Читать книгу The Fort - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 14

THREE

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On Sunday, 18th July, 1779, Peleg Wadsworth worshipped at Christ Church on Salem Street where the rector was the Reverend Stephen Lewis who, until two years before, had been a British army chaplain. The rector had been captured with the rest of the defeated British army at Saratoga, yet in captivity he had changed his allegiance and sworn an oath of loyalty to the United States of America, which meant his congregation this summer Sunday was swollen by towns-folk curious about how he would preach when his adopted country was about to launch an expedition against his former comrades. The Reverend Lewis chose his text from the Book of Daniel. He related the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, the three men who had been hurled into King Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace and who, by God’s saving grace, had survived the flames. For an hour or more Wadsworth wondered how the scripture was relevant to the military preparations that obsessed Boston, and even whether some ancient lingering loyalty was making the rector ambivalent, but then the Reverend Lewis moved to his final peroration. He told how all the king’s men had assembled to watch the execution and instead they saw that ‘the fire had no power’. ‘The king’s men,’ the rector repeated fiercely, ‘saw that “the fire had no power!” There is God’s promise, in the twenty-seventh verse of the third chapter of Daniel! The fire set by the king’s men had no power!’ The Reverend Lewis stared directly at Wadsworth as he repeated the last two words, ‘no power!’, and Wadsworth thought of the redcoats waiting at Majabigwaduce and prayed that their fire would indeed have no power. He thought of the ships lying at anchor in Boston’s harbour, he thought of the militia who were assembling at Townsend where the ships would rendezvous with the troops, and he prayed again that the enemy’s fire would prove impotent.

After the service Wadsworth shook a multitude of hands and received the good wishes of many in the congregation, but he did not leave the church. Instead he waited beneath the organ loft until he was alone, then he went back up the aisle, opened a box pew at random, and knelt on a hassock newly embroidered with the flag of the United States. Around the flag were stitched the words ‘God Watcheth Over Us’ and Wadsworth prayed that was true, and prayed that God would watch over his family whom he named one by one: Elizabeth, his dear wife, then Alexander, Charles and Zilpha. He prayed that the campaign against the British in Majabigwaduce would be brief and successful. Brief because Elizabeth’s next child was due within five or six weeks and he was afraid for her and wanted to be with her when the baby was born. He prayed for the men whom he would lead into battle. He mouthed the prayer, the words a half-formed murmur, but each one distinct and fervent in his spirit. The cause is just, he told God, and men must die for it, and he begged God to receive those men into their new heavenly home, and he prayed for the widows who must be made and the orphans who would be left. ‘And if it please you, God,’ he said in a slightly louder voice, ‘let not Elizabeth be widowed, and permit my children to grow with a father in their house.’ He wondered how many other such prayers were being offered this Sunday morning.

‘General Wadsworth, sir?’ a tentative voice spoke behind him.

Wadsworth turned to see a tall, slim young man in a dark green uniform coat crossed by a white belt. The young man looked anxious, worried perhaps that he had disturbed Wadsworth’s devotions. He had dark hair that was bound into a short, thick pigtail. For a moment Wadsworth supposed the man had been sent to him with orders, then the memory of a much younger boy flooded his mind and the memory allowed him to recognize the man. ‘William Dennis!’ Wadsworth said with real pleasure. He did some quick addition in his head and realized Dennis must now be nineteen years old. ‘It was eight years ago we last met!’

‘I hoped you’d recollect me, sir,’ Dennis said, pleased.

‘Of course I remember you!’ Wadsworth reached across the box pew to shake the young man’s hand, ‘and remember you well!’

‘I heard you were here, sir,’ Dennis said, ‘so took the liberty of seeking you out.’

‘I’m glad!’

‘And you’re a general now, sir.’

‘A leap from school-mastering, is it not?’ Wadsworth said wryly, ‘and you?’

‘A lieutenant in the Continental Marines, sir.’

‘I congratulate you.’

‘And bound for Penobscot, sir, as are you.’

‘You’re on the Warren?’

‘I am, sir, but posted to the Vengeance.’ The Vengeance was one of the privateers, a twenty-gun ship.

‘Then we shall share a victory,’ Wadsworth said. He opened the pew door and gestured towards the street. ‘Will you walk with me to the harbour?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘You attended service, I hope?’

‘The Reverend Frobisher preached at West Church,’ Dennis said, ‘and I wanted to hear him.’

‘You don’t sound impressed,’ Wadsworth said, amused.

‘He chose a text from the Sermon on the Mount,’ Dennis said, ‘“He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.”’

‘Ah!’ Wadsworth said with a grimace. ‘Was he saying that God is not on our side? If so, it sounds dispiriting.’

‘He was assuring us, sir, that the revealed truths of our faith cannot depend on the outcome of a battle, a campaign or even a war. He said we cannot know God’s will, sir, except for that part which illuminates our conscience.’

‘I suppose that’s true,’ Wadsworth allowed.

‘And he said war is the devil’s business, sir.’

‘That’s certainly true,’ Wadsworth said as they left the church, ‘but hardly an apt sermon for a town about to send its men to war?’ He closed the church door and saw that the wind-driven drizzle that had blown him uphill from the harbour had lifted and the sky was clearing itself of high, scudding clouds. He walked with Dennis towards the water, wondering when the fleet would leave. Commodore Saltonstall had given the order to set sail on the previous Thursday, but had postponed the departure because the wind had risen to a gale strong enough to part ships’ cables. But the great fleet must sail soon. It would go eastwards, towards the enemy, towards the devil’s business.

He glanced at Dennis. He had grown into a handsome young man. His dark green coat was faced with white and his white breeches piped with green. He wore a straight sword in a leather scabbard trimmed with silver oak leaves. ‘I have never understood,’ Wadsworth said, ‘why the marines wear green. Wouldn’t blue be more, well, marine?’

‘I’m told that the only cloth that was available in Philadelphia, sir, was green.’

‘Ah! That thought never occurred to me. How are your parents?’

‘Very well, sir, thank you,’ Dennis said enthusiastically. ‘They’ll be pleased to know I met you.’

‘Send them my respects,’ Wadsworth said. He had taught William Dennis to read and to write, he had taught him grammar in both Latin and English, but then the family had moved to Connecticut and Wadsworth had lost touch. He remembered Dennis well, though. He had been a bright boy, alert and mischievous, but never malevolent. ‘I beat you once, didn’t I?’ he asked.

‘Twice, sir,’ Dennis said with a grin, ‘and I deserved both punishments.’

‘That was never a duty I enjoyed,’ Wadsworth said.

‘But necessary?’

‘Oh, indeed.’

‘Their conversation was constantly interrupted by men who wished to shake their hands and wish them success against the British. ‘Give them hell, General,’ one man said, a sentiment echoed by everyone who accosted the pair. Wadsworth smiled, shook offered hands and finally escaped the well-wishers by entering the Bunch of Grapes, a tavern close to Long Wharf. ‘I think God will forgive us for crossing a tavern threshold on the Sabbath day,’ he said.

