“I hadn’t finished it,” Dennis said ruefully, trying to separate the pages.
“A bullet?”
“Yes, sir. But it missed me, which is a good omen, I think.”
“I pray so.”
“I’ll find you another copy,” Dennis said, then summoned a lean, hatchet-faced marine a few paces away. “Sergeant Sykes! Didn’t you say my books were only good for lighting fires?”
“True, sir,” Sykes said, “I did.”
“Here!” Dennis tossed the ruined book to the sergeant. “Kindling!”
Sykes grinned. “Best use for a book, Lieutenant,” he said, then looked at Peleg Wadsworth. “Are we going to attack the fort, General?”
“I’m certain we will,” Wadsworth said. He had encouraged Lovell to order an attack late in the day when the setting sun would be in the eyes of the fort’s defenders, but so far Lovell had not committed himself. Lovell wanted to be certain that the American lines were secure from any British counterattack before launching his troops at the fort, and so he had ordered the rebel force to dig trenches and throw up earth walls at the wood’s edge. The marines had ignored the order. “Aren’t you supposed to be digging a trench here?” Wadsworth asked.
“Lord above, sir,” Dennis said, “we don’t need a trench. We’re here to attack them!”
Wadsworth wholeheartedly agreed with that sentiment, but he could hardly express his agreement without seeming disloyal to Lovell. Instead he borrowed a telescope from Dennis and used it to gaze at the small British gun emplacement that was now the nearest enemy post. He could not see the battery clearly because it was half-hidden by a cornfield, but he could see enough. The earthwork was a semicircle a small distance up the slope from the harbor and halfway between the marines and the fort. The battery’s cannon were facing southwest, towards the harbor entrance, but Wadsworth supposed they could easily be levered around to face west and so rip into any infantry attacking from Dyce’s Head. “You think those guns are a menace, sir?” Dennis asked, seeing where Wadsworth was looking.
“They could be,” Wadsworth said.
“We can get close,” Dennis said confidently. “They’ll not see us in the corn. Fifty men could take that battery easily.”
“We may not need to capture it,” Wadsworth said. He had swung the glass to study the fort. The walls were so low that the redcoats behind it were exposed from the waist upwards, though even as he watched he could see men lifting a huge log to heighten the rampart. Then his view was blotted out by whiteness and he lowered the telescope to see that a cannon had fired, only this gun smoke was blossoming at the center of the fort’s western wall while all the previous smoke had jetted from the bastions at either end of that curtain wall. “Is that a new cannon?”
“Must be,” Dennis said.
Wadsworth was not a man who liked curses, but he was tempted to swear. Lovell was fortifying the heights and the British, given the precious gift of time, were raising the fort’s wall and placing more cannon on those ramparts, and every hour that passed would make the fort more difficult to attack. “I trust you and your marines will stay here,” he said to Dennis, “and join the attack.”
“I hope so too, sir, but that’s the commodore’s decision.”
“I suppose it is,” Wadsworth said.
“He sailed halfway into the entrance,” Dennis said, “hammered the enemy for a half hour and then sailed out.” He sounded disappointed, as if he had expected more from the rebels’ flagship. He looked down at the British ships, which had just started firing at the rebel battery on Cross Island again. “We need heavy guns up here,” he said.
“If we take the fort,” Wadsworth said, and wished he had said when instead of if, “we won’t need any more batteries.”
Because once the Americans captured the fort the three British sloops were doomed. And the fort was pathetic, a scar in the earth, not even half-built yet, but Solomon Lovell, after his triumph in taking the high ground, had decided to dig defenses rather than make an assault. Wadsworth gave Dennis back the glass and went north to find Lovell. They must attack, he thought, they must attack.
But there was no attack. The long summer day passed and the rebels made their earthworks and the British guns pounded the trees and General Lovell ordered a space cleared at the top of the bluff to be his headquarters. Lieutenant-Colonel Revere, neat in a clean shirt, discovered an easier route from the beach, one that curved about the northern end of the bluff, and his gunners cut down trees to make that track. By dusk they had hauled four guns to the summit, but it was too late to emplace the weapons and so they were parked under the trees. Mosquitoes plagued the troops who, lacking tents, slept in the open. A few made crude shelters of branches.
