First Chapter From Early Draft

Here’s another chapter that I cut because it did little to introduce my main character or build the world significantly. It was fun to write because it took the whole story of Paul Revere’s ride and places one of my time travelers, Cordelia, in the scene as a witness and a heroine. Enjoy and send me a tweet at @jmrasinske or comment below!

Chapter 1 – A Revered Ride

Road to Concord Outside Lexington, MA
Wednesday, April 19th, 1775 – 2:00am

“If you don’t tell the truth, I will blow your brains out!” got Cordelia Begeistert’s attention as she stared at the stars and struggled to catch breath. That flintlock rifle blast to the chest hurt a lot more than expected, but now she had to get up and stop the British Regulars from following through on their threat to kill Paul Revere. Great going, she thought, my first Prerogative in 1775 and I get myself shot.
It started earlier that evening in Lexington while she sipped lukewarm hard cider at Buckman’s Tavern and waiting for her cue: “The Regulars are on the march! The Regulars are on the march!”
Pocket watch read 12:05am – Paul Revere’s right on time, Cordelia thought and she snapped it shut.
The 41-year-old silversmith broke into the tavern, spurs scraping the floor as he approached the bar and slapped the damp wood. “Excuse me, publican! I must find Reverend.…”
“Oi! What’s with the noise!” said the Bartender.
“You’ll have lots of noise soon enough, Sir. The Regulars are on the march!”
“Marching where?”
“Please, Sir, I must find the home of Reverend Jonas Clarke.”
“Rev Clarke’s about a quarter mile that way.”
Paul tipped his tricorn hat and left as loudly as he arrived.
“Ya think he’s serious? Regulars… out here?” said the Bartender.
“No – That man’s drunk.” Cordelia said and she sipped the hard cider. Awful stuff.
“Drunk, sir?”
Cordelia motioned a glass to her mouth.
“Aye, in his altitudes all right. Drunk so much ale he’s seeing Redcoats, and now he’s off for penance with the good Reverend!” He laughed and went back to polishing the pewter.
The pocket watch buzzed again at 12:25am. At the same time, she heard the 2nd horseman arrive and shout, “The Regulars are coming!” That must be Will Dawes, Cordelia thought. Right on time. So far, so good – everything on schedule just as Madame Zaphon said.
From the thick, wavy window, Cordelia saw a 3rd horseman join Revere and Dawes on the open space of land called Lexington Green.
Time to move.
She left a coin on the bar and adjusted the black leather shooting gloves she wore as a part of her Colonial soldier costume. They gave a better grip on firearms, but more importantly, it allowed her to conceal the one vanity she couldn’t leave behind – manicured and polished fingernails. It was April 2015, in the midst of the Baltimore riots, and Cordelia was having a bad day in the emergency room at Johns Hopkins, questioning why she spent the time, money and effort to become a surgeon, especially when the people she treated tried to hurt her because of her skin color. So when Madame Zaphon told her to leave everything behind and become a physician in the Civil War. Cordelia flippantly said she’d only go if she could bring her manicure set.
That 3rd man was Dr. Samuel Prescott, resident of Concord where the Sons of Liberty stockpiled large quantities of gunpowder and ammunition away from the British Regulars. When it looked like they were ready to go, Cordelia mounted her horse Volta and followed the trio at a safe distance. The objective of Cordelia’s Prerogative was to ensure Paul would make it to Concord so he could warn them of the oncoming British. It was a clear, starlit night and the waxing moon lit the way as Cordelia’s monitored the three human and three equine heat signals inside the pocket watch.
She followed them steadily toward Concord before they stopped and saw 2 mounted men on horses surrounded by 6 others on foot approaching. That must be the British Regulars. Cordelia closed the pocket watch tech and retrieved the brass spyglass; night vision and audio was needed to know exactly what was happening. Cordelia cursed the technology as she pulled the spyglass open. Madame Zaphon insisted all the Regents carry as much technology possible, always camouflaged with common items from the time period, but the technology was more advanced than anything she’d used during her residency at Johns Hopkins.
“Go ahead and stop us,” said someone on the left side. “But we already got five hundred men under arms at Lexington and I’ve alarmed the entire countryside. That’ll bring another thousand armed Americans to face you Reds!”
The horseman on the right tried to pull away but one of the British Regulars warned, “If you go an inch further you’re a dead man!”