‘It’s more like the army’s headquarters these days,’ Dennis said, amused. The tavern was crowded with men in uniforms, many of whom were gathered by a wall where notices had been tacked, so many notices that they overlapped each other. Some offered bounties to men willing to serve on privateers, others had been put there by Solomon Lovell’s staff.

‘We’re to sleep aboard the ships tonight!’ a man shouted, then saw Wadsworth. ‘Is that because we’re sailing tomorrow, General?’

‘I hope so,’ Wadsworth said, ‘but make sure you’re all aboard by nightfall.’

‘Can I bring her?’ the man asked. He had his arm around one of the tavern’s whores, a pretty young red-haired girl who already looked drunk.

Wadsworth ignored the question, instead leading Dennis to an empty table at the back of the room, which was alive with conversation, hope and optimism. A burly man in a salt-stained sailor’s coat stood and thumped a table with his fist. He raised a tankard when the room had fallen silent. ‘Here’s to victory at Bagaduce!’ he shouted. ‘Death to the Tories, and to the day when we carry fat George’s head through Boston on the point of a bayonet!’

‘Much is expected of us,’ Wadsworth said when the cheers had ended.

‘King George might not oblige us with his head,’ Dennis said, amused, ‘but I’m sure we shall not disappoint the other expectations.’ He waited as Wadsworth ordered oyster stew and ale. ‘Did you know that folk are buying shares in the expedition?’

‘Shares?’

‘The privateer owners, sir, are selling the plunder they expect to take. I assume you haven’t invested?’

‘I was never a speculator,’ Wadsworth said. ‘How does it work?’

‘Well, Captain Thomas of the Vengeance, sir, expects to capture fifteen hundred pounds’ worth of plunder, and he’s offering a hundred shares in that expectation for fifteen pounds apiece.’

‘Good Lord! And what if he doesn’t capture fifteen hundred pounds’ worth of material?’

‘Then the speculators lose, sir.’

‘I suppose they must, yes. And people are buying?’

‘Many! I believe the Vengeance’s shares are trading upwards of twenty-two pounds each now.’

‘What a world we live in,’ Wadsworth said, amused. ‘Tell me,’ he pushed the jug of ale towards Dennis, ‘what you were doing before you joined the marines?’

‘I was studying, sir.’

‘Harvard?’

‘Yale.’

‘Then I didn’t beat you nearly often enough or hard enough,’ Wadsworth said.

Dennis laughed. ‘My ambition is the law.’

‘A noble ambition.’

‘I hope so, sir. When the British are defeated I shall go back to my studies.’

‘I see you carry them with you,’ Wadsworth said, nodding towards a book-shaped lump in the tail of the lieutenant’s coat, ‘or is that the scriptures?’

‘Beccaria, sir,’ Dennis said, pulling the book out of his tail pocket. ‘I’m reading him for pleasure, or should I say enlightenment?’

‘Both, I hope. I’ve heard of him,’ Wadsworth said, ‘and very much want to read him.’

‘You’ll permit me to lend you the book when I’ve finished it?’

‘That would be kind,’ Wadsworth said. He opened the book, On Crimes and Punishments by Cesare Beccaria, newly translated from the Italian, and he saw the minutely written pencilled notes on the margins of almost every page, and he thought how sad it was that a sterling young man like Dennis should need to go to war. Then he thought that though the rain might indeed fall on the just and unjust alike, it was unthinkable that God would allow decent men who fought in a noble cause to lose. That was a comforting reflection. ‘Doesn’t Beccaria have strange ideas?’ he asked.

‘He believes judicial execution is both wrong and ineffective, sir.’

‘Really?’

‘He argues the case cogently, sir.’

‘He’ll need to!’

They ate, and afterwards walked the few paces to the harbour where the ships’ masts made a forest. Wadsworth looked for the sloop that would carry him to battle, but he could not make the Sally out amongst the tangle of hulls and masts and rigging. A gull cried overhead, a dog ran along the wharf with a cod’s head in its mouth and a legless beggar shuffled towards him. ‘Wounded at Saratoga, sir,’ the beggar said and Wadsworth handed the man a shilling.

‘Can I hail you a boat, sir?’ Dennis asked.

‘That would be kind.’

Peleg Wadsworth gazed at the fleet and remembered his morning prayers. There was so much confidence in Boston, so much hope and so many expectations, but war, he knew from experience, truly was the devil’s business.

And it was time to go to war.

‘This is not seemly,’ Doctor Calef said.

Brigadier McLean, standing beside the doctor, ignored the protest.

‘It is not seemly!’ Calef said louder.

‘It is necessary,’ Brigadier McLean retorted in a tone harsh enough to startle the doctor. The troops had worshipped in the open air that Sunday morning, the Scottish voices singing strongly in the blustery wind that fetched slaps of rain to dapple the harbour. The Reverend Campbell, the 82nd’s chaplain, had preached from a text in Isaiah: ‘In that day the Lord with his sore and great and strong sword shall punish Leviathan,’ a text that McLean accepted was relevant, but he wondered whether he had a sword strong and great and sore enough to punish the troops he knew would surely come to dislodge him. The rain was falling more steadily now, drenching the ridgetop where the fort was being made and where the two regiments paraded in a hollow square. ‘These men are new to war,’ McLean explained to Calef, ‘and most have never seen a battle, so they need to learn the consequences of disobedience.’ He walked towards the square’s centre where a Saint Andrew’s cross had been erected. A young man, stripped to the waist, was tied to the cross with his back exposed to the wind and rain.

A sergeant pushed a folded strip of leather between the young man’s teeth. ‘Bite on that, boy, and take your punishment like a man.’

McLean raised his voice so that every soldier could hear him. ‘Private Macintosh attempted to desert. In so doing he broke his oath to his king, to his country and to God. For that he will be punished, as will any man here who tries to follow his example.’

‘I don’t care if he’s punished,’ Calef said when the brigadier rejoined him, ‘but must it be done on the Lord’s day? Can it not wait till tomorrow?’

‘No,’ McLean said, ‘it cannot.’ He nodded to the sergeant. ‘Do your duty.’

Two drummer boys would do the whipping while a third beat the strokes on his drum. Private Macintosh had been caught trying to sneak across the low, marshy neck that joined Majabigwaduce to the mainland. That was the only route off the peninsula, unless a man stole a boat or, at a pinch, swam across the harbour, and McLean had placed a picquet in the trees close to the neck. They had brought Macintosh back and he had been sentenced to two hundred lashes, the severest punishment McLean had ever ordered, but he had few enough men as it was and he needed to deter others from desertion.

Desertion was a problem. Most men were content enough, but there were always a few who saw the promise of a better existence in the vastness of North America. Life here was a great deal easier than in the Highlands of Scotland, and Macintosh had made his run and now he would be punished.

‘One!’ the sergeant called.

‘Lay it on hard,’ McLean told the two drummer boys, ‘you’re not here to tickle him.’

‘Two!’

McLean let his mind wander as the leather whips criss-crossed the man’s back. He had seen many floggings in his years of service, and had ordered executions too, because floggings and executions were the enforcers of duty. He saw many of the soldiers staring aghast at the sight, so the punishment was probably working. McLean did not enjoy punishment parades, no one in his right mind would, but they were unavoidable and, with luck, Macintosh would reform into a decent soldier.

