“Yes,” said Jonas; “I know a little about it.  I lived near Lexington.  My house stood on the road.  I joined the minute-men when I heard of the comin’ of the British troops, and left my wife and two children home, under the care of my father, then about sixty.  I told ’em to keep as quiet as possible and they would be safe.  Well, as I said, I joined the minute-men, and, when the rascals retreated from Concord, followed and did some execution with my firelock.  But one of ’em shot me in the shoulder, and I couldn’t point my gun any more.  I waited till the enemy had got a considerable distance on the road towards Boston, and then managed to reach my house—­but such a house as I found it!  The windows were broken in, the doors torn off their hinges, and the furniture broken and thrown about in heaps.  I called for my father and wife, but received no reply.  I crawled up stairs, for I was nearly exhausted from loss of blood, and there I found my father and oldest child stretched on the floor dead.  The old man had his gun still clenched in his hand, and he had, no doubt, done the enemy some damage with it.  But his face was beaten in, and he had two or three bayonet stabs in his breast.  The little boy had been shot through the head.  I was a pretty tough-hearted man, but I fainted at the sight; and, when I came to myself, I found my wife and the youngest child bending over me crying.  How they did hug and kiss me when they saw me revive!  I think I did as much to them, for I never expected to see them alive.  My wife told me that the old man would fire at the British as they were passing the house, and some of them stopped, broke open the doors, and knocked the things about.  The old man and the little boy ran up stairs, while my wife and the other child ran from the house towards a neighbor’s.  As she ran away, she heard the muskets fired, but couldn’t stop, as she thought the rascals were after her.  She had returned as soon as she knew they were far on the road.  I didn’t grieve long; but sent her for the doctor at Lexington to dress my wound.  Boys, boys, I’ve made many a red-coat pay for the lives of that old man and child.  I hated them enough before, but that day’s work made me all gall!” The memory of gratified revenge lighted up the old man’s eyes as he spoke.  He was a man of stern spirit, and no thought that such revenge was wrong ever crossed his mind.

“I can tell you folks of something more about that retreat from Concord,” continued Davenport.  “The story is generally known up around the country here, but some of you may not have heard it.  It’s about old Hezekiah Wyman, who gained the name of ‘Death on the pale horse.’”

“I heard the story, and saw the old man on his white horse,” remarked Kinnison; “but it will interest the young men, no doubt—­so drive on.”

[Illustration:  Hezekiah Wyman.]

“Well, you see,” began Davenport, “the window of old Hezekiah Wyman’s house looked out on the ground where the British shot our men at Lexington.  The old man saw the whole affair, and it made him so savage that he vowed to revenge his countrymen if he fell in doing it.