The colonel’s second in command borrowed his superior’s spyglass to scan the flag for himself.
“Hmmm, it does retain the British union in canton,” he conceded. “Nonetheless, there’s only one rebel standard to which I shall give credence, and that’s the white flag under which the traitor Washington begs leave to offer his sword to General Howe!”
“Surely a harsh assessment, Major,” said a young French physician but recently come to the regiment. “ ’Tis said that many of the colonists still favor reconciliation.”
“General Howe certainly hopes for that,” the colonel replied before the major could answer. “Perhaps you’re right to be wary, Major, but this is a noble variation on a loyal flag.” He took back his spyglass and closed it down with a clatter of brass fittings. “Captain, please convey my compliments to General Howe and ask whether he will permit an appropriate salute.”
The captain had no opportunity to carry out his orders, for at that moment a round of thirteen huzzahs went up from the troops farther along the British line, closer to where Howe and his general staff had also been watching the American flag raising; and very shortly, the winter air resounded with the answering thunder of the British guns repeating the Americans’ cannon salute.
The British reaction startled the Americans, who had no inkling that their new flag was being viewed as a token of impending submission. Indeed, copies of the King’s speech were only then being circulated in Cambridge, eliciting dismay and anger, but never submission. Several days later, when forwarding copies to Joseph Reed, then in Philadelphia, Washington commented:
The speech I send you. A volume of them was sent out by the Boston gentry, and farcical enough, we gave great joy to them (redcoats, I mean) without knowing or intending it, for on that day, the day which gave being to our new Army, but before the proclamation came to hand, we had hoisted the Union Flag in compliment to the United Colonies. But behold, it was received in Boston as a token of the deep impression the speech had made on us, and as a signal of submission. So we learn by a person out of Boston last night. By this time I presume they think it strange that we have not made a formal surrender of our lines.…
Whether from dismay over the King’s speech or renewed determination sparked by the new flag, reenlistments were sufficient to ensure that Washington’s ragtag army again began growing instead of shrinking in the coming months. But as the winter wore on, the belated news constantly trickling into the colonies from Europe did nothing to reassure either side. It soon became widely known that the King had declined to receive the so-called Olive Branch petition sent by Congress the previous July, and that he had declared the colonies to be in open rebellion, branding Washington a traitor and threatening “condign punishment.” Nor were British governors helping matters by their occasional high-handed actions against individual colonies. Governor Dunmore of Virginia had dared to shell Norfolk on New Year’s Day, even as Washington was hoisting the colonies’ new flag.
The possibility of reconciliation seemed increasingly remote as spring approached. All winter the American forces had maintained the fragile siege of Boston, determined to starve out the British and drive them to their ships and thence away, on constant tenterhooks lest the British learn the true state of their weakness, destitute of ammunition and even adequate clothing.
Fortunately, the British declined to test the patriot resolve, still demoralized over their near defeat at Breed’s Hill—or Bunker Hill, as it also was being called, from an adjacent and better-known location also involved in the battle. Washington’s determination was forging a proper army from the ragged assortment of patriots who had answered the call to arms, most of whom had never seen military service and who viewed insubordination as an expression of the very liberty for which they were fighting. The General was even making inroads on the jealousies that prevailed among the troops of the different colonies. But the bulk of the troops still were basically untried, ill equipped, and lacking in the discipline he would have wished.
Still, the situation was far better than when he had taken command a mere six months before; and both morale and his tactical strength improved with the February arrival of Henry Knox’s train of artillery. By the time the spring thaws began, Washington found himself perhaps possessed of the wherewithal actually to attack the British positions in Boston—but only if bold action were taken. There was risk; but not to act was to risk seeing all his efforts thus far go for naught.
Washington’s initial battle plan was bold and even audacious and provoked stubborn resistance among his command staff, but a compromise plan was soon agreed: to take possession of Boston’s Dorchester Heights under cover of night, throw up breastworks, emplace the newly acquired guns, and be prepared to hold the position by the time dawn revealed their intentions to the enemy. Howe must then respond or else watch his command pounded to pieces by American artillery.
The endeavor would be supported by troops under command of Generals Putnam, Sullivan, and Greene, advancing into Boston from two positions under the cover fire of three American floating batteries on the Charles River. A light bombardment from Knox’s artillery would divert British attention while the night advance began and reinforce American efforts on the actual day of battle. The date proposed was March 4, the first anniversary of the “Boston Massacre,” in which four Americans had been killed and several wounded in a clash with British troops. It had been one of the catalysts for the outbreak of open hostilities.
Knox began his diversionary cannonade of two British positions on the nights of March 1 and 2, provoking desultory answering fire. He repeated his attack on the night of the third, during which the occupation of Dorchester Heights proceeded as planned, supported by the specified infantry support at other locations. Because the ground was still frozen, timber-framed breastworks filled with straw, stones, and earth were set into position on the Heights, rather than trying to dig in. A twelve-hundred-man working party hauled the materials into place with over three hundred oxcarts and wagons, so that by daybreak two redoubts were all but complete.
