Dana's Historical Fiction Book: Sowing Dragon Teeth

"Sowing Dragon Teeth" is Dana's first book in his new historical fiction series. The series takes place during the American Revolutionary War. 

DESCRIPTION OF SOWING DRAGON TEETH

In Colonial Massachusetts, an enslaved African American and a tavern-owner must battle the British regulars to stop their raid to destroy Patriot arms at Concord. Quock grows up enslaved on a farm in Lexington but joins Lexington’s militia. Jason Green shares his countrymen’s anger at Parliament but is still loyal to his King. Llewellyn Caradoc is a veteran line officer in the British Army sent on a risky mission. Lord Robert Dandridge yearns for battlefield fame but hides a carnal secret.

On April 18th, 1775, Llewellyn and Robert meet in Jason’s Boston tavern to gauge American grievances, but the British Governor calls Llewellyn and Robert to a secret meeting. The Governor orders Llewellyn to assemble a corps, march overnight to Concord, destroy the rebel arms, and return before the American militia can turn-out. Robert uncovers a spy, but she knows Robert’s secret and blackmails him to silence. Jason slips out of Boston to join his militia regiment at Concord. When the regulars march through Lexington Quock stands with the militia and fires the first shot of the war. Later, Jason’s minutemen defeat the regulars at Concord’s North Bridge and a running battle ensues against swarming militia. 

Robert’s brigade rushes from Boston to rescue Llewellyn’s floundering corps. Meanwhile Jason sets a trap he hopes will ensnare the regulars and win the war before it starts. Quock finds that even in an Army that rises to fight for its rights, the White patriots may not extend those rights to Black Americans.

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Dig Deeper: Sowing Dragon Teeth Book Club Discussion Questions 

Watch: Dana's chat with the American History Gazette about his new book "Sowing Dragon's Teeth: A Novel of the Battles of Lexington and Concord"

The redcoats were engaged in a parade. The bulk of them marched to Quock’s left, but a big section stayed directly in front. The British soldiers found the positions they wanted, stopped, and turned to face the rambling American earthworks. The drums and fifes stopped. The entire British line, seemingly thousands of regulars, stretched across the peninsula. Their lines ruler straight.

“Quock I’m scared,” whispered Jacob.

“You boys thirsty?” Vernon brandished a wooden bottle. 

Quock had forgotten his burning thirst. “Spruce beer. I been saving it for a special occasion. I guess this is as good any.” Vernon took a deep drink and passed it to Jacob. Jacob drank and passed it to Quock. 

Quock had never liked the piney taste of spruce beer, but it was sweet going down his parched throat. He handed the bottle to Warren. Warren looked at the mouth of the bottle, at Quock, and balked. Quock’s face went hot with anger and humiliation. He had seen Whites hesitate like that before. Warren had qualms about drinking after a Negro. After only a second’s hesitation, however, Warren grasped the bottle, tipped it up and finished it, squinting like he was drinking medicine. 

Passing back the empty bottle Warren asked, “Do you practice this ritual before every battle?”

Quock shook his head, too angry to speak. “I never been in a battle,” said Jacob. Vernon laughed and put the bottle back in his pack.

The drums began to beat. The long ranks of regulars marched toward them, stepping in time to the drums. They carried their muskets pointing to the sky. The tattoo of the drums competed with the whooshing and crackling sounds of the burning Charlestown. Smoke from the giant blaze obscured the sky and cinders rained down from the smoke’s black clouds.

“This must be what hell is like,” said Jacob.

“Some of us will find out soon enough,” said Vernon.

“Prime and Load!” ordered Colonel Prescott walking along the top of the berm, stepping over their muskets, his eyes on the approaching enemy. 

Quock was still seething with humiliation and anger, his fear forgotten. He was going to show Warren that he could fight as well as any white man. He had already loaded, but he checked his frizzen, pan, and flint, there would be no misfire.

“Aim low,” said Prescott. He was loud without shouting. “At their waists.” He looked calm as he paced. 

Leaning on the berm to steady his musket Quock smelled the freshly turned dirt. He could feel the hairs prickling on his neck as he aimed at the redcoats. The unmown grass was so long it appeared that the regulars were wading in it. When they were still two hundred yards out Quock heard some men cocking their locks. 

“Steady,” Prescott spoke in a conversational tone and kicked up the barrel of one over eager militiaman.

When the phalanx of redcoats got a hundred yards out Prescott stopped pacing. “Wait until we can see their gaiters!”

“Why aren’t they shooting?” asked Quock.

Prescott jumped down to stand on the other side of Warren and looked across at Quock. Speaking almost casually he said, “If they keep their drill, they will wait for us to shoot first, each rank will volley in quick succession, then they’ll charge us through the smoke.” Quock remembered from his first battles that bayonet armed regulars could run across the distance between them faster than he could reload.

“When will we fire?” asked Warren peeking over the berm. “They’re awfully close.”

“I’m going to let them march close enough that we can’t miss, then blow them all to hell,” said Prescott. Louder he shouted, “Wait for me to fire!”

The redcoats were close enough now for Quock to see glistening sweat on their red faces and hear the swish-swish of their steps as they strode through the deep grass. Quock’s hands trembled. His sweaty palms slickened the smooth wood of his stock. He fought to control his breathing as he aimed at the waist of the regular directly in front of him. A rail fence blocked their progress. The front rank stopped pushing it down. The second rank crowded behind them.

“FIRE!” shouted Prescott.

Quock squeezed his trigger. The lock snapped, the pan flashed, the stock leaped against his cheek. Around him his fellow Patriots roared out their defiance in fire and smoke.