The Fort

  “Are they coming today, sir?” Fenistone asked anxiously.

  “So we believe,” Moore said.

  “We’ll give them a warm British welcome, sir.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Moore said with a smile, then beckoned at his men to stop gawping at the ships’ guns and to follow him westwards through the trees.

  He stopped at the brink of the bluff. Ahead of him was the wide Penobscot River beneath its thinning pall of fog. Moore stared southwards, but could see nothing stirring in the distant whiteness. “So they are coming today, sir?” Sergeant McClure asked.

  “We must assume so.”

  “And our job, sir?”

  “Is to take post here, Sergeant, in case the rascals attempt a landing.” Moore looked down the steep slope and thought the rebels would be foolish to attempt a landing on the narrow stony beach at the bluff’s foot. He supposed they would land farther north, perhaps beyond the neck, and he wished he had been posted on the isthmus. There would be fighting and he had never fought; part of him feared that baptism and another part yearned to experience it.

  “They’d be daft buggers to land here, sir,” McClure said, standing beside Moore and gazing down the precipitous slope.

  “Let us hope they are daft buggers.”

  “We’ll shoot the bastards easy, sir.”

  “If there are enough of us.”

  “That’s true, sir.”

  The fog thinned as the wind freshened. Lieutenant Moore had posted himself at the peninsula’s southwestern corner, at Dyce’s Head, and as the sun climbed higher more and more men made their way to that vantage point to watch for the enemy. Brigadier McLean came, stumping with his stick along the narrow path between the pines, leading seven other red-coated officers who all stood gazing southwards down the river that sparkled so prettily under the summer sun. Still more officers arrived, and with them came civilians like Doctor Calef who stood close to the brigadier and tried to make small-talk. Captain Mowat was there with two other naval officers, all of them holding long telescopes though there was nothing to see. The river was empty.

  “I forgot to ask you last night,” McLean said to Calef, “how is Temperance?”

  “Temperance?” Calef asked, puzzled, then remembered. “Ah, she’s recovering. If a baby survives a day of fever they usually recover. She’ll live.”

  “I’m glad,” McLean said. “There are few things so distressing as a sick bairn.”

  “You have children, General?”

  “I never married,” McLean said, then doffed his hat as more villagers came to the bluff with Colonel Goldthwait. Goldthwait was American and loyalist, a horse-breeder whose rank had been earned in the old Royal Militia. He feared that any rebel force in the river might persecute the loyalists and so he had brought his family to live under the protection of McLean’s men. His two daughters had accompanied him to the bluff, along with Bethany Fletcher and Aaron Bank’s twin daughters, and the presence of so many young women attracted the younger Scottish officers.

  Lieutenant Moore steeled himself to approach Bethany. He took off his hat and offered a bow. “Your brother isn’t here?” he asked.

  “He went fishing, Lieutenant,” Bethany lied.

  “I thought no one was allowed to leave the peninsula?” Moore queried.

  “James left before that order was given,” Bethany said.

  “I pray he returns safely,” Moore said. “If the rebels catch him, Miss Fletcher, I fear they might detain him.”

  “If they catch you, Lieutenant,” Bethany said with a smile, “they might detain you.”

  “Then I must ensure I am not caught,” Moore said.

  “Good morning, Miss Fletcher,” Brigadier McLean said cheerfully.

  “Good morning, General,” Bethany said and lightened the brigadier’s morning with her most dazzling smile. She felt awkward. Her pale-green linen dress was patched with common brown cloth and her bonnet was long-peaked and old-fashioned. The Goldthwait girls wore lovely cotton print dresses that they must have received from Boston before the British had withdrawn from that city. The British officers, Beth thought, must think her very plain.

  Thomas Goldthwait, a tall and good-looking man dressed in the faded red coat of the old militia, took McLean aside. “I wanted a word, General,” Goldthwait said. He sounded awkward.

  “I’m at your service, sir,” McLean responded.

  Goldthwait stared south for a brief while. “I have three sons,” he said finally, still gazing southwards, “and when you arrived, General, I gave them a choice.”