Night fell. The last British cannon-shot of the day lit the cleared ridge smoky red with its flash and flickered long dark shadows from the jagged stumps. The gun smoke drifted northeast and then an uneasy silence fell on Majabigwaduce.
“Tomorrow,” General Lovell spoke from beside a fire in his newly cleared headquarters, “we shall make a grand attack.”
“Good,” Wadsworth said firmly.
“Is this beef?” Lovell asked, spooning from a pewter dish.
“Salt pork, sir,” Filmer, the general’s servant, answered.
“It’s very good,” Lovell said in a slightly dubious tone, “will you take some, Wadsworth?”
“The marines were kind enough to give me some British beef, sir.”
“How thoughtful of our enemies to feed us,” Lovell said, amused. He watched as Wadsworth shrugged off his Continental Army jacket, settled by the fire, and produced a needle, thread, and a button that had evidently come loose. “Don’t you have a man to do that sort of thing?”
“I’m happy to look after myself, sir,” Wadsworth said. He licked the thread and managed to fiddle it through the needle’s eye. “I thought Colonel Revere did well to make the new road up the bluff.”
“Did he not do well!” Lovell responded enthusiastically. “I wanted to tell him so, but it seems he went back to the Samuel at dusk.”
Wadsworth began reattaching the button and the simple task brought a sudden vision of his wife, Elizabeth. It was a vision of her darning socks beside the evening fire, her workbasket on the wide hearthstone, and Wadsworth suddenly missed her so keenly that his eyes watered. “I hope Colonel Revere brings howitzers,” he said, hoping no one around the fire had seen the gleam in his eyes. Howitzers, unlike cannon, lobbed their missiles in high arcs so that the gunners could shoot safely over the heads of the attacking troops.
“We only have one howitzer,” Major Todd said.
“We need it for the attack tomorrow,” Wadsworth said.
“I’m sure the colonel knows his business,” Lovell said hurriedly, “but there won’t be any attack unless I receive assurances from Commodore Saltonstall that our gallant ships will again advance through the harbor mouth.”
A small breath of wind dipped the woodsmoke to swirl around Wadsworth’s face. He blinked, then frowned at the general through the fire’s dancing flames. “No attack, sir?” he asked.
“Not unless the fleet attacks at the same time,” Lovell replied.
“Do we need them to do that, sir?” Wadsworth asked. “If we attack on land I cannot see the enemy ships interfering with us. Not if we keep our troops off the southern slope and away from their broadsides?”
“I want the British marines kept aboard their ships,” Lovell said firmly.
“I’m told the Warren is damaged,” Wadsworth said. He was appalled that Lovell should demand a simultaneous attack. There was no need! All the rebels had to do was attack on land and the fort would surely fall, British marines or no British marines.
“We have plenty of ships,” Lovell said dismissively. “And I want our ships and men, our soldiers and sailors, arm in arm, advancing irresistibly to earn their laurels.” He smiled. “I’m sure the commodore will oblige us.”
Tomorrow.
Thur
sday brought a clear sky and a gentle southerly wind that ruffled the bay. Longboats brought the skippers of all the warships to the Warren where Commodore Saltonstall welcomed them with an exaggerated and atypical courtesy. He had directed that all the visiting captains must board the Warren by the forrard starboard gangway because that entranceway allowed them a good view of the blood-smeared deck and of the cannon-shattered base of the mainmast. He wanted the visiting captains to imagine what damage the enemy could do to their own ships, none of which was as large or powerful as the Warren.
Once they had seen the damage they were escorted to Saltonstall’s cabin where the long table was set with glasses and bottles of rum. The commodore invited the captains to sit and took amusement from the discomfort that many of them plainly felt at the unaccustomed elegance of the furnishings. The table was polished maple and at night could be illuminated by spermaceti candles, which now stood unlit in elaborate silver sticks. Two of the transom windows had been broken by a British round shot and Saltonstall had deliberately left the shattered panes and splintered frames as reminders to the captains what their own ships might suffer if they insisted on an attack. “We must congratulate the army,” Saltonstall began the council of war, “for their success yesterday in dislodging the enemy from the heights, though I deeply regret that Captain Welch was lost in that success.”
