Rise to Rebellion: A Novel of the American Revolution (Random House Large Print) - Hardcover

Shaara, Jeff

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 037543108X ISBN 13: 9780375431081

Publisher: Random House Large Print, 2001

Synopsis

The author of the New York Times bestsellers Gods and Generals and The Last Full Measure brilliantly re-images the American Revolution, and the men who helped to forge the destiny of a nation.

In 1770, the fuse of revolution is lit by a fateful command—"Fire!"—as England's peacekeeping mission ignites into the Boston Massacre. The senseless killing of civilians leads to a tumultuous trial in which lawyer John Adams must defend the very enemy who has assulted and abused the laws he holds sacred.

Yet a taut courtroom drama soon broadens into a stunning epic of war, as King George III leads a reckless and corrupt government in London toward the escalating abuse of his colonies. Outraged by the increasing loss of their liberties, and extraordinary gathering of America's most inspiring characters—Ben Franklin, Sam Adams, John Adams, George Washington, and others—confronts the British presence with the ideals that will change history.

More than a powerful portrait of the people and purpose of the revolution, RISE TO REBELLION is a visd account of history's most pivotal events. The Boston Tea Party, the battles of Concord and Bunker Hill are all recreated with the kind of breathtaking detail only a master like Jeff Shaara can muster. His most impressive achievement, RISE TO REBELLION reveals with new immediacy how philosophers became fighters, ideas their ammunition, and how a scattered group of colonies became the United States of America.

About this title

About the Author

Jeff Shaara is the author of Gone for Soldiers, and the New York Times bestsellers, Gods and Generals and The Last Full Measure— two novels that complete the Civil War trilogy that began with his father's Pulitzer Prize-winning classic The Killer Angels.

Reviews

Shaara re-creates the American Revolution, starting with the Boston Massacre.
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Rise to Rebellion

A Novel of the American RevolutionBy Jeff M. Shaara

Random House Large Print Publishing

Copyright © 2001 Jeff M. Shaara
All right reserved.
ISBN: 037543108X

Chapter One

THE SENTRY

March 5, 1770

He had been in Boston for nearly eighteen months, had come ashore with the restof His Majesty's Twenty-ninth Regiment after a miserable journey down fromHalifax. The troops had been summoned to the boats by their commander, GeneralThomas Gage, had been told only that they were going to the Massachusetts colonyto maintain the peace. Few had any idea how that peace might be threatened, andnearly all saw the journey as an escape from the lonely isolation of the king'smost northern port. When they finally marched out of the cramped warships, theymoved into a town where the people did not welcome them, did not provide homesor hospi- tality. Now, after nearly two years, the conflicts between thecitizens of Boston and the soldiers had become more than the unpleasantargument, the occasional barroom brawl. The discipline of the troops had begunto slip; men became frustrated by the hostility around them, the taunts andminor assaults, and when the officers were not close, many of the soldiers hadbegun to strike back. The citizens had responded to the anger of the troops withanger of their own, and gangs of young men armed with clubs and the occasionalsaber began to patrol the dark alleys outside the pubs and meeting places of thesoldiers. The fights were more numerous now and were sometimes bloody. While thelocal magistrates were quick to arrest and prosecute, both sides protected theirown, and no one had any illusion that the law could protect the innocent.Inspired by the newspapermen, who presented each incident in passionate detail,playing up the seething hostility, the citizens were more and more restless,fueling the growing anger toward the British troops. To many civilians, thismilitary occupation was oppressive, and even those most loyal to the policies ofLondon recognized that the presence of the troops was dangerous; with the rightspark, the minor disturbances could explode into a bloody disaster. His name wasHugh White, and he had served in the Twenty-ninth Regiment for nearly threeyears. He had little ambition, had no particular designs on promotion,considered the corporal above him to be a far better soldier. He rarely spoke tothe officers, was not a face or a name that anyone would ever single out. Buttoday, he had been singled out, given a job that most in his company woulddread. The duty was not for punishment of some indiscreet act. It was simply histurn. And so he stood guard in front of the Custom House, shivering against thesharp cold in a small wooden guardhouse, standing sentry to a place that wouldrarely attract attention.