And what Leviathan, McLean wondered, would Macintosh have to fight? A schooner captained by a loyalist had put into Majabigwaduce a week before with a report that the rebels in Boston were assembling a fleet and an army. ‘We were told there were forty or more ships coming your way, sir,’ the schooner’s captain had told him, ‘and they’re gathering upwards of three thousand men.’

Maybe that was true and maybe not. The schooner’s captain had not visited Boston, just heard a rumour in Nantucket, and rumour, McLean knew, could inflate a company into a battalion and a battalion into an army. Nevertheless he had taken the information seriously enough to send the schooner back southwards with a despatch to Sir Henry Clinton in New York. The despatch merely said that McLean expected to be attacked soon and could not hold out without reinforcements. Why, he wondered, had he been given so few men and ships? If the crown wanted this piece of country, then why not send an adequate force? ‘Thirty-eight!’ the sergeant shouted. There was blood on Macintosh’s back now, blood diluted by rain, but still enough blood to trickle down and darken the waistband of his kilt. ‘Thirty-nine,’ the sergeant bellowed, ‘and lay it on hard!’

McLean resented the time this punishment parade stole from his preparations. He knew time was short and the fort was nowhere near completed. The trench about the four walls was scarcely two feet deep, the ramparts themselves not much higher. It was an excuse for a fort, a pathetic little earthwork, and he needed both men and time. He had offered wages to any civilian who was willing to work and, when insufficient men came forward, he sent patrols to impress labour.

‘Sixty-one!’ the sergeant shouted. Macintosh was whimpering now, the sound stifled by the leather gag. He shifted his weight and blood squelched in one shoe, then spilt over the shoe’s edge.

‘He’ll not take much more,’ Calef growled. Calef was replacing the battalion surgeon who was sick with a fever.

‘Keep going!’ McLean said.

‘You want to kill him?’

‘I want the battalion,’ McLean said, ‘to be more frightened of the lash than of the enemy.’

‘Sixty-two!’ the sergeant shouted.

‘Tell me,’ McLean suddenly turned on the doctor, ‘why is the rumour being spread that I plan to hang any civilian who supports the rebellion?’

Calef looked uncomfortable. He flinched as the whipped man whimpered again, then looked defiantly at the general. ‘To persuade such disaffected people to leave the region, of course. You don’t want rebels lurking in the woods hereabouts.’

‘Nor do I want a reputation as a hangman! We did not come here to persecute folk, but to persuade them to return to their proper allegiance. I would be grateful, Doctor, if a counter-rumour was propagated. That I have no intentions of hanging any man, rebel or not.’

‘God’s blood, man, I can see bone!’ the doctor protested, ignoring McLean’s strictures. The whimpers had become moans. McLean saw that the drummer boys were using less strength now, not because their arms were weakening, but out of pity, and neither he nor the sergeant corrected them.

McLean stopped the punishment at a hundred lashes. ‘Cut him down, Sergeant,’ he ordered, ‘and carry him to the doctor’s house.’ He turned away from the bloody mess on the cross. ‘Any of you who follow Macintosh’s example will follow him here! Now dismiss the men to their duties.’

The civilians who had volunteered or been conscripted for labour trudged up the hill. One man, tall and gaunt, with wild dark hair and angry eyes pushed his way past McLean’s aides to confront the general. ‘You will be punished for this!’ the man snarled.

‘For what?’ McLean enquired.

‘For working on the Sabbath!’ the man said. He towered over McLean. ‘In all my days I have never worked on the Sabbath, never! You make me a sinner!’

McLean held his temper. A dozen or so other men had paused and were watching the gaunt man, and McLean suspected they would join the protest and refuse to desecrate a Sunday by working if he yielded. ‘So why will you not work on a Sunday, sir?’ McLean asked.

‘It is the Lord’s day, and we are commanded to keep it holy.’ The man jabbed a finger at the brigadier, stopping just short of striking McLean’s chest. ‘It is God’s commandment!’

‘And Christ commanded that you render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,’ McLean retorted, ‘and today Caesar demands you make a rampart. But I will accommodate you, sir, I will accommodate you by not paying you. Work is paid labour, but today you will freely offer me your assistance which, sir, is a Christian act.’

‘I will not …’ the man began.

‘Lieutenant Moore!’ McLean raised his blackthorn stick to summon the lieutenant, though the gesture looked threatening and the gaunt man took a backwards step. ‘Call back the drummer boys!’ McLean called, ‘I need another man whipped!’ He turned his gaze back to the man. ‘You either assist me, sir,’ he said quietly, ‘or I shall scourge you.’

The tall man glanced at the empty Saint Andrew’s cross. ‘I shall pray for your destruction,’ he promised, but the fire had gone from his voice. He gave McLean a last defiant look, then turned away.

The civilians worked. They raised the wall of the fort another foot by laying logs along the low earthen berm. Some men cut down more trees, opening fields of fire for the fort, while others used picks and shovels to sink a well in the fort’s north-eastern bastion. McLean ordered one long spruce trunk to be trimmed and stripped of its bark, then a sailor from the Albany attached a small pulley to the narrow end of the trunk and a long line was rove through the pulley’s block. A deep hole was hacked in the south-western bastion and the spruce trunk was raised as a flagpole. Soldiers packed the hole with stones and, when the pole was reckoned to be stable, McLean ordered the union flag to be hauled into the damp sky. ‘We shall call this place …’ he paused as the wind caught the flag and stretched it into the cloud-shrouded daylight. ‘Fort George,’ McLean said tentatively, as if testing the name. He liked it. ‘Fort George,’ he announced firmly and took off his hat. ‘God save the King!’

Highlanders of the 74th started on a smaller earthwork, a gun emplacement, which they made close to the shore and facing the harbour mouth. The soil was easier near the beach and they swiftly threw up a crescent of earth that they re inforced with stones and logs. Other logs were split to make platforms for the cannon that would face the harbour mouth. A similar battery was being constructed on Cross Island so that an enemy ship, daring the harbour mouth, would face Captain Mowat’s three broadsides and artillery fire from the bastions on either side of the entrance.

The rain lifted and fog drifted over the wide river reach. The new flag flew bright above Majabigwaduce, but for how long, McLean wondered, for how long?

Monday dawned fine in Boston. The wind came from the south west and the sky was clear. ‘The glass rises,’ Commodore Saltonstall announced to General Solomon Lovell on board the Continental frigate Warren. ‘We shall sail, General.’

‘And God grant us a fair voyage and a triumphant return,’ Lovell answered.

‘Amen,’ Saltonstall said grudgingly, then snapped out orders that signals should be made ordering the fleet to raise anchor and follow the flagship out of the harbour.