At that same moment, the horseman on the left barked “Get on!” and took off, jumping the stonewall a few yards away. The escapee moved too fast for the spyglass to identify, and one of the mounted British Officers pursued him into the darkness. Which galloped off? Was it Paul, or one of the other two? This wasn’t supposed to happen; the mission was simply to follow Paul Revere from Lexington to Concord and back. Madame Zaphon didn’t say anything about them getting caught. She angrily collapsed and stuffed it in the saddlebag. Need to get closer and get a better count. Seven armed British against 2 civilians? I saw worse at the Siege of Vicksburg, she thought.
An unnatural silence greeted Cordelia when she approached the interrogation with her hands raised. One detainee sat on horseback and the other had dismounted. Which was Revere? It was too dark to tell – Should have taken a better look at Paul at the tavern. The mounted officer greeted Cordelia with a cocked flintlock and said, “I suppose you’re the thousand men he’s bragging of, eh?”
She replied with her best English accent. “No, I’m not one of those ‘Sons of Liberty’. I’m loyal to King George, just a humble servant of the crown.” She lowered her hands. “There’s no need for weapons.”
“Hands up young man! What’s your name and business this time of night?”
“Thaddeus Smith, sir.” Cordelia said, raising her hands. “I’m a blacksmith’s apprentice from Lexington on my way to…”
“I asked your business here, not your trade boy!” said their commanding officer. Cordelia identified the officer’s rank as Major. “Anyone need a smith here?”
The Regulars laughed.
“Sorry, gents. Didn’t bring my tools tonight.” Cordelia couldn’t stand being called a boy. “I don’t smith this early in the morning.” She lowered her voice and looked slyly back at the two men being detained; she still didn’t recognize which one was Paul.
Cordelia slowly approached the Major with hands raised and whispered, “I’m on a special assignment from General Gage.”
“Where are your orders? Let me see them.” The Major didn’t lower his voice.
Here in my coat pocket, Major.” Cordelia pulled an envelope with a red, wax seal from her coat pocket, then said with greater authority, “Major, my orders are ‘need to know’ and I must make haste, sir. All I can say is I’m searching for specific rebels associated with the Boston Sons of Liberty.”
“We’re already interrogating these two ‘Sons of Iniquity’,” the Major said. “The third got away, but my best horseman is after him.”
“It’s best to get him quick, considering the situation.” Cordelia relaxed her shoulders. “What information have you acquired?”
“Nothing yet, but they will tell us where the powder and pellets are stored in Concord, Mr. Smith, if that is your name…”
“I say we kill ‘em all and get on with it!” a British Regular interrupted.
“General Gage wants them alive if they’re on this list!” said Cordelia as she put the envelope into the coat and reached for her flintlock.
“They’re both Sons of Liberty.” The Major pointed to each. “This one is William Dawes and that one’s Paul Revere – both from Boston.”
“Thank you, Major.” Cordelia only needed Paul — Will wasn’t the mission. “Allow me to check my orders for Dawes and who’d you say, Reeves?” Good thing Dawes is still on his horse, she thought. Easy getaway.
“Revere, Mr. Smith, not Reeves.” The Major adjusted his hat. “They on your orders from General Gage?”
Enough time for useless conversation – it was time to act. Cordelia pulled out the flintlock pistol slapped the backside of Dawes’s horse with her free hand. The horse ran off into the night.
“Let him go!” Major Mitchell shouted. “What is this madness?” Paul tried to mount his horse, but a nearby Regular grabbed the reigns and caused Paul to stumble. “Present Arms!” the Major commanded, and Cordelia saw a Regular take aim at Paul’s head. Instinct took over and she shot the Regular’s trigger hand, quickly dropping the musket and perhaps a finger – too dark to tell. The Regular shouted painfully as Cordelia shoved Paul behind her horse for cover. But when she spun to face the British soldiers, it was met with a puff of smoke and a painful jab to the ribs, forcing all air from her chest.
“I did not say fire!” the Major shouted through the flintlock fog.
“He shot first!” was the Regular’s defense.
Cordelia lay on her back, motionless. Finger on the trigger.
“He sure had enormous twiddle-diddles to try that!” said the Major as he turned to Revere. “You will tell me where the munitions are hidden in Concord right NOW.” He held his pistol inches from Revere’s head. “And if you don’t tell the truth, I will blow your brains out!”
Finally able to take a deep breath, Cordelia shouted to the night sky, “But that’s my man!” The Major and his troops looked around to see who said that, but then Cordelia sat up, pointed the flintlock at the Major, and said, “My orders…are to keep him alive.”
