It was awkward carrying on a conversation in the dark without seeing if the other was about to speak or not. Will didn’t know if the Lieutenant had paused or finished. He waited until Hadley asked, “Do you know the name of the merchant?”
Will shook his head. “No. My father omitted telling me when we parted.” The Lieutenant pondered the problem for a moment. “Perhaps the best place would be to start at the wharves. Most of the merchants maintain their offices in their warehouses. Of course, with the British blockade, I doubt if many of them have remained in business. There is no trade to speak of. Unless one is a Tory.”
“I thought it would be easy. But when Nat, that is Lieutenant Holmes, described Boston to me, I realized how many people live there. It seems larger than even Albany, which is the biggest town I have ever been to.”
Hadley chuckled. It was a warm, comforting laugh. “It is definitely more populated than Albany. I can assure you of that although I have never been to northern New York myself. Who is this Lieutenant Holmes? I do not believe I know of him.”
Will described how Nat befriended him at the beginning of the great trek and the journey itself, how he was quartered with the Mariners, the riot with Morgan’s Rifles and Nat’s courtship of Anna with Colonel Glover’s aid. “He was to be married, in Salem, before we scaled Dorchester Heights. I suspect he is now with the Mariners, as you told me, waiting to row the troops across.”
“He is a lucky man to have married his true love,” the Lieutenant said wistfully. Will shifted his weight, easing the stiffness setting into his legs.
“Why did you leave Boston?” he asked.
“Because I was suspected of activities against the Crown and I was a member of the Massachusetts Artillery Regiment. I secreted myself in a hay wagon and slipped past the British sentries, making my way to Cambridge to rejoin the Colonel.”
“Were you at Bunker Hill?” Will asked excitedly, forgetting for a moment the clinging wet fabric of his pants pressed against his skin.
“No,” the Lieutenant said in the dark next to him. There was a definite tone of regret in his voice. “I was with Colonel Knox at Roxbury, preparing fortifications. The two redoubts we passed on this side of the town before beginning our ascent,” he said. “The morrow’s battle will be my first.”
“And where is your father?” Will asked. He feared his question may have been too personal. In the murky dark of the lean-to he could not see the Lieutenant’s face to judge his reaction.
“Ah, therein lies a tale of happy coincidence, although my father is no longer alive to see the fruits of his generosity. He died four years ago this past January, in the winter of ‘72.” Will waited in the darkness for Hadley to continue.
“My father was a teacher, a poorly paid yet highly respected profession. He taught at the Boston Latin School and young Henry Knox was one of his students. When the Colonel’s father died, Henry was compelled to leave and support his widowed mother.” He coughed lightly. Will heard him untop his canteen, drink and felt a tap on his arm as Hadley offered him a drink. Will put the canteen to his lips and felt the rum warm his throat. He handed it back to the Lieutenant, wiping his mouth with his wet sleeve.
“Henry was apprenticed to the booksellers Wharton and Bowes, known to my father because they supplied books to Boston Latin. He prevailed upon Mr. Bowes to make available for Henry’s education certain books in the store, destined for the school, for him to read.” Hadley sneezed three times in quick succession.
“Every Sabbath, after services at the Church of the Presbyterian Strangers, which Mrs. Knox and her two boys attended, as did my family, my father would bring Henry to our home and question him about his readings. He would also have him practice declamations, which Henry could not do before the other boys because he was no longer a student.”
“I heard the Colonel give a speech to some teamsters from Massachusetts during the great trek,” Will said. “It was truly inspiring.” He remained silent, hoping Hadley would not ask him to recite it, certain his efforts at declamation would be deemed insufficient by a man as educated as the Lieutenant.
“The Colonel has a way with words,” Hadley continued, “due in part to my father’s attachment to him. And he to my father, I should add. When my father died, I was around your age. The Colonel offered me a position in his militia. At the time it was called the Boston Grenadier Corps. And so here I am, my father’s kindness repaid by the Colonel’s, for which I am both grateful and resolved to do my utmost to uphold the Colonel’s trust in me.”