Solomon Lovell, almost fifty years old, towered over the Commodore. Lovell was a farmer, a legislator and a patriot, and it was reckoned in Massachusetts that Solomon Lovell had been well named for he enjoyed a reputation as a wise, judicious and sensible man. His neighbours in Weymouth had elected him to the Assembly in Boston where he was well-liked because, in a fractious legislature, Lovell was a peace-maker. He possessed an unquenchable optimism that fairness and the willingness to see another man’s point of view would bring mutual prosperity, while his height and strong build, the latter earned by years of hard labour on his farm, added to the impression of utter dependability. His face was long and firm-jawed, while his eyes crinkled with easy amusement. His thick dark hair greyed at the temples, giving him a most distinguished appearance, and so it was no wonder that his fellow lawmakers had seen fit to give Solomon Lovell high rank in the Massachusetts Militia. Lovell, they reckoned, could be trusted. A few malcontents grumbled that his military experience was next to nothing, but Lovell’s supporters, and they were many, believed Solomon Lovell was just the man for the task. He got things done. And his lack of experience was offset by his deputy, Peleg Wadsworth, who had fought under General Washington’s command, and by Commodore Saltonstall, the naval commander, who was an even more experienced officer. Lovell would never be short of expert advice to hone his solid judgement.

The great anchor cable inched on board. The sailors at the capstan were chanting as they tramped round and round. ‘Here’s a rope!’ a bosun shouted.

‘To hang the Pope!’ the men responded.

‘And a chunk of cheese!’

‘To choke him!’

Lovell smiled approvingly, then strolled to the stern rail where he stared at the fleet, marvelling that Massachusetts had assembled so many ships so quickly. Lying closest to the Warren was a brig, the Diligent, that had been captured from Britain’s Royal Navy, and beyond her was a sloop, the Providence, which had captured her, both vessels with twelve guns and both belonging to the Continental Navy. Anchored behind them, and flying the pine-tree flag of the Massachusetts Navy, were two brigs, the Tyrannicide and Hazard, and a brigantine, the Active. All were armed with fourteen cannon and, like the Warren, were now fully manned because the General Court and the Board of War had given permission for press gangs to take sailors from Boston’s taverns and from merchant vessels in the harbour.

The Warren, with its eighteen-pounder and twelve-pounder cannon, was the most powerful ship in the fleet, but a further seven ships could all match or outgun any one of the three British sloops that were reported to be waiting at Majabigwaduce. Those seven ships were all privateers. The Hector and the Hunter carried eighteen guns apiece, while Charming Sally, General Putnam, Black Prince, Monmouth and Vengeance carried twenty guns each. There were smaller privateers too, like the Sky Rocket with her sixteen guns. In all, eighteen warships would sail to Majabigwaduce and those vessels mounted more than three hundred cannon, while the twenty-one transport ships would carry the men, the supplies, the guns and the fervent hopes of Massachusetts. Lovell was proud of his state. It had made up the deficiencies in the supplies, and the ships now carried enough food to feed sixteen hundred men for two months. Why, there were six tons of flour alone! Six tons!

Lovell, thinking of the extraordinary efforts that had been made to provision the expedition, slowly became aware that men were shouting at the Warren from other ships. The anchor was still not raised, but the bosun ordered the seamen to stop their chant and their work. It seemed the fleet would not leave after all. Commodore Saltonstall, who had been standing by the frigate’s wheel, turned and paced back to Lovell. ‘It appears,’ the commodore said sourly, ‘that the commander of your artillery is not aboard his ship.’

‘He must be,’ Lovell said.

‘Must?’

‘The orders were plain. Officers were to be aboard last night.’

‘The Samuel reports that Colonel Revere is not on board. So what shall we do, General?’

Lovell was startled by the question. He had thought he was being given information, not being asked to make a decision. He stared across the sun-sparkling water as though the distant Samuel, a brig that was carrying the expedition’s cannon, might suggest an answer.

‘Well?’ Saltonstall pressed, ‘do we sail without him and his officers?’

‘His officers?’ Lovell asked.

‘It transpires,’ Saltonstall appeared to relish delivering the bad news, ‘that Colonel Revere allowed his officers to spend a last night ashore.’

‘Ashore?’ Lovell asked, astonished, then stared again at the distant brig. ‘We need Colonel Revere,’ he said.

‘We do?’ Saltonstall asked sarcastically.

‘Oh, a good officer!’ Lovell said enthusiastically. ‘He was one of the men who rode to warn Concord and Lexington. Doctor Warren, God rest his soul, sent them, and this ship is named for Doctor Warren, is it not?’

‘Is it?’ Saltonstall asked carelessly.

‘A very great patriot, Doctor Warren,’ Lovell said feelingly.

‘And how does that affect Colonel Revere’s absence?’ Saltonstall asked bluntly.

‘It,’ Lovell began and realized he had no idea what he could answer, and so he straightened and squared his shoulders. ‘We shall wait,’ he announced firmly.

‘We shall wait!’ Saltonstall called to his officers. He began pacing his quarter-deck again, starboard to larboard and larboard to starboard, occasionally shooting a malevolent look at Lovell as though the general were personally responsible for the missing officer. Lovell found the commodore’s hostility uncomfortable and so turned to stare at the fleet again. Many ships had loosed their topsails and men now scrambled along the yards to furl the canvas.

‘General Lovell?’ a new voice disturbed him and Lovell turned to see a tall marine officer whose sudden presence made the general take an involuntary step backwards. There was an intensity in the marine’s face, and a ferocity, that made the face formidable. Just to see this man was to be impressed. He was even taller than Lovell, who was not a short man, and he had broad shoulders that strained the green cloth of his uniform jacket. He was holding his hat respectfully, revealing black hair that was cropped short over most of his scalp, but that he had allowed to grow long at the back so he could wear a short pigtail that was hardened with tar. ‘My name is Welch, sir,’ the marine said in a voice deep enough to match his hard face, ‘Captain John Welch of the Continental Marines.’

‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Welch,’ Lovell said, and that was true. If a man must sail into battle then he would pray to have a man like Welch at his side. The hilt of Welch’s sabre was worn down by use and, like its owner, seemed made for the efficient use of pure violence.

‘I’ve spoken to the commodore, sir,’ Welch said very formally, ‘and he gave his consent that my men should be at your disposal when not required for naval duties.’

‘That’s most encouraging,’ Lovell said.

‘Two hundred and twenty-seven marines, sir, fit for duty. Good men, sir.’

‘I’ve no doubt.’

‘Well-trained,’ Welch went on, his unblinking gaze fixed on Lovell’s eyes, ‘and well-disciplined.’

‘A most valuable addition to our force,’ Lovell said, unsure what else he could say.

‘I want to fight, sir,’ Welch said, as if he suspected Lovell might not use his marines.

‘I am confident the opportunity will come,’ Lovell said uneasily.

‘I hope so, sir,’ Welch said, then at last turned his gaze away from the general and nodded towards a fine-looking ship, the General Putnam, one of four privateers that had been commandeered by the Massachusetts Navy because their owners had baulked at volunteering their craft. The General Putnam carried twenty cannons, all of them nine-pounders, and she was reckoned one of the finest ships on the New England coast. ‘We put a score of marines on the Putnam, sir,’ Welch said, ‘and they’re led by Captain Carnes. You know him, sir?’

‘I know John Carnes,’ Lovell said, ‘he captains the Hector.’

‘This is his brother, sir, and a fine officer. He served under General Washington as a captain of artillery.’

