Cannons for the Cause

by Martin Ganzglass

  The General sat easily on his horse, his gloved hands resting on the pommel, the dark blue of his cape contrasting sharply with his clean buff colored waistcoat and breeches. The black saddle and his riding boots were highly polished. Probably, Will thought, by his man Lee who he had seen riding with the General the day of the fight between the Mariners and Morgan’s Rifles. “We will draw the British out and they will dash their hopes of victory on the ascent to these Heights. Avenge your brethren whose innocent blood was shed this fifth of March in the streets of Boston.” He pointed dramatically toward the edge of the Heights, where Boston lay below, as if it were necessary to remind Massachusetts men that the atrocity had been committed within cannon shot of where they stood. “I expect every man to not only do his duty, but to fight like avenging angels of Providence on this historic day.” He touched his hand to his tri-corn, signaling the end of his speech.

  1

  It was not so much his words that were inspiring. The General’s sentences were short. His cadence was clipped, and his mouth, even as he spoke, remained a tight thin line as if he were frugal with his words and conserving energy. It was his whole bearing, his complete calmness in the face of the imminent assault, his reassuring faith in the capabilities of his troops, the ease with which he sat on his horse, the way he looked at, instead of over, the men, which earned their respect.

  Colonel Knox, in a much louder voice, boomed out the command, “Three cheers for General Washington.” The men of the Regiment responded immediately with three loud huzzahs, the General smiled and the four officers continued their slow ride along the lines to the troops entrenched on the left.

  “Well, they know we are here now,” Sergeant Merriam called to his crew, motioning for Will to step up on the parapet. The sun was well above the horizon, bathing the city in early-morning light. The Sergeant leaned on his cane and pointed down below. Red-coated figures were visible on the rooftops of buildings and on the ends of some wharves. Dark figures with telescopes stood in the crow’s nests of the closest men-of-war. Will restrained the urge to wave to them. Instead he assumed a serious—and he hoped determined—look, in case one of the telescopes was trained on him. He knew the British would focus on the cannons. There seemed to be a flurry of activity, with officers hurrying through the streets to headquarters and a hastily convened council of war. He imagined their surprise and consternation that the “provincials,” as the British called them, had occupied the Heights. Next would follow the plans and orders to dislodge them. And then the battle.

  The Americans didn’t have to wait long. The first reaction was a cannonading from the westerly floating battery and artillery from the forts at The Neck and on Winchmill Point. The light wind blew the smoke toward the salt marshes below them. The cannonballs struck harmlessly midway up the Heights, well below the Massachusetts batteries and above the unseen riflemen hiding in the woods.

  “That is the best they can do,” Sergeant Merriam said confidently. “They cannot elevate their guns to reach the summit. It is a good lesson for them to learn.” Will looked at him quizzically. “The British will not be able to bombard our positions before their infantry assault. Every cannon in the batteries will be intact. We can depress our guns and fire down the slopes. Every Regular will know it and the fear in their hearts will help break their discipline and resolve.”

  Will watched the gun flashes as another round of cannonballs struck he guessed fifty feet below the summit. The sound of a yell began to the left of the Massachusetts artillery position and flowed past them along the entire line of American troops. It was not so much a cheer as a taunting cry of defiance. It came from the throats of New England men, who, together with their families, communities and congregations, had endured the British occupation for too long. Will joined in, shouting both to belong and to quell his own fear of being under fire.

  “Lieutenant Hadley,” Colonel Knox shouted, riding up quickly. He dismounted rather easily despite his weight, as the Lieutenant ran up. Will followed and took the horse’s reins.

  “We are to save our ball and powder for the British assault. However, General Washington has given permission for one round to be fired. To illustrate to General Howe the difficulty of his position and perhaps, to prod him into a decision to attack.” He addressed the men of Hadley’s battery. “The honor has fallen to us. I would like The Albany to send our message to General Howe.”

  “Sergeant Merriam. Ready your gun crew,” Lieutenant Hadley ordered. Colonel Knox and the Lieutenant walked to the edge of the parapet. The Colonel, never one to whisper, had his arm around the Lieutenant’s shoulder.

