On 19 April, the 250th anniversary of the start of the Revolutionary War with Paul Revere's Ride and the battles of Lexington and Concord, I thought about Asahel Read, my 5th great-granduncle, son of Isaac and Experience (Willis) Read. I wrote about him in My Uncle, Asahel Read (1753-1775) died at Lexington on 19 April 1775 and wrote a poem about his life in For Independence Day - "The Ballad of Asahel Read" last 4th of July.
Now that I've found that the Artificial I ntelligence tools are really good at creating summaries and even fictional dialogue about real life situations, thoughts of "how did they feel about that" pop into my head every day. On 19 April, I thought about Asahel's parents. How did they feel about that day?
I asked OpenAI ChatGPT4 to provide dialogue before and after, and it did. Then ChatGPT4 offered "Do you want me to expand the dialogue into a short story about Asahels fateful day?"
How can I resist! So I asked it to do that, and then I asked Claude, Grok and Gemini to do the same using the same prompts. I got four different stories - Claude's was 8 pages long and was the most detailed).
I chose the X Grok 3 story today because it was shorter and seemed more realistic than the other stories. Here it is:
The Apple Of Their Eye
The dawn of April 19, 1775, broke cold and gray over Sudbury, Massachusetts. In the modest farmhouse of Isaac and Experience Read, the air was thick with urgency. Asahel Read, their youngest and last child, stood in the low-ceilinged kitchen, his breath visible in the chill. At twenty-two, he was wiry and strong, his brown eyes alight with purpose as he slung a musket over his shoulder and tucked a powder horn into his belt. His father, Isaac, stood in the doorway, his weathered face tight with fear.
“Asahel, lad, are you certain?” Isaac’s voice was low, almost pleading. “The redcoats are no trifling matter. They’re trained, armed to the teeth. They’ll not hesitate to cut you down.”
Asahel paused, his hand on the doorframe. “Father, I must go. The alarm’s come—Lexington’s under threat. If we don’t stand now, they’ll march on Sudbury next. I’ve trained with the militia. I know my duty.”
Isaac stepped closer, his voice softening. “Duty’s a heavy word, son. You’re the light of this house. Your mother and I… we’ve poured our hearts into you. What if you don’t come back?”
Asahel met his father’s gaze, his jaw set. “You taught me to face what comes, Father. This is my time. For Sudbury. For all of us.”
Isaac gripped his son’s shoulder, his throat tight. “You’ve got your mother’s fire and my stubborn head. Keep your wits sharp, boy, and your powder dry. Come back to us, Asahel. Promise me.”
“I’ll do my best,” Asahel said, forcing a faint smile. “Tell Mother I’ll be home for supper.” He turned and stepped into the mist, joining the growing knot of townsmen assembling on the road. Isaac watched him go, whispering, “God keep you, my boy.”
The march from Sudbury was grueling, the men driven by the news that the British had already clashed with militia in Lexington at dawn and were now in Concord. Asahel walked shoulder to shoulder with young friends and older neighbors—farmers, blacksmiths, and shopkeepers, their faces grim under tricorn hats. The rhythm of their boots on the dirt road steadied his nerves. His friend Ezekiel, a lanky lad with a quick laugh, nudged him as they approached Lexington in the early afternoon.
(AI image created by X Grok 3)
“They’re coming back this way, Asahel,” Ezekiel said, his voice tense. “Word is the redcoats got a bloody nose at the North Bridge in Concord. They’re retreating, and they’ll pass right through here.”
Asahel adjusted his musket, his grip tightening. “Then we’ll meet them. They’ve no right to trample our towns. We’ll make them pay for every step.”
By early afternoon, the Sudbury militia joined other colonial forces gathering along the road in Lexington. The British column, exhausted and battered from their fight at the North Bridge, appeared in the distance—scarlet coats dulled by dust, their wounded staggering alongside the ranks. The militia took positions behind stone walls and trees, Asahel crouching beside Ezekiel near a low fence. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and the distant shouts of British officers rallying their men.
The first shots rang out from the militia, a ragged volley that caught the British off guard. The redcoats returned fire, their disciplined volleys tearing through the air. Asahel fired, the kick of his musket jarring his shoulder. Smoke stung his eyes as he reloaded, shouting to Ezekiel to stay low. The British pressed forward, their bayonets fixed, but the militia harried them from every side, turning the retreat into a gauntlet.
Asahel aimed again, his hands steady despite the fear clawing his chest. He saw a British soldier fall, then another, but the redcoats kept coming. Then it came—a searing pain in his chest, like a hot iron. He staggered, his musket slipping from his hands. The world tilted, the sky above him a blur of gray and blue. “Father…” he gasped, but the word faded as darkness took him. Asahel Read fell along the Lexington road, one of many who paid the price of that bloody retreat.
In the aftermath, Sudbury men searched the fields for their own. Ezekiel, his face streaked with dirt and tears, found Asahel’s body, his coat soaked with blood. “Oh, Asahel,” he whispered, kneeling beside his friend. With others, he lifted the body onto a cart, covering it with a blanket. The slow journey back to Sudbury was silent, the weight of loss heavier than the cart’s load.
