Bunker Hill

by Howard Fast

  Five or six hundred yards from where Feversham stood, the British troops were completing their landing, the last of the barges pushing off from the Long Wharf. Below him, giving him a sense of being in a vast theater on the top balcony, the marines and a regiment of light infantry stood in ranks. Two of their officers had spyglasses to their eyes and were obviously pointing at him. Across the river, in Boston, Feversham could make out clusters of people on the rooftops, perched in place to watch the destruction of the Americans and the end of the rebellion.

  Meanwhile, Prescott, followed by a young man with a bundle of pointed sticks, was laying out a line of the sticks about thirty paces in front of the breastworks; and along the ridge, Knowlton was doing the same thing. “Mark these sticks!” Prescott shouted. “No one fires until they reach the sticks. That gives you a measure. That tells you when to shoot.”

  He left the young man to pound in the sticks and joined Feversham. “Well, Doctor, what do you see?”

  “They’re still bringing troops across the river. There’s a boat pushing off now.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There’s something doing on Copp’s Hill. They have a battery of mortars on the hill. There’s a fire going.” He handed the spyglass to Prescott, who peered through it.

  “They’re heating firebombs. You were right, Feversham. They’re going to burn Charlestown.”

  It was not to Gen. Henry Clinton’s liking. “They build of wood here,” he said to Burgoyne, trying to explain his thinking and feeling that Burgoyne, if anyone, should understand how he felt. Burgoyne came to this curious spot and even more curious war loaded with honors, a hero of the Seven Years’ War, a member of Parliament once, and a playwright as well. At thirty-six, Clinton was Burgoyne’s junior in years as well as in military experience. For all that, he felt that Burgoyne was ill fitted for this action in America, not only unable to comprehend the nature of their adversaries but also unwilling to grant them any character different from a European peasant. “Everything is wood, and they craft a house with a kind of reverence. You burn their homes and it’s like burning their children.”

  “That is a romantic notion,” Burgoyne countered. “Believe me, Sir Henry”—giving him the title that Howe had bestowed upon him and managing the put-down that went with a title not yet properly his—“who puts his body at risk and his honor at risk of necessity puts his home at risk. I see no difference. Tomorrow, when this battle is won—and it will be won—the question will be who to hang, not whose house to burn.”

  “No battle is won until it is won.”

  “Well put. But our orders are to burn the place, and burn it we must.”

  “There’s another hour before the shot is hot. The situation could change.”

  “Oh? How could it change in another hour?”

  “They might surrender,” Clinton said.

  Burgoyne regarded him strangely. “You really think so?”

  Clinton pointed to where the two British warships were being warped into the Charles River. “When those ships are in position, we command the Charlestown Neck. They can see the ships as well as we can, and they must know it is hopeless. They can never leave the peninsula, and if the war is to be over, well, good God, what do we gain by burning the town?”

  “We teach them a lesson, and lessons come hard. When I was in school, they beat me, and I learned.”

  “When does Sir William plan to attack?”

  “No later than a half hour past two.”

  As Prescott and Feversham stood on the breastworks, studying the preparations on Copp’s Hill and on the beach at Morton’s Point, Gen. Israel Putnam rode up to the earthworks and sat on his horse, scowling as he contemplated Colonel Prescott’s preparations. He was soaked with sweat, and his long gray hair was in a wild tangle around his head. He spurred his horse down the length of Prescott’s

  line and along the walls that shielded Knowlton’s men.

  “He’s angry,” Feversham said.

  “That son of a bitch is always angry,” Prescott said. “It’s his normal state of mind.”

  Putnam rode back to where they were and said sourly, “Do you realize that half your men are asleep, Colonel?”

  “Those men raised the breastworks and built the redoubt. They’ve been working all night. Why shouldn’t they sleep?”

  Putnam thought about that for a long moment, and then he said, “I was right. The attack will be here.”

  Gridley joined them. “You’re always right, General.”

  The militiamen within earshot burst out laughing.

