Revere’s musket worked well enough against the natives and their witching pelts, when first they came to Massachusetts; but after their tea party two years back the King’s men have been massing in Boston, and silversmith’s bullets won’t avail them much.

So they’ve been watching, the Masons of Liberty, and now they’re riding. The lanterns are bright in the church tower–a last-ditch signal they can’t take down. One if by land. Two if by wing.

Revere can’t let himself look back. “The Redthroats are coming!” he yelps into the swallowing night, while behind him race dark and slitted eyes.