The Fort (38 page)

“Reload and run back!” Carnes shouted.

He was a marine. He did not miss.

Solomon Lovell thought his careful ambush must have failed. He waited and waited, and morning passed into afternoon, and the afternoon melded into the early evening, and still the British offered no challenge to the men who had occupied the deserted battery close to the harbor shore. A small crowd had gathered on the eastward side of Dyce’s Head, many of them skippers of the anchored ships who had heard that the British were about to be given a thorough trouncing and so had rowed ashore to enjoy the spectacle. Commodore Saltonstall was not present, he had evidently gone to make a new battery on the harbor’s farther shore and Peleg Wadsworth was similarly employed north and east of the neck. “New batteries!” Lovell exulted to Major Todd, “and a victory today! We shall be in a fine position tomorrow.”

Todd glanced south to where new ships might appear, but nothing showed in the river’s seaward reach. “General Wadsworth sent for an eighteen-pounder,” he told Lovell. “It should have reached him by now.”

“Already?” Lovell asked, delighted. He felt that the whole expedition had turned a corner and hope was renewed. “Now we only need McLean to snap at our bait,” Lovell said anxiously. He gazed down at the battery where the militiamen who were supposed to be pretending to raise a defensive rampart were instead sitting in the fading sunlight.

“He won’t take the bait if we’re all watching,” a harsh voice said.

Lovell turned to see Colonel Revere had come to the bluff. “Colonel,” he said in wary greeting.

“You’ve got a crowd gawping up here like Boston nobs watching the town on Pope Night,” Revere said. He pointedly ignored Todd!

“Let us hope the destruction equals Pope Night,” Lovell responded genially. Every November 5th the townsfolk of Boston made giant effigies of the Pope which were paraded through the streets. The supporters of the rival effigies fought each other, a superb brawl that left bones broken and skulls bloodied, and at the end the effigies were burned into the night as the erstwhile foes drank themselves insensible.

“McLean’s not a fool,” Revere said. “He’ll know something’s amiss with this crowd up here!”

Lovell feared his artillery commander was right, indeed the thought had already occurred to him that the presence of so many spectators might signal something extraordinary to the British, but he wanted these men to witness the success of the ambush. He needed word to spread through the army and the fleet that McLean’s redcoats could be thrashed. The men seemed to have forgotten their great victory in taking the bluff, the whole expedition had become mired in pessimism and it needed to be whipped into enthusiasm again.

“So McLean’s no fool, is he?” Todd asked caustically.

Because at the foot of the hill, between a barn and a cornfield, the redcoats had appeared.

And Solomon Lovell had his ambush.

“They’re all yours, Mister Moore!” Captain Caffrae called.

Fifty men, two drummer boys, and three fifers were now Moore’s responsibility. The company had formed just north of Jacob Dyce’s house. They were in three ranks with the musicians behind. Caffrae, before leading his men from concealment, had ordered them to load their muskets and fix their bayonets. “Let’s hear the ‘British Grenadier’!” Moore called. “Smartly now!”

The drums gave a roll, the fifers found the rhythm and began the sprightly tune. “No man is to fire until I give the command!” Moore said to the company. He walked along the short front rank, then turned to see that the rebels in the Half Moon Battery had scrambled to their feet. They were watching him. He drew his sword and his heart gave a lurch as he heard the long blade scrape in the scabbard’s throat. He was nervous and he was excited and he was frightened and he was elated. Captain Caffrae had positioned himself beside the musicians, ready no doubt to take over command of the company if Moore did the wrong thing. Or if he died, Moore thought, and felt a lump in his throat. He suddenly needed to piss very badly. Oh God, he thought, let me not wet my breeches. He walked towards the company’s right- hand side. “We’re going to drive those scoundrels away,” he said, trying to sound casual. He took post at the right and sloped his sword blade over his shoulder. “Company will advance! By the right! March!”

