text: I look around myself and watch the smoke rising into the dark stormclouds over my head. I watch the freshly lit fires destroying what I loved: I passed my burning schoolhouse and watch my 4th-grade teacher narrowly escaping and joining me and the other new refugees. I sprint past one of the town farms where our food is grown that had been set alight. I am too focused on getting away to feel the throbbing in my legs from sprinting away from my town, and I am much too focused on getting away to worry about how the other women and children I know are running with me are doing. I hope they can keep it up, as I flashback to the trauma starting at the beginning of the day, watching the man who lived in our house shot in the head, then reeling through the following events of escaping and starting to run. The day before I would never have fathomed what was happening so close to us: I had helped Didier and my mother, Mary, attach the signature epaulet of a Lieutenant Colonel to prepare my father’s uniform so he could lead his troops in Boston, but that was 25 miles away. I could never have imagined what was happening today. I was out on a morning walk around the town with my friends when we saw the enemy ships under the looming stormclouds steaming towards our defenseless town. My friends and I decided that they would be just passing through, on their way to attack their next target. We decided to stop and watch them go by when we saw the scout ship drop her anchor and the fleet begin to slow. We look up and see the storm clouds darkening and lowering. It suddenly became evident that they were targeting our defenseless town. My friends all looked at each other and split, each trying to get home. I sprinted the short trip up Elk and Main Street, desperately trying to get to my mother, hoping she might be able to save us. Her eyes widened, and she abruptly ran to the door to see for herself. She took a good look then hurriedly wrote to Hammond: My dear Hammond Please turn back; Concord has been overrun, the enemy has anchored on our shores. Your love, Mary She desperately gathered what little money we had in the house and dragged me on to the now nearly abandoned town hall on Bedford Street where she paid the mail boy all the money she could find and told him to go as fast as his horse would take him and intercept the town’s warriors before they got too far. We made it home and Mother told Didier it was time to pay for his stay and ordered him to get dressed and ready. We began to prepare our house for what we hoped would not follow: we threw water on the floors and walls, soaked our bedsheets, and boarded up our windows. No sooner had we sealed our cabin then did we hear a loud thunderclap. I could see through the cracks in our walls that our dark ceiling was continuing to close in. It was dark enough to feel like dusk. I continued to peer through a crack, with Didier watching through another, his facing the river. I watched the turbulent skies as I heard a gasp from Didier. I looked back and watched him recoil, spring for his bayonet, and station himself next to our door. I went back to watching through the crack, and noticed a new haze, accompanied by an orange light. Mother peered through another crack facing the river and exclaimed what she saw: South Bridge and Elm Street had been lit aflame, and the fire was spreading fast. Mother took me into her arms and reassured me. Moments later, a man dressed in a red jacket with a white sash burst into our house. He looked disdainfully at Didier, asking why he wasn’t with his men. Didier proudly responded that he was French, and the rest of his men had not yet arrived. Hardly allowing Didier to finish his sentence, the soldier raised his pistol and killed Didier. My mother squeezed me tightly and covered my eyes, but I could still feel the soldier’s glare land upon us. “This should teach you about harboring traitors,” he said and closed the door. My mother uncovered my eyes to see a small fire the soldier had left. I looked at my mother fearfully, and she reflected my look. We put the fire out and covered Didier’s body with one of our damp sheets. It had seemed that we saved our home, but we soon saw smoke pouring in through the gaps in our house as we began to get hotter. Eventually, it became obvious that we could not weather the siege. Mother and I burst outside and quickly took account of what was left of our surroundings: the clouds were so low and thick that once mixed with the smoke of our burning town, the flames were the only source of light. Mother and I began to run towards Boston, joining the other recently created refugees as we sprinted down Thoreau Street into the woods that surrounded our town. I looked around and saw my mother was beginning to fall behind the group. Knowing nothing else, I instinctively slowed down and kept by my mother as we ran past much of our hometown. She told me to continue running with the group; she would meet me once it was all over. I hoped she was right, and looked back to see the soldiers several hundred yards behind us in pursuit, destroying everything in their path. I saw there were several others who were lagging behind, and I could do nothing more than pray that they would make it through. I look around myself and watch the smoke rising into the dark stormclouds low over my head. I watch the freshly lit fires destroying what I loved: I passed my burning schoolhouse and watch my 4th-grade teacher narrowly escaping her home and joining me and the other new refugees; I sprint past one of the town farms where our food is grown that had been set alight. I begin to feel the effects of the run I have endured, but I am too focused on getting away to feel the throbbing in my legs from sprinting away from my town, and I am much too focused on getting away to worry about how the other women and children I know are running with me are doing. We continue to run deeper into the woods, keeping to a thin path used by buggies, praying we can lose our invaders, despite them being just a minute behind us. As I am running, I begin to feel the sweet drops of rain on my sweaty, smoky face, and before we know it, we are running through a downpour. I clench my teeth and continue to run through the now mud and focus on getting through the woods. I hear my father shout “hold”. I shake my head, thinking I was hearing things, but I hear him shout “fire”. Our group is jarred out of our running daze by the sound of 50 simultaneous gunshots around us. Startled, I trip and fall. I stand up and look around. Several others are also getting up, covered in mud. I look deeper into the woods, and watch my father shout “push” and see all of our fighters from our town step out of the woods and begin to make their way back to Concord. As we all gather our wits, it occurs to us that our town is ours, and, not only had we made it out, but we will be going back. Several hours later, after the Concord Regiment push the intruders back to the coastlines and their ships, we are brought back into our town. Over the next several weeks, we begin to rebuild. My father and several other soldiers dressed in their most formal uniforms escort Didier’s body to Boston. Upon his return, I finally gather the courage to ask what happened. I ask why he goes to Boston so much. I ask what happened to Didier. I asked what happened to our town. My father takes me into our half-built house and pulls up a chair, and continues to tell me everything. He explains that the colonies had elected to break away from England and the rule of King George. He explains that the British are fighting for control of Boston as a city from which to base their forceful takeover of the colonial governments. He explains to me Didier was a French soldier who was staying with us as he was waiting for the rest of his men to come to assist the colonies fighting the British, and the British do not like the French. He explains to me that our town supplies the colonial army in Boston when the city is held under siege by the British navy. The next day, I am told to clean myself up as best I can, and we make our way to the town hall, where much of the town is gathered. I see my father and his commander, Brigadier General David on the stage. Brigadier General David awards my father the rank of Colonel, and gives a brief speech: “Lieutenant Colonel Hammond led the men that took back control of our town, and has rescued a critical source of resources for the Continental army. In the weeks since Hammond commanded his men to attack the pursuing British soldiers, the tide of the entire war has turned. I have been told by my commanders and colleagues that they have felt the impact of his attack all along each of our fronts. I venture to presume that this brave counterassault will go down in history, and given its effects, it may perhaps go down as ‘the shot heard around the world’”.