  “Thank you!” Putnam snapped. “How many men do you have in the redoubt?”

  “A few dozen.”

  “Damn it, don’t you have a count?”

  Climbing out of the redoubt and joining them, Dr. Warren said quietly, “Forty-three men, General Putnam, counting Colonel Gridley and myself.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “Sir,” Gridley said, trying to contain his anger, “the facing wall of the redoubt is thirty-eight feet long. In that space, eighteen men can use their muskets efficiently. Eighteen others will take their places while they reload.”

  “I’ll thank you not to teach me tactics, Colonel Gridley,” placing the accent on the word “Colonel.”

  “Then will you teach me tactics, General,” Gridley snapped. “Give me a lesson in your tactics, and General Ward’s tactics. We’re on this cursed hill facing the whole British army with a few hundred men and boys while a whole fuckin’ army of twelve thousand sit on their asses in Roxbury and Dorchester!”

  “Oh, hold on, Richard,” Warren said. “We can’t fight among ourselves. Israel was all for more men. It’s Ward who denied us the reinforcements.”

  “Ward and the damn Committee of Safety,” Prescott said.

  Silence for a few moments while the four men faced each other. Then, from Putnam: “I’ll try to forget what you said, Colonel.”

  “I don’t give a shit whether you forget it or not,” Gridley replied. He dropped his voice, went close to Putnam, who still sat on his horse, and, speaking with hardly controlled rage, said, “As sure as there’s a God in heaven, if I live through this day, I’ll have satisfaction for this. We have been betrayed, sir, and you know that as well as I do. The men in this redoubt and behind that barricade are ready to lay down their lives and you come here and sneer at us!”

  “I am not sneering,” Putnam hissed. “Control yourself, Richard. I pleaded for more men. Give me that.”

  Warren took Gridley’s arm and drew him away, whispering, “Please, Richard, let the old man be.”

  His face set in anger, Putnam turned his horse as if to ride away and then pulled back on his reins. “Colonel Prescott?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Putnam pointed to a pile of spades and pickaxes. “What are you doing with those tools?”

  “Nothing,” Prescott said shortly.

  “What do you mean, nothing?”

  “I mean nothing. We used them, and there they are.”

  “You mean to let them fall into the hands of the British?”

  “If it comes to that.”

  “Those tools belong to the Committee of Safety. They must be returned to the army before hostilities begin.”

  Prescott stared at Putnam in disbelief. It appeared to Feversham that Prescott would literally spring at Putnam and tear him from his saddle. Somehow the big man controlled himself. He spoke slowly and evenly. “I am in command of these men and of this defense. My duty is to my country, not to a pile of rusty tools. If you want them, sir, take them with you. I don’t give a damn.”

  It was like a dream, Feversham felt, both improbable and unbelievable.

  “There are at least a hundred spades and axes in that pile,” Putnam said. “They are an invaluable asset to the defense of our army around Boston. I want you to assign a company of men to carry them away. This is an order.”

  “You can go to hell, General,” Prescott said calmly.<
br />
  Feversham watched Putnam ride off.

  “I don’t believe it,” Prescott said to Feversham. “Tell me, Doctor, did you hear what I heard?”

  Feversham nodded hopelessly.

  “The man’s under a terrible strain,” Warren said to Prescott. “Give him that. We all are. He has tremendous respect for you, believe me. When this command was given to you, he was your most firm advocate.”

  After a moment of silence, Prescott said, “What time is it, Dr. Warren?”

  Warren took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. It was a large gold pocket watch with a caduceus bas-relief on its cover. He snapped it open. “Two o’clock, Colonel.”

  Prescott said to Feversham, “A very good estimate, Dr. Feversham. I think, now, the gates of hell are about to open.”

  JUNE 17, 2:00 P.M.

  No more than fifteen minutes after he had ridden away in a fury, Gen. Israel Putnam returned on foot, leading a motley crowd of some fifty men. He was carrying a musket, and he stalked up to Prescott and said, “Colonel Prescott, I am here to offer my service as a soldier in your ranks. I found these men in retreat, and I turned them around.”