“If you permit me to say so Sir, the way you acted at the tavern, cajoling the townspeople and graciously speaking to the serving girl show you too have the power to move people by speech.”
Hadley laughed. “I will take that as a compliment, Master Stoner. I always treat every member of the fairer sex as if she were a queen,” Hadley replied. “Besides, the young girl possessed more integrity in her dainty little fingers than all of the men in the tavern.” In the ensuing silence, Will was unsure whether the Lieutenant was musing about the events in the tavern, the serving girl or another matter.
“Well,” the Lieutenant finally said, “it will begin again tomorrow. And we must be rested and ready to greet the King’s men.”
At the mention of sleep, Will felt overcome by exhaustion. He thought about making his bed on top of the boxes but the canvas was too low. There was nothing for it except to lie down and endure the water.
“So, Will, what are we to do about our palatial quarters?” Hadley asked cheerfully. “My suggestion,” he said quickly, answering his own question, “is that you put your coat down on top of the floor canvas and I use my cloak to cover us both. And I hope you told Dr. Thaxter the truth when you said you had smallpox as a child. It would be unpleasant if you developed a case from his inoculation.” Will sensed the humor in his voice. “I would not be able to shelter some young maiden under my cloak unless I first asked her if she has had the pox. And such a question could lead to embarrassing complications.” He chuckled to himself as Will took off his wet coat. He didn’t understand what the Lieutenant meant, but by now he was too tired to ask. They both lay down, the Lieutenant’s back against the wooden side boxes and Will next to him, facing the makeshift entrance to their shelter. Will pulled a corner of Hadley’s cloak over his shoulder. He fell asleep wondering whether to tell the Lieutenant about Elisabeth.
The next day, Wednesday March sixth, the only improvement in the weather was an increase in the temperature, changing the sleet to rain. The wind continued unabated from the southeast. At midday Lieutenant Hadley borrowed the mare and rode off to an Officers’ meeting at General Thomas’ headquarters at the parsonage in Roxbury. Will hitched Big Red to the wagon and drove it to the Old Oak Tavern. It was a cold wet trip. He comforted himself with the thought that he would be inside and sheltered, however briefly, which is more than the rest of the Regiment would enjoy that day. He tarried in the barn, now mostly empty. It appeared the tavern’s patrons had finally gone home. He led Big Red into a stall and gave him oats and hay, waiting until he finished before rubbing him down with a blanket he took from another wagon.
Inside the tavern, Will told the owner he had returned his wagon and offered to pay for his horse’s feed. The man waved him off with shake of his plump hands, motioning Will to take a place at a table near the fire. He brought him a tankard of mulled cider. Will’s offer to pay for a steaming bowl of fish chowder and warm bread was likewise refused. Maybe, he mused, the owner never expected to see his wagon again.
Will ate his meal hastily and with a tinge of guilt, thinking of Sergeant Merriam and the others at the battery. He assuaged his feelings by reasoning he had helped bring food back last night and the men had been appreciative. He left without seeing the serving girl, which was for the best, as he only wanted to study her closely for the purpose of comparing her unfavorably to Elisabeth. “What a mean thought,” he muttered to himself as he mounted Big Red, using an anvil as a step to get u
p on the horse’s back. He rode back to the Heights, chastising himself for not taking more to heart the Lieutenant’s words about how to treat women.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, the men alternately huddling in their low canvas shelters or, when driven by boredom or necessity, braving the incessant rain and emerging to stare down the slopes toward Boston Harbor below, or to dash off into the sparse woods to relieve themselves.
In the late afternoon Will crawled into the canvas shelter attached to The Albany. Sergeant Merriam, his back against the gun carriage wheel, was biting off a piece of meat speared on the point of his knife. His tri-corn rested on the gun carriage’s hub. Will greeted Merriam and the two others of the crew and squatted in the center of their small space.