He moved around as much as the cramped space would allow, touched the walls onthree sides of him, felt the rough cold wood. His fingers were numb, and heflexed them, then pushed one hand hard inside his coat. He glanced out beyondthe guardhouse and saw only a few citizens moving quickly through the cold,ignoring him. He cast a glance down toward his hidden hand bulging in his coat,flexed his fingers again, worried about being seen. He thought of the drill theweek before, the sergeant scolding the men to keep their decorum, maintain theirdignity, especially on guard duty. That meant hands by your side. He eased hishead outside the guardhouse, looked toward the door- way of the Custom House,saw no one, felt relief. Perhaps even that old sergeant would understand, hethought. It's just too cold. He put his other hand inside the rough wool, pulledhis arms up tight. He blew out a sharp breath, thinking that if he stood upstiff the way they told him to, his fingers would probably fall off.

The musket leaned up against the wall close beside him, a light glaze of froston the black steel. The guardhouse was really only a narrow box, not much largerthan an upright coffin. But it kept away the awful bite of the wind, the sharpcold that blew deep into your bones.

Early that morning, the assignment of guard duty had made him smile, and if theothers laughed and teased him, he had only thought of relieving the boredom ofthe barracks. Now he imagined what the others were doing, playing cards, theprofane talk. His father had warned him of the bad influences, and he couldstill see his mother's tear-stained face, watching as her boy marched away tojoin this army. She didn't want me to go, he thought. They expected me to workthat land, he thought, still expect me to just come home and be a farmer, likethem. They don't know anything else. He remembered the look on their faces whenhe had come home, the brief visit before the Twenty-ninth had boarded the greatship to sail west. He had stood tall, waited as his father moved around him,inspecting the uniform, even touching the dull red coat, could still see hismother's shock, her young boy now grown into this soldier. Their response haddisappointed him. They had not seemed as proud as he had expected, seemed moreworried instead, gave him more sharp scolding to keep himself clean, to avoidthe awful deadly temptations that only a parent fears. I wish they could see menow, he thought. This is important, guarding the Custom House.

He hadn't even been inside the building, but he knew the rumors. There wassupposed to be a huge vault filled with silver, the customs duties paid by theships as they brought their goods into the port from England or from the islandsfar to the south. He hoped it was true, had no reason to doubt the importance ofhis duty, was proud of his responsibility, guarding the king's currency. Ifthose chaps back in the barracks knew how much this post means to the king, theywouldn't laugh, they'd be out here, doing the duty. He glanced at the musket,then out again to the wide street, the hard-packed ice and snow, heard the stiffbreeze whistling through the cracks in the crude wooden walls of the guardhouse.He wanted to drift away, tried to imagine the scene: Private White, holding awaythe bandits with his bayonet, ordering the riffraff to move away, and his mindspoke out, the voice loud and firm, In the name of the king . . .

He shivered now, and the image would not stay. He wriggled his fingers again,glanced toward the street once more. The locals didn't much care for them, heknew. He wasn't educated in politics; few of the private soldiers were. They hadbeen surprised at the hostility from many of the citizens, and when they hadmarched away from the ships, they had been told that they would have to camp onBoston Common, since there were no open doors for them in private homes. Butcamping outdoors in tents could be deadly through the New England winter, andthe commanders had struggled frantically to find accommodations. Finally, thosein the town whom the officers called Tories and who did not seem so resentful ofthe troops began to open their doors, leasing buildings and warehouses, someeven renting out their own homes. Now two winters had passed, and the duty wasmostly monotonous, painfully boring. He had spent much of his time simplystanding at drill in the common, marching in formation, parading in line downthe side streets. He stamped his cold feet and wondered why so many of thesepeople hated the British so. All we do is march around.

