by John Smolens
Sometime after one in the afternoon, barges and longboats set out from Long Wharf and North Battery, headed for Charlestown. It was an awesome spectacle: twenty-eight vessels lined up in two even rows and propelled by their oars, resembling scarlet bugs as they crawled across the harbor. Joshua estimated that there were at least fifty soldiers in each boat, their bayonets glinting in the sunlight. They were accompanied by barges loaded with supplies, horses, and field guns.
“Those grasshoppers will be set up at the base of the hill,” Joshua said. “From several hundred yards they will be out of range of the American rifles, and they’ll tear that redoubt to pieces unchallenged. A charge may not even be required.”
Another old fisherman said, “I fought at Louisbourg, and I saw what cannon could do. Those Frenchmen that weren’t killed and wounded were driven from the fort, many diving into the sea.”
When the boats landed in Charlestown, the soldiers waded ashore and gathered along the beach below Morton’s Point. Once empty, the boats began to return across the harbor. Over the course of the next hour it was clear that the British were in no hurry to initiate their assault. Perhaps, Joshua suggested, their mere presence would cause the Americans to flee. Though there were estimates that the first wave delivered some fifteen hundred redcoats to Charlestown, by midafternoon more troops were being ferried across the harbor. A small squadron marched into Charlestown, and soon the entire village was engulfed in flames. The thick plume of smoke drifted lazily across the peninsula, at times obscuring the redoubt at the crest of the nearest hill.
While everyone’s attention was drawn to the scene across the harbor, a girl of about twelve took hold of Abigail’s hand and looked up at her with imploring eyes. The girl’s mother said, “Perhaps, Sympathy, you need to go outside?” The woman, heavy-set and missing teeth, stared at Abigail earnestly, as though trying to convey a tacit message.
“I’d be glad to take her,” Abigail said.
Pointedly, the woman said to her daughter, “Attend to the lady now. You follow close behind, understand?”
Sympathy nodded. She let go of Abigail’s hand, stepped behind her, and followed her down the loft stairs and outside. They walked up a path from the beach.
“You need to relieve yourself?” Abigail said. The girl had large moist brown eyes. Her wrists were thin as twigs. Something about her was awkward, embarrassed. “Go ahead,” Abigail urged. “Go behind a bush there. No one will see.”
“It be your dress.”
“My dress?”
Sympathy looked away, toward the sail loft. Abigail took it now that her mother had orchestrated their departure. “On the back,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Quickly, Abigail reached behind her and gathered the linen fabric. It was damp. She looked at her hand, which was smeared with blood. The air was filled with the thud of cannon fire, and church bells rang from near and far. She suddenly felt the heat of the sun on her scalp. “Thank you, Sympathy. I must—I must clean myself and change. Do you wish to go with me?”
At first the girl seemed uncertain, but then as Abigail continued up the path, the girl fell in stride behind her. When they reached Mariah’s house, they entered the dooryard through the back gate. The place was already suffering from neglect—wood slats had been removed from the fence. The kitchen door was ajar. Inside, the house had been ransacked.
“Thieves,” Abigail said.
“My father says the lobsterbacks will tear this house down because Mistress Cole is in jail,” Sympathy said. “And she will surely hang.”
When Abigail entered the parlor, broken glass crackled beneath her shoes. She stopped; the girl was barefoot. Abigail picked the girl up in her arms and carried her to Mariah’s bedroom. The girl put her bare arms tightly around Abigail’s neck and her smooth skin was warm. Abigail inspected the pinewood floor and, determining that there was no danger, put Sympathy down by the closet. There was an old seaman’s trunk, which was opened; Mariah’s clothing was spilled over the sides and was piled on the floor.
Abigail picked up a pair of shoes. “These may be a bit large but you’ll grow into them.”
Sympathy slid her feet into the shoes. As she walked about the room, the heels knocked loudly on the floor, causing her to giggle.