Cordelia didn’t realize the tricorn and the ribbon holding her hair came loose until the Major tilted his head and after a long pause said, “My God, you’re a girl!” Equally confused were the British Regulars who didn’t know whether they should point their weapons at Paul Revere or the woman aiming at their commanding officer.
“Are you touched in the head?” The Major lowered his weapon and laughed. ”You’ve been shot and haven’t reloaded!”
The laughter slowed as Cordelia kept aim at the Major and staggered to her feet.
“Wrong, Major. I’m a woman, not a girl.” She scanned from left to right, noting which soldiers had their muskets raised and the ones whom had theirs lowered. “And I don’t need to reload.” The Major raised his hand as if to give a command, and that’s when Cordelia pulled a 2nd flintlock from her boot and jumped in front of Paul, who was at least a head taller. Tilting her head to the left, she told Paul to duck and then rapidly shot the two most threatening soldiers. The smoke from her gun gave Cordelia the chance to move right and push Paul to the ground, and before the Major could give the “fire” command, she got off two more shots, dropping two more soldiers. But then the odds were against her. They fired two shots in return, but both hit horse, not human. Revere’s horse laid motionless, dead. Cordelia’s horse Volta was badly injured and fell on Paul, pinning his legs to the ground. An escape on horseback was now impossible.
Only Major Mitchell and one Regular were unharmed when the smoke dissipated.
“Where in God’s name did you get those?” said Major Mitchell.
They both had lowered their weapons. Fight and instinct were replaced with fear and inquiry at this mystery woman who survived a shot to the chest and was still able to shoot without reloading. Back in 1775, even the best gunman couldn’t reload any faster than 20 to 30 seconds, and Cordelia discharged both guns twice under 10.
“Sorry about your men, Major. I didn’t shoot to kill.” Cordelia aimed both pistols at the British. “Now, sir, the two of you are going to give me your weapons and free Mr. Revere from his most unfortunate position.” On the ground, the five Regulars were too wounded to reload. They weren’t a threat. “Now get to work, gentlemen. My flintlocks are still loaded and ready, so nobody’s going to be a hero. She put the tricorn back on her head and said, “Besides, next time I may not shoot to wound.”
They pulled Paul from under the horse while Cordelia looked at Volta’s wound. The poor horse had been shot under the neck and was bleeding. A few inches over and he would have bled to death. But that wasn’t the worst injury; jagged bloody bones protruded from two of Volta’s legs, worse than bleeding out. Cordelia didn’t want to do it, but she inhaled slowly, and pulled back the hammer. The shot ended Volta’s pain and scared the Regulars inspecting their wounds. Then Cordelia grabbed the Regular’s loaded rifle and walked over to the Major’s horse. For a moment, she thought, An eye for an eye, why not?
Cordelia aimed the musket at the horse’s head and glared at the Major. Week’s prior to this Prerogative, she had lots of free time. Madame Zaphon called it an “adjustment period” to get some rest and get period correct clothing, supplies and transportation. That horse Volta was the first thing Cordelia bought, and she bonded with the brown beast almost immediately, unlike any horse she had throughout the 1860s. Volta wasn’t just transportation, he was a companion during her adjustment to 1775, and this first assignment ended it.
“He was the closest thing I had to a friend!” She swallowed hard and pointed the musket above the horse’s head, scaring it away. “Now Major, take care of your wounded. All the shots were through and through, no broken bones, so you won’t have dig out any pellets. Just apply pressure to stop the bleeding.” Cordelia grabbed Paul’s arm and walked backwards, facing Major Mitchell and his injured crew until they were out of sight.

The walk to Lexington was silent. The only noise for the next two miles was Revere and Cordelia’s shuffling feet, except for the time she mumbled, “Great plan, Cordelia, scare off the horse, brilliant.”
Paul finally asked, “Ma’am, uh Ms. Smith, what did you use? Was it chainmail?”
“Mr. Revere?”
“You were shot. That lobster back shot you in the chest, three yards off. How’d you survive that?”
“It’s Kevlar, chainmail’s too heavy.” Paul didn’t respond and she explained, “There’s special fabric in this vest that can stop a pellet. I delivered one to Colonel Washington before I arrived in Lexington.”
“But the guns,” Paul continued, “You didn’t have to reload, there’s only one hammer —”
“It’s an invention of an old Englishman named James Puckle. It automatically reloads, allows multiple shots, and it just saved your life. Now less talking and more walking, silversmith.”