Samuel Whittemore Tells His Story of Being Attacked in the American Revolution at Age 76

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My name is Samuel Whittemore, and if you’ve never heard of me, I’ll be glad to introduce myself. I was born in Charlestown, Massachusetts, in 1696—a time when our colonies were still growing, and life was often hard. I spent my younger years as a soldier, fighting for the British Crown in conflicts like King George’s War and the French and Indian War. I fought in places far from home, including the battles for control of Nova Scotia and against the French in Quebec. I became known for my toughness and determination—traits I carried with me throughout my life.

After the wars, I returned home to Massachusetts, settling in the town of Menotomy, which is now part of Arlington. By the time the events of the American Revolution began to unfold, I was no young soldier anymore—I was in my late seventies. Many might have thought I’d sit back and watch history pass me by, but that was never my style. When I saw the British infringing on the freedoms of the American colonies, I knew I had to stand up for what was right, even if I was considered "too old" to fight.

The moment that defines my life came on April 19, 1775, during the first day of the Revolutionary War. The British troops were retreating from Concord after their skirmish with the colonial militia, and they were passing through Menotomy on their way back to Boston. I wasn’t about to sit idly by while British soldiers marched through my town. Armed with nothing more than a musket, two pistols, and a sword, I took a position behind a stone wall and waited. I fired on the redcoats as they passed, taking down at least three of them before they realized what was happening. But they didn’t take kindly to my resistance.

The British soldiers caught up with me, and I won’t lie to you—they gave me quite the beating. I was shot in the face, bayoneted multiple times, and left for dead. But here’s the thing about me: I wasn’t ready to die. My neighbors found me lying in a pool of blood, but I was still alive. They carried me to safety, and against all odds, I recovered. I lived for another 18 years after that, passing away at the age of 96.

I don’t tell this story to make myself out to be some kind of hero. I was just a man who believed in freedom and was willing to fight for it, no matter my age or the odds against me. I hope my story reminds you that courage has no expiration date and that standing up for what you believe in is always worth it. Never underestimate the power of determination—even one person, no matter their age, can make a difference.

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