Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch Read Online Free PDF

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Chapter 3
    Proctor hopped off the porch and crossed the little yard to rejoin the militiamen. As they resumed their march toward Lexington Green, he considered whether he needed to go back to repair his understanding with Emily. She was high-spirited—he loved that trait in her, though it meant she upset easily. Likely she'd be fine in a day or two, once the current commotion had passed and she saw that he was right.
    The conversation of the other men turned to the spring planting, and to Everett's trouble with one of his plow oxen, and from there to the milk trade with Boston. The air grew colder, and the men's breath frosted as they spoke. When the conversation came back around to the British, it shoved Proctor's thoughts from Emily to Pitcairn. The scrying confirmed his earlier sense: the gold medallion was definitely some kind of protective charm. He didn't know how it worked or what it meant, but the rest of his vision was clear enough: the Redcoats would march back to Boston.
    They passed the Lexington burying ground, with its grave markers thrust up from the darkness like tripstones. The four men fell into a natural silence. Cattle lowed uneasily in the common pen as they came to the green.
    Lexington Green was a triangle where two roads combined to go into Boston. They passed the school house at the wide end of the triangle and crossed the open grass toward the meeting house that sat at the point. A few small groups of militiamen moved like shadows across the green.Maybe a dozen others, their faces lit by lanterns, were gathered around a cask of ale outside one of the houses that faced the green.
    “Don't look like they're ready for the Redcoats,” Munroe muttered. “If the Redcoats are truly coming.”
    “Don't look like there's more'n fifty men here total,” Everett said.
    “And that's with a thousand Redcoats marching from Boston,” Arthur said. “How will we fight 'em?”
    “There won't be any fighting—” Proctor started to say, but he was interrupted by a ragged volley of musket fire east of the green. He fumbled for his powder horn.
    Old Munroe laughed at him, planted the butt-end of his weapon in the ground and leaned on it. “I think that's them as made up their minds to enter Buckman's tavern.”
    That's when Proctor heard casual whoops and laughter from the same direction. But of course—you couldn't carry a loaded weapon into a tavern. He relaxed, laughing at himself.
    “We could go to the tavern,” Arthur suggested hopefully, and his uncle glared at him.
    “That'll be the best place to find Cap'n Parker,” Munroe said. “He uses it as his headquarters when the militia drills.”
    They walked toward the tavern, passing the big oak tree and the bell tower. As they did so, a man came out of the tavern and crossed the road toward the green. Proctor would've walked past him in the moonlight, but Monroe stopped and lifted his chin in greeting.
    “Good evening to you, Cap'n. We were just coming in search of you.”
    Parker stopped. He was a tall man in his mid-forties with a large head and high brow. He coughed into his fist, sick with consumption—his eyes and his cheeks were sunken from it, dark shadows even at night. “Good evening, Robert. Who're your friends?”
    “These are the Simeses, cousins from up by Lincoln,” Munroe answered. “And this is Brown. We picked him up on the road in.”
    “We're grateful for your hike, but it doesn't 'pear as though we'll see any Redcoats to night after all,” Parker told them. “I was just giving men permission to disperse to their homes, though a few decided to go into the tavern to warm themselves first.”
    Everett sighed loudly. “But if I go home now, I'll have to plow, and my ox isn't fit for it.”
    Parker chuckled and excused himself to take the same message over to the men gathered around the keg of ale. Arthur yawned and stared down the road toward Boston. “Guess we wasted our time.”
    “Not Proctor,” Munroe said. “At