The fifes played, the drums rattled and the redcoats went at a steady pace to trample down Jacob Dyce’s newly weeded bean patch. The front rank held their muskets low, their bayonets making a line of glinting oiled steel. Guns boomed on the ridge above and other cannons crashed their sound across the harbor, but those conflicts seemed far away. Moore deliberately did not look to his right because he did not want to give the hidden rebels any hint that he knew they were present. He walked towards the Half Moon Battery and the handful of rebels there watched him come. One leveled a musket and fired, the ball flying high. “You’ll hold your fire!” Moore called to his men. “Just drive them away with steel!”

The few rebels backed away. They were outnumbered by the advancing company and their orders were to draw the redcoats on till they could be trapped by McCobb’s two hundred men hidden in the corn and so they retreated across the semicircular rampart and up the slope beyond.

“Steady!” Moore called. He could not resist a quick glance to his right, but nothing moved on that higher ground. Had the rebels abandoned the idea of an ambush? Maybe the Dutchman had been wrong and there were no rebels hidden in the corn. A gun bellowed at the ridgetop to make a sudden cloud of smoke above which white gulls flew like paper scraps in a gale. Moore’s mind was skittering like the gulls. What if there were two hundred rebels? Three hundred? What if the green-coated marines were there?

Then there was a shout from the right, the corn was being trampled, there were more shouts and Lieutenant Moore felt a strange calm. “Company will halt!” he heard himself call. “halt!” He turned his back on the enemy to look at his redcoats. They had kept their dressing and their ranks were orderly and tight. “By the right!” he commanded loudly. “Right wheel! Half!” He stood motionless while the three short ranks swung about like a gate until they faced northwards. Moore turned to look up the slope where, from out of the high corn, a horde of enemies was appearing. Dear God, Moore thought, but there were far more than he had expected. “I want to hear the drum and fifes!” he shouted. “Company will advance! By the right! March!”

And now go straight for them, he thought. No hesitation. If he hesitated then the enemy must smell his fear and that would give them courage. So just march with leveled bayonets and the “British Grenadier” filling the air with its defiance, and the enemy was in no order, just a mass of men appearing from the corn and too far away for a volley to have any effect and so Moore just marched up the slope towards them and the thought flickered through his mind that the enemy was far too numerous and his duty now was to retreat. Was that what McLean would want? Caffrae was offering no advice, and Moore sensed that he did not need to retreat. The enemy had begun to fire their muskets, but the range was still too long. A ball flicked through the grass beside Moore, another whipped overhead. One rebel shot his ramrod by mistake, the long rod circling in the air to fall on the grass. The enemy was obscured by patches of powder smoke that drifted back into the trampled maize, but Moore could see their disorganization. The rebels glanced left and right, looking to see what their friends did before they obeyed their officers’ shrill cries. One man had white hair falling almost to his waist, another was white-bearded, and some looked like schoolboys given muskets. They were plainly nervous.

And suddenly Moore understood that the discipline of his men was a weapon in itself. The rebels, tired and hungry after a long day in the cornfield, were frightened. They did not see fifty equally nervous young men, they saw a red-coated killing machine. They saw confidence. And though they had burst out of the corn they had not charged down the hill, but were now being chivvied into ranks by officers and sergeants. They had made a mistake, Moore thought. They should have charged. Instead he was attacking and they were on the defensive, and it was time to frighten them even more. But not too close, Moore thought. He decided he would not wait till the enemy was inside easy musket range. Get too close and the enemy might realize just how easily his fifty men could be overwhelmed and so, when he gauged he was about eighty paces from the rebels, he called a halt.

“Front rank, kneel!” Moore shouted.

A man in the rear rank fell backwards, his face a sudden blossom of red where a musket-ball had struck his cheek. “Close ranks!” Caffrae called.

“Company!” Moore drew out the last syllable. He was watching the enemy. “Take aim!” The muskets were leveled. The muzzles wavered slightly because the men were not accustomed to aiming while the heavy bayonets hung from the barrels. “Fire!” Moore shouted.

The muskets flamed and smoked. Wadding, shot from the barrels, started small fires in the grass. The volley crashed into rebels and corn. “Company will advance at the double!”

Moore would not waste time reloading. “March!” There were bodies at the corn’s edge. Blood in the evening. A man was crawling back into the high stalks to leave a trickle of blood on the grass. Smoke was thick as fog.

