by John Smolens
“Bunker Hill.”
“Breed’s Hill.”
Ezra and Lumley looked as though they were both about to take a swing at each other with their shovels.
“Shut up,” Benjamin said.
“If we’re going to die for this mound of dirt,” Lumley said, “we should at least call it by its proper name.”
“Exactly my point,” Ezra said.
“Both of you!” Benjamin shouted, causing them to turn to him, quite startled. “Shut up and dig.”
He drove his spade into the dirt.
Then, as they leaned down to dig, they all—all the men in the trench—suddenly froze at the loud percussive sound that cracked out across the harbor.
The first shell rattled Abigail’s bedroom windows.
Yet she clung to her dream. There was Ezra. Something to do with a carriage. It was cold, a winter’s night, and he had his hand upon her thigh. His fingers were warm.
But then several cannon fired in rapid succession and she sat upright in bed, confused. Down the hall she could hear her parents stirring. There came another volley of cannon fire, and then it was silent.
In the distance church bells rang: four in the morning. Outside there was the sound of running feet. Across the way a window was opened and old Mrs. Pierce shouted, “What’s that?”
“The British,” a boy called as he ran down School Street. “British cannon!”
All the men had climbed up out of the ditch. From the top of the redoubt walls they could see flames and smoke pouring out of the side of one of the smaller ships.
“It’s the Lively,” Lumley said. “Her guns may be too light to reach us.”
“Imagine,” Ezra said. “If we had been way back there—” He turned to point.
“They wouldn’t even have bothered firing,” Lumley said.
“What was the name of that hill?” Ezra said.
Lumley turned to him. There was a roar from the ship as several cannon were set off in rapid succession. They were talking, nearly shouting at each other, and though Benjamin was standing right next to them he couldn’t hear what was said. And then came that whistling the balls made as they flew through the air.
Quite suddenly, beyond the dark hulking profile of Boston, the sky out over the Atlantic changed. At first Benjamin thought it was only a trick of the eye, an illusion. But, no, there was on the horizon the faintest shimmer. He looked away, up at the stars tucked in velvety black, and then gazed toward the ocean once more, and there, due east, there was no question now: first light.
The cannonballs landed in the meadow below the redoubt, each with a solid thud. One skipped up through the tall grass, like a stone hurled upon the water, and then suddenly to the left men were shouting. Some gathered in a crowd, while Colonel Prescott and Old Put shouted for the men to return to the ditch and continue digging.
In the confusion, Benjamin saw some men sprinting back toward Charlestown Neck. Others called after them, but they kept running. He went down into the ditch with Lumley—Ezra had disappeared. They began digging, frantic now. The guns were quiet, but the silence seemed even more threatening.
“He’s run off, he has,” Lumley said.
“I don’t believe that,” Benjamin said.
“When he gets to Cambridge, I hope he remembers to send us reinforcements.”
Benjamin raised his pick over his head and drove it into the ground, striking rock. Lumley shoveled loose dirt into the box.
“It was a fellow named Pollard, Asa Pollard,” Ezra said, pushing his way through the men in the ditch. “I’m a surgeon’s apprentice, but he’s beyond my assistance.”
All the men stopped in their labor. “Dead, is he?” one of them asked.
Another said, “He’s in the house not built by hands.”
“Decapitated.” Ezra picked up his shovel and jammed it into the ground. “Prescott ordered that he be buried immediately. No prayers. It’s the right thing. We’ve much work to do.” He threw dirt into the box and then dug deeper into the ground.
XXVI
Dirt, Stones, Straw, and Blood
ABIGAIL FOUND JOSHUA TIGGE IN HIS SAIL LOFT, SPYGLASS RAISED to his eye. Throughout the North End, crowds had gathered on roofs and in upper windows, any elevated place that afforded a better view across the harbor.
Joshua handed her the glass. “Our boys have guts, if they stay on that hill.”
Then he looked at her. In her haste, she had pulled on the linen dress, which was wrinkled and the fabric stiff with sea salt. Her hair was undone, trailing well down her back. She peered through the glass. She could see the hills of Charlestown in the deep, clear light of daybreak. There was a wall of earth etched into the hill nearest the harbor; it looked like a scar in the green meadow and it was crawling with men, festering.
“It’s just a victory to say to that old woman Tommy Gage we know your plans to march on Dorchester, but we’ll determine where we’ll engage you.”
“What will the British do?”
“Thus far they’ve moved one of their ships up into the Charles River basin—see it, off to the left?”
“Yes.”
“From there they can rake Charlestown Neck, challenging any reinforcements that might try to get out on the peninsula.”
“The British will attack,” Abigail said.
“Indeed they will, and as soon as possible, I would think.” She handed him the glass, and looking through it he said, “But where will they land? They can’t send longboats full of troops to the Neck, because there’s a millpond dam there, blocking access to the beach. They could land at the wharves in Charlestown, but who knows—our boys may be waiting in every window, ready to open fire.” He raised his other hand and pointed. “My guess is they’ll land below that little mound, Morton’s Hill, at the mouth of the Mystic, or go by it and up the river on the north side. They could easily flank the redoubt from that side. Holding the peninsula won’t be easy, considering the lay of the land.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“To Charlestown?”