Abigail got down on her knees and sorted through the garments until she found a blue dress of light calico. There was a yellow scarf, which Sympathy picked up. She looked at Abigail, who nodded. The girl draped the scarf over her shoulders, dramatically throwing one end over her shoulder.
“It goes well with your eyes,” Abigail said.
They went back into the kitchen, where there was a bucket of water. Abigail removed her white linen dress—Sympathy was surprised to see that she wore nothing underneath—and soaked it in the water, and then washed herself. “Do you understand what has happened?”
The girl nodded. She had remarkably long lashes, which snapped each time she blinked. Her stare was arrested, curious. “Mother says my blood will come anytime now.”
“It’s called menarche,” Abigail said. “The first time can be alarming.”
“And then I will grow them,” the girl said, staring at Abigail’s breasts.
“You will, and you will have a long, slender back and a high bosom that will give men and women pause.” Incredulous, the girl laughed. “It’s true, and you will learn how to walk, how to turn and move. You’ll learn how to carry them.” Abigail turned her shoulders, causing her breasts to sway, and, laughing, Sympathy mimicked her.
Abigail pulled on Mariah’s dress and buttoned it up. “Your mother has told you what the blood means?”
“I am a woman, but as long as the blood comes every month I am not with child.” She hesitated, her fingers playing with the end of the yellow scarf. “I don’t understand if the blood is a good thing. Mother says it depends.”
“Yes, it depends.” Suddenly, Abigail seemed out of breath. It was hot in the house and the dress was snug in the shoulders and across the back. “It depends on whether you want to be with child or not.” She placed a hand on her chest, inhaling.
Sympathy took Abigail’s hand and led her out on to the back stoop, where the air was cooler. They sat on the step.
“It is painful?” the girl said.
“Sometimes.”
“When our pigs mount each other, they squeal.”
Abigail breathed slowly, deeply.
“It must hurt so,” Sympathy said. “But my cousin Anne says not at all. Does it?”
“It depends.”
Abigail leaned over, but when the girl placed her hand on her shoulder, she lifted her head. Then they were in each other’s arms, and Abigail began to sob.
“I’m afraid,” Sympathy said, crying, too. “I don’t want the blood.”
“I know. Neither did I.”
Once landed, the British soldiers ate a leisurely lunch in the meadows down by Morton’s Point. At six to seven hundred yards, they were well out of firing range from the redoubt. Many of them were sprawled in the grass, eating, smoking cigars and pipes, seemingly unperturbed by the constant cannon fire coming from the harbor and Copp’s Hill. The village was completely consumed in flames, crackling and filling the air with black smoke, which at times nearly blotted out the sun. The shade brought slight, fleeting relief from the afternoon heat.
Benjamin watched the field pieces as they were being wheeled into place and prepared by teams of men, under the direction of officers, some of whom were on horseback. Equipment was still being unloaded from one of the barges, and the ammunition crates were carried up from the beach. Out on the water, longboats were returning with yet more soldiers.
“They are giving us time,” Lumley said. “To run.” He looked down along the wall, where men were still furiously reinforcing the redoubt. “I’ve never seen such confusion. Except for this fellow Prescott, no one’s really in charge.”
“He’s leading by example,” Ezra said.
True. Prescott spe
nt much of his time striding back and forth along the top of the earthen wall in his shirtsleeves, white waistcoat, and broad-brimmed hat. He talked to men and he shouted orders, most of which were ignored. Men were constantly looking back toward the Neck. On the far side, the crowd of people had grown—Lumley estimated that there were at least two regiments—but because of the constant raking fire from the Symmetry, which stood in the river off the mill pond, few ventured across to the Charlestown peninsula. Several bodies could be seen lying in the road, taken down by grapeshot.
At one point, a couple of hundred men did cross the Neck, led by a tall thin man—word went through the redoubt that this was John Stark and his militia from New Hampshire. As they crossed the spit of land, the cannon fire from the Symmetry intensified, but Stark insisted that he and his men march across at an unhurried pace. The men in the redoubt cheered them on. A few of the New Hampshire boys fell, but most made it across and, after consulting with Prescott and Putnam, Stark led his men out to take positions behind the split rail fence that ran down the left flank toward the Mystic River.
