by Howard Fast
At 2:15 p.m., on the seventeenth of June, Gen. Sir William Howe gave the final orders for the advance to his staff officers. He stood in front of his grenadiers, surrounded by eight men, and he pointedly reviewed the maneuver they had discussed on and off for the past hour. “General Pigot,” he said, “you will take the Fifty-second, the Forty-seventh, the Fifth, the Thirty-eighth, and the Forty-third of the light infantry and go against the redoubt. You will destroy it frontily and enfilade both sides. Major Atkins, you will lead the rest of the light infantry around the right flank, and when you have taken whatever defense they have there, you will continue to advance against Bunker Hill, occupy it, and fortify your position. Major Wilkens, you will support General Pigot’s left flank, circle the redoubt, and continue with your marines down the road to the Charlestown Neck, according to our maps a distance of about a mile. You will take a position at the neck and prevent a retreat of the colonials.
“I shall advance against the center with my grenadiers and continue to advance until we have taken the high ground at Bunker Hill. Then I will join you with my grenadiers at the Charlestown Neck. We are not certain of how much effort they will give to the defense of Breed’s Hill, but it should not be troublesome. I calculate that in two hours we shall be in total possession of the peninsula. Tell off parties for the prisoners. Any man who hesitates or retreats without orders faces death on the field. Now go to your regiments, gentlemen, and God be with you.”
At a half hour past two o’clock, Gen. William Howe blew three short notes on the whistle he had borrowed from Major Wilkens, as a signal to the drummer boys, and they began to beat the alert. With a calm precision that caused Sir William’s heart to swell with pleasure, the various regiments marched off and took their battle positions in a line that stretched from Morton’s Point almost to the herb gardens of burning Charlestown. The Connecticut riflemen who had been concealed in the Charlestown houses had fled as the first firebombs fell. The marines on the extreme left were now in no danger from hidden snipers. Sir William, at the head of his grenadiers, raised his arm and let it fall, and the drums changed their tempo into the quick chatter of the advance. The long line of troops, twenty-three hundred British regulars, in their bright uniforms, knapsacks of food, and water and blankets on their backs— for this was a commitment to take and hold a position—marched forward to Breed’s Hill.
Feversham’s memory of the battle was like a patchwork quilt. The last volley of cannon fire from the warships made a lucky hit on one of Prescott’s militiamen who would not keep his head down, searing his arm and almost ripping it from his body. Feversham applied a tourniquet, sutured the wound as best he could, bound it, and gave the man a mouthful of rum. He was aware that the cannonading had stopped. He stood up to see the long British line, a third of a mile in length, advancing up the hill, the young drummers leading the way with their rolling rhythm.
In the redoubt, the Americans knelt on the firing step, their muskets ready. Prescott loped back and forth along the line of trenches and breastworks, telling his men to hold their fire. He kept repeating it, although it was plain that the British were well out of musket range; indeed, out of rifle range as well. In the center, where Howe led his grenadiers, there were a number of small farm holdings, each with a stone wall. The grenadiers had to climb the walls and re-form. Prescott watched this slow progress with amazement. In each instance, the marines and the light infantry halted and waited for the grenadiers to form a parade line once again.
But off to Howe’s right, the light infantry continued to advance, their progress unimpeded; General Pigot was evidently convinced that there would be no resistance, and thus the advancing line bent into a bow shape. It was Pigot’s intent to circle around and cut off any retreat from the redoubt.
Aside from the head of a man here and there, the British commanders had no knowledge of what might await them. They knew that the redoubt was manned, and they knew that earthen breastworks had been thrown up for a hundred paces, from the front of the redoubt and off to the British right. But for all the information that Dr. Church had been able to bring them, they had no clear picture of any real defense. They simply accepted the fact that the Americans would be foolish to allow any considerable number of men to be trapped on the peninsula, that the men in the redoubt were heroic fools, and that there would be no significant opposition.