Many of the soldiers had begun to seek part-time work in the town, some spendingtheir off-duty hours working jobs that would ease the boredom and provide alittle more cash than their low army pay. But there was resentment for that aswell, the citizens protesting that the troops were taking valuable jobs badlyneeded by the men of Boston. It was not long before the resentment turnedviolent. He had seen some of the fights, most inspired by strong drink, a suddenand accidental confrontation in an alley or outside a pub. But the violence hadcontinued to grow, the fights larger, and men on both sides had seemed toorganize just a bit, small gangs of citizens and troops, both looking for somesatisfaction, some way to relieve the constant hos- tility. He had seen the manwith the bloody wound, three nights ago, the first real wound he had ever seen.He thought of the man—John Rodgers, another young private—his skull splitopen. The anger in the barracks had brought the officers in, stern words,threats of punishment. But even the soldiers who had not been a part of thefights knew that there would be more violence.

He had endured the insults himself, knew better than to walk the streets alone,even off duty, out of uniform. He still didn't understand the anger. We're justkeeping the peace. He said the words again in his mind, the first orders he hadheard, even before they left the ship. Keep the peace.

He moved his legs, stepped in place, tried to relieve the numbness in his feet.He leaned out past the protection of the guardhouse, felt a stiff breeze on hisface, pulled back inside. It's pretty peaceful tonight. Too cold for theofficers, that's certain. They're all inside, probably eating their hot food. Hecould see the main guard building, and down the street the headquarters for HisMajesty's forces. He felt a rumble in his stomach, began to think of the supperthat waited for him back in the barracks. He could use a cup of tea right now.He tried to imagine the steam rolling up on his face, but the wind suddenly blewhard against the guardhouse, and now he could hear something else, voices,shouts. He leaned outside again, saw a group of men moving in the street,turning toward the Custom House. He watched them, counted maybe a dozen, thensaw more men coming around a corner a block down the street. He had been warnedabout the gangs, all the troops understanding that they were targets for thebands of rough young men. He shivered again, made two tight fists inside hiscoat, watched the men moving across the street, coming closer to the CustomHouse. Now the voices were clear, and he saw one man point at him, felt hisheart jump in his chest. They began to move straight toward the guardhouse,straight toward him. He pulled his hands from his coat, reached down, grippedthe musket, leaned it up on his shoulder. Make a good show, he thought. No onewill get past. They will not dare. He watched them move closer, realized theywere young, teens perhaps, saw one bend down, scooping up the snow, rolling anicy ball in his hands. There were more shouts, and suddenly the boy threw thesnowball at the guardhouse. White flinched, heard the dull smack against thewall, felt his heart pounding, said aloud, "Move along now. This is no place forplay."

The faces were all looking at him, and he expected to see smiles, theplayfulness of boys, but there was something new, unexpected, anger, and nowmore snowballs began to fly. The boys moved closer, their aim more true, and hefelt a splatter of snow against his chest. The laughter came, but they did notmove away, the fun was not over.

White stepped outside the cover of the guardhouse, felt his own anger rising,looked at the faces, the voices jeering, calling out to him. One boy suddenlylunged closer, and White watched his hands, expecting something, anothersnowball, but the boy said, "What kind of man are you? A filthy lobster-back!"

White tried to ignore the boy, glanced again at the door of the Custom House,saw the door open slightly, faces peering out, the door closing again. Whitebegan to move toward the steps at the doorway, but the boy jumped in front ofhim, close, reached out and grabbed at the uniform, began to shout, "Dirtylobster-back," and White swung the musket around, the butt striking the boy'sface. The boy fell backward, a sharp cry, and now there was silence from the mobas White stared at the boy. My God, stop this. He moved up the steps of theCustom House, close to the doorway, saw the young faces watching him, could seeout past the mob now, more men coming forward, older men, some in suits, stayingback, watching. He felt his hands shaking, tried to grip the musket, shouted,"Leave this place! Move away!"

The injured boy was crying, shrieking, "You dirty scoundrel! I'll see you dead!"

