The Shot Heard Round the World

July 4, 1776.  December 7, 1941.  September 11, 2001.  These are dates that are so ingrained in the minds of Americans that the date alone has become a symbol.

Yet, despite its importance, April 19, 1775 has never become one of those days.  It should have, because without this date, those other dates wouldn’t be important, and the events they represent would never have happened.

Today, 241 years ago, the first shots were fired – those heard “round the world” – that began America’s quest for independence from Great Britain.  A small band of citizen soldiers defied the will of George III’s vaunted legions.  Of all the stories that day, there is one that has always stood out in my mind, because it is so representative of the spirit of America.  Those in Massachusetts know it best, but those outside may not have heard it before.

It’s the story of Samuel Whittemore.

Whittemore was born on July 27, 1696 in Charlestown, Massachusetts. He was the son of another Samuel Whittemore, a farmer.  Like most of the early inhabitants of Massachusetts, he followed in his father’s footsteps and farmed the land, too.  In those days, with no police force and no standing army, every citizen was expected to serve and help defend their colony and their communities, and Whittemore did this on multiple occasions during his life.  He first served as a private in King George’s War in the 1740s, and later in the Seven Year’s War, which we refer to as the French and Indian war in the United States, in the 1750-60s.

Records are sparse, but later in life, Whittemore was referred to as a “Captain of Dragoons,” although it is unclear whether he ever served as anything more than a private.  Regardless, he spent many a year toiling as a soldier during the prime of his life, before settling down to farm and raise a family.

By the time the colonies began chafing under the bit of Parliament’s taxation and regulatory schemes, Whittemore was already on old man.  He lived in Menotomy (what is now Arlington), Massachusetts, married twice and had eight children.

Late on the evening of April 18th, 1775, British forces mustered in Boston, 700 strong, preparing to capture and destroy colonial military supplies they believed were being stored by the Massachusetts militia at Concord.  After assembling, around 2 AM on the morning of April 19th, they began their march to Concord.

By sunrise on the 19th, British Forces under the command of Major John Pitcairn reached Lexington, where they were met with a smattering of Massachusetts militia and an almost equal or larger number of spectators.

The regulars and the militia clashed, and left eight colonial dead, ten wounded.  The regulars were almost unscathed, with one wounded.

They proceeded on to Concord where they met much stiffer resistance.  The Colonials were able to muster more men than the British, and thanks to good leadership and some luck, defeated them.

The routed British began streaming back from Concord to Boston.  On the way back, burning and looting as they went, the Lobsterbacks had to pass again through Menotomy, and that’s where Samuel Whittemore was waiting for them.

At 79 years of age, Whittemore wasn’t the most obvious choice for a hero of the day.  Yet what he didn’t have in youth, he made up for in spirit and sheer guts.

Lying in ambush behind a stone wall, Whittemore attacked the fleeing British as they approached where he was concealed.  Standing tall, he fired his musket, felling one British soldier.  Drawing two pistols, he fired at two more, killing one and fatally wounding another.

One man against a demoralized, undisciplined and angry enemy, he didn’t stand a chance.  One British soldier returned fire, hitting Whittemore in the cheek and tearing away part of his face, knocking him to the ground.  Another British soldier hit him in the head with his musket butt, and others soon joined in, bayonetting him thirteen times.

Shot in the head, clubbed and stabbed, he lay bleeding out on the ground – his ground. American ground. Home.

Having left Whittemore for dead, the British continued their retreat back to Boston.  Several townsmen had observed Whittemore’s stand, and came to retrieve his body.

When they reached him, they didn’t find what they were expecting, which was the corpse of a foolish old man who’d just committed suicide by Redcoat.  What they did find was a bloody, angry patriot who was still alive, conscious and slowly trying to reload his musket.

The villagers took him to Doctor Nathaniel Tufts of Medford, who was asked to attend to his wounds.  Tufts felt the cause was hopeless, given the extent of Whittemore’s injuries and he refused to treat Whittemore.  Entreaties from the crowd changed his mind, and Medford dressed the injuries as best as he could.

Sam’s family carried him back home to die.

And die he did – 18 years later, at the ripe old age of 96.

Shot, stabbed, left for dead, but unwilling to surrender or die, Whittemore embodied the spirit of the nascent Republic.  Many believed the colonists’ fight was pointless – no scattering of militia and untrained farmers could stand up to the military might of the world’s foremost imperial power – just like Whittemore couldn’t have endured the damage that he did and survive.  But he did.  He lived, not just a week or a year, but 18 more (although the historical marker erected on the spot claims he was 98, records indicate he was actually 96).  He beat the odds.

And, just like Whittemore, America beat the odds and did what was said to be impossible.  Not only did we defeat Great Britain, we established a republican government on a new continent, and have defied the odds by surviving and thriving over the last two centuries.  Our system of government now is the rule, rather than the exception, across the globe, and no people in any age have experienced the quality of life even the most downtrodden American experiences on a daily basis.

In 2005, the Massachusetts General Court (their legislature) proclaimed Samuel Whittemore the official state hero of Massachusetts.

Not bad for a 79 year old farmer.

There’s a little bit of Sam Whittemore in every American, and his legacy and the legacy of all those of the founding generation is part of the fabric of America.

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