A few men murmured expressions of sympathy, but most watched Saltonstall warily. He was known as a supercilious, distant man, and a man to whom they had jointly sent a letter chiding him for failing to press home his attack on Mowat’s ships, yet now he was apparently affable. “Do partake of the rum,” he said, waving carelessly at the dark bottles, “provided by our enemies. It was taken from a merchantman off Nantucket.”
“Never too early in the day for a tot,” Nathaniel West of the Black Prince said, and poured himself a generous glass. “Your health, Commodore.”
“I appreciate your sentiment,” Saltonstall said silkily, “just as I would appreciate your advice.” He waved around the table, indicating that he sought every man’s opinion. “Our army,” he said, “now commands the fort and may attack when and how it wishes. Once the fort has fallen, as it must, then the enemy’s position in the harbor is untenable. Their ships must either sail out into our guns or else surrender.”
“Or scuttle themselves,” James Johnston of the Pallas said.
“Or scuttle themselves,” Saltonstall agreed. “Now, I know there is an opinion that we should preempt that choice by sailing into the harbor and attacking the enemy directly. It is the propriety of that action I wish to discuss.” He paused and there was an embarrassed silence in the cabin, every man there remembering the letter they had jointly signed. That letter had chided Saltonstall for not sailing into the harbor and bringing on a general action with the three sloops, an action that surely would have resulted in an American victory. Saltonstall let their embarrassment stretch for an uncomfortable time, then smiled. “Allow me to present you with the circumstances, gentlemen. The enemy have three armed ships arrayed in line facing the harbor entrance. Therefore any ship which enters the harbor will be raked by their combined broadsides. In addition, the enemy has a grand battery in the fort and a second battery on the slope beneath the fort. Those combined guns will have free play on any attacking ships. I need hardly tell you that the leading vessels will suffer considerable damage and endure grievous casualties from the enemy’s cannonade.”
“As you did yesterday, sir,” Captain Philip Brown of the Continental Navy’s brig Diligent, said loyally.
“As we did,” Saltonstall agreed.
“But the enemy will be hurt too,” John Cathcart of Tyrannicide said.
“The enemy will indeed be hurt,” Saltonstall agreed, “but are we not persuaded that the enemy is doomed anyway? Our infantry are poised to assault the fort and, when the fort surrenders, so must the ships. On the other hand,” he paused to add emphasis to what he was about to say, “the defeat of the ships in no way forces the fort to surrender. Do I make myself plain? Take the fort and the ships are doomed. Take the ships and the fort survives. Our business here is to remove the British troops, to which end the fort must be taken. The enemy ships, gentlemen, are as dependant on the fort as are the British redcoats.”
None of the men about the table were cowards, but half of them were in business and their business was privateering. Nine captains at the table either owned the ship they commanded or else possessed a high share in the vessel’s ownership, and a privateer did not make a profit by fighting enemy warships. Privateers pursued lightly armed merchantmen. If a privateer was lost then the owner’s investment was lost with it, and those captains, weighting the chances of high casualties and expensive damage to their ships, began to see the wisdom of Saltonstall’s suggestion. They had all seen the bloodied deck and splintered mast of the Warren and feared seeing worse on their own expensive ships. So why not allow the army to capture the fort? It was as good as captured anyway, and the commodore was plainly right that the British ships would have no choice but to surrender once the fort fell.
Lieutenant George Little of the Massachusetts Navy was more belligerent. “It isn’t to do with the fort,” he insisted, “it’s to do with killing the bastards and taking their ships.”
“Which ships will be ours,” Saltonstall said, miraculously keeping his temper, “when the fort falls.”
“Which it must,” Philip Brown said.