After two o’clock, a horseman rode across the Neck, bringing another huzzah from the redoubt. Even from several hundred yards it was clear that the blond, finely-dressed gentleman was Dr. Joseph Warren. When he arrived at the redoubt, he met with Prescott, as well as several of his apprentices, who were setting up a field hospital farther up Bunker Hill. There was speculation that he would take command of the redoubt—the provincial congress had just granted him a military commission—but instead he removed his coat and accepted the use of a musket. When he joined the men along the embrasure, they greeted him with respect that bordered on reverence. He walked among them, pausing to talk with men as he went—many had been his patients, and he would ask after their wives and children.
As he approached Benjamin, Ezra, and Lumley, he shook hands with men all around.
“Still glad that you came over to our side?” he asked when he reached Lumley.
“I venture, sir,” Lumley said, “that if you stand up on the ramparts, the advancing redcoats will be blinded by the sun reflecting off that satin vest.”
The doctor laughed. “You know, I almost missed this occasion. All morning I was laid up in Cambridge with one of these headaches. Quite blinding it was, but I’d like to take a try with this musket. General Ward would surely join us, but he’s got a bad case of gout.”
The men had often heard about the general’s gout, but coming from Dr. Warren it caused them to laugh like mischievous children.
When the doctor shook Benjamin’s hand, he smiled warmly. “You got out of Boston just in time, eh?”
“Yes, sir. I rowed across this morning.” Benjamin took a letter from his jacket. “My brother intends this for you.”
“Thank you, Benjamin,” the doctor said as he broke the seal on the envelope. “He is in good health?”
“Passable, sir.”
“I see. Well, you wanted to fight, Benjamin. And now this seems to be our day.” Warren became preoccupied with the contents of the letter as he moved on down the wall, still pausing occasionally to speak to men.
The men watched as the doctor moved on. Their faces were weary, covered with sweat and dirt. Yet they seemed encouraged, resolved.
Lumley gazed downhill toward the British soldiers. “They have a few such men, real leaders, but not enough. The way men are promoted, it’s different. All too often a truly good officer will be bypassed. It has to do with, you know, breeding.” Then he grinned. “It don’t account for much with your lot, does it? Not a duke, a baron, or an earl among you. I suppose you think you’re better off.”
“It’s what you came over for?” Ezra said. “It’s what you’re fighting for, is it?”
“Each of us, master of our own, and all that?” Lumley snorted. “Never work. You can’t just eliminate things like greed and jealousy. There’s always someone who’s going to seek the higher place, the status of privilege.” He glanced at Ezra and then Benjamin, a glint in his eye that seemed complicit. “If we were smart, we’d take our chances now in crossing that Neck. Get to the other side and just keep going.” They stared at him, until he leaned forward and rested his arms and musket on the top of the wall. “I’m just saying it would be the reasonable thing to do, is all.”
Upon the command of their officers, the redcoats had begun to fall into formation. Each man bore full battle gear, which Lumley said weighed about a hundred pounds. He was keenly interested in the field pieces, which would be fired before the soldiers advanced up the hill. There were two twelve-pounders situated on Morton’s Point, which began erupting, belching a flash of fire and a plume of white smoke from their barrels. The smaller, mobile guns, however, seemed to be encountering considerable difficulty. Their crews struggled to get them across the swampy areas near the beach, and their wheels often bogged down in mud.
“Too many problems there, it seems,” Lumley said. “It’s not just the muck. Look at those men—they’re not loading and firing. They should be doing so, even if they are stuck. Those guns should be doing most of the hard work here. We should already be torn to pieces, but those grasshoppers are silent. I don’t understand it.”
“Look there,” Ezra said, pointing. “See how those men are going from one crate to another, opening them. And see that officer—he’s livid.”
“That’s Colonel Cleaveland,” Benjamin said.