“Bayonets!” Moore shouted. It was not an order, for his men already had fixed bayonets, but rather a word to frighten an already frightened enemy. “Scotland forever!” he shouted, and his men cheered and hurried through the remnants of their own powder smoke. They were driven by drums, defiance, and pride, and the rebels were running. The enemy militia were running back towards the bluff. All of them, like men running a race. Some even threw away their muskets so that they could run faster. No green uniforms, Moore noted. His Scotsmen were whooping, losing cohesion, and Moore wanted them to keep their discipline. “Company will halt,” he shouted, “halt!” His sharp voice checked the redcoats. “Sergeant Mackenzie! Dress the ranks if you please. Let’s at least try to look like His Majesty’s soldiers, and not like His Majesty’s royal ragamuffins!” Moore sounded stern, but he was grinning. He could not help it. His men were grinning too. They knew they had done well and the more experienced among them knew they had been well led. Moore waited for the ranks to be properly formed. “Company will wheel to the left!” he called. “By the left, left wheel, half!”

The Scotsmen were still grinning as they marched about to face the spectators who watched from Dyce’s Head. Distant cheers sounded from Fort George. The slope ahead of Moore was full of rebels who ran, limped, or walked away. The rebel dead or wounded, four men, lay sprawled on the grass. Moore put the point of his sword into the scabbard and thrust the blade home. He gazed up the slope. You bastards want our fort, he thought, then you just bloody well come and take it.

“Congratulations, Moore,” Caffrae said, but for once the courteous Moore did not offer a polite reply. He was in urgent need of something else and so he went to the edge of the Dutchman’s corn, unbuttoned the flap of his breeches and pissed long and hard. The company laughed, and Moore felt happier than he had ever felt. He was a soldier.

Excerpts from General Solomon Lovell’s Proclamation to his troops, August 12th, 1779:

We have now a Portion of our Enterprise to compleat, in which if we are successful, and I am confident we must be, being in superior numbers and having that Liberal Characteristic “Sons of Liberty and Virtue” I again repeat, we must ride triumphant over the rough diabolical Torrent of Slavery, and the Monsters sent to rivet its Chains. . . . Is there a man able to bear Arms in this camp? that would hide his Face in the day of Battle; is there an American of this Character? is there a man so destitute of Honor? . . . Let each man stand by his Officer, and each Officer animated, press forward to the Object in view, then shall we daunt the vaunting Enemy, who wishes to intimidate us by a little Parade, then shall we strike Terror to the Pride of Britain.

From a Despatch to Commodore Saltonstall from the Continental Navy Department, August 12th, 1779:

Our Apprehensions of your danger have ever been from a Reinforcement to the Enemy. You can’t expect to remain much longer without one. . . . It is therefore our orders that as soon as you receive this you take the Most Effectual Measures for the Capture or Destruction of the Enemies Ships and with the greatest dispatch the nature and Situation of things will Admit of.

From an Order In Council, Boston, August 8th, 1779:

Ordered that Thomas Cushing and Samuel Adams Esqrs be a Committee to wait upon the Capt of the French Frigate to know of him whether he should be willing to proceed to Penobscot with his Ship for the purpose of reinforcing the American fleet – who reported that they had waited upon his Excellency the Chevalier De la Luzerne who informed them that he would speak with the Capt of said Frigate and if possible influence his proceeding to Penobscot.

From a report received in Boston, August 9th, 1779:

Gilbert Richmond first Mate, of the Argo – declares that on the 6th Instant, off Marthas Vineyard – he fell in with eight sail of Vessels – supposed to be of force – steering So Et with a view of weathering the S. Shoal of Nantucket – The Commodore carried a poop light. The informant thinks – they were about 40 Miles So of the West end of the Vineyard.

Chapter Twelve

And, suddenly, there was hope.

After the disappointment of the previous day, after the ignominious flight of the militia from an enemy force scarce a quarter its size, there was suddenly a new spirit, a second chance, an expectation of success.

Hoysteed Hacker was the cause. Captain Hacker was the tall naval captain who had captured HMS
Diligent
, and he was rowed ashore at first light and climbed to the clearing in the woods that served as Lovell’s headquarters. “The commodore has vanished,” he told Lovell who was taking breakfast at a trestle table.