‘A fine posting,’ Lovell said, ‘yet he left it for the marines?’

‘Captain Carnes prefers to see men up close as he kills them, sir,’ Welch said evenly, ‘but he knows his artillery, sir. He’s a very competent gunner.’

Lovell understood immediately that Saltonstall had despatched Welch with the news, implicitly suggesting that Colonel Revere could be left behind and replaced by Captain Carnes, and Lovell bristled at the suggestion. ‘We need Colonel Revere and his officers,’ he said.

‘I never suggested otherwise, sir,’ Welch said, ‘merely that Captain Carnes has an expertise that might be useful to you.’

Lovell felt acutely uncomfortable. He sensed that Welch had little faith in the militia and was trying to stiffen Lovell’s force with the professionalism of his marines, but Lovell was determined that Massachusetts should reap the credit for the expulsion of the British. ‘I’m sure Colonel Revere knows his business,’ Lovell said stoutly. Welch did not reply to that, but stared at Lovell who again felt disconcerted by the intensity of the gaze. ‘Of course, any advice Captain Carnes has … ’ Lovell said, and let his voice tail away.

‘I just wanted you to know we have an artilleryman in the marines, sir,’ Welch said, then stepped a pace back and offered Lovell a salute.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Lovell said, and felt relieved when the huge marine strode away.

The minutes passed. The church clocks in Boston struck the hour, the quarters and then the hour again. Major William Todd, one of the expedition’s two brigade majors, brought the general a mug of tea. ‘Newly made in the galley, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

‘The leaves captured by the brig King-Killer, sir,’ Todd said, sipping his own tea.

‘It’s kind of the enemy to supply us with tea,’ Lovell said lightly.

‘Indeed it is, sir,’ Todd said and then, after a pause, ‘So Mister Revere is delaying us?’

Lovell knew of the antipathy between Todd and Revere and did his best to defuse whatever was in the major’s mind. Todd was a good man, meticulous and hard-working, but somewhat unbending. ‘I’m sure Lieutenant-Colonel Revere has very good cause to be absent,’ he said firmly.

‘He always does,’ Todd said. ‘In all the time he commanded Castle Island I doubt he spent a single night there. Mister Revere, sir, likes the comfort of his wife’s bed.’

‘Don’t we all?’

Todd brushed a speck of lint from his blue uniform coat. ‘He told General Wadsworth that he supplied rations for Major Fellows’ men.’

‘I’m certain he had cause for that.’

‘Fellows died of the fever last August,’ Todd then stepped a pace back in deference to the approach of the commodore.

Saltonstall glowered again at Lovell from beneath the peak of his cocked hat. ‘If your damned fellow isn’t coming,’ Saltonstall said, ‘then perhaps we might be allowed to get on with this damned war without him?’

‘I’m sure Colonel Revere will be here very soon,’ Lovell said emolliently, ‘or we shall receive news of him. A messenger has been sent ashore, Commodore.’

Saltonstall grunted and walked away. Major Todd frowned at the retreating commodore. ‘He takes after his mother’s side of the family, I think. The Saltonstalls are usually most agreeable folk.’

Lovell was saved from responding by a hail from the brig Diligent. Colonel Revere, it seemed, had been sighted. He and three other officers were being rowed in the smart white-painted barge that served Castle Island, and the sternsheets of the barge, which was being rowed by a dozen blue-shirted men, were heaped high with baggage. Colonel Revere sat just forrard of the baggage and, as the barge came close to the Warren on its way to the brig Samuel, Revere waved up at Lovell. ‘God speed us, General!’ he shouted.

‘Where have you been?’ Lovell called sharply.

‘A last night with the family, General!’ Revere shouted happily, and then was out of earshot.

‘A last night with the family?’ Todd asked in wonderment.

‘He must have misunderstood my orders,’ Lovell said uncomfortably.

‘I think you will discover, sir,’ Todd said, ‘that Colonel Revere misunderstands all orders that are not to his liking.’

‘He’s a patriot, Major,’ Lovell reproved, ‘a fine patriot!’

It took more time for the fine patriot’s baggage to be hoisted aboard the brig, then the barge itself had to be readied for the voyage. It seemed Colonel Revere wished the Castle Island barge to be part of his equipment, for her oars were lashed to the thwarts and then she was attached by a towline to the Samuel. Then, at last, as the sun climbed to its height, the fleet was ready. The capstans turned again, the great anchors broke free and, with their sails bright in the summer sun, the might of Massachusetts sailed from Boston harbour.

To captivate, to kill and to destroy.

Lieutenant John Moore sat astride a camp stool, his legs either side of an empty powder barrel that served as a table. A tent sheltered him from a blustery west wind that brought spits of rain to patter hard on the yellowed canvas. Moore’s job as paymaster for the 82nd Regiment bored him, even though the detailed work was done by Corporal Brown who had been a clerk in a Leith counting-house before becoming drunk one morning and so volunteering for the army. Moore turned the pages of the black-bound ledger that recorded the regiment’s wages. ‘Why is Private Neill having fourpence a week deducted?’ Moore asked the corporal.

‘Lost his boot-blacking, sir.’

‘Boot-blacking cannot cost that much, surely?’

‘Expensive stuff, sir,’ Corporal Brown said.

‘Plainly. I should buy some and resell it to the regiment.’

‘Major Fraser wouldn’t like that, sir, on account that his brother already does.’

Moore sighed and turned another stiff page of the thick paybook. He was supposed to check the figures, but he knew Corporal Brown would have done a meticulous job, so instead he stared out of the tent’s open flaps to the western rampart of Fort George where some gunners were making a platform for one of their cannon. The rampart was still only waist high, though the ditch beyond was now lined with wooden spikes that were more formidable to look at than negotiate. Beyond the rampart was a long stretch of cleared ground studded with raw pine stumps. That land climbed gently to the peninsula’s bluff where trees still stood thick and where tendrils of fog drifted through dark branches. Corporal Brown saw where Moore was looking. ‘Can I ask you something, sir?’

‘Whatever enters your head, Brown.’

The corporal nodded towards the timbered bluff that was little more than half a mile from the fort. ‘Why didn’t the brigadier make the fort there, sir?’

‘You would have done so, Corporal, if you had command here?’

‘It’s the highest piece of land, sir. Isn’t that where you make a fort?’

Moore frowned, not because he disapproved of the question, which, he thought, was an eminently sensible enquiry, but because he did not know how to frame the answer. To Moore it was obvious why McLean had chosen the lower position. It was to do with the interlocking of the ships’ guns and the fort’s cannon, with making the best of a difficult job, but though he knew the answer, he did not quite know how to express it. ‘From here,’ he said, ‘our guns command both the harbour entrance and the harbour itself. Suppose we were all up on that high ground? The enemy could sail past us, take the harbour and village, and then starve us out at their leisure.’

‘But if the bastards take that high ground, sir … ’ Brown said dubiously, leaving the thought unfinished.

‘If the bastards seize that high ground, Corporal,’ Moore said, ‘then they will place cannon there and fire down into the fort.’ That was the risk McLean had taken. He had given the enemy the chance to take the high ground, but only so that he could do his job better, which was to defend the harbour. ‘We don’t have enough men,’ Moore went on, ‘to defend the bluff, but I can’t think they’ll land men there. It’s much too steep.’