Lumley shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked down the hill. “I believe you’re right. He’s the commander of artillery, but I don’t understand what the problem is, why those guns aren’t firing.”
Ezra had turned and faced Benjamin. “You know that officer by sight?”
Benjamin nodded. “His men have discovered that they have the wrong shot, the wrong gauge balls.” Lumley had also turned to look at him. “I switched them, last night.”
Ezra and Lumley considered this, until Lumley finally whispered, “No. No, those crates would have been stored in the armory at North Battery, and the colonel—”
“How did you do it?” Ezra said.
Benjamin looked down the hill, where the phalanx of soldiers was slowly beginning to advance, moving through the tall grass in tight formation. “It was all because of my sister,” he said.
“Abigail?” Ezra said.
“We went to North Battery and—” Benjamin paused. He wanted to look at Ezra but couldn’t. “She provided a distraction while I worked on those crates.”
Ezra was quiet for a moment. “A distraction.”
“With the colonel of artillery.”
They all stared down at the columns of redcoats. Along the redoubt, men had put down their tools and had taken up their arms. Though the two twelve-pound guns on Morton’s Point roared away, sending balls into the hillside, the smaller field pieces were useless.
“What kind of a distraction?” Ezra asked.
Benjamin didn’t answer.
Shortly after Abigail returned to the sail loft, the cannon fire from the British ships and from Copp’s Hill ceased. The silence was so heavy, so frightening, that Sympathy would not let go of her hand.
Joshua Tigge finally said, “They’re on the march,” and everyone crowded toward the open windows. At first they were quiet, awestruck, but then some whispered Good Lord or My God.
Red phalanxes moved up the hillside with an undulating quality to their advance that reminded Abigail of how a flag might flutter in a slow breeze. Rags of smoke drifted across the sky, at times making it difficult to see across the harbor. Sporadic cannon fire could be heard from the small hill to the right of Breed’s Hill, but smaller guns at the foot of the hill all were silent.
Joshua raised his spyglass to his eye and said, “There’s some problem with their field guns. They should be peppering that hill right now.”
Abigail looked for smoke from their barrels but saw none. “It’s the ammunition,” she said. Everyone turned and stared at her. “They have the wrong gauge balls.”
&
nbsp; “How do you know?” Sympathy’s mother asked.
“They’re the wrong gauge,” Abigail repeated without bothering to look at the woman. “My brother Benjamin, he tampered with the cases.”
Sympathy’s mother said, “It’s that officer you’ve been keeping company with, isn’t it? He had something to do with artillery, I heard in market.” Then she expelled a robust laugh. “They have the wrong balls over there, all right.” Other women began to laugh, hysterically, defiantly. “She had his balls, so that little brother of hers could have at theirs.”
The women howled and chortled so now that the men became alarmed, even embarrassed. Some sought refuge by looking out the window again.
The men along the redoubt watched the soldiers come up through the tall grass, rising and falling with the uneven lay of the land. There were perhaps a dozen fences strung across the meadow, some wood, others stone. The soldiers were dressed in full battle gear, and their advance was ponderous, deliberate, but relentless.
Lumley scanned the field and said, “Looks different from up here, I tell you. Two thousand men, at least.” He seemed impressed, even proud as he watched. “To our, what, seven, eight hundred?” Turning, he glanced back at the hundreds of men gathered along the higher brow of Bunker Hill. “And do you suppose those bastards will come down here and join us? They’d likely double our numbers, but it’s safer up there, and there’s an excellent view.”
“Spectators,” Benjamin said.
“There’re always spectators,” Lumley said. “And then there’s us.”
Well down to the left, standing on the wall, Colonel Prescott was continually shouting encouragements to his men. Other men who had been designated officers ran behind the men, telling them to hold their fire. Benjamin recalled hearing about the morning on Lexington Green, how one shot was fired—no one knew where it came from, which side had fired first. Prescott kept shouting. One man quipped, “Whites of their eyes, he says. How close is that?”