“On behalf of this crew, we thank you for your efforts last night. Warm meat never tasted so good as it did then,” Merriam said. In the dimness of the lean-to, he seemed thinner in the face and less cherubiclooking than the night Will had first seen him at the barracks. There were bags under his eyes. His jowly cheeks moved slowly up and down, as he methodically chewed the meat.
“Tomorrow we need to bring dry powder up from Roxbury. I have been to your shelter and opened the side boxes. The canvas charges are wet. We cannot trust any of the powder we have here to fire.” Will nodded. “There are wagons and sleds in Roxbury at the Powder Tower. Do you still have your horses?”
“I have Big Red. Lieutenant Hadley took the mare when his horse split a hoof. Big Red can pull any load of powder you need,” Will said confidently.
“Well, we will wait orders from the Lieutenant but I believe that will be the first one on the morrow. Unless this storm continues,” he added. “Then, I do not know what we will do.”
“But the Regulars’ powder will also be wet,” Will said. “They will be unable to fire.”
“Their plan is to storm our lines with bayonets at the ready,” one of the gunners said. “As they did at Bunker Hill,” the other added. “Without powder for our cannons or muskets, we cannot blast them before they reach the Heights.”
“And the barrels we intend to roll down on them are not enough?” a gunner asked, anticipating Will’s question.
“You men are forgetting the Death Head Dragoons,” Merriam said. The lean-to was silent as each of them contemplated the British cavalry charging over the low walls and slashing about with their sabers. “Without dry powder, our soldiers on foot will be no match for them.”
There was a shout from outside. Will quickly stood up, brushing his head against the canvas. A steady drip of water seeped through where his head had met the ceiling. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, backing out of the opening, careful not to bump the waterlogged canvas again.
Several of the gun crew were standing near the edge, shoulders hunched, their tri-corns pulled down against the steady rain.
“There is a ship coming from Castle Island to the harbor,” one explained, pointing to the white sails of a small transport running before the rain-driven wind. It tied up at Long Wharf. A red-cloaked figure ran down the gangplank and jumped into a waiting carriage. Will watched the carriage disappear down the wharf through the mist before retreating to his lean-to. He sat there alone. Unwilling to risk getting the broadsheets and journals wet, he left his haversack unopened. With nothing to read, he resorted to composing another letter in his mind to Elisabeth. He did not think he would be killed in the coming battle but felt he must write her before something happened to him. In his solitary shelter he recited the letter out loud.
That night Will slept alone with the side boxes. It was colder and less cheery without the Lieutenant’s company, body warmth and cloak. Sometime in the early hours of the morning Will was aware, through the fog of his deep sleep, the rain had stopped and the wind had abated. He was awakened by Lieutenant Hadley shaking his shoulder.
“Will wake up. Wake up. Now.”
He sat up quickly, frozen in body and panic stricken that the Redcoats were attacking. He could see Hadley’s face in front of him. It must be dawn or close to it, he guessed.
“Saddle up and get to the powder tower in Roxbury.” Will, still half asleep, thought, “What a silly thing for the Lieutenant to say.” He knew Will had no saddle. Will peered at Hadley’s face. It was clean shaven. Somewhere he had found a razor and warm water, he thought. “There should be wagons and sleds there. Load up quickly and return here. I want some dry powder immediately.”
Will, now wide awake, needed no further urging. He clambered down the muddy slope to where Big Red was tethered. The sky, just beginning to lighten in the predawn, was clear, the air fresh and crisp. The road from the Heights down to Roxbury was empty except for an occasional courier and a few militia men, from what unit he could not tell, who had strayed into Roxbury for the night.
He was challenged at the powder tower by a sentry. Will explained his mission. The sentry was adamant. Without written orders, the sentry would not permit him to remove any charges. Will, motivated by Lieutenant Hadley’s sense of urgency, thought to ride the sentry down . Before he could act impulsively another sentry, a soldier from the Massachusetts Artillery, recognized Will and vouched for him. “He took care of us when we had the pox,” he explained to the others. “Make way and let the lad through.”
