By Aidan C. Jones

When I first told my father I wanted to follow in his footsteps, he’d seemed pleased. “You’ll make a good farmer, Peter,” he had told me. “You have the heart for the thing, and this land is part of you… it’s in your blood.” But he also warned me that a man doesn’t always get to choose his own path. “After all, I never planned on becoming involved in politics,” he said, eyeing the sword that hung over our fireplace. “But sometimes a man has to fight before he can farm.” I hadn’t understood what he meant, but at the time I thought I had.

The horses at my side shifted uneasily, recalling me to the task at hand. Father stood near me, swathed in a worn cloak and holding a shaded lantern as he supervised the masked men at their work. I held the horses’ heads as the band of conspirators tossed shovelfuls of loose earth away from the trench they were digging.

“That’s large enough.” My father’s voice, low and commanding.

The men turned their attention to the weapons that lay close at hand. Four cannons, carefully wrapped in oiled canvas, lay next to the completed trench. Next to the cannons stood cloth-wrapped bundles of muskets, sabers, and pistols, barrels of black powder, and cannonballs. Working quickly, the men silently lowered the weapons into the trench and began filling in the hole. I glanced behind the team of horses to the plow that stood ready to destroy all traces of the excavation.

“Are you sure I should be the one?” I asked, my voice coming high and weak to my ears. “What if I don’t cover our tracks well enough?”

“The regulars will see only what they expect to see: a freshly plowed field,” Father replied. “There will be no marks to suggest otherwise, and they won’t waste their time digging up an entire farm. ” He laid a hand on my shoulder, and in the dim lantern light, I could make out his eyes searching my face. “I trust you.” I met his eyes briefly, then nodded.

“Yes, Father.”

When the men had finished burying the weapons, they clasped hands with my father and then parted ways with a quiet word. My brother, Stephen, five years my senior, stood beside us as Father and I watched the men drift away toward their own homes. “They’re coming for the guns, aren’t they?” Stephen muttered, his eyes bright. “The regulars? It’s all coming to a head.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Father replied. He passed a hand over his face, and in the dim light he seemed even older than his sixty-five years. “There may yet be peace. But if they come, I don’t want them finding anything that could endanger your mother and sister.”

“I hope they don’t come.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Stephen sniffed, his hands gripping the shaft of his shovel. “I hope they do.” He was staring into the night, his face hard to make out clearly.

Father glanced at him and frowned. “If I’m away when the soldiers arrive at our farm, Peter will be in charge,” he announced. “I need to trust that there will be no unnecessary bloodshed, regardless of what the redcoats think may be hidden here.”

Stephen shot me a look that seemed to contain all the fury of the passed-over Esau. But when he spoke, it was to Father. “What would you have me do, sir?”

“Keep the farm running as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening,” Father replied. “And let your brother deal with the regulars.”

“Yes sir.” My brother turned, but wouldn’t leave without a parting shot. “Coward.” He hissed the word at me, just out of earshot of our father, and it stung. Deep in my heart, I knew he was right. It wasn’t only that I wanted peace. I was also afraid of what war might take from me. What it might demand of me. Perhaps that was why Father had left me in charge — he knew I didn’t have the courage to fight. Without another word to me, Father walked away toward the house. I turned toward the horses, and began to plow.

It all seems like a dream now, for the most part. The night riders that galloped through the countryside. The call to arms. Finding my father, still in his nightshirt, holding a candlelit council with a sweat-soaked and mud-spattered courier. The muttered words, spoken by voices tight with restrained energy: “Revere captured,” “redcoats on the move,” “Lexington.”

Father left the house shortly after, buckling on his old sword and giving Mother a quick kiss. He clasped hands with Stephen and me. “Let me join you,” my brother pleaded. “James and Nathan and Ephraim…”

“Will be under my command at the North Bridge,” Father reminded him. “I will expect your brothers to be obedient. I expect the same of you.”

Stephen’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “I understand.”

Father turned to me. “What happens to the farm doesn’t matter,” he said. “But keep your mother and your sister safe.” With that, he hurried away into the foggy dawn. I’ll never forget the moment the redcoats marched up the hill toward our farm. They came in neat, orderly rows, their uniforms flashing smartly in the morning sun. I was helping Stephen split wood when we first saw them. He saw them first, and stopped his work, staring at the soldiers as they rounded the turn of the road. As I turned toward the house, he tossed me the tomahawk he had been using to trim branches. “Don’t go unarmed,” he ordered, and I knew that even though Father had left me in charge, I would have to obey my brother in this. “If they ask, say you were cutting wood,” he suggested, dealing a brutal blow to the log in front of him with his axe. “If they try to hurt anyone…” He hesitated, then looked away. “Call for me.”

Holding the tomahawk as casually as I could, I slipped through the back door and into the main entryway of the house just as my mother let the regulars into our home. “This is absurd,” she sputtered, my 14-year-old sister Lucy standing quietly beside her. “But you may search the house if you must. We have nothing to hide.”