“Vanished?” Lovell gazed up at the naval captain. “How do you mean? Vanished?”

“Gone,” Hacker said in his expressionless, deep voice, “vanished. He was with the sailors who were attacked yesterday, and I suppose he was captured.” Hacker paused. “Maybe killed.” He shrugged as if he did not much care.

“Sit down, Captain. Have you eaten?”

“I’ve eaten.”

“Have some tea, at least. Wadsworth, did you hear this news?”

“I just did, sir.”

“Sit, do,” Lovell said. “Filmer? A cup for Captain Hacker.” Wadsworth and Todd were sharing the bench opposite Lovell. Hacker sat beside the general who gazed at the big, impassive naval officer as if he were Gabriel bringing news from heaven. Fog drifted through the high trees. “Dear me,” Lovell finally comprehended the news, “so the commodore is captured?” He did not sound in the least dismayed.

“Or killed,” Hacker said.

“Does that make you the senior naval officer?” Lovell asked.

“It does, sir.”

“How did it happen?” Wadsworth asked, and listened as Hacker described the unexpected attack by the British marines who had driven the sailors southwards from the battery on Haney’s land. The commodore had been separated from the rest who had all made it safely back to the river’s bank south of Cross Island. “So no casualties?” Wadsworth asked.

“None, sir, except perhaps the commodore. He might have been hurt.”

“Or worse,” Lovell said, then added hastily, “pray God it isn’t so.”

“Pray God,” Hacker said equally dutifully.

Lovell flinched as he bit into some twice-baked bread. “But you,” he asked, “you are now in command of the fleet?”

“I reckon so, sir.”

“You’ve taken command of the
Warren
?” Wadsworth asked.

“Not formally, sir, no, but I’m the senior naval officer now, so I’ll move to the
Warren
this morning.”

“Well, if you commmand the fleet,” Lovell said sternly, “I must make a request of you.”

“Sir?” Hacker asked.

“I must ask you, Captain, to attack the enemy shipping.”

“That’s why I came here,” Hacker said stolidly.

“You did?” Lovell seemed surprised.

“Seems to me, sir, we should attack soon. Today.” Hacker pulled a ragged piece of paper from his pocket and spread it on the table. “Can I suggest a method, sir?”

“Please,” Lovell said.

The paper was a pencil-drawn chart of the harbor which marked the enemy’s four ships, though Hacker had put a cross over the hull of the
Saint Helena
, the transport which lay at the southern end of Mowat’s line. She was only there to stop the Americans sailing around Mowat’s flank and her armament of six small guns was too light to be a cause of concern. “We have to attack the three sloops,” Hacker said, “so I propose taking the
Warren
in to attack the
Albany
.” He tapped the chart, indicating the central sloop of Mowat’s three warships. “I’ll be supported by the
General Putnam
and the
Hampden
. They’ll anchor abreast of the
North
and
Nautilus
, sir, and give them fire. The
General Putnam
and
Hampden
will be hit hard, sir, it’s unavoidable, but I believe the
Warren
will crush the
Albany
quickly enough and then we can use our heavy guns to force the surrender of the other two sloops.” Hacker spoke in an expressionless tone which gave the impression of a slow mind, an impression that Wadsworth realized was quite false. Hacker had given the problem a great deal of impressive thought. “Now, sir,” the naval captain continued, “the commodore’s concern was always the fort and its guns. They can plunge shot down into our ships and for all we know they might have heated shot, sir.”

“Heated?” Lovell asked.

“Not a pleasant thought, sir,” Hacker said. “If a red-hot shot lodges in a ship’s timber, sir, it can start a fire. Ships and fire aren’t the best of friends, so I want to keep the enemy’s shots away from the leading ships as far as that’s possible. “I’m proposing that the
Sally, Vengeance, Black Prince, Hector, Monmouth, Sky Rocket,
and
Hunter
should follow us into the harbor and make a line of battle here.” He indicated a dotted line which he had drawn parallel to the harbor’s northern shore. “They can shoot up at the fort, sir. They’ll do little enough damage, but they should distract the enemy gunners, sir, and draw their fire away from the
Warren
, the
General Putnam,
and
Hampden
.”