Will hitched Big Red up to a wagon and, with the help of the sentry who had spoken up for him, loaded the precious canvas bags onto the flat wooden floor. The sun was rising over Boston when he returned to the Heights. The lean-tos and shelters were gone, taken down and laid out to dry. The gun crews had emptied the side boxes of the doubtful powder and placed them in rows, lying on the canvas facing east to catch the morning sun, but well back from the batteries. While the men unloaded the fresh gunpowder, Will explained to Lieutenant Hadley the difficulty he had encountered trying to get powder without written orders.
“I have not my kit with me and no ink and quill to write with. I cannot spare anyone from the gun crew. The British may attack in the early morning.” He reached inside his coat and gave Will, Colonel Knox’s order to move the Regiment to the Heights. “Wave it in their faces if our man is not there. Otherwise, ride to General Thomas’ headquarters in Roxbury. Perhaps Colonel Knox will be there. Now hurry. Bring back a heavier load. If you hear cannon fire, come back with whatever charges are already on the wagon.”
Will nodded, turned Big Red around and clattered down the road toward the causeway. The road was crowded with all manner of wagons and sleds heading up the slopes. He was slowed by wagons drawn by docile, plodding oxen laden with all sorts of supplies that Will could see were not essential to the imminent battle. There were wagons with bales of hay, tents, bedding, pots and boxes filled with whatever. “Someone should have sorted all this out,” he muttered to himself, looking down the road for a wider place to pass. He waited impatiently behind a train of empty wagons heading down to Roxbury, or maybe Cambridge. At the junction with the low causeway he swerved around an ox cart and managed to move briskly along the familiar road to Roxbury. He listened for the sound of cannon fire, which would signal that he was too late.
This time there was no problem at the powder tower. The sentries on duty recognized him and worked willingly. The soldier from the Massachusetts Artillery had found several side boxes, which were already filled with canvas bags when Will arrived. It took six of them to lift each box. These soldiers, too weak from their illnesses to serve on the line, had not yet fully recovered their strength. To Will, it seemed interminably long before all the side boxes were laboriously loaded on the wagon.
Will headed up the slope, the metal studded wheels skidding in the deep ruts of frozen mud and slush. He hoped he would not hear the sound of firing. He followed a slow moving oxen drawn wagon laden with bales of hay, one of which was precariously balanced at the edge. Will dismounted and led Big Red at a walk. His horse had not eaten since yesterday. He dropped Big Red’s reins and clicked for the horse to keep following him. Will strode ahead and grabbed the loose bale
from the wagon. He slowed his walk, waiting for Big Red to come alongside him and quickly hoisted the bale over the wagon’s edge, dropping it on top of two of the side boxes. Quickly, he mounted the wooden seat, took the reins in his hands again and resumed the slow ride to the top, still nervously listening for sounds the battle had begun. The agonizingly slow pace, behind a long train of plodding oxen, was maddening, but impatient as he was, Will realized there was no way past them. He hoped he had already delivered enough powder for the batteries.
When he reached the cannons, there were several ox-drawn carts in front of him. The gun crews were unloading their cargo. From the way the men strained, Will knew the wooden crates were heavy. He jumped down, pulled a few sheaves of hay from the bale and put them in front of Big Red. Leaving the horse to eat, he ran forward to help the gun crews.
“Over here, Will,” Sergeant Merriam called, as he struggled with two other soldiers to drag a long wooden box toward the cannons. Will grabbed a corner and staggered. Even with the four of them, it was difficult.
“What is in here?” he asked, as he strained to keep his end up.
“Grape shot,” one of the gunners grunted. “To cut the legs off of the Grenadiers and the horses from under the Death Heads.” He grinned devilishly, revealing a mouth of brown stained teeth with significant gaps in his lower jaw. “We can bowl them over with the cannon balls or cut them in half with the canister.” Merriam said. “Mind your fingers now,” he cautioned as they lowered the box to the ground. The Sergeant grunted as he straightened his back.
“And you have brought us some more powder, I hope.”
“Yes Sir. Several side boxes worth.”
Cannons for the Cause Page 23