General Howe was astonished and alarmed by what he saw in the dawn’s early light and declared that the rebels had done more work in one night than his whole army could have done in a month. Furthermore, his naval counterpart informed him that if the Americans succeeded in placing heavy guns on the hills, the fleet would not be able to remain in Boston Harbor to give artillery support to Howe’s ground forces.
Immediately Howe began to bombard the new American position on Dorchester Heights, at the same time preparing to land twenty-five hundred picked men by night to take the Heights by storm, but his guns did little damage. Washington was there on the Heights throughout the day, encouraging his troops and directing the reinforcement of their position. By the time darkness fell and Howe’s picked men had boarded transports for their assault, a powerful northeast storm had blown up that prevented any landing attempt.
Howe postponed the attack until the following night, but the storm continued and even increased and blew all through the following day and night, preventing any British movement by sea but allowing the American position to be made impregnable. When the storm finally ceased, Howe was forced to accept that his position had become untenable and made preparations to evacuate his troops to Halifax. By March 17 the last British ships had sailed from Boston Harbor, taking with them some eleven hundred loyalists who dared not stay once the rebels moved in.
But a British withdrawal from Boston did not mean a British withdrawal from the colonies. Washington’s first campaign had succeeded in ousting the British from their only position of military occupation in the colonies, but he knew Howe would return with the spring; the only question was where. The most likely target was New York, for a successful enemy incursion there would cut the colonies in two and give the British access to Canadian reinforcement via the Hudson River. In something of a gamble—not the first or the last of his career—Washington began making preparations to move his army and head
quarters to New York.
The afternoon before he was to leave, he called Simon Wallace into his office at Vassall House. He was signing orders, but he laid down his pen as Simon came in, and indicated a chair.
“Please sit down, Major. I have a favor to ask of you. A personal favor. For the sake of the poor widow’s son.”
The request startled Simon, for Washington was not prone to asking favors of any sort. To invoke the Craft: made it unusual, indeed.
“You have but to ask, sir,” he said as he sat.
The General swiveled to gaze out the window, toward the battle-scarred heights of Dorchester.
“I’ve been trying to clear up the final loose ends before I leave tomorrow,” he said. “One of the many things I was not able to accomplish was to see Joseph Warren’s body recovered and given proper burial. Now that the British have withdrawn from Boston, that may be possible—but I cannot stay to see it done.”
“Would you like me to stay on and give it a try, sir?” Simon asked quietly.
“If you will.” Washington turned back to face Simon squarely. “He was a great patriot, Major. I should like him to lie in hallowed ground, with the honors due his courage and example. I’ve had additional information regarding the probable location of his remains. From your Dr. Saint-John.”
“Ah.” So far as Simon knew, this was the first intelligence to come from the prince since his defection behind the British lines. “Has he located the grave?”
“Not directly—and he couldn’t have done anything about it if he had, without endangering his cover. But before he left with the British, he managed to smuggle out a diagram and a fairly detailed description that should lead you to it. I’ve only just received it.” Washington plucked a much-folded piece of paper from his center desk drawer and handed it across to Simon.
“Another British surgeon apparently recognized Warren on the day and saw him buried up by the redoubt on Breed’s Hill. There was a British officer, a fellow Freemason, who kept the body from being mutilated. Another officer wanted to cut off the head for display.”
Simon had started to glance over the letter but looked up sharply at that.
“I’d heard that they dug him up at least once, to be sure he was dead,” he said.
“In a way, can you blame them?” Washington said, tight-lipped. “The British regarded him as one of the most dangerous men in the Massachusetts colony. They knew very well that he, Revere, and Samuel Adams were responsible for most of the agitation leading up to Lexington.”
He sighed, recalling himself to his purpose in summoning Simon.
“In any event, I hope I may rely upon you to handle this matter with discretion,” he said briskly. “I’m sure you or your father have the necessary connections with Grand Lodge to ensure that the proper obsequies are observed once the body is recovered. Identification of the remains may prove difficult after so long, so I’ve asked Dr. Ramsay to assist with the practical side of the search. I believe he has several of Warren’s former medical students working with him in the field hospital units over in Boston, and at least one of Warren’s brothers. He’ll be expecting your visit.”
“I’ll give it my closest attention, sir,” Simon promised.
The following morning, after seeing off the General and his lady for New York, Simon set out to follow up on Washington’s request. Given the state of chaos left in the wake of the British withdrawal, he had asked Andrew to make preliminary inquiries regarding Ramsay’s whereabouts and to accompany him to the meeting; Justin had gone ahead with the General’s party. Midmorning of the sultry Saturday found father and son making their way up the wooden steps of a once-proud Boston home, now commandeered as a field hospital.
A bored-looking sentry directed them to a makeshift ward set up in the former parlor. Ramsay was changing the dressing on a belly wound, crooning reassurances as his patient arched under his hands with the pain and a young assistant tried to hold the man still. The grim experience of too many wars told the newcomers that such wounds were almost always fatal, usually after long and drawn-out suffering. As they moved closer, the stench that drifted toward them only confirmed this patient’s probable fate.