The voices began to answer, more curses, the boys moving closer again. Thesnowballs resumed, hitting the door of the Custom House, and suddenly somethingdark flew past his head, a thick piece of wood, making a sharp cracking soundagainst the wooden door behind him. He shouted again, "Back! Stay back!"

He could feel his hands shaking, the icy numbness giving way to a rising wave offear. The jeers from the mob were growing louder, and the officer's wordssuddenly came to him again: Keep the peace. He clamped the musket under one arm,his hands still shaking, reached inside the cartridge box at his waist. He feltthe stiff paper with his numb fingers, fought through the pounding in his chest,the training taking hold, the fear giving way to the deliberate motion. He toreat the tip of the paper cartridge, poured powder into the pan at the breech,clamped down the lock. He set the butt of the musket down on the step, slowlyslid the cartridge into the barrel of the musket, prodded it down the longbarrel with the ramrod. Now he pulled out the bayonet, slid it hard on thebarrel, a sharp twist, and lowered the barrel, pointed it out toward the crowd.His heart was racing, and he felt a surge of strength, the fear growing into rawexcitement. He expected to see the fear in their faces, the respect for thesoldier with the loaded musket, the great strength of the army, but the voiceswere louder still, and now another stick struck the door behind him. He couldsee more sticks, the crowd moving slowly forward, one voice shouting, "Shoot us!Go ahead, shoot us! You coward! Shoot us and be damned!"

He gripped the musket hard, still felt his hands trembling violently, the coldnow deep in his chest. He wanted to say something, anything, to move them away.At that moment, he saw a man moving up to one side, well dressed, a familiarface, and the man said, "Soldier, easy now. Do you mean to shoot?"

"I will fire . . . if they assault me!"

The man came up the steps, said, "Easy, young man. Take care. There need be nokilling here."

White glanced at the man's calm face. White nodded, felt a wave of relief, feltsuddenly protected, heard a second voice, that of an older man, say, "Move away!Don't molest this sentry! There is no fight here!"

The mob began to quiet, some of the boys backing away, the curses now slowing.He took a deep breath, thought, Yes, move away. Let this end. Thank God.

Then there was a new sound, from a church tower, the sudden tolling of a bellechoing through the streets. Another bell began, farther away. The faces beganto turn away, looking toward the sound, the fire bell. The voices began again,but the sounds were different. Far down the street, more men began to emerge,and he could hear shouting, one word flowing from place to place: "Fire!"

The sounds grew close, men suddenly moving out from a side street behind theCustom House, the word echoing all through the crowd, "Fire!"

Now the crowd pushed toward the Custom House, some moving toward him, somelining up on the street. In front of him, the crowd came to life again, thefaces turning toward him, and the curses rose once more: "Dirty scoundrel!Lobster-back!"

He felt the fear coming back, the icy grip in his chest. He could hear soundsabove him, men at the windows; he wanted to shout at them, but there were nowords. His face still watched the crowd, and now the sticks were raised again,the snow and ice striking the walls around him, a sharp stab suddenly in hischest, the heavy stick punching him. He looked out over the heads of the menclosest to him, could see the main guard building, fought the fear, suddenlyshouted, "Turn out the guard! Turn out the guard!"

The people nearest to him began to move up the short steps, one man reachingout, grabbing at the musket. White jerked the gun to one side, swept the tip ofthe bayonet back and forth, forcing the men back. One boy shouted close to him,"Shoot us, then!"

White pressed his back hard against the door, still waving the bayonet towardthe crowd, and said, "Damn you! I will shoot!"

At that instant, there were new sounds, and he turned, saw a line of redemerging through the crowd, saw the tips of bayonets. The man who led thesoldiers held a sword high, the coat brighter red, the man's chest crossed withbright yellow, the uniform of an officer, a familiar face. White said, "Sir!Captain Preston! Sir . . ."