  McLean nodded. “‘Choose you this day whom you will serve?’” he guessed, quoting the scriptures.

  “Yes,” Goldthwait said. He took a snuff box from a pocket and fiddled with its lid. “I regret,” he went on, “that Joseph and Benjamin chose to join the rebels.” He at last looked directly at McLean. “That was not my wish, General, but I would wish you to know. I did not suggest that disaffection to them, and I assure you we are not a family attempting to ride two horses at the same time.” He stopped abruptly and shrugged.

  “If I had a son,” McLean said, “I would hope he would have the same loyalties as myself, Colonel, but I would also pray that he could think for himself. I assure you that we shall not think the less of you because of the folly of your sons.”

  “Thank you,” Goldthwait said.

  “We shall speak no more of it,” McLean said, then turned abruptly as Captain Mowat called that there were topsails visible.

  And for a time no one spoke because there was nothing useful to say.

  The enemy had come, the first evidence of their arrival a mass of topsails showing through the remnants of fog above a headland, but gradually, remorselessly, the fleet appeared in the channel beside Long Island and not one of the men or women watching could be anything but awed by the sight of so many sails, so many dark hulls, so many ships. “It’s an Armada,” Colonel Goldthwait broke the silence.

  “Dear God,” McLean said softly. He gazed at the mass of shipping making slow progress in the small wind. “Yet it’s a brave sight,” he said.

  “Brave, sir?” Bethany asked.

  “It’s not often you see so many ships together. You should remember this, Miss Fletcher, as a sight to describe to your children.” He smiled at her, then turned to the three naval officers. “Captain Mowat! Have you determined their number yet?”

  “Not yet,” Mowat answered curtly. He was gazing through a telescope that was resting on a redcoat’s shoulder. The enemy fleet had stayed close together as it cleared the treacherous ledges which lay beneath the waters east of Long Island, but now the ships were spreading and running before the wind towards the wide bay west of the peninsula. The warships, quicker than the transports, were stretching ahead and Mowat was making tiny adjustments to the glass as he tried to distinguish the different vessels, a task made difficult by the trees which obscured part of his view. He spent a long time staring at the Warren, counting her gunports and attempting to judge from the number of men visible on her deck how well she was manned. He grunted noncommittally when his inspection was finished, then edged the glass leftwards to count the transports. “As far as I can see, General,” he said at last, “they have twenty transports. Maybe twenty-one.”

  “Dear Lord above,” McLean said mildly, “and how many warships?”

  “About the same,” Mowat said.

  “They do come in force,” McLean said, still mildly. “Twenty transports, you say, Mowat?”

  “Maybe twenty-one.”

  “Time for some arithmetic, Paymaster,” McLean said to Lieutenant Moore. “How many men did each of our transports carry?”

  “Most of the men were in four of our transports, sir,” Moore said, “so two hundred apiece?”

  “So multiply that by twenty?”

  There was a pause as every officer within earshot attempted the mental arithmetic. “Four thousand, sir,” Moore said finally.

  “Ah, you learned the sa
me arithmetic as I did, Mister Moore,” McLean said, smiling.

  “Dear God,” a highland officer gazed appalled at the size of the approaching fleet. “In that many ships? They could have five thousand men!”

  McLean shook his head. “In the absence of our Lord and Savior,” the brigadier said, “I do believe they’d have trouble feeding that many.”

  “Some of their ships are smaller than ours,” Mowat observed.

  “And your conclusion, Mowat?” McLean asked.

  “Between three and four thousand men,” Mowat said crisply. “Enough, anyway. And the bastards have close to three hundred guns in broadside.”

  “I see we shall be busy,” McLean said lightly.

  “With your permission, General,” Mowat had finished his inspection and collapsed the glass, “I’ll return to the Albany.”

  “Allow me to wish you joy of the day, Mowat,” McLean said.

  “Let me desire the same for you, McLean,” Mowat replied, then paused to shake the brigadier’s hand.