“In that case, our search will be brief,” the officer replied. He was polite, but firm, his eyes roving around the room. They landed on my hatchet with a frown, but passed on after taking in my sweaty face and dusty hands. After all, I was just a confused young man called from his work by the arrival of strangers. A group of soldiers hurried into the house, some heading upstairs while others searched the kitchen and other rooms of the house. A handful of redcoats took up positions inside the entrance, keeping an eye on proceedings and looking to their officer for further orders. I could see more soldiers outside, hurrying back and forth as they searched the property. There must have been a hundred at least, and I wondered if Stephen was keeping his temper in check. If he were to lash out at the regulars as they searched the woodshed, it would spell disaster. I sent up a quick prayer for deliverance from these men, my stomach clenching at the thought of them finding the cannons and other weapons.

As if mirroring my discomfort, the officer’s stomach growled loudly. He glanced apologetically at Mother, then looked past her toward the kitchen. “I’m afraid my men and I haven’t eaten in quite some time…” he began, but Mother was already gesturing toward the dining room.

“Of course,” she said stiffly. “Let me get you something.”

In a few minutes, the officer was seated at our table with eight of his men, eating a hot breakfast. They were laughing, complimenting the food, joking amongst themselves as if they were back in Britain. They seemed oblivious to the presence of a band of patriots two miles away at the North Bridge, and perhaps they were. The officer turned to Mother with a good-natured grin, his insides warmed by our food. “We’ll pay for our breakfast, of course,” he assured her, reaching for his purse. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had sausage like this.”

Mother sniffed, and settled down into an open chair near the kitchen door. “We won’t take your money,” she said. “We are commanded to feed our enemy if he hungers.” The officer’s smile faltered, but he continued counting coins into his hand. He stood, crossed the room, and held out the money. “This should cover our breakfast.” Mother said nothing, refusing to meet his eye. “Take it!” the officer ordered, thrusting his hand toward mother. “I won’t be made a thief!”

Just then, Lucy entered the room, bearing a plate with steaming fresh bread. She began to serve the soldiers, deftly slipping between their chairs. One of the men glanced up as she served him, meeting her eyes and contorting his face into an ugly sneer. My grip tightened on my tomahawk. He was a young soldier, and if circumstances had been different, he might have only been teasing her like I teased my younger cousins from time to time. But in that moment, I knew that I would kill this man if he so much as touched my sister.

“Take the money, you old woman!” the officer shouted, finally losing his patience. My mother’s arms remained tightly crossed. With an angry curse, the man flung the money into her lap. The room went quiet, and in the silence a few coins could be heard rolling across the uneven floor.

“This is the price of blood.” My mother made the statement without hatred or even anger, staring steadily at the commanding officer. He paled at her words, and I knew his mind was going back to the Sunday lessons he had received as a boy. I hoped my mother wasn’t a prophetess. In my mind’s eye I imagined for an instant my father returning home to find his farm ablaze and our murdered bodies piled outside.

The moment was interrupted by a soldier who appeared in the doorway and saluted. “There’s nothing here, sir,” he announced. “Just a bit of powder and shot and a few muskets. The same as any farmer would have. Nothing suspicious.” The officer swore again. He looked over at Mother, who was staring at him steadily, defying him to speak again. Without another word, the officer gathered his belongings and stormed out of the room, his men close behind.

My father fought a battle at the North Bridge that morning, but I think those of us at home fought a battle of our own. When the soldiers left, Lucy rushed into my arms. Mother leaned back in her chair, a hand on her forehead. Stephen appeared in the doorway, tense and ready to fight, but he relaxed slightly when he saw that I still had his tomahawk clenched in my fist. Our eyes met, and I gave a quick nod to reassure him. We’re all right. He nodded back with a trace of begrudging respect. We’re all right. No irreparable damage had been done to the farm, and the redcoats hadn’t found the weapons. More importantly, as Father had reminded me, my mother and sister were safe.

The war for our freedom began that April day, and although many other battles were fought in the war, I always remembered that moment at my family’s farm. That day, I realized that sometimes loving means being willing to fight for the people and places one loves, and that sometimes peace carries the price of war. My father hadn’t gone to war because he hated the King or his Parliament. He went to war because he loved his wife, his children, and his land. He fought so that I could one day plough and sow and reap.

There have been times throughout my life when I’ve had to follow in my father’s footsteps, fighting in defense of those I hold most dear. But when the battles are done and the fighting is finished, I’ve always returned to the fields of my home. Now, instead of hiding the weapons of war in the soil, I sow the seeds of a future for my children and my children’s children. I dream of a nation that’s guarded by courageous men who love peace, but who love their families and their homes even more.

It’s a good dream, I think.

Aidan C. Jones is a graduate of the Diana Davis Spencer Graduate School of Classical Education at Hillsdale College. He teaches in Minnesota, and writes at aidancharlesjones.substack.com.