What The Hell America!

AT 10 P.M. ON APRIL 18, 1775, seven hundred soldiers gathered at the water’s edge west of the Boston Common. They climbed into boats waiting at the dock, then pushed off into the harbor. They held torches to show the way, as the oars dipped in and out of the water. Behind them, Boston was mostly dark. The torches and lamps in the windows of homes and shops had been extinguished for the night, except for two lanterns hanging in the steeple of the Old North Church.

Around midnight, the soldiers disembarked in Cambridge. After resting and reorganizing their supplies, they began the seventeen-mile trek to Lexington. As they marched, their path dimly lit by torches, they heard the clanging of bells, the firing of alarm guns, and drums. Through the trees, the British soldiers spotted large bonfires in the distance. Their arrival was not quite the surprise they had hoped.

On the 250th anniversary of the Battles of Lexington and Concord, we have an opportunity to revisit the lessons of the American Revolution and why it still matters today. The formation of the American republic was messy, and the founding generation understood its success was never guaranteed. This anniversary—the start of several years of anniversaries commemorating the battles and bloodshed, the sights and scenes of the war—are a good reminder that we still face a messy, uncertain future, one still worth fighting for.

A few hours before British troops gathered on the water’s edge in Boston, Paul Revere and William Dawes had galloped out of the city and rode toward Lexington and Concord, alerting local families and militiamen of the impending threat. They urged Sam Adams and John Hancock to flee to avoid arrest and warned locals to move military supplies to safety.

The sun had not yet peeked over the trees early on the morning of April 19 when the British soldiers marched into Lexington, weary from lack of sleep. Eighty militiamen, known as minutemen for their ability to gather quickly, trickled out of the local tavern, where they had spent the night waiting for the arrival of British troops.

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Captain John Parker, the militia commander, issued orders to disband, but his voice was weak from a recent illness. Before the message could filter down the line, a shot rang out. Perhaps it was a British soldier eager to enforce discipline. Maybe a nervous young man’s finger slipped on the trigger. Or maybe someone was hiding in the woods, determined to pick a fight. The British forces fired a series of volleys before charging with bayonets.

Within minutes, the British commander, Major John Pitcairn had reasserted control over his forces and ordered them to resume their march to Concord, where they destroyed three large cannon and threw 500 pounds of musket balls into a local pond. A handful of militia companies, totaling a few hundred men, advanced on the British troops and, after being fired upon, fired back at the redcoats—who then beat a retreat. But word of the troops’ movements had spread through the countryside and armed locals took up positions behind fences, walls, and trees flanking the return route to Boston along Old Concord Road. As the British soldiers began the lengthy march back to their base, they were met with gunfire from invisible enemies hiding in the forest. The march turned into a mad dash to safety. The war for American independence had begun, even if independence would not be declared for another fifteen months.

TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS LATER, the dramatic start of the Revolutionary War offers two important lessons for today. The minutemen, the British regulars, and the colonist observers watching from their homes along Old Concord Road understood that they were experiencing a historic moment. But they did not know what would come next. Over the eight years that followed, Americans knew they were making history, but the outcome and the end date were never guaranteed.

So it is with us today: We can no more predict the future than could those minutemen in 1775. In our political life, as in theirs, there are so many complications and contingencies, so many unintended effects ramifying outward, that the best we can hope for is the clarity to see the choices before us and the courage to act when we should.

Second, the American people were divided from the beginning. Some colonists ardently supported independence. Others remained dedicated to the crown. A third group tried to avoid notice and survive the ordeal with their heads down. For example, the British commanders knew where to search for rebel munitions because of loyalist spies, while Paul Revere and William Dawes received advance warning about British movements because the patriots had spies behind British lines.

Even within patriot communities, the colonists pursued independence for diverse reasons. Enslaved soldiers fought to secure their own freedom. Most infantry soldiers didn’t have any other economic prospects. Many officers, who came from more economically secure backgrounds, were motivated by ideological conviction. Patriot leaders disagreed about their goals, and the strategy required to pursue the desired result.

So it is still with us today. Moments of unity in American politics are fleeting. We disagree with one another like we breathe air: It’s just part of how we live. To some extent this dilemma is because of the Revolution itself: The United States is the only nation founded on an idea rather than on, say, a shared religious or ethnic identity. We don’t have a single shared set of cultural traditions to unify us. Anyone who thinks Americans will lastingly be united behind one movement, one party, or one leader doesn’t understand the American story. It is a messy story, a story of disagreements over everything big and small. And it has been that way from the very beginning.