Yet the rebels would land somewhere. By leaning forward on his makeshift stool Moore could just make out the three sloops of war anchored in line across the harbour mouth. General McLean had suggested the enemy might try to attack that line, break it, and then land men on the beach below the fort and Moore tried to imagine such a fight. He tried to turn the wisps of fog into powder smoke, but his imagination failed. The eighteen-year-old John Moore had never experienced battle, and every day he wondered how he would respond to the smell of powder and the screams of the wounded and the chaos.

‘Lady approaching, sir,’ Corporal Brown warned Moore.

‘Lady?’ Moore asked, startled from his reverie, then saw that Bethany Fletcher was approaching the tent. He stood and ducked under the tent flap to greet her, but the sight of her face tied his tongue, so he simply stood there, awkward, hat in hand, smiling.

‘Lieutenant Moore,’ Bethany said, stopping a pace away.

‘Miss Fletcher,’ Moore managed to speak, ‘as ever, a pleasure.’ He bowed.

‘I was told to give you this, sir.’ Bethany held out a slip of paper.

The paper was a receipt for corn and fish that James Fletcher had sold to the quartermaster. ‘Four shillings!’ Moore said.

‘The quartermaster said you’d pay me, sir,’ Bethany said.

‘If Mister Reidhead so orders, then I shall obey. And it will be my pleasure to pay you, Miss Fletcher,’ Moore said. He looked at the receipt again. ‘It must have been a rare quantity of corn and fish! Four shillings’ worth!’

Bethany bridled. ‘It was Mister Reidhead who decided the amount, sir.’

‘Oh, I am not suggesting that the amount is excessive,’ Moore said, reddening. If he lost his composure when faced by a girl, he thought, how would he ever face the enemy? ‘Corporal Brown!’

‘Sir?’

‘Four shillings for the lady!’

‘At once, sir,’ Brown said, coming from the tent, though instead of holding coins he brought a hammer and a chisel that he took to a nearby block of wood. He had one silver dollar that he laid on the timber, then he carefully placed the chisel’s blade to make a single radial cut in the coin. The hammer smacked down and the coin leaped up from the chisel’s bite. ‘It’s daft, sir, to slit a coin into five pieces,’ Brown grumbled, replacing the dollar. ‘Why can’t we make four pieces worth one shilling and threepence each?’

‘Because it’s easier to cut a coin into four parts rather than five?’ Moore asked.

‘Of course it is, sir. Cutting into four only needs a wide chisel blade and two cuts,’ Brown grumbled, then hammered another cut into the dollar, slicing away a wedge of silver that he pushed across the chopping block towards Bethany. ‘There, miss, one shilling.’

Bethany took the sharp-edged slice. ‘Is this how you pay the soldiers?’ she asked Moore.

‘Oh, we don’t get paid, miss,’ Corporal Brown answered, ‘except in promissory notes.’

‘Give Miss Fletcher the remainder of the coin,’ Moore suggested, ‘and she will have her four shillings and you need cut no more.’ There was a shortage of coinage so the brigadier had decreed that each silver dollar was worth five shillings. ‘Stop staring!’ Moore called sharply to the gunners who had paused in their work to admire Beth Fletcher. Moore picked up the ravaged dollar and held it out to Bethany. ‘There Miss Fletcher, your fee.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Bethany put the shilling slice back on the block. ‘So how many promissory notes do you have to write each week?’ she asked.

‘How many?’ Moore was momentarily puzzled by the question. ‘Oh, we don’t issue notes as such, Miss Fletcher, but we do record in the ledger what wages are owed. The specie is kept for more important duties, like paying you for corn and fish.’

‘And you must need a lot of corn and fish for two whole regiments,’ she said. ‘What is that? Two thousand men?’

‘If only we were so numerous,’ Moore said with a smile. ‘In truth, Miss Fletcher, the 74th musters just four hundred and forty men and we Hamiltons number scarce half that. And we hear now that the rebels are readying a fleet and an army to assail us!’

‘And you think that report is true?’ Bethany asked.

‘The fleet, perhaps, is already on its way.’

Bethany stared past the three sloops to where wisps of mist drifted across the wide Penobscot River. ‘I pray, sir,’ she said, ‘that there will be no fighting.’

‘And I pray otherwise,’ Moore said.

‘Really?’ Bethany sounded surprised. She turned to look at the young lieutenant as if she had never really noticed him before. ‘You want there to be a battle?’

‘Soldiering is my chosen profession, Miss Fletcher,’ Moore said, and felt very fraudulent as he said it, ‘and battle is the fire in which soldiers are tempered.’

‘The world would be better without such fire,’ Bethany said.

‘True, no doubt,’ Moore said, ‘but we did not strike the flint on the iron, Miss Fletcher. The rebels did that, they set the fire and our task is to extinguish the flame.’ Bethany said nothing, and Moore decided he had sounded pompous. ‘You and your brother should come to Doctor Calef’s house in the evening,’ he said.

‘We should, sir?’ Bethany asked, looking again at Moore.

‘There is music in the garden when the weather permits, and dancing.’

‘I don’t dance, sir,’ Bethany said.

‘Oh, it is the officers who dance,’ Moore said hastily, ‘the sword dance.’ He suppressed an urge to demonstrate a capering step. ‘You would be most welcome,’ he said instead.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Bethany said, then pocketed the ravaged dollar and turned away.

‘Miss Fletcher!’ Moore called after her.

She turned back. ‘Sir?’

But Moore had no idea what to say, indeed he had surprised himself by calling after her in the first place. She was gazing at him, waiting. ‘Thank you for the supplies,’ he managed to say.

‘It is business, Lieutenant,’ Beth said evenly.

‘Even so, thank you,’ Moore said, confused.

‘Does that mean you’d sell to the Yankees too, miss?’ Corporal Brown asked cheerfully.

‘We might give to them,’ Beth said, and Moore could not tell whether she was teasing or not. She looked at him, gave a half-smile and walked away.

‘A rare good-looking lassie,’ Corporal Brown said.

‘Is she?’ Moore asked most unconvincingly. He was gazing down the slope to where the settlement’s houses were spread along the harbour shore. He tried to imagine men fighting there, ranks of men blasting musket fire, the cannons thundering the sky with noise, the harbour filled with half-sunken ships, and he thought how sad it would be to die amidst that chaos without ever having held a girl like Bethany in his arms.

‘Are we finished with the ledgers, sir?’ Brown asked.

‘We are finished with the ledgers,’ Moore said.

He wondered if he really was a soldier. He wondered if he would have the courage to face battle. He stared after Bethany and felt lost.

‘Reluctance, sir, reluctance. Gross reluctance,’ Colonel Jonathan Mitchell, who commanded the Cumberland County militia, glared at Brigadier-General Peleg Wadsworth as though it was all Wadsworth’s fault. ‘Culpable reluctance.’

‘You conscripted?’ Wadsworth asked.