  Open-mouthed, Prescott was without words. Then he offered his hand, and Putnam took it, and for a moment, the two men faced each other, hands locked. Then Prescott took a long breath and said, “I thank you, sir.” He pointed along the ridge to where Knowlton’s men were still piling rocks for their defense. “Take your men, sir, and join Major Knowlton. His line is too thin, and he’ll be happy to receive you.”

  “What are my orders?” Putnam asked, making a final obeisance.

  “To stop the British.”

  Putnam nodded, waved at his men, and yelled, “Follow me!”

  Gridley and Warren leaped out of the redoubt. “What was that all about?”

  Prescott told them, adding that if he had not seen it with his own eyes, he would not have believed it. “Thank God,” Gridley said. “He’s a wild old devil, but I’d rather have him with me than a dozen men. We were together in the French war with Rogers Rangers.”

  “Colonel!” Feversham called from the parapet. “They’re ranking up. I think it’s the beginning.”

  Prescott joined him and took the spyglass. “So they are. So they are.”

  A young man, his armband marking him as an officer, came running up from Knowlton’s position. “What’s the word, sir?”

  “It’s close. Every man is to keep his head down. Let the officers watch it coming. I want heads down.”

  For the past half hour, the guns of the fleet had been silent. Now, from the water’s edge, came the sound of drums, and then on top of that, a roar of cannons. All along the half mile of the American defenses, cannonballs thudded into the ground, sending up showers of dirt that fell like dry rain on the crouching men.

  “Why did the cannons stop?” Prudence asked Lieutenant Threadberry. “How do they expect to drive those dreadful people out of Charlestown if they don’t shoot at them?”

  “Ah, now, ma’am, I expect it was to let the guns cool and give the gunners a bit of a rest. You’ll soon hear enough of a thunder to make us deaf. Don’t forget, the gun crews have been at it since early this morning. They want a spell of rest and a drink of water. It’s hot here, but in the gun decks, it’s just as hot as hell, if you will forgive the expression.”

  “They’re going to attack now, are they not?” Mrs. Loring asked.

  “Oh, soon enough, you may be sure. See how the general has put his men into parade position. It’s a great army we’re looking at. Starting there on the left, you have the marines, and then the light infantry, and right there in the center Sir William’s grenadiers, with their great bearskin shakos. Just the sight of them will make a brave man shudder.”

  “Will General Howe lead them?” Mrs. Loring wondered.

  “You can be sure of that. They’re his own.”

  “And won’t that place him in awful jeopardy?”

  “He won’t be thinking of that.” The lieutenant ventured to lay his hand on hers, reassuringly. “You’re not to think of harm coming to him, Mrs. Loring. My own thought is that they will cut and run before he’s ever in musket range. Ah, see—” He pointed down the deck to where Captain Woodly had appeared. “It’s a high moment, and the captain has come on deck to watch.”

  All the rest of the crew were at the rail, their eyes fixed on the army drawn up at the foot of Breed’s Hill. Both midshipmen had scrambled up the rigging, the better to see the drama that was to unfold before their eyes.

  “When will it begin?” Prudence asked nervously. “Are we in any danger here?”

  “Bless you, ma’am, here on this ship you’re as safe as if you were at home in bed.”

  “I’m frightened.”

  “Nothing to be frightened of, nothing at all.” He stroked Mrs. Hallsbury’s arm reassuringly. “You’re square in the center of the British navy. Safest place in the world. Not that I wouldn’t give a pretty penny to be a part of this great encounter. But my place is here.”

  On Copp’s Hill, General Clinton and General Burgoyne stood with the battery of mortars, watching the iron fireballs glow red hot as the gunners pumped the bellows. Sir Henry Clinton sighed and admitted that the Americans had not surrendered.

  “I hardly expected them to do so,” Burgoyne said.

  “Give me your glass,” Clinton said. “Somerset is signaling.”

  Burgoyne handed him a spyglass. “What do you make?”

  “Commence firing.”

