Independence's Ride

I’ve never liked the British. They think they can control you with a couple lobster-backs with guns. Marching off ships in perfect unison, shouting, “Long live the King!”and “Give yourselves up to Great Britain!” If you're going to march of ships shouting those things, you might as well have a peace treaty in your back pocket.
It was 1773, I was ten years old at the time, and I was just coming back from the local market. It was night, the blackness thick and dark like a squid’s ink. All the flowers and trees had gone to bed, leaving more ominous, menacing things to take their place in the darkness. The brisk, cold wind whipped at my clothes, finding the loose spots in my shawl and freezing my skin underneath. The lighted street lamps flickered in the wind, the lighted flame inside gently dancing about in the breeze. Taking fast steps, I neared the docks. My family lived in two rooms bay front in Boston, Massachusetts, and we were quite proud of it.
I was one block away from my front door, when I heard men’s screams and hollers from the alleyway next to me. Ducking behind a bush in front of a printing press building, I peeked out from between the leaves. Men streamed onto three ships, British ships, docked peacefully in the harbor. To my shock and despair, they started to throw crates off the decks into the waters below. I didn’t know it at the time but I just had a front row seat to the Boston Tea Party.
In 1773, three years after the Boston Massacre, things between the colonists and Great Britain were starting to heat up. My family hated the British, because my father was killed in that bloody tragedy, slain by a swift musket ball fired from the British’s guns. When the colonists started to throw the tea crates into the bay, a new feeling surged inside of me. Need. I needed independence.



Present Day, 1775
Closing the house’s door, I took a bite of my dinner, bread. Walking out under the moon was great, the breeze blowing lightly against my skin. It was a wonderful night for late April, April 18 to be exact. I remembered my city life in Boston, before we moved to Lexington, which is northwest of Massachusetts, last summer. Boston now isn’t so peaceful, redcoats patrol the streets, and there’s a curfew for how long you’re allowed to be on the streets. Unless it is certified by the British, usually ships can’t even dock at the harbor.
Walking behind our small house, I climbed over the fence. I let the grass brush my ankles, and I made my way to the post were my horse was tied. When I moved to Lexington, I started to work at Buckman Tavern to earn some good money. I would walk in at three every day, and nearly choke. Clark, the big, smelly man that pours the drinks and cooks the food never bothers to take a shower. After I run outside and grab some water, I wash the tables and straighten the chairs. The tavern opens at six, and all the tired, angry men that are back from their daily riots and jokes on the British. I would take their orders, then take the food Clark cooked, place it on the shabby wooden tables and pour drinks.
The money had added up, so I decided to get my very own horse. His name was Independence, and he was a midnight black. Hopping onto his back, I urged him forward. The redcoats had occupied Boston, but I hadn’t heard of them occupying Lexington. So when I heard the hoarse shouts of men, screaming, “The British are coming, the British are coming!” my heart matched the pace of Independence's beating hooves. In the distance, I saw two horses resting at the side of the dusty path. Fear flashed through my system, but I stood my ground and rode up to the two.
“W-Who are you? What is your business here in Lexington?” I stammered.
The two must have thought I was a lobster back for a second, because they whirled around to face me.
“It’s just a little girl. Thank goodness!” the plumper one of the gentlemen said.
“Sorry miss, but we were the ones shouting,” I relaxed a little.
“Your names?” I inquired.
“Paul Revere, and William Dawes,” Paul replied, gesturing to the plump man beside him.
“My name is Eliza. With all do respect, what on earth are you doing at here at this hour, riding around and screaming like mad-men?” I asked, narrowing my eyes slightly.
Then, a pounding of hooves interrupted the interrogation.
“The British! Come with us miss, for if the redcoats catch you...or us, we’re dead meat!” Dawes exclaimed.
“What are we waiting for?” I asked, getting Independence fired up by rearing him in the air. Mr. Revere and Dawes saddled up, and we took off into the night.
I had never imagined that I would be chased at midnight by British officers. We were galloping, almost frantically, down the long, windy path that lead to Buckman Tavern that lay on the road to Concord. Breathing in the air crisp air, I coughed as it burned my lungs. The now chilly air had begun to take affect on me, a chill rattling through my bones and encompassing me like an uncomfortable blanket. As the yellow building rose over the horizon into view, I sighed in relief. Pulling up to the front door, I tied my horse to the post. A man in the distance, faintly outlined in the dark by two glowing lamps was waving to Mr. Revere and Dawes.
“Well miss, I suppose this is where our ride ends, I see Dr. Prescott in the distance. The local militia is ready to meet the British troops,” Paul Revere said, nodding his head and tipping his hat. I nodded in agreement. I suddenly understood their objective. To get the town ready for the British occupation. It was a revolution against the Crown.
“Stay safe sirs, and good luck!” I replied, curtsying.
I waved a goodbye to Mr. Dawes and Revere, watching their silhouettes fade in the distance. I took a back way home, around the Tavern and through the fields. When I got to my house, I flopped exhausted, in my bed. The events of the night swirled in my head, and I shut my eyes.

I woke the next morning by the sharp pop of a shot. Yells and screams echoed outside my window. I was still in my riding pants from the night before, so I strapped on my shoes and sprinting downstairs and out the door. My family already had beaten me to the porch, where they stood, baffled. A dark cloud of gray gunpowder lifted lazily through the air, unlike the Minutemen who were scrambling about. The dizzying feeling of fear and distress flooded through me, making my heart take up a tremendous pace as I watched the battle rage on, the militia trying to defend the Lexington Green from the British regulars.
I don’t know how long I stood there, watching the final scrabble before a long, hard war. Maybe it was five, ten, fifteen minutes. Once the gunpowder cleared and the militia stood victorious, I knew the single shot that rang out early that morning was the shot heard ‘round the world. And I, Eliza, was one of the first ones to hear it.