“Only as far as the clam flats.” She returned the spyglass to him. He seemed incredulous. “I’ve only been out of Boston twice, Joshua.” She dragged her fingers through her tangled hair. “And that was just to visit my mother’s relatives in Roxbury.”
As the sun rose up off the eastern horizon, Benjamin could see the open meadows rolling down to the water. The problem was evident: the redoubt could easily be flanked on either side. There was, down to the left, a spit with an old kiln on a mound called Morton’s Point. The Mystic River ran by it, forming the northern border of the peninsula, and there was ample beach on which to land. To the right, the fields were open, broken only by occasional fences and a cart path, until the land leveled out at the village.
Benjamin, Ezra, and Lumley discussed this as they helped construct shooting platforms in the side of the fortification. There was little wood—only some planks that had been pulled from barns in the village—so they made rough steps by laying stones in the dirt and tamping them down with their boots.
“These rocks,” Lumley said with a snort. “They may come in handy.”
Ezra looked back toward Charlestown Neck. “If reinforcements do come, they’ll bring ammunition.”
Since the death of Asa Pollard, it seemed the two men had made a tacit peace. Benjamin also suspected that Lumley was impressed—though he’d never say it—by the fact that Ezra had not run off.
“If they bring ammunition,” Benjamin said, jumping up and down on a stone until it burrowed in the dirt, flat side up, “I hope they bring me a musket to fire it with.”
Ezra said to Lumley, “He’s a good loader.”
“Is he now?”
“I trained him.” Ezra smiled, tamping down his own rock. “We practiced a full day, from Concord all the way back to Cambridge.”
Cannons fired from one of the ships in the harbor. The British volleys had been sporadic, usually erupting in a cluster, and then th
ere would be silence for minutes. The men continued to work and many didn’t bother to look up, until they could hear the whistling balls approaching. Several more men had been wounded, but the worrisome news that came down the line was that one ball had smashed the two hogsheads of drinking water.
“Straw.” Lumley shook his head, pointing off to the left. A group of men had been sent out to the north from the redoubt and they were gathering mown hay in the field and packing it into a fence that ran down toward the Mystic. He took his flask from his vest pocket. “Those boys are going to protect our left flank from behind a straw wall?” He hadn’t offered any rum but now he did, saying, “It’s just about finished. Can I buy you gentlemen a drink?”
Ezra hesitated.
“It’s wet,” Lumley suggested.
Ezra took the flask and tipped it up to his mouth. And then he passed it on to Benjamin, who finished the last few drops of rum, which burned all the way down to his stomach.
Ezra took the empty flask and returned it. “Thank you, Lumley.”
“My pleasure.” Lumley climbed down in to the ditch and began to gather more stones. “I hear that the fields of Vermont are full of rocks, but once they are cleared the soil is good for planting.” He tossed a stone up to Ezra, who dropped it on the ground; and then another and another made flight.
“You were in Boston,” Ezra said without looking at Benjamin.
“I was.” Benjamin knew what was coming. He got down on his knees and with his bleeding fingers dug a hole, into which he eased one of the stones.
“How fares your sister?”
Benjamin kept working.
Ezra knelt next to him and also began digging with his bloody hands. “She is well?” When Benjamin didn’t respond, he sat back on his haunches. “What?”
“I did what you asked,” Benjamin said. “I said nothing to her about seeing you.”
After a moment Ezra resumed digging. “You should not think that I don’t care for Abigail. I do, truly. But—”
“But what, Ezra?” Benjamin rolled his stone into the hole. “But what?”
“There are circumstances that I, for which I am responsible—”
“Circumstances?” Benjamin stood up. “Don’t tell me about circumstances.” Using his boots, he pushed the stone deeper into the hole, which only aggravated the blisters on his feet. Disgusted, he slid down into the ditch and began collecting more stones.
Working next to him, Lumley said quietly, “Easy now, Benjamin, easy. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”
The British bombardment continued through the morning. More and more Bostonians sought any place high enough to offer them a view across the harbor. Shortly after ten bells, Abigail left Joshua Tigge’s sail loft, to see that her parents were all right. They were not at home, so she stopped at James’s house. He was confined to bed and Mary said he was quite ill, probably due to all the activity in the city. The percussion of artillery was nearly constant, as was the beat of drums as redcoats marched through the streets.
When Abigail was at the front door with Mary, about to say goodbye, James appeared at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a sweat-soaked nightshirt, and he held the banister with both hands. “Last night,” he said weakly. “How did it go?”
“Successful, I think.”
James seemed too weary to stand another minute and he eased himself down until he was seated on the top step. “But at what price?” He seemed afraid to look at Abigail.
“The price that was required, James.”
He glanced at her, stunned by the edge in her voice. “I’ll never forgive myself—and to what end?”
Abigail laughed, surprising her brother and his wife. They watched her, wary. “There is nothing to forgive. It was my own choice.”