  “The floating battery off The Neck will do nicely as a target,” Knox said. Sergeant Merriam hobbled forward, removed his hat, took the Lieutenant’s telescope and studied the flat-bottomed wooden platform. There were two British eighteen pounders in the front facing toward Roxbury, and several lighter field cannons mounted on the side covering the road leading to The Neck.

  “It is a difficult task without firing a ranging ball first,” he said, taking off his tri-corn and scratching his balding head. “It is our opening shot on March fifth,” he said grimly to Hadley. “We will do our best.”

  Will watched the four men wrestle the bright brass eighteenpounder into position. Sergeant Merriam limped up to the cannon with his gunner’s quadrant. He placed the long end of the L into the bore and let the plumb bob swing free. He motioned for one of the men to lever the cannon at the breech. Merriam stuck a wooden wedge under it, elevating the cannon even more. He stuck the quadrant down the bore again, noted the mark on the quadrant and seemed satisfied. One of the crew brought him a canvas powder charge. The Sergeant held it in both hands and shook his head. “Too light for that distance.”

  The man took a smaller bag from the side box and Merriam weighed both. “That will do. Reload both charges into one bag,” he commanded. This took a while because the seam had to be undone and re-sewn with the extra powder added. Satisfied with the weight of new charge, Merriam checked the angle and elevation one more time and nodded. The four-man crew stepped forward and removed the side boxes from the carriage and carried them to the rear of the emplacement. They returned, two men on each side of The Albany. By now the other gun crews were crowded off to the sides on the parapet to see where the shot would land. Will thought if cannon exploded like the howitzer, it would kill a good portion of the active artillerists on the Heights.

  “Sponge and ram,” Merriam ordered. One of the crew stepped forward, dipped the sheepskin-covered sponge at the end of a pole in a bucket of water and swabbed down the barrel while another of the crew blocked the vent with his thumb. The canvas charge was rammed home, followed by an eighteen pound ball. Will heard it rolling down the angled barrel until it hit the powder bag. He watched as the soldier leaned his weight on the pole, forcing the ball snug against the powder charge.

  Merriam stepped up to the vent and inserted a wire to prick the canvas. He pulled a quill filled with powder from his pouch and slid it into the touchhole. “Primed,” he shouted. He placed a slow match to the quill. “Give Fire,” he yelled. The gun crew stepped a pace away from the cannon. Will glanced at the Colonel, standing to the left of the gun with a telescope to his eye, his mouth formed in an easy smile of anticipation.

  The Albany roared, the extra powder producing a deafening noise. The smoke rolled back on their position. Will inhaled the intoxicating acrid odor of gunpowder. He heard the cheering and ran forward. The cannonball had struck the closest edge of the floating battery, tearing a hole along the railing and wooden deck. The battery listed and immediately began taking on water.

  “Well done, Sergeant. Well done indeed,” Colonel Knox said, clapping the smaller man on the back. “An excellent shot across their bows, so to speak,” he said to the gun crew, who were all standing on the parapet examining their handiwork.

  “I was hoping to hit it dead on, sir, and perhaps ignite her powder,” Merriam said, grinning sheepishly. “The
explosion would have been more spectacular.”

  “Sinking a floating battery with one shot is spectacular enough,” Knox replied exuberantly. “When we capture Boston, those cannons will be useful to us. More so than if you had succeeded and blown them into the harbor.”

  With nothing to do now except wait for the British attack, Will watched additional troops marching on the road behind the batteries. The fresh troops coming to fill in the lines brought entrenching tools and hacked at the frozen ground, deepening the trenches and adding height to the parapets. Light cannon of the Massachusetts and Rhode Island Artillery Regiments, three, six and nine pounders, passed by and were dispersed along the forward edge of the lines to the right. Will noted that each field piece was pulled by one horse, ridden by a nattily uniformed soldier. He imagined himself on Big Red, wearing such a blue coat, wheeling the gun into battle, with Sergeant Merriam and his crew at the ready to fire it into the lines of advancing Redcoats.

  By mid-morning, after the euphoria of the successful cannonball shot had worn off and the weariness from lack of sleep had set in, Will joined the gun crews looking silently down on the city.