They refrained from speaking until Ramsay had finished, watching him soothe the man into sleep with a few low words and the gentle stroking of his hands across the man’s brow, waiting until he straightened up and noticed them.
“Good morning, James,” Simon said quietly.
“Simon. Andrew.” Ramsay’s gaze flicked to his assistant, whom he dismissed with a gesture. “Please see to the amputees, Dr. Eustis. I’ll take these last two head injuries.”
As the man acknowledged and went into the adjoining room, Ramsay led the way to the next bed, where a man with head swathed in bandages lay comatose.
“I expected you might be here today,” he said as he began undoing the bandages. “Does this mean I’ve been forgiven?”
Simon managed a wan smile. “Fortunately, the General didn’t know you were in disgrace; and I wasn’t about to tell him.”
“Then I am still in disgrace?” Ramsay asked.
“This might redeem you,” Simon allowed. “How much have you been told?”
Ramsay gave a preoccupied glance to the head wound revealed beneath his patient’s old bandages, shook his head, then began rebandaging the wound with fresh linen, not looking at Simon.
“Only that information had been received that might lead to the recovery of Warren’s body,” he said. “Can you be more specific? Go ahead; he can’t hear you. And I haven’t time to go elsewhere with you just now.”
Simon glanced at his father, then crouched down beside Ramsay, speaking very quietly.
“The General has an operative behind British lines,” he said, omitting to mention that the operative was known to all of them. “This operative had occasion to speak with a Dr. John Jeffries, who had conversation with a Captain Laurie shortly after the battle. It seems that Laurie told Jeffries of ordering a grave dug, up by the redoubt where our men say that Warren fell.”
“He’s sure it was Warren?” Ramsay asked.
“Aye. Laurie described the blue coat and the satin waistcoat with silk fringes that everyone agrees Warren wore into battle, though the body apparently was stripped fairly quickly. Someone did wrap him in a farmer’s smock before burying him, but that could be long gone by the time we find him. Jeffries said that he heard the body was dug up at least once so high-ranking British officers could look at it, to be certain he was dead. General Gage is said to have declared that Warren’s death was worth five hundred men to him.” He grimaced. “There was talk of cutting off his head to display as a trophy of war, but a fellow Freemason, a British officer, apparently forbade that.”
Ramsay paused in his work to exhale softly, in ironic denial. “At least some values stand, even in war,” he murmured.
“Aye. Will you help us find him, then?”
“Of course.” Ramsay tucked the last end of the bandage in place. “I’ve rounds to finish this morning, but I can organize a try this afternoon. His brothers will want to be present, and I’ll see if Brother Revere can come along. He made a couple of teeth for Warren, shortly before Lexington.” He sighed and shook his head again. “This isn’t going to be pleasant, if we do find him.”
“Dulce et decorum est,” Andrew murmured under his breath, remembering his conversation with Warren’s specter.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
After a deliberately sparse noon meal, Simon and Andrew met Ramsay on the north shore, where Warren’s two younger brothers and several of his former medical students were waiting with a boat to row them across the river. Paul Revere was among them, as was the young sexton of Christ Church, who had experience at digging up the dead as well as burying them.
After making introductions among those who did not already know one another, Ramsay directed the party to board the boat. Only the creaking of the oars in their locks intruded on the
silence as the boat glided across the water in the sullen heat.
The sexton and several of the students carried their shovels shouldered like muskets as they trudged up the shell-pocked slope of Breed’s Hill. Simon found himself thinking about other ascents of the hill, not so many months before, when the withering fire—first from the colonial forces, while their powder lasted, and then from the British—had made of the hill a killing ground. Andrew leaned heavily on his walking stick, Simon giving him an occasional hand, both of them choosing to trail behind Ramsay and Revere. They were all sweating and a little winded by the time they reached the remnants of the makeshift fort and redoubt.
The sexton stripped off his coat and began rolling up his sleeves as one of the other men with shovels began probing gingerly at one of the mounds and Simon mounted a collapsing sandbag for a look around. Nearly a year had passed since the battle. Winter had arrested the decay of the dead buried on the hill, but now the faint, sickly sweet stench of death wavered just above the ground in an almost visible miasma, floating without a breeze to stir it. Leaning on his walking stick, Andrew almost fancied he could feel the ghosts of the dead hovering around them—for Joseph Warren had not been the only one to be buried where he had fallen, after the battle was over.
Simon studied the terrain for some time, comparing it with the diagram and written description the General had given him, then directed their party toward a faint mound visible just beside the trampled entrance to the redoubt. As he came down off his sandbag, the sexton and several of the others began to dig.
It did not take long. Like most of the graves on the hill, this one was fairly shallow. Very shortly the sexton’s shovel struck something with a dull thud.
More careful digging and scooping with bare hands soon revealed a skeletal shoulder clothed in homespun, and then the decayed remnants of a bearded skull. As one of Warren’s brothers turned away, the back of a grimy hand pressed to his mouth, Simon knelt down and started digging more energetically to one side, Ramsay crouching to assist him.
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