“But—” James began.
“But it was something,” Mary said. “You said so yourself. We did what we could.”
“So little,” he said.
Mary placed a hand over her enormous belly, looking wan and frail. Abigail helped her sit in the straight-back chair by the coat rack.
“And Benjamin?” James asked.
Abigail looked up at her brother. “He is away, with your letter to Dr. Warren.”
“He crossed to Charlestown?”
Abigail nodded.
“I would venture our brother is still there then, digging in.”
“I know,” she said. “I fear this—I fear this more than anything else.”
Quite desperate, James said, “I don’t understand why the British are taking so long. I would think they would have attacked right at dawn. But it could be a feint, you know. They could be giving the appearance of going at Charlestown, while they send a force out the Neck—then they could march on Cambridge with no real opposition and surprise our army there and end all hope. In one day, take them down, and it could be over.”
“They could, it seems,” Abigail said, “but in the streets I see and hear nothing but reports of soldiers gathering down to harborside. Boats and barges are being prepared to transport them from Long Wharf and North Battery.” James appeared skeptical. “Joshua Tigge thinks they are waiting for the tide. It will be high around three, and they will launch in the afternoon to take advantage of high water.”
“Makes sense,” James said, though he didn’t seem relieved, only more distracted. “So much of Boston’s history has been determined by the ebb and flow of the ocean.” He was clearly invigorated by the thought of history, and as he struggled to his feet he added, “They may also suspect that our activity at Charlestown is a feint, that we actually plan to come at them from the Neck or Dorchester Heights. Regardless of what they think, they are in no hurry because there is no doubt about their military superiority.” He daubed his eyes with the sleeve of his nighshirt, then he stood up, gripping the banister for support. “Where will you be?”
“I am returning to Tigge’s sail loft. There’s a good view from there.”
“Well enough. You must take some food to Joshua.” James disappeared down the hall and she heard the sound of the door close behind him.
Mary got to her feet slowly. “I’ll fix a wallet for you to take to Mr. Tigge.”
“Perhaps you should lie down too,” Abigail said.
“I must tend to the children,” Mary said, nodding toward the parlor, where several young faces gazed out at them. She made her way toward the kitchen. “Today requires imprecations to the Lord, and I find it easier to pray while I am doing something.”
New England farmers know how to move earth and stone.
Throughout the morning, they continued to build their defenses. Colonel Prescott sent word to Cambridge to request reinforcements, though the courier had to travel the four miles on foot as no horse could be secured for the journey—which only fueled fears that the men building the redoubt were intended to be sacrificed in a lost cause. Furthermore, a sizeable group of men could be seen gathered on the far side of Charlestown Neck, but they did not cross to the peninsula, fearing bombardment from the British ship standing in the river beyond the millpond breakwall. They merely seemed content to observe the preparations.
There was little order in the redoubt. Like the others, Benjamin continued to dig. Word among the men was that General Artemis Ward, who was known for his caution and indecision, was laid up in Hastings House with gout. Lumley speculated that Ward would send few if any reinforcements, because the British activity on the harbor could be a ploy to distract the American army from the real assault from an expedition that would venture across Boston Neck. Late morning, four small field guns did arrive. After being rolled into position, they were fired once to open portals in the redoubt walls. The British shelling continued steadily on past noon. But the real concern was the lack of men, the lack of ammunition, the lack of food and water.
Benjamin was quite exhausted from the work, and from thirst. At one point, he paused to sit on top of the earthen wall. His eyesight had always been keen. Despite the billowing smoke created by t
he British artillery, he could see people in Boston, clustered on rooftops and in belfry windows. Specks of color. Spectators. He imagined that his family was among them, not knowing that he was here on top of this green slope. He was certain Abigail was there, somewhere. He did not want to think on the implications of last night, on her strange laugh after they left the North Battery. Most disturbing was the image of her treading water next to the skiff, saying that she was cleansed. He could often read his sister’s moods, but at that moment there was something about her that he could not fathom. A sorrow, but also some kind of eerie joy. It was too far, too dark, too difficult for him to see what it was, what it had made her. She was changed, he was sure, but how he did not know.
And he wondered about Mariah, locked away in a prison cell. He had never seen her frightened, but couldn’t imagine that she would sit within its walls and hear all the commotion outside and not be afraid. She would not know what was happening. No one would tell her. It was the not knowing that would drive her to distraction—that and the sense of isolation. She needed the harbor, the sky, the smell of the marshes at low tide. Since the night they had become lovers, he wondered at what she had said. If my blood doesn’t come in a month, it will be all right. You take my meaning? He had said yes.
XXVII
Menarche
ALONG WITH THE THUNDER OF CANNON, CHURCH BELLS RANG constantly throughout Boston, giving this hot, sunny day a strange air of portent and festivity. When Abigail returned to Joshua Tigge’s sail loft, the upper floor was filled with watermen and their families. The men and women crowded around the three windows that faced the harbor, while the food Mary had prepared was feasted upon by the children.