He wanted to say more, to thank the officer, felt the sudden flood of relief.The crowd seemed to pull away, the mass of men and boys watching as the soldiersrepeated what White had done, loading their muskets. Preston moved up onto thesteps, said, "It's all right, Private. Fall in. Take position with the troops."

White stepped quickly toward the line of soldiers, saw eight men, all huge, thehandpicked elite, the grenadiers, all grim-faced. White moved among them, andthe soldiers turned in quick rhythm, muskets held waist high, pointing towardthe crowd. White stood between two of the men, felt their strength, their power.The fear was gone, the excitement filling him, and he thought, Now we will see.Now this mob will know.

He felt the snowball hit his stomach, and at once the sticks were flying again,the shouts coming as before. Behind the mob, more men were pressing forward,some still shouting, "Fire!"

Beyond, the bells still called to the town, the pealing growing louder, thesounds echoing, blending with the shouts of the mob. Captain Preston stepped outin front of the soldiers, glanced at White, then out at the crowd, said aloud,"We will march away from here! You will let us pass!"

There was a chorus of new voices, one man in front shouting, "Or you will shootus? Go ahead, then! And damn you to hell!"

Preston looked back at the soldiers, waved his hand toward the wall of theCustom House, said, "Form here. Flanks anchored against the wall!"

The men moved back, White following the flow. Those on each end of the linepositioned themselves close to the front wall of the Custom House, the othersfacing out in a short semicircle. Now Preston paced slowly in front of thetroops, said to the crowd, "You will disperse! In the name of King George, Iorder you to return to your homes!"

White stood behind Preston, heard muttered curses from the soldiers on eitherside of him, their own anger building. Preston turned, said in a low voice,"None of that! We will move these people away! Do your duty!"

The crowd began to surge forward again, hands began to reach for the muskets.Preston shouted again, "Disperse!"

There were answers now, many voices, snowballs, more sticks. White saw somethingflash in the crowd, the bright brass of a saber. Suddenly a man lunged forwardat the troops, grabbed one musket by the barrel, tried to pull it away from thesoldier, who wrestled with his attacker. Another man stepped close, struck outat a bayonet with a long stick, knocking the musket from the soldier's hands.More men surged forward, tried to grab the musket, the soldier now on theground, fists striking back. White fought the urge to help the soldier, held hismusket straight toward the crowd, watched the faces, heard the voices louderstill, the words flowing over the troops, the calls to fire, the screams of themob, men powered by anger, hostility boiling into raw hatred, the sounds of thebells bursting in his ears, and now White looked to the side, saw the fallensoldier on his knees, pushing a man back, picking up the musket, screamingsomething White did not understand, a raw animal sound, and there was a blindingflash as the musket fired. White felt his heart leap, saw a man in the crowd godown, heard something from Preston, words, one word, "No . . ."

Quickly there came more shots, the soldiers losing all control, the fear and theanger giving way. White felt the growing horror, but then the crowd was there,close in front, the screams and curses, the violence flowing over all of them.He saw someone holding a thick piece of wood, waving it over his head, the manstill moving forward, and White raised the musket to his shoulder, foughtthrough the roar of sound in his ears, the church bells, the muskets nowblasting smoke and fire on either side of him, the sounds of terror from thecrowd. He gripped the musket hard, held it tight to his shoulders, the fear inhis heart giving way to the madness now washing over them all. The man stalkedtoward him, brandishing the stick as some deadly club, shouting words, angryawful sounds. White watched him move close, and then the man stopped, stared atthe muzzle of the musket, seemed suddenly calm, looked at White's face, deepinto his eyes, and the sounds gave way to the man's words, soft through thechiming of the church bells. White could not hold back, the terror and the angertoo strong, and as he pulled the trigger, he heard the man say, "You cannot killus all. . . ."

Continues...

Excerpted from Rise to Rebellionby Jeff M. Shaara Copyright © 2001 by Jeff M. Shaara. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Random House Large Print
• Publication date: 2001
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 037543108X
• ISBN 13: 9780375431081
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 864