  “Commence firing,” Burgoyne relayed the command to the gun crew.

  “So we burn a village,” Clinton said softly. “Where every prospect pleases and only man is vile.”

  The gunners packed the mortars with bags of gunpowder. Then they lifted the red-hot iron balls with tongs. No fuse or trigger was necessary. When the hot cannonballs touched the gunpowder, the mortars fired, and the flaming iron balls arched over the river into Charlestown. The effect was immediate. Where the fireballs crashed into the tinder-dry roof shingles, the resulting fire was almost instantaneous. Within minutes, a dozen houses were in flames. On the rooftops of Boston, hundreds of men, women, and children watched the act of pitiless destruction. Some of them cheered. Others, whose hearts were with the Americans, who had relatives and friends who had once lived in Charlestown, wept or cursed the British.

  On Breed’s Hill, the militiamen peered through the cracks and crevices in their fortifications and cursed impotently. Standing on the barricade, Feversham and Prescott and Warren watched in bitter silence, and Warren asked Feversham, “Why? Why? You’re an Englishman, Feversham. Tell me why?”

  Coldly and thoughtfully, Prescott said, “It makes sense only if they considered that the smoke would cover them.”

  “When all the rest is senseless.” Warren sighed.

  That had also been in General Howe’s mind, and his grand plan for the burning of the village, as he said afterward, was that the pall of smoke would cover their advance. But even as the fireballs began to fall, the wind shifted, and the thickening column of smoke drifted over the Charles River and away from the redoubt.

  “There’s a stinking piece of luck,” Sir William said to General Pigot, and Pigot laughed, then shrugged and observed that wind was an uneasy ally.

  “We’re all in good order and ready,” Pigot told Howe. Pigot commanded the light infantry and the marines, all of them drawn up rank upon rank in the tall grass of the fields that stretched from Morton’s Point to the edge of the burning Charlestown village. “But damned if I see anything up there to oppose us.” He trained his spyglass on the hill.

  “Who are those three men standing there?”

  “One of them, I think, is Prescott. The big man. Shall we be advancing, sir?”

  Major Wilkens of the marines joined them. “If I may offer an opinion, sir,” he said to Howe, “I think we should go at them. My men are hot for it.”

  “All in due time, young fellow,” Sir William agr
eed. “I’ll have a word with the drummer boys. I lost my whistle somewhere. Can you spare your whistle, Wilkens?”

  “Gladly, General. Where you go, we follow. I don’t expect to whistle a retreat.”

  There were twenty-two drummer boys ranged in front of the waiting ranks of men. It was in the tradition of the British army that the drummers should be young and in their teens. Sir William had gone to the trouble of memorizing the names of half a dozen of them, holding that nothing a leader could do pleased their troops more than the ability to single them out with their family names. Sir William was good at names, and now he reviewed his men and named the drummer boys. “Haskins. Stout heart?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Smith?”

  Smith, skinny, fourteen years old, saluted sharply.

  “Kermit?”

  “Ready, sir. Very ready.” He had long, straw-colored hair gathered in a ponytail.

  “Jackson?”

  It was good for the morale of the men to see their commander aware of and interested in the drummer boys. As he went down the line, the men broke into cheers, a great shout that echoed over the cannonading.

  On Breed’s Hill, the militiamen listened to the cheers in sullen silence, and Gridley observed to Warren, “It’s their worst mistake, burning the town. The men are raging. Whatever they felt before, now it’s pure and simple hatred.”

  A gray-haired man on the firing step of the redoubt said to Gridley, “I lived there. I’m watching my house burn. I built the house with my papa. It took six years. I grew up building it.”

  Standing with Knowlton behind the stone wall that sheltered Knowlton’s Connecticut riflemen, Putnam roared, “For every damn house, you will burn in hell!”

  Still standing on the parapet with Feversham, Prescott remarked on the growling anger of his men. “The damn fools to burn the town and give me a gift of it. They give us what we need: hate and the will to fight. I don’t think any of them will run away now.”