“This is feasible?” Lovell asked, scarcely daring to believe what he was hearing.

“Tide’s right this afternoon,” Hacker said in a very matter-of-fact voice. “I reckon it will taken an hour and a half to get the first three ships into position and an hour’s work to destroy their sloops. But I’m worried that we’ll have the best part of our fleet in the harbor, sir, and even after we’ve taken the enemy vessels we’ll still be under the cannons in their fort.”

“So you want us to attack the fort?” Wadsworth guessed.

“I think that’s advisable, sir,” Hacker said respectfully, “and I plan to put one hundred marines ashore, sir, to aid your endeavor. Might I suggest they occupy the lower ground with some of your militia?” He put a broad, tar-stained finger on the map, indicating the land between the fort and the British ships.

“Why that ground?” Lovell asked.

“To prevent the enemy’s marines coming ashore from the defeated ships,” Hacker explained, “and if our marines assault the fort from the south, sir, then the rest of your forces can attack from the west.”

“Yes,” Peleg Wadsworth said enthusiastically, “yes!”

Lovell was silent. The fog was too thick to allow any gunner to shoot accurately so the cannons of both sides were quiet. A gull called. Lovell was remembering the shame of the previous day, the sight of McCobb’s militia running away. He flinched at the memory.

“It will be different this time,” Wadsworth said. He had been watching Lovell’s face and had divined the general’s thoughts.

“In what manner?” Lovell asked.

“We’ve never used all our men to attack the fort, sir,” Wadsworth said. “We’ve only attacked the enemy piecemeal. This time we use all our strength! How many cannon will we take into the harbor?” This question was put to Hoysteed Hacker.

“Those ships,” Hacker put a tar-stained finger on his chart, “will carry over two hundred cannon, sir, so say a hundred guns in broadside.”

“A hundred cannon, sir,” Wadsworth said to Lovell. “A hundred cannon filling the harbor! The noise alone will distract the enemy. And the marines, sir, leading the way. We hurl a thousand men against the enemy, all at once!”

“It should get the business done,” Hacker said in much the same tone he might have used to describe striking down a topmast or shifting a ton of ballast.

“A hundred marines,” Lovell said in a plaintive voice that made it clear he would have preferred to have all the marines ashore.

“I need some to board the enemy ships,” Hacker said.

“Of course, of course,” Lovell conceded.

“But the marines are begging for a good fight,” Hacker growled. “They can’t wait to prove themselves. And just as soon as the enemy ships are taken or destroyed, sir, I’ll order the rest of the marines and every sailor I can spare to join your assault.”

“Ships and men, sir,” Wadsworth said, “fighting as one.”

Lovell’s gaze flicked uncertainly between Wadsworth and Hacker. “And you think it can be done?” he asked the naval captain.

“Soon as the tide floods,” Hacker, said, “which it will this afternoon.”

“Then let it be done!” Lovell decided. He planted both fists on the table. “Let us finish the job! Let us take our victory!”

“Sir? Captain Hacker, sir?” A midshipman appeared at the edge of the clearing. “Sir?”

“Boy!” Hacker acknowledged the breathless lad. “What is it?”

“Commodore Saltonstall’s compliments, sir, and will you return to the
Providence
, sir.”

The men at the table all stared at the boy. “Commodore Saltonstall?” Lovell eventually broke the silence.

“He was discovered this morning, sir.”

“Discovered?” Lovell asked in a hollow voice.

“On the riverbank, sir!” The midshipman appeared to believe he had brought good news. “He’s safe on board the
Warren
, sir.”

“Tell him . . .” Lovell said, then could not think what he wanted to say to Saltonstall.

“Sir?”

“Nothing, lad, nothing.”

Hoysteed Hacker slowly crumpled the hand-drawn chart and tossed it onto the campfire. The first gun of the new day fired.

Lieutenant John Moore, paymaster to His Majesty’s 82nd Regiment of Foot, knocked nervously on the house door. A cat watched him from the log pile. Three chickens, carefully penned by laced withies, clucked at him. In the garden of the next door house, the one nearer the harbor, a woman beat a rug that was hanging from a line suspended between two trees. She watched him as suspiciously as the cat. Moore raised his hat to the woman, but she turned away from the courtesy and beat dust from the rug even more energetically. A gun fired from the fort, its sound muffled by the trees surrounding the small log houses.