  The three naval officers left to join their ships. McLean stayed on the bluff, saying little as he watched the enemy draw ever closer. It was a rough-and-ready rule of war that an attacker needed to outnumber a defender by three to one if an assault on a fort was to succeed, but Fort George was unfinished. The bastions were so low that a man could leap over them. The gun emplacements were scarcely begun. A thousand rebels would take the fort easily, and it was plain from the size of the fleet entering the bay that they must have brought at least two or three thousand men. “We must do our best,” McLean finally said to no one in particular, then smiled. “Ensign Campbell!” he called sharply. “To me!”

  Six kilted officers responded and Bethany looked puzzled. “We are oversupplied with Campbells,” Moore said.

  “The 74th has forty-three officers,” McLean explained more usefully, “and comes from Argyle, Miss Fletcher, which is a place plentifully inhabited by Campbells. Twenty-three of the forty-three officers are named Campbell. Shout that name outside their tent lines, Miss Fletcher, and you can cause chaos.” The brigadier knew that every loyalist watching from the headland was sensing an approaching disaster and he was determined to show them confidence. “It occurs to me,” he spoke to the six young kilted officers, “that Sir Walter Raleigh played bowls as the Armada approached. We can match the English in insouciance, don’t you think?”

  “By playing bowls, sir?” one of the Campbells asked.

  “I prefer swords to bowls,” McLean said, and drew his broadsword. His lamed right arm made drawing the weapon difficult and he had to use his left hand to help free the blade from its scabbard. He stooped and laid the sword on the turf.

  Eleven other swords were placed on the ground. There were no musicians at Dyce’s Head so the brigadier clapped his hands rhythmically and the six ensigns began to dance above the cross-laid blades. Some of the 74th’s other officers sang as they clapped. They sang in Gaelic, and McLean joined in, smiling.

  Bethany clapped with the other spectators. The ensigns danced, their feet close but never touching the swords. The Gaelic song finished, McLean indicated the defiant sword-dance could end and the boyish officers grinned as their audience applauded and the blades were retrieved. “To your posts, gentlemen,” McLean said to his officers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he looked at the civilians, “I cannot foretell what will happen now, but if you stay in your homes I am confident you will be treated with a proper civility.” He was not confident of that at all, but what else could he say? He turned to take one last look at the fleet. A splash and rumble of cable sounded clear across the water as the first ship dropped anchor. Its sails, loosened from the wind’s grip, flapped wildly until men tamed the canvas onto the wide yards. A glint of light from the ship’s afterdeck flashed bright in McLean’s eyes and he knew a rebel was examining the shore with a telescope. He turned away, going back to his unfinished fort.

  James Fletcher had spent the night on the Penobscot’s eastern shore, the Felicity safe in a small cove. He watched the Massachusetts fleet appear from the south and he waited till the ships had almost reached Majabigwaduce before rowing out of the sheltered haven. Then the wind caught his mainsail and he could ship the oars and run before the breeze to where the fleet was anchoring. The transports had gone farthest north, anchoring west of the peninsula’s bluff and, like the warships, well out of the range of any cannon the British might have ashore.

  Fletcher headed for the largest of the warships, reckoning that would be the commander’s vessel, but long before he reached the Warren he was intercepted by a guard boat manned by a dozen oarsmen and four green-jacketed marines. They hailed him and so he turned the Felicity into the wind and waited for the longboat to reach him. “I’ve got news for the general,” he called to the marine officer.

  “You’ll have to see the commodore,” the marine insisted, and pointed to the Warren. Sailors on the frigate took the line Fletcher heaved, then he let the gaff fall and clambered up the frigate’s side.

  He stood on deck where a young and nervous midshipman arrived to be his escort. “The commodore is busy, Mister Fletcher,” he explained.

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “But he will want to see you.”

  “I hope so!” James said cheerfully.