  “There is General Howe’s answer to our occupying the Heights,” Sergeant Merriam said soberly, gesturing below with his cane. Several units were parading in neat red squares on the Common. Some were visible marching down a broad street before disappearing from view behind the dark brick buildings. In the harbor, men of war were leaving the wharves under sail, moving out toward open water, while others maneuvered in toward the piers.

  “Those ships tying up at Long Wharf,” Merriam said. Will nodded. “They are troop transports. See, they have no gun ports.”

  Columns of Redcoats emerged from King Street leading down to Long Wharf. The late-morning sun glinted off their bayonets. They marched, in perfect unison, down the pier and onto the waiting transports. They were followed by a unit of dragoons. The sound of the horses’ hooves drumming on the wooden planks carried up to the Americans on the Heights. Will watched the cavalry men dismount and lead their horses up two broad ramps to a ship.

  “Those will be the Light Dragoons,” Merriam said. “They were at Bunker Hill. The Death Heads will find the slopes up these Heights much tougher going.”

  “Death Heads?” Will asked.

  “They have a skull emblazoned on the front of their black caps,” Merriam explained.

  “We have riflemen this time,” one of the gun crew said, “and we did not at Bunker Hill. They will aim two inches below that skull and blow the Dragoons out of their saddles.” Will thought of the ease with which General Washington had leaped the wall outside his headquarters. He saw the Dragoons coming over the parapets with sabers drawn. He realized he had no weapons other than his knife and hatchet. He had hunted on the farm with a musket before and knew how to use one. Maybe he could get one. The gun crews were armed, some with muskets affixed with long bayonets, others with lances or pikes. Lieutenant Hadley carried both sword and pistol.

  “The longer they take to embark and land, the hotter their reception will be,” Lieutenant Hadley said, pointing to a militia unit marching past them on the road behind their battery. He rubbed his unshaven cheeks and chin as if they itched. “As General Washington said, we get stronger with each passing hour. When they attack, we will carry the day. Of that I am certain.”

  “Sir. Do you know where the Marblehead Mariners are stationed?” Will asked.

  Lieutenant Hadley looked at him. He took off his tri-corn and wiped his brow. There was little wind. It was getting warmer as the sun was directly overhead. “They are below Cambridge, manning our flatboats. As General Howe draws his troops out of Boston to attack the Heights, General Washington has ordered General Putnam to attack the city, landing at the west end of Mill Pond. They only await a signal from us that the Redcoats are fully committed in their attack here at Dorchester Heights.”

  Will nodded and imagined his friends, Adam, Solomon and Jeremiah, and especially Nat, ready to row the troops across. He wasn’t sure of the positions of the British batteries but hoped there were none nearby. He wondered how quickly the Mariners could row a flatbottomed boat, heavy with standing soldiers, across the inner harbor. Somewhat guiltily, he realized he had thought of himself as one of the artillery men a few moments ago, instead of being with the Mariners. “It will be a few hours before they land,” Sergeant Merriam said. “At least enough time to eat and drink. It will be another long day.” Will remained at the parapet, studying the activity below. He watched a unit of Grenadiers, easily identifiable by their high black bearskin caps, emerge from the city streets onto a pier adjacent to Long Wharf. The sound of their drums drifted up as they marched in cadence to the beat, down the long pier and up the ramps onto a waiting transport. The noonday sun flashed off the long bayonets fixed to the end of their muskets. More troops emerged from the city streets and flowed in steady red lines, boarding the ships tied up at the stubby finger-like piers.

  Will tore a piece of bread from the loaf in his haversack and cut a piece of cheese off the wedge he had brought with him. Johan was down there, somewhere in Boston. He hoped he was safe. Sergeant Merriam, having discarded his cane, limped up and stood next to him. “Those Grenadiers are going to be hot in their bearskin caps in the hold of that ship,” he observed. “Ah. I wondered when they would load artillery.” He pointed to several light cannon being wheeled down a wharf closer to them. “That’s Oliver’s Wharf, near their south battery. Those are three and six pounders. Good for firing across open fields at massed troops. I doubt if they will be of any effect on our positions.”