Bethany Fletcher opened the door. She was wearing a shabby brown dress beneath a white apron on which she wiped her hands, which were red from scrubbing clothes. Her hair was disarrayed and John Moore thought she was beautiful. “Lieutenant,” she said in surprise, blinking in the daylight.

“Miss Fletcher,” Moore said, bowing and removing his hat.

“You bring news?” Beth asked, suddenly anxious.

“No,” Moore said, “no news. I brought you this.” He held a basket towards her. “It’s from General McLean, with his compliments.” The basket contained a ham, a small bag of salt, and a bottle of wine.

“Why?” Beth asked, without taking the gift.

“The general is fond of you,” Moore said. He had discovered the courage to face four times as many rebels as the men he led, but he had no courage to add “as am I.” “He knows life is hard for you and your mother, Miss Fletcher,” he explained instead, “especially with your brother absent.”

“Yes,” Beth said, but still did not take the proffered gift. She had never refused the simpler rations offered by the garrison to the inhabitants of Majabigwaduce, the flour, salted beef, dried peas, rice, and spruce beer, but McLean’s generosity embarrassed her. She walked a few paces further from the house so that her neighbor could see her clearly. She wanted to give no excuse for any gossip.

“The wine is port wine,” Moore said. “Have you ever tasted port wine?”

“No,” Beth said, flustered.

“It is stronger than claret,” Moore said, “and sweeter. The general is fond of it. He served in Portugal and acquired a taste for the wine which is said to be a tonic. My father is a doctor and he frequently prescribes port wine. Can I put it here?” Moore placed the basket on the threshold of the house. Inside, beyond an open inner door, he had a glimpse of Beth’s mother. Her face was sunken, still and white, her open mouth dark, and her hair straggling white on a pillow. She looked like a corpse and Moore turned away quickly. “There,” he said, for lack of anything else to say.

Beth shook her head. “I cannot accept the gift, Lieutenant,” she said.

“Of course you can, Miss Fletcher,” Moore said with a smile.

“The general would not . . .” Beth began, then evidently thought better of whatever she had been about to say and checked herself. She brushed away a stray lock of hair and tucked it under her cap. She looked anywhere but at Moore.

“General McLean would be hurt if you refused the gift,” Moore said.

“I’m grateful to him,” Beth said, “but . . .” Again she fell silent. She took a thimble from the pocket of her apron and turned it in her fingers. She shrugged. “But . . .” she said again, still not looking at Moore.

“But your brother fights for the rebels,” Moore said.

She turned her eyes on him, and those eyes widened with surprise. Blue eyes, Moore noted, blue eyes of extraordinary vitality. “The general knows?” she asked.

“That your brother fights for the rebels? Yes, of course he knows,” Moore said with a reassuring smile. He stooped and recovered the thimble which had fallen from her hands. He held it out to her, but Beth made no move to take it and so, very deliberately, he placed it in the basket. Beth turned to look at the harbor through the trees. The fog was gone and Majabigwaduce’s water sparkled beneath a summer sun. She stayed silent. “Miss Fletcher’” Moore began.

“No!” she interrupted him. “No, I can’t accept.”

“It is a gift,” Moore said, “nothing more, nothing less.”

Beth bit her lower lip, then turned defiantly back to the red-coated lieutenant. “I wanted James to join the rebels,” she said, “I encouraged him! I carried news of your guns and men to Captain Brewer! I betrayed you! Do you think the general would offer me a gift if he knew I’d done all that? Do you?”

“Yes,” Moore said.

That answer startled her. She seemed to crumple and crossed to the log pile where she sat and absentmindedly stroked the cat. “I didn’t know what to think when you all came here,” she said. “It was exciting at first.” She paused, thinking. “It was new and different, but then there were just too many uniforms here. This is our home, not yours. You took our home away from us.” She looked at him for the first time since she had sat down. “You took our home away from us,” she said again.

“I’m sorry,” Moore said, not knowing what else to say.