  The rebels’ warships had anchored due west of the harbor mouth, which was filled by Captain Mowat’s three sloops of war. Those sloops, anchored fore and aft to keep their starboard broadsides pointed towards the bay, had their gunports open and were flying the blue ensign at their sterns while at each masthead, three on each sloop, was the British flag. Twin pulses of white spurted rhythmically from the North’s flank and Fletcher grinned. “They never stop pumping her,” he said.

  “Her?”

  “The North.” James pointed. “The sloop closest to Dyce’s Head, see? I reckon the rats have chewed clean through her bottom.”

  Ensign Fanning gazed solemnly at the enemy ship. “She’s an old ship?” he guessed.

  “Old and rotten,” James said, “a pair of cannon-balls through that hull will turn her into firewood.”

  “You live here?” Fanning asked.

  “All my life.”

  Commodore Saltonstall ducked out of his cabin door, followed by a man James Fletcher knew well. John Brewer was a captain in the local militia, though he was so short of recruits that he had few men to command. It had been to Captain Brewer that James Fletcher had sent his map and letter, and Brewer now smiled at seeing him. “You’re welcome, young Fletcher!” Brewer gestured at the commodore. “This is Captain Saltonstall. I dare say young James here has news for you, sir.”

  “I do, sir,” James said eagerly.

  Saltonstall seemed unimpressed. He looked once at James Fletcher, then turned to the portside rail where he stood for a long time gazing at Mowat’s ships through a telescope. “Mister Coningsby!” he snapped suddenly.

  “Sir?” Midshipman Fanning responded.

  “The bitter ends of number four’s train-tackle look like a snake’s honeymoon! See to it.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Captain Brewer, a jovial man dressed in homespun and with an ancient broad-bladed cutlass strapped at his waist, grinned at Fletcher while Saltonstall continued to inspect the three ships that guarded the harbor’s mouth. “What is your name?” the commodore inquired brusquely.

  James Fletcher decided the question was aimed at him. “James Fletcher, sir. I live in Bagaduce.”

  “Then come here, James Fletcher of Bagaduce,” Saltonstall demanded and James went to stand beside the commodore and, like him, gazed eastwards. To the left he could see the heavily wooded bluff that hid the fort from the commodore’s view. Then came the three sloops with their combined broadsides of twenty-eight cannon and, just to their south, the guns on Cross Island. “You live here,” Saltonstall said in a voice which suggested pity for such a fate, “and I see three sloops and a battery, what am I missing?”

  “Another bat
tery on Dyce’s Head, sir,” James said, pointing.

  “Just as I told you, sir!” Brewer put in cheerfully.

  Saltonstall ignored the militia captain. “Of what strength?”

  “I saw only three small guns being hauled up there, sir,” James said.

  “Six-pounders, probably,” Brewer said.

  “But they’ll plunge their fire on us as we reach the harbor mouth,” Saltonstall observed.

  “Reckon that’s what they’re up there for, sir,” James said, “and there’s another battery on the harbor shore.”

  “So three batteries and three sloops,” Saltonstall said, collapsing the glass and turning to look at Fletcher. He did not seem to like what he saw. “What water in the harbor?”

  “What do you draw, sir?”

  “Eleven feet, nine inches,” Saltonstall said. He was still talking to James, but now fixed his gaze just past James’s head to stare at the poopdeck companionway.

  “Plenty of water for you, sir,” James said with his customary cheerfulness.

  “The tide?”

  “Fifteen to eighteen feet, near enough,” James said, “but even at low water you can pass her.” He pointed to the Nautilus, the southernmost of Mowat’s ships. “You can get past her, sir, with ten feet to spare, and once you’re inside you’ve not a care in the world.”

  “Get past her?” Saltonstall asked scornfully.

  “Plenty of room, sir.”

  “And a battery not a hundred paces away?” Saltonstall asked harshly, meaning the guns on Cross Island. Those guns were just visible and behind them were tents for the gunners and a British flag high on a makeshift pole. “And once I am inside,” he went on, “how the devil do I get out?”

  “Get out?” James asked, disconcerted by the commodore’s evident dislike of him.