On the British right, where the land sloped down to the shore of the Mystic River, a place of rocks and boulders, John Stark and his New Hampshire riflemen had taken a position from the rock-strewn river’s edge to the sharp slope of Breed’s Hill, connecting them with Knowlton’s Connecticut militia, who in turn held a position up the ridge to Prescott’s earthen embankment. But except for the embankment and the redoubt, none of this was visible to the British. Stark’s riflemen were crouched behind a stone wall and a wooden rail fence, which they had stuffed with baled hay, with Stark’s cold promise to “kill any stupid bastard who shows his head.” Knowlton’s Connecticut men were equally well hidden behind a stone wall. Both Knowlton and Stark had planted stakes of wood about fifty feet in front of their lines. Stark had with him Jimmy Grass, a New Hampshire farmer who had learned to beat a tattoo on a drum he had picked up during the French war. Jimmy, seventy years old, was not much good for anything else, but he had talked Johnny Stark into taking him along as a drummer. The stakes of wood were Stark’s measure for the range.
When General Pigot’s light infantrymen were within a hundred feet of the fence that hid Stark’s riflemen, already in front of the rest of the British line, the general felt that he had done the trick, and he shouted for double time, sending his men into a race that would allow them to swing around the ridge. Stark stood up, and as they passed the stakes, signaled to Jimmy Grass, who beat out his tattoo. The New Hampshire riflemen raised up on their knees and fired at forty feet. A solid sheet of flame roared across their front, ripping into the light infantry like a fiery saw’s edge, tearing the British soldiers to pieces.
The junior officers wore crossed white bands on their chests. “Target the officers,” Stark had told them. Pigot saw every officer crumple and fall, his entire front line a bloody mass of dead and wounded, men screaming in pain and rage. The riflemen, each of whom had a second weapon, passed their rifles back to loaders and fired again. Now the whole slope in front of them was covered with light infantry, dying and wounded men who were trying to crawl away from the horror of it. Pigot was not unused to war, but he had never seen a slaughter like this, and he shouted to his troops to rally. Only one British drummer boy was still alive, and he played his drum valiantly. The light infantry managed a volley and then began to fall back. Stark’s riflemen were shouting at the top of their lungs, and in the heat of the slaughter they had done, they started to climb over the fence in pursuit of the British. Stark yelled, “Come back, you damn fools!”
Two of the riflemen were dead. Three others had been wounded, and Bones worked desperately to stop their bleeding and dress their wounds.
General Pigot, standing unhurt with his officers dead all around him, ordered his light infantry to fall back, leaving the tall grass littered with corpses. The wounded light infantrymen, moaning with pain, tried to crawl away from the horror of the unending fire of the New Hampshire riflemen, who continued to load and fire as long as the light infantrymen were in range of the long Pennsylvania rifles.
Then, suddenly aware of the horror they had caused, the New Hampshire men stopped firing and shouting and knelt behind their barricade.
A tangle of brush and thicket prevented Howe from seeing the catastrophe that had overtaken his right wing, and as he heard the roar of gunfire and the screaming of the men in the engagement, he halted his own advance, still two hundred yards short of Knowlton’s Connecticut men. His grenadiers, burdened by their heavy packs, had to pause again and again to climb the wooden fences. He sent one of his aides, young Lieutenant Freeman, to advise Wilkens, leading the left wing, to hold back until the grenadiers
were in formation and ready to attack.
Panting, covered with blood, Pigot joined him and told him of the situation. “Major Watkins is alive,” Pigot said, panting. “All my other officers are dead.”
“How many men have you lost?”
“God knows. Over a hundred.”
“Then goddamn it, reform and we’ll attack again.”
“Where are the cannon?”
It was in their overall plan to drag cannon up the hill and blast through, but the cannon were still mired in mud at the base of the hill. “Fuck the cannon!” Howe roared. “Bring your men around to support the marines. I’ll cut the whole thing open with my grenadiers.”
On the deck of Vindicator, lying a few hundred yards off the Charlestown shore, close enough to feel the heat of the burning village, Mrs. Loring watched the ranks of brightly uniformed British troops marching slowly, in precise order, as they mounted Breed’s Hill. She clapped her hands in pleasure.
