The Fort: A Novel of the Revolutionary War Part 6

"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 a.s.sume you haven't invested?"

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

"Well, Captain Thomas of the Vengeance 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 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 n.o.ble 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 finishedit?"

"That would be kind," Wadsworth said. He opened the book, On Crimes and Punishments On Crimes and Punishments by Cesare Beccaria, newly translated from the Italian, and he saw the minutely written penciled 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 G.o.d would allow decent men who fought in a n.o.ble cause to lose. That was a comforting reflection. "Doesn't Beccaria have strange ideas?" he asked. by Cesare Beccaria, newly translated from the Italian, and he saw the minutely written penciled 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 G.o.d would allow decent men who fought in a n.o.ble 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 harbor, where the s.h.i.+ps' masts made a forest. Wadsworth looked for the sloop that would carry him to battle, but he could not make the Sally 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 s.h.i.+lling. 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 s.h.i.+lling.

"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 wors.h.i.+pped in the open air that Sunday morning, the Scottish voices singing strongly in the bl.u.s.tery wind that fetched slaps of rain to dapple the harbor. 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 center 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 G.o.d. 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 harbor, 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 a.s.sembling a fleet and an army. "We were told there were forty or more s.h.i.+ps 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 rumor in Nantucket, and rumor, 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 s.h.i.+ps? 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 labor.

"Sixty-one!" the sergeant shouted. Macintosh was whimpering now, the sound stifled by the leather gag. He s.h.i.+fted his weight and blood squelched in one shoe, then spilled 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 rumor 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 counterrumor was propagated. That I have no intentions of hanging any man, rebel or not."

"G.o.d'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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 labor 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 inquired.

"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 G.o.d'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 labor, but today you will freely offer me your a.s.sistance 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 a.s.sist 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 northeastern bastion. McLean ordered one long spruce trunk to be trimmed and stripped of its bark, then a sailor from the Albany 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 southwestern 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. "G.o.d save the King!" 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 southwestern 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. "G.o.d save the King!"

Highlanders of the 74th started on a smaller earthwork, a gun emplacement, which they made close to the sh.o.r.e and facing the harbor mouth. The soil was easier near the beach and they swiftly threw up a crescent of earth that they reinforced with stones and logs. Other logs were split to make platforms for the cannon that would face the harbor mouth. A similar battery was being constructed on Cross Island so that an enemy s.h.i.+p, daring the harbor 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 southwest and the sky was clear. "The gla.s.s rises," Commodore Saltonstall announced to General Solomon Lovell on board the Continental frigate Warren Warren. "We shall sail, General."

"And G.o.d 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 flags.h.i.+p out of the harbor.

Solomon Lovell, almost fifty years old, towered over the Commodore. Lovell was a farmer, a legislator, and a patriot, and it was reckoned in Ma.s.sachusetts that Solomon Lovell had been well named, for he enjoyed a reputation as a wise, judicious, and sensible man. His neighbors in Weymouth had elected him to the a.s.sembly in Boston where he was well-liked because, in a fractious legislature, Lovell was a peacemaker. 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 labor on his farm, added to the impression of utter dependability. His face was long and firm-jawed, while his eyes crinkled with easy amus.e.m.e.nt. His thick dark hair grayed 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 Ma.s.sachusetts 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 Was.h.i.+ngton'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 judgment.

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, marveling that Ma.s.sachusetts had a.s.sembled so many s.h.i.+ps so quickly. Lying closest to the Warren Warren was a brig, the was a brig, the Diligent Diligent, that had been captured from Britain's Royal Navy, and beyond her was a sloop, the Providence Providence, which had captured her, both vessels with twelve guns and both belonging to the Continental Navy. Anch.o.r.ed behind them, and flying the pine-tree flag of the Ma.s.sachusetts Navy, were two brigs, the Tyrannicide Tyrannicide and and Hazard Hazard, and a brigantine, the Active Active. All were armed with fourteen cannon and, like the Warren 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 harbor.

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

"He must be," Lovell said.

"Must?"

"The orders were plain. Officers were to be aboard last night."

"The Samuel Samuel reports that Colonel Revere is not on board. So what shall we do, General?" 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 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 ash.o.r.e."

"Ash.o.r.e?" 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, G.o.d rest his soul, sent them, and this s.h.i.+p 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 quarterdeck again, starboard to larboard and larboard to starboard, occasionally shooting a malevolent look at Lovell as though the general was personally responsible for the missing officer. Lovell found the commodore's hostility uncomfortable and so turned to stare at the fleet again. Many s.h.i.+ps 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 which 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 saber was worn down by use and, like its owner, seemed made for the efficient use of pure violence.