At dusk, the cart rolled into Sudbury. Ezekiel and two others, John Goodenow and Samuel Curtis, carried Asahel’s body to the Read farmhouse. Isaac was in the yard, splitting wood, when he saw them. The axe fell from his hands. Experience, hearing the cart, stepped onto the porch, her apron clutched in her fists.
“Isaac, what’s—” Her words died as she saw the blanket-draped form. “No… no, not my boy…”
Ezekiel’s voice trembled. “Mr. Read, Mrs. Read… it’s Asahel. He fell at Lexington. He was brave, stood his ground with us. The redcoats… a musket ball… I’m so sorry.”
Isaac stumbled forward, pulling back the blanket. Asahel’s face was pale, his eyes closed as if sleeping. “My son,” Isaac choked, his hands shaking as he touched the boy’s cold cheek. Experience collapsed against the porch rail, a wail tearing from her throat. “My baby! Oh, God, why?”
John and Samuel helped carry Asahel inside, laying him on the kitchen table. Ezekiel lingered, his head bowed. “He spoke of you both, before we marched. Said he’d make you proud.”
Isaac nodded, unable to speak. Experience clung to Asahel’s hand, sobbing, “You did, my sweet boy. You did.”
Word spread through Sudbury, and by morning, family and neighbors gathered at the Read home. Asahel’s cousins, the Willises, arrived from Wayland, their faces grim. The minister, Reverend Loring, offered prayers, his voice steady but his eyes red. Women brought bread and cider, though no one ate. The house hummed with quiet grief, the air heavy with the scent of pine from the coffin hastily built by a neighbor.
Isaac and Experience sat by Asahel’s body, now dressed in his Sunday best. “He loved this shirt,” Experience murmured, smoothing the fabric. “Wore it to church, singing those hymns so loud and off-key.” She gave a broken laugh, then dissolved into tears.
Isaac took her hand. “He was proud to march, love. Said it was his duty. I tried to stop him, but… he was our Asahel. Stubborn as me.”
“And brave as you,” Experience whispered. “Oh, Isaac, how do we go on?”
“Together,” he said, his voice cracking. “For him.”
The burial was held later in the day, April 20, in the churchyard near the Sudbury meetinghouse. The sky was heavy with clouds, fitting the mood. Reverend Loring spoke of sacrifice and liberty, but his words blurred for Isaac and Experience, who stood by the open grave. The coffin was lowered, and Experience dropped a sprig of lilac—Asahel’s favorite—onto the wood. “Sleep well, my boy,” she whispered.
(AI image created by X Grok 3)
The townsfolk lingered, offering condolences, but the Reads barely heard. As the crowd dispersed, Isaac and Experience remained, staring at the fresh earth. “He was the apple of our eye,” Isaac said, his voice hollow. “Gone in a minute.”
Experience nodded, leaning into him. “But he stood for something, Isaac. For us, for this land. We’ll carry that, won’t we?”
“Aye,” Isaac said, his arm around her. “We’ll carry him always.”
In the weeks that followed, the Reads’ grief was a quiet, constant ache. The farm felt empty without Asahel’s laughter, his quick steps in the fields. Isaac worked in silence, pausing often to stare at the horizon. Experience kept Asahel’s coat folded on his bed, sometimes pressing it to her face to catch the faint scent of him. They spoke of him often, sharing memories—of his love for riding into town, his boyish grin at the river, his off-key hymns.
One evening, by the hearth, Experience looked at Isaac, her eyes soft with pain. “He’s with God now, isn’t he?”
Isaac nodded, his voice steady for the first time in weeks. “Aye, and he’s watching us, proud as we are of him. We’ll live for him, Experience. For Asahel.”
She took his hand, and they sat in the flickering light, their grief a bridge to their son’s memory, binding them to the cause he died for and to each other, forever.
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The first draft of this story got some details about the Sudbury militia's efforts, so I edited the prompt about some details of the fight at Lexington and Grok provided more accurate information. The historical books I read indicate that the South Sudbury militia marched to Lexington and engaged the British as they marched down the roads from Concord through Lexington on the way to Charlestown on the early afternoon of 19 April 1775. Two men from Sudbury died - an officer and Asahel Read.
I think the dialogue and feelings expressed before Asahel left from his home in Sudbury and after the return of his body are fairly realistic. I don't know if Asahel Read was buried in the Sudbury churchyard - there are many missing stones in that churchyard. I think the minister at the Sudbury church was Jacob Read, a cousin to Isaac Read.
I am 100% sure that Isaac Read (1704-1780) and Experience (Willis) Read (1707-1787) went to their deaths reliving this experience over and over. I can't imagine their pain. He was their last child, and perhaps the only one at home in 1775. Their married children had moved west to Shrewsbury and Westminster, Massachusetts over time, and surely came to their parents home to grieve and help them after this event. Experience had several Willis siblings who lived in Sudbury and Wayland (good guess, Grok!).
The Isaac Read farm was in South Sudbury next to Landham Creek to the west of the Sudbury River, probably along a road from Sudbury to Framingham.
This is historical fiction - it might have happened this way. Perhaps it did not. As I've mentioned before - I could never write something like this well. I'm an aerospace engineer and a genealogist, and I write based on events and facts. The AI tools have allowed me to share family stories, and poems and songs, about my ancestors and I have enjoyed doing it.
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