blood is coursing through his veins. King George has
begun the war; no longer is he his subject, but a rebel, never more to
owe him allegiance.

* * * * *

The for