“Which it must,” Saltonstall agreed. He forced himself to look into Little’s angry eyes. “Suppose twenty of your men are killed in an attack on the ships, and after the battle the fort still survives. To what purpose, then, did your men die?”
“We came here to kill the enemy,” Little said.
“We came here to defeat the enemy,” Saltonstall corrected him, and a murmur of agreement sounded in the cabin. The commodore sensed the mood and took a leaf from General Lovell’s book. “You all expressed your sentiments to me in a letter,” he said, “and I appreciate the zeal that letter displayed, but I would humbly suggest,” he paused, having surprised even himself by using the word “humbly,” “that the letter was sent without a full appreciation of the tactical circumstances that confront us. So permit me to put a motion to the vote. Considering the enemy positions, would it not be more prudent to allow the army to complete its success without risking our ships in what must prove to be an attack irrelevant to the expedition’s stated purpose?”
The assembled captains hesitated, but one by one the privateer owners voted against any attack through the harbor entrance and, once those men gave the lead, the rest followed, all except for George Little who neither voted for nor against, but just scowled at the table.
“I thank you, gentlemen,” Saltonstall said, hiding his satisfaction. These men had possessed the temerity to write him a letter which implicitly suggested cowardice, and yet, faced with the facts of the situation, they had overwhelmingly voted against the very sentiments their letter had expressed. The commodore despised them. “I shall inform General Lovell,” Saltonstall said, “of the Council’s decision.”
So the warships would not attack.
And General Lovell was digging earthworks in the woods to repel a British attack.
And General McLean was strengthening the fort.
Captain Welch was buried close to where he had died on Dyce’s Head. Marines dug the grave. They had already buried six of their companions lower down the slope where the soil was easier to dig, and at first they had put Welch’s corpse in that common grave, but a sergeant had ordered the captain’s body removed before the grave was filled with earth. “He took the high ground,” the sergeant said, “and he should hold it forever.”
So a new grave had been hacked on the rocky headland. Peleg Wadsworth came to see the corpse lowered into the hole and with him was the Reverend Murray who spoke a few somber words in the gray dawn. A cutlass and a pistol were laid on the blanket-shrouded corpse. “So he can kill the red-coated bastards
in hell,” Sergeant Sykes explained. The Reverend Murray smiled bravely and Wadsworth nodded approval. Rocks were heaped on the captain’s grave so that scavening animals could not scratch him out of the ground he had captured.
Once the brief ceremony was over Wadsworth walked to the tree line and gazed at the fort. Lieutenant Dennis joined him. “The wall’s higher today,” Dennis said.
“It is.”
“But we can scale it,” Dennis said robustly.
Wadsworth used a small telescope to examine the British work. Redcoats were deepening the western ditch that faced the American lines and using the excavated soil to heighten the wall, but the farther wall, the eastern rampart, was still little more than a scrape in the dirt. “If we could get behind them . . .” he mused aloud.
“Oh we can!” Dennis said.
“You think so?”
A thunder of gunfire obliterated the marine lieutenant’s reply. The semicircular British battery on the harbor’s lower slope had fired its cannon across the harbor towards Cross Island. No sooner had the sound faded than the three enemy sloops began firing. “Is the commodore attacking?” Wadsworth asked.
The two men moved to the southern crest and saw that two privateers were firing through the harbor entrance, though neither ship was making any attempt to sail through that narrow gap. They fired at long range and the three sloops shot back. “Gun practice,” Dennis said dismissively.
“You think we can get behind the fort?” Wadsworth asked.
“Capture that battery, sir,” Dennis said, pointing down at the semicircle of earth that protected the British cannon. “Once we have that we can make our way along the harbor shore. There’s plenty of cover!” The route along the harbor shore wandered past cornfields, log piles, houses, and barns, all of which could conceal men from the guns of the fort and the broadsides of the sloops.
“Young Fletcher would guide us,” Wadsworth said. James Fletcher had rescued his fishing boat, Felicity, and was using it to carry wounded men to the hospital the rebels had established on Wasaumkeag Point on the far shore of the bay. “But I still think a direct assault would be best,” Wadsworth added.
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