“What a sight!” Mrs. Loring cried. “I do wonder whether it was ever given to people to be so fortunate, to sit here in safety and watch those gallant men go to battle. Oh, I have heard and read of such things, but to see it before one’s eyes!”
“But some of them will die,” Prudence said. “I don’t know whether I can bear to watch.”
“Ah, but war is war,” Lieutenant Threadberry said. “It is in the nature of it. Some live and some die. We must accept that. There’s the glory that built the empire.”
“How well put,” Mrs. Loring exclaimed, reaching out and taking the lieutenant’s hand. “But I’m only a woman, sir, and it’s hard for me to think as a man thinks.”
“Of course,” he said, daring to allow his other hand to brush Mrs. Loring’s breast, as if by accident.
She picked up the spyglass and peered through it. “They are so close. But where is Sir William?”
“Leading his troops, ma’am. Leading the grenadiers. You can’t see him because he’s in front of his men.”
For the first time the cold thought touched Mrs. Loring that General Howe might die in the battle. Where would all her dreams of a marriage and a conquest of fashionable London go? Where indeed?
Threadberry saw the tear on her cheek. “My dear lady, you must not weep. This will be a great victory, I assure you.”
On Copp’s Hill, Burgoyne and Clinton, watching the advance of Breed’s Hill, heard the crescendo of rifle and musket fire from the encounter with Stark’s riflemen, although the encounter itself was out of their range of vision.
Burgoyne cried, “I can’t stay here and watch it happening over there.”
“Absolutely,” Clinton agreed.
“We’re no damn use here at all.”
“None.”
There were twenty-two men in their mortar crew and twelve light infantrymen assigned as guards. “Weapons, all of you,” Burgoyne called out.
Leading the thirty-four men, Clinton and Burgoyne raced down Copp’s Hill to the wharf, where they piled into one of the barges that had been used to take the army across the river.
Little Isaac Hampton, fourteen years old, came racing over to Major Knowlton to tell him what had happened at Stark’s barricade and then, hardly pausing to catch his breath, ran on to Prescott’s position. Knowlton turned to Putnam. “Can you believe it? Stark stopped them, and they ran.”
The men behind the stone wall heard him and began to cheer.
“This is crazy,” Knowlton said, pointing to where the grenadiers were forming up, less than two hundred paces down the hill, and standing calmly, as if on parade. “What are they up to?”
“There’s the light infantry, crossing behind them. That’s General Howe, the big man with the white wig,” Putnam exclaimed excitedly.
The two drummer boys at the front of the grenadiers began to beat a quick tattoo, while at least half of the light infantrymen who had survived the attack on Stark ran past their rear to join the regiments that extended from the grenadier’s left to face Prescott’s entrenchments and the redoubt.
“My God,” Knowlton whispered.
“Lord God of Hosts, be with us,” Putnam thundered.
At the redoubt, little Isaac Hampton gasped out his news to Prescott, Gridley, Warren, and Feversham.
“You say Stark beat them back?” Prescott demanded.
“They were dead all over the place, hundreds of them.”
“It’s our turn,” Gridley said. And to Prescott: “We’ll hold the redoubt as best we can. God be with you, Colonel.” All the British drums were beating now, from the grenadiers to the reinforced light infantry facing Prescott to the marines on the extreme left.
Israel Putnam scorned the shelter of the stone wall. As he put it once, “The great Jehovah has my life in his hands for the twopence it’s worth.” Short, stocky, his barrel body on two gnarled legs, he stood with a musket in his hands. It was his intent, as he said later, to put a bullet in General Howe’s red rosette.
Major Knowlton walked along the stone wall behind his men, calling out, “Heads down, children, heads down and trust me. Listen for my whistle. Let them shoot their loads away.”
The grenadiers were in four columns of eight men, their front of thirty-two men a hundred feet wide. General Howe was leading at their right flank, Major Canby, a distant relative of Howe’s, on their left flank. Since they had been enlisted for height, with their great bearskin shakos, they were close to seven feet tall, their packs and blanket rolls making them even more menacing. They were veritable giants in comparison to the tiny drummer boys who led the advance, in keeping with the British conviction that age did not put any loyal subject of the Crown out of harm’s way.