‘Of course we goddamn conscripted. We had to conscript! Half the reluctant bastards are conscripted. We didn’t get volunteers, just whining excuses, so we declared martial law, sir, and I sent troops to every township and rounded the bastards up, but too many ran and skulked, sir. They are reluctant, I tell you, reluctant!’

It had taken the fleet two days to sail to Townsend where the militia had been ordered to muster. General Lovell and Brigadier-General Wadsworth had been hoping for fifteen hundred men, but fewer than nine hundred waited for embarkation. ‘Eight hundred and ninety-four, sir, to be precise,’ Marston, Lovell’s secretary, informed his master.

‘Dear God,’ Lovell said.

‘It surely isn’t too late to request a Continental battalion?’ Wadsworth suggested.

‘Unthinkable,’ Lovell said instantly. The State of Massachusetts had declared itself capable of ejecting the British on its own, and the General Court would not look happily on a request for help from General Washington’s troops. The Court, indeed, had been reluctant to accept Commodore Saltonstall’s aid, except that the Warren was so obviously a formidable warship and to ignore its presence in Massachusetts waters would have been perverse. ‘We do have the commodore’s marines,’ Lovell pointed out, ‘and I’m assured the commodore will willingly release them to land service at Majabigwaduce.’

‘We shall need them,’ Wadsworth said. He had inspected the three militia battalions and had been appalled by what he found. Some men looked fit, young and eager, but far too many were either too old, too young or too sick. One man had even paraded on crutches. ‘You can’t fight,’ Wadsworth had told the man.

‘Which is what I told the soldiers when they came to get us,’ the man said. He was grey-bearded, gaunt and wild-haired.

‘Then go home,’ Wadsworth said.

‘How?’

‘Same way you got here,’ Wadsworth had said, despair making him irritable. A few paces down the line he found a curly-haired boy with cheeks that had never felt a razor. ‘What’s your name, son?’ Wadsworth asked.

‘Israel, sir.’

‘Israel what?’

‘Trask, sir.’

‘How old are you, Israel Trask?’

‘Fifteen, sir,’ the boy said, trying to stand straighter. His voice had not broken and Wadsworth guessed he was scarcely fourteen. ‘Three years in the army, sir,’ Trask said.

‘Three years?’ Wadsworth asked in disbelief.

‘Fifer with the infantry, sir,’ Trask said. He had a sackcloth bag hanging at his back and a slender wooden pipe protruded from the bag’s neck.

‘You resigned from the infantry?’ Wadsworth asked, amused.

‘I was taken prisoner, sir,’ Trask said, evidently offended by the question, ‘and exchanged. And here I am, sir, ready to fight the syphilitic bastards again.’

If a boy had used that language in Wadsworth’s classroom it would have provoked a caning, but these were strange times and so Wadsworth just patted the boy’s shoulder before walking on down the long line. Some men looked at him resentfully and he supposed they were the men who had been pressed by the militia. Maybe two thirds looked healthy and young enough for soldiering, but the rest were miserable specimens. ‘I thought you had a thousand men enrolled in Cumberland County alone?’ Wadsworth remarked to Colonel Mitchell.

‘Ha,’ Mitchell said.

‘Ha?’ Wadsworth responded coldly.

‘The Continental Army takes our best. We find a dozen decent recruits and the Continentals take six away and the other six run off to join the privateers.’ Mitchell put a plug of tobacco in his mouth. ‘I wish to God we had a thousand, but Boston doesn’t send their wages and we don’t have rations. And there are some places we can’t recruit.’

‘Loyalist places?’

‘Loyalist places,’ Mitchell had agreed grimly.

Wadsworth had walked on down the line, noting a one-eyed man who had some kind of nervous affliction that made his facial muscles quiver. The man grinned, and Wadsworth shuddered. ‘Does he have his senses?’ he asked Colonel Mitchell.

‘Enough to shoot straight,’ Mitchell said dourly.

‘Half don’t even have muskets!’

The fleet had brought five hundred muskets from the Boston Armory that would be rented to the militia. Most men at least knew how to use them because in these eastern counties folk expected to kill their own food and to skin the prey for clothing. They wore deerskin jerkins and trousers, deerskin shoes and carried deerskin pouches and packs. Wadsworth inspected them all and reckoned he would be lucky if five hundred would prove useful men, then he borrowed a horse from the parson and gave them a speech from the saddle.

‘The British,’ he called, ‘have invaded Massachusetts! They must despise us, because they have sent few men and few ships! They believe we are powerless to evict them, but we are going to show them that Massachusetts men will defend their land! We will embark on our fleet!’ He waved towards the masts showing above the southern rooftops. ‘And we shall fight them, we shall defeat them and we shall evict them! You will return home with laurels on your brows!’ It was not the most inspiring speech, Wadsworth thought, but he was encouraged when men cheered it. The cheer was late in starting, and it was feeble at first, but then the paraded ranks became enthusiastic.

The parson, a genial man about ten years older than Wadsworth, helped the brigadier down from the saddle. ‘I trust they will have laurels on their brows,’ the parson said, ‘but most would prefer beefsteak in their stomachs.’

‘I trust they find that as well,’ Wadsworth said.

The Reverend Jonathan Murray took the horse’s reins and led it towards his house. ‘They may not look impressive, General, but they’re good men!’

‘Who needed pressing?’ Wadsworth enquired drily.

‘Only a few,’ Murray answered. ‘They worry about their families, their crops. Get them to Majabigwaduce and they’ll serve willingly enough.’

‘The blind, the halt and the lame?’

‘Such men were good enough for our Lord,’ Murray said, evidently seriously. ‘And what if a few are half-blind? A man needs only one eye to aim a musket.’

General Lovell had quartered himself in the parson’s ample house and, that evening, he convened all the senior officers of the expedition. Murray possessed a fine round table, made of maple wood, about which he normally led studies of the scripture, but which that night served to accommodate the naval and land commanders. Those who could not find a chair stood at the edges of the room, which was lit by eight candles in pewter sticks, grouped in the table’s centre. Moths beat about the flames. General Lovell had taken the parson’s high-backed chair and he gently rapped the table for silence. ‘This is the first time,’ Lovell said, ‘that we’ve all gathered together. You probably all know each other, but permit me to make introductions.’ He went around the table, naming Wadsworth first, then Commodore Saltonstall and the three colonels of the militia regiments. Major Jeremiah Hill, the expedition’s adjutant -general, nodded solemnly as his name was pronounced, as did the two brigade majors, William Todd and Gawen Brown. The quartermaster, Colonel Tyler, sat next to Doctor Eliphalet Downer, the Surgeon General. ‘I trust we won’t require Doctor Downer’s services,’ Lovell said with a smile, then indicated the men who stood at the room’s edges. Captain John Welch of the Continental Marines glowered next to Captain Hoysteed Hacker of the Continental Navy who commanded the Providence while Captain Philip Brown commanded the brig Diligent. Six privateer captains had come to the house and Lovell named them all, then smiled at Lieutenant-Colonel Revere who stood beside the door. ‘And last, but by no means least, our commander of the artillery train, Colonel Revere.’

‘Whose services,’ Revere said, ‘I trust you will require!’

