79
ALARMS
l’oignon–INTELLIGENCER
A MARRIAGE IS ANNOUNCED. The NEW BERN INTELLIGENCER, founded by Jno. Robinson, has ceased publication with the removal of its founder to Great Britain, but we assure its Customers that this Newspaper shall not vanish altogether, as its Premises, Stock, and Subscription Lists have been acquired by the Proprietors of THE ONION, that esteemed, popular, and Preeminent Journal. The New Periodical, Much Improved and Expanded, will henceforth appear as the L’OIGNON–INTELLIGENCER, distributed upon a Weekly Basis, with Extra Editions as events demand, these provided at a modest cost of One Penny. . . .
To Mr. and Mrs. James Fraser, of the Ridge,
North Carolina, from Mr. and Mrs. Fergus Fraser,
Thorpe Street, New Bern
Dear Father and Mother Claire:
I write to acquaint you with the latest Change in our Fortunes. Mr. Robinson, who had owned the other Newspaper in the town, found himself removed to Great Britain. Literally removed, as some Persons unknown, disguised as Savages, invaded his Shop in the early Hours of the Morning, and pulled him from his Bed, hurrying him to the Harbor and there thrusting him aboard a Ship, clad only in his Nightclothes and Cap.
The Captain promptly cast off his Tethers and made Sail, leaving the Town in some Uproar, as you may imagine.
Within a Day of Mr. Robinson’s abrupt Departure, though, we were visited by two separate Parties (I cannot write their Names, being discreet as you will appreciate). One of these was a Member of the local Committee of Safety—which everyone knows was behind Mr. Robinson’s Removal, but no one says so. He was civil in his Speech, but his manner was not so much. He wished, he said, to assure himself that Fergus did not share the Willfully Wrongheaded Sentiments so oft expressed by Mr. Robinson, regarding recent Events and Particulars.
Fergus told him with a very straight face that he would not chuse to share so much as a Glass of Wine with Mr. Robinson (which he could not, Mr. Robinson being Methody and against Drink), and the Gentleman took this to mean what he wished, and went away satisfied, and gave Fergus a Purse of Money.
Next thing comes another Gentleman, fat and most Important in the Affairs of the Town, and a Member of the Royal Council, though I did not know it at the time. His Errand was the Same—or rather, the Opposite: he wished to inquire whether Fergus was inclined to acquire Mr. Robinson’s Assets, so to continue his work on behalf of the King—that being the printing of some Letters, and the Suppression of Others.
Fergus says to this Gentleman, most grave, that he has always found Much to admire in Mr. Robinson (chiefly his horse, which is gray and very amiable, and the curious Buckles on his Shoes), but adding that we have barely Means to buy Ink and Paper, and so he feared we must resign ourselves to the Acquisition of Mr. Robinson’s Shop by a Person of no great Sensitivity in Politickal Matters.
I was myself in Terror, a State not improved when the Gentleman uttered a Laugh and took a fat Purse from his Pocket, remarking that one must not “spoil the ship for a happeny’s worth of tar.” He seemed to think this most amusing, and laughed quite immoderate, then patted Henri-Christian on the Head and went away.
So our Prospects are at once enlarged and alarming. I am fair sleepless, thinking on the Future, but Fergus is so much Improved in Spirits that I cannot regret it.
Pray for us, as we pray for you always, my Dear Parents.
Your Obedient and Loving Daughter,
Marsali
“You taught him well,” I remarked, trying to keep my voice casual.
“Evidently so.” Jamie looked slightly worried, but much more amused. “Dinna fash yourself over it, Sassenach. Fergus has some skill at this game.”
“It is not a game,” I said, with enough vehemence that he looked at me in surprise.
“It’s not,” I repeated, a little more calmly.
He raised his brows at me, and pulling a small sheaf of papers from the mess on his desk, handed them across.
WEDNESDAY MORNING
NEAR 10 OF THE CLOCK—WATERTOWN
To all the friends of American liberty be it known that this morning before break of day, a brigade, consisting of about 1,000 to 1,200 men landed at Phip’s Farm at Cambridge and marched to Lexington, where they found a company of our colony militia in arms, upon whom they fired without any provocation and killed six men and wounded four others. By an express from Boston, we find another brigade are now upon their march from Boston supposed to be about 1,000. The Bearer, Israel Bissell, is charged to alarm the country quite to Connecticut and all persons are desired to furnish him with fresh horses as they may be needed. I have spoken with several persons who have seen the dead and wounded. Pray let the delegates from this colony to Connecticut see this.
J. Palmer, one of the Committee of Safety.
They know Col. Foster of Brookfield one of the Delegates.
Beneath this message was a list of signatures, though most were done in the same handwriting. The first read A true copy taken from the original per order of the Committee of Correspondence for Worcester—April 19, 1775. Attest. Nathan Baldwin, Town Clerk. All the others were preceded by similar statements.
“I will be damned,” I said. “It’s the Lexington Alarm.” I glanced up at Jamie, wide-eyed. “Where did you get it?”
“One of Colonel Ashe’s men brought it.” He shuffled to the end of the last sheet, pointing out John Ashe’s endorsement. “What is the Lexington Alarm?”
“That.” I looked at it with fascination. “After the battle at Lexington, General Palmer—he’s a general of militia—wrote this and sent it through the countryside by an express rider, to bear witness to what had happened; to notify the militias nearby that the war had started.
“Men along the way took copies of it, endorsed them to swear that they were true copies, and sent the message along to other townships and villages; there were probably hundreds of copies made at the time, and quite a few survived. Frank had one that someone gave him as a present. He kept it in a frame, in the front hall of our house in Boston.”
Then a quite extraordinary shudder went through me, as I realized that the familiar letter I was looking at had in fact been written only a week or two before—not two hundred years.
Jamie was looking a little pale, too.
“This—it’s what Brianna told me would happen,” he said, a tone of wonder in his voice. “Upon the nineteenth of April, a fight in Lexington—the start of the war.” He looked straight at me, and I saw that his eyes were dark, with a combination of awe and excitement.
“I did believe ye, Sassenach,” he said. “But . . .”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but sat down, reaching for his quill. With slow deliberation, he signed his name at the foot of the page.
“Ye’ll make me a fair copy, Sassenach?” he said. “I’ll send it on.”