  Will looked at the defensive lines stretching out on both sides of the batteries. Some soldiers were still endeavoring to improve the works. To the left, earthen battlements had been thrown up. In front of them, the bundles of saplings had been dismantled and intertwined to form an interlocking barrier, shaped like a long arrowhead pointing downward. In the center, the stone- and earth-filled barrels stood upright as protection, ready to be turned sideways and rolled down the icy slope, which had thawed and turned to mud in some places. He could picture the barrels smashing and breaking the legs of the advancing Grenadiers, the chains cutting them in half and throwing them back down the hill.

  Will heard cries from below, and one by one, six transports pushed away from the wharf. With sails unfurled, they moved slowly out of the harbor on a northeasterly course, avoiding the American guns on the Heights before turning south. Will watched them parallel Dorchester Heights and disappear around the point.

  Sergeant Merriam offered Will his canteen.

  “They are heading for Castle Island, around Dorchester Point,” he said. “The shoals there are dry at low water. They will have to watch their tides.”

  Will took a long drink. It tasted like watered hard cider. He drank thirstily as he watched several empty transports maneuver into position and dock at Long Wharf. More troops marched down the pier and boarded.

  “They had better be quick about it,” Merriam said, scanning the sky to the south. “There is weather moving in.” Will turned around, away from Boston. Close to land the sky was a light grey. In the distance, out to sea, scalloped clouds preceded ominous long strips of deep grey until, near the horizon, the sky was a threatening solid mass of darkness. The light breeze, that had come from the harbor early in the day was now blowing from behind them, a harbinger of the weather to come.

  Chapter 10 - A Providential Storm Throughout the early afternoon the wind continued to strengthen and the skies became blacker. By four o’clock the British transports leaving the wharves were encountering a strong southwesterly wind, making it difficult for them to cross the harbor and reach Castle Island. A few of the last to depart turned around and quickly skittered back to the wharf, aided by the stiff wind at their backs. Will felt the temperature dropping and wrapped his coat tightly around his body. The surface of the ground, which had begun to thaw in the mild midday temperatures, once again became hard and treach
erous underfoot.

  In anticipation of the foul weather, Lieutenant Hadley ordered the gun crews to protect the powder and keep it dry. Canvas tents and cooking pots had been brought up during the day. Will helped one of the crews spread the canvas on the ground, anchor it with the cooking pots and carry the side boxes onto it. They covered the boxes with more canvas, tucking the ends under each one and securing the remaining canvas to two tent poles. The end result was a lean-to structure with the powder boxes wedged at the low southeast end, and the tent opening to the northwest, away from the direction the wind was blowing. The wind was now much stronger. There was no question of erecting tents on the exposed heights for shelter. Instead, each crew tied one end of their tent to the trunnions of the cannon and formed a low triangle of the remaining canvas, holding it down with large rocks or the remaining but useless cooking pots.

  There was nothing to be done for the horses. Will did not want to leave the Heights and ride to Roxbury in search of a shed. Instead, he led Big Red and the mare down a slope away from the crest, found a reasonably sheltered hollow, and tethered both horses to a tree. As he returned to the summit, the rain swept in from the southeast, pelting down in enormous cold sheets. He ran up the back of the slope and crawled, wet and shivering, into the lean-to shelter around The Albany. There were five men, including Sergeant Merriam, already crowded together. It was clear to Will that although he was welcome to stay, his presence was a burden. Without a word he dashed out into the storm and crept into the shelter erected to protect the gunpowder. The tent poles holding up the canvas flap as an opening swayed in the now galelike winds. Will pulled down one of the poles, piled stones around the base of the remaining pole to give it more support and retreated to the low end, away from the opening. He leaned up against the powder boxes. Through the narrow slit he watched the rain change first to sleet and then to hailstones. The sound of the icy pellets bounced off the cannons with a high pitched metal noise. The hail on the canvas roof over his head was more like drumming. He swung his haversack around to his chest to make sure it would stay dry, pulled his knees up to his chest, and waited. After a while, the noise of the hail abated, replaced by the softer whisper of sleet whipping against his flimsy canvas shelter as the wind continued to howl.