A murmur of laughter sounded in the room, though Wadsworth noticed the look of grim distaste on Todd’s bespectacled face. The major glanced once at Revere, then studiously avoided looking at his enemy.

‘I also requested the Reverend Murray to attend this council,’ Lovell went on when the small laughter had subsided, ‘and I now ask him to open our proceedings with a word of prayer.’

Men clasped their hands and bowed their heads as Murray entreated Almighty God to pour His blessings on the men and ships now assembled in Townsend. Wadsworth had his head bowed, but sneaked a sidelong look at Revere who, he noticed, had not lowered his head, but was staring balefully towards Todd. Wadsworth closed his eyes again. ‘Give these men of Thy strength, Lord,’ the Reverend Murray prayed, ‘and bring these warriors safe home, victorious, to their wives, and to their children and to their families. We ask all this in Thy holy name, O Lord. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ the assembled officers echoed.

‘Thank you, Reverend,’ Lovell said, smiling happily. He took a breath and looked about the room, then stated the reason they were gathered together. ‘The British have landed at Majabigwaduce, as you know, and our orders are to captivate, kill or destroy them. Major Todd, perhaps you will be good enough to tell us what we know of the enemy’s dispositions?’

William Todd, his spectacles reflecting the candlelight, shuffled papers. ‘We have received intelligence,’ he said in his dry voice, ‘from patriots in the Penobscot region. Notably from Colonel Buck, but from others too. We know for certain that a considerable force of the enemy has landed, that they are guarded by three sloops of war, and that they are commanded by Brigadier-General Francis McLean.’ Todd studied the earnest faces around the table. ‘McLean,’ he went on, ‘is an experienced soldier. Most of his service was in the Portuguese employment.’

‘A mercenary?’ Commodore Saltonstall asked in a voice that reeked of scorn.

‘I understand he was seconded to Portuguese service by the King of England,’ Todd said, ‘so no, not a mercenary. Of late he has been Governor of Halifax and is now entrusted with the forces at Majabigwaduce. My apprehension of him,’ Todd leaned back as if to suggest that he was speculating now, ‘is that he is an old man who was put out to pasture at Halifax and whose best days are, perhaps, behind him.’ He shrugged as if to express uncertainty. ‘He leads two regiments, neither of which has seen recent service. Indeed, his own regiment is newly raised and is therefore entirely inexperienced. The notional complement of a British regiment is one thousand men, but rarely do the real numbers exceed eight hundred, so a reasonable calculation suggests that our enemy comprises fifteen or sixteen hundred infantry with artillery support and, of course, the Royal Marines and the crews of the three ships.’ Todd unrolled a large sheet of paper on which was drawn a crude map of Majabigwaduce and, as the men craned forward to see the plan, he showed where the defences were situated. He began with the fort, marked as a square. ‘As of Wednesday,’ he said, ‘the walls were still low enough for a man to jump. The work goes slowly, we hear.’ He tapped the three sloops that formed a barrier just inside the harbour entrance. ‘Their broadsides face Penobscot Bay,’ he said, ‘and are supported by land batteries. There is one such battery here,’ he pointed to Cross Island, ‘and another on the peninsula here. Those two batteries will enfilade the harbour entrance.’

‘None on Dyce’s Head?’ Hoysteed Hacker asked.

‘Dyce’s Head?’ Lovell asked, and Hacker, who knew the coast well, pointed to the harbour’s southern side and explained that the entrance was dominated by a high bluff that bore the name Dyce’s Head. ‘If I recall rightly,’ Hacker went on, ‘that ground is the highest on the whole peninsula.’

‘We have not been informed of any batteries on Dyce’s Head,’ Todd said carefully.

‘So they’ve surrendered the high ground?’ Wadsworth asked in disbelief.

‘Our information is some days old,’ Todd warned.

‘High ground,’ Lovell said uncertainly, ‘will be a splendid place for our guns.’

‘Oh indeed,’ Wadsworth said, and Lovell looked relieved.

‘My guns will be ready,’ Revere said belligerently.

Lovell smiled at Revere. ‘Perhaps you will be good enough to tell our militia colonels what artillery support you will offer them?’

Revere straightened and William Todd stared fixedly at the table top. ‘I have six eighteen-pounder cannon,’ Revere said robustly, ‘with four hundred rounds apiece. They’re killers, gentlemen, and heavier than any guns I daresay the British have waiting for us. I have two nine-pounders with three hundred rounds apiece, and a pair of five-and-half-inch howitzers with one hundred rounds each.’ John Welch looked startled at that, then frowned. He began to say something, but checked his words before they became intelligible.

‘You had something to say, Captain?’ Wadsworth interrupted Revere.

The tall marine in his dark green uniform was still frowning. ‘If I were bombarding a fort, General,’ he said, ‘I’d want more howitzers. Lob bombs over the wall and kill the bastards from the inside. Howitzers and mortars. Do we have mortars?’

‘Do we have mortars?’ Wadsworth put the question to Revere.

Revere looked offended. ‘The eighteen-pounders will topple their walls like the trumpets of Jericho,’ he said, ‘and to finish,’ he looked at Lovell with some indignation as if offended that the general had permitted the interruption, ‘we have four four-pounders, two of which are French metal and the equal of any six-pounder.’

Colonel Samuel McCobb, who led the Lincoln County militia, raised a hand. ‘We can offer a field-mounted twelve-pounder,’ he said.

‘Most generous,’ Lovell said, and then threw the discussion open, though in truth nothing was decided that evening. For over two hours men made suggestions and Lovell received each one with gratitude, but gave no opinion on any. Commodore Saltonstall agreed that the three British sloops must be destroyed so that his squadron could sail into the harbour and use their broadsides to bombard the fort, but he declined to suggest how soon that could be done. ‘We must appraise their defences,’ the commodore insisted grandly, ‘I’m sure you all appreciate the good sense in a thorough reconnaissance.’ He spoke condescendingly as if it offended his dignity as a Continental officer to be dealing with mere militia.

‘We all appreciate the value of thorough reconnaissance,’ Lovell agreed. He smiled benignly about the room. ‘I shall inspect the militia in the morning,’ he said, ‘and then we shall embark. When we reach the Penobscot River we shall discover what obstacles we face, but I am confident that we shall overcome them. I thank you all, gentlemen, I thank you all.’ And with that the council of war was over.

Some men gathered in the darkness outside the parson’s house. ‘They have fifteen or sixteen hundred men?’ a militia officer grumbled, ‘and we only have nine hundred?’

‘You’ve also got the marines,’ Captain Welch snarled from the shadows, but then, before anyone could respond, a shot sounded. Dogs began barking. Officers clutched their scabbards as they ran towards the lantern lights of Main Street where men were shouting, but no more musket shots sounded.

‘What was it?’ Lovell asked when the commotion had died down.

‘A man from Lincoln County,’ Wadsworth said.

‘Fired his musket by mistake?’

‘Shot off the toes of his left foot.’

‘Oh dear, poor man.’

‘Deliberately, sir. To avoid service.’

So now one less man would sail east, and too many of the remaining men were boys, cripples or old men. But there were the marines. Thank God, Wadsworth thought, there were the marines.

The Fort

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