They had fixed their bayonets, making a glistening ripple of steel along their front. What was not visible was the perspiration that soaked their heavy uniforms, never designed for a New England summer. The perspiration ran down from under their shakos into their eyes, cruel sweat which could in no way be dried or wiped away. Along with that impediment, the afternoon sun shone in their eyes. For all of that, they were a terrifying sight, and Major Knowlton was thankful that he had stormed at his men and threatened to kill anyone who dared to raise his head and look over the wall before the signal was given.
When he called a halt to his grenadiers at sixty yards, Sir William was puzzled. He had instructed General Pigot, who had crossed over, to take command of the main body of light infantry and marines. These soldiers would storm the redoubt and the entrenchments to concert his attack with the attack of the grenadiers. Now, as he stood facing the long stone wall, he still had no idea of what was behind it. Was the only real force on this right flank the riflemen who had sent the light infantry reeling back? What faced him? Only two men were visible: General Putnam, whom he recognized from the wild tangle of gray hair, and Knowlton, whom he did not recognize. Nevertheless, convinced of the power of his grenadiers, he ordered a volley, and the thirty-two-man front of the grenadiers turned into a sheet of fire. The roar was picked up by volleys from the light infantry and the marines to his left.
Then General Howe ordered an advance at marching pace to close quarters with bayonets.
Neither Putnam nor Knowlton had been hit by the volley. A ball lifted Knowlton’s tricorner hat, sending it sailing off, and a shot tore through Putnam’s sleeve. At fifty paces, the grenadiers reached the stakes that Knowlton had placed to mark the distance, and Knowlton put his two pinkies in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. The 220 Connecticut men behind the stone wall stood up and discharged their muskets and rifles at point-blank range into the grenadiers. It was a sight, as Knowlton said later, too terrible to take any joy in. The entire front rank of the grenadiers—thirty-two men, the drummer boys, three junior officers, and Major Canby—were killed instantly, as well as a dozen others in the second rank. One moment, there was the proudest regiment in the British army in full parade, and a moment later the meadow grass in front of the stone wall was covered with dying men and the screaming wounded.
; Gonzales was crouched to the rear of the wall, his instruments laid out and ready. He realized that no American had even been wounded.
Miraculously, Howe was untouched, for all of Israel Putnam’s determination, and he roared for the advance to continue. Slipping on the blood and stumbling over the dead of the front rank, the grenadiers tried to advance.
Meanwhile, the loaders were passing fresh guns, and those Connecticut men who were not backed by loaders reloaded desperately. The grenadiers were only yards from the wall when Knowlton’s whistle brought a second storm of fire, and once again the entire front of the four columns of grenadiers went down in a tangle of dying men.
Still Howe urged them on, laying about him with the flat of his sword, but now the Connecticut men were firing as fast as they could reload, and in spite of themselves, the grenadiers gave back, firing their muskets as they retreated, leaving the ground between their shattered ranks and the stone wall covered with blood and bodies.
This time, the Connecticut men paid a price. Six of them were dead, and nine others had been wounded, two with shattered arms that called for amputation. Dr. Gonzales had never been in a battle before, and in his lifetime of practice, he had only three times dealt with bullet wounds, all of them hunting accidents. He did what he could, forcing the wounded men to submit to the pain of raw rum, bandaging and suturing while the men cursed him for a damned sadistic Spaniard.
Feversham was one of that strange group of humans who are destined to be outsiders and thus observe everything differently than the majority of the human race. In all of his encounters with war, he had been a surgeon, thereby watching the horror that brought him his practice as a theatergoer might watch a play that menaced him without including him. A bullet in his thigh, which still caused him to walk with a slight limp, had proved that there were hazards to his profession, and in his time he had seen other surgeons killed at their work. He had come to Boston for two reasons: firstly, because he had married an American woman, whom he loved dearly, which made his presence as a Catholic—even a fallen Catholic—and an Englishman in the bigoted white Protestant town of Ridgefield difficult, to put it mildly; and secondly, because for the first time in his life he felt that he had found some principles worth believing in.