The Fort

  “We’re just there to watch,” John Moore said.

  “To watch,” Caffrae confirmed, “and to pray if you like, but not with your eyes closed.”

  Moore took six men. They went past the barn and through a small turnip patch beside the house. Aaron Banks’s two pretty daughters, Olive and Esther, stared wide-eyed from a window and Moore, seeing them, put a finger to his lips. Olive grinned and Esther nodded.

  The picquet went into the concealing corn. “No smoking,” Moore told his men because he did not want the telltale wisps of pipe smoke to reveal their presence. The men crouched and slid forward, trying their best not to disturb the tall stalks. Once at the field’s western edge they lay still. Their job was to watch for any rebel movement that might threaten Caffrae’s concealed men, though for now the rebels showed no sign of energy. Moore could clearly see sixteen militiamen at the Half Moon Battery. What enthusiasm they had shown for trenching had dissipated and they now sat in a group inside the old earthwork. A couple were fast asleep.

  To Moore’s left was Jacob Dyce’s house, while to his right, a hundred paces higher up the slope, was the Dutchman’s cornfield. In front of him the long hill climbed to the distant bluff. There were men at the very top, evidently waiting to watch whatever drama occurred at the battery. The rebel guns were hidden among the trees beyond the skyline, but their noise pounded the afternoon and their smoke whitened the sky.

  After a while Jacob Dyce came out of his house. He was a squat, middle-aged man with a prophet’s beard. He carried a hoe that he now used to weed some beans. He worked slowly, gradually getting nearer and nearer to his neighbor’s cornfield. “De rascals are in my corn,” he suddenly spoke without looking up from his work. He stooped to tug at a weed. “Lots of rascals hiding there. You hear me?” He still did not look towards Moore and his men.

  “I hear you,” Moore said quietly, “how many?”

  “Lots,” the Dutchman said. He chopped the hoe’s blade savagely. “Lots! They are de duivelsgebroed!” He glanced briefly towards where Moore was hiding. “De duivelsgebroed!” he said again, then ambled back to his house.

  Moore sent Corporal MacRae, a reliable man, to tell Caffrae that the devil’s brood were indeed hiding uphill. Moore peered at the Dutchman’s cornfield and thought he saw the stalks moving, but he could not be sure. Caffrae himself came to join Moore and peered up at the maize. “The bastards want to take us in the flank,” he said.

  “If we advance,” Moore said.

  “Oh, we must advance,” Caffrae said wolfishly, “why else did we come here?”

  “There could be three hundred men hidden there,” Moore warned.

  “Probably no more than a hundred who need a good thrashing.”

  That was Brigadier McLean’s tactic. Whenever the rebels attempted a maneuver they had to be slapped so hard that their morale fell even lower. McLean knew he was mostly opposed by militiamen and he had drummed that fact into his officers. “You’re professionals, you’re soldiers,” he said repeatedly, “and they’re not. Make them scared of you! Think of them as fencibles.” The fencibles were the civilian soldiers in Britain, enthusiastic amateurs who, in McLean’s view, merely played at soldiering. “They may have their marines,” Moore warned now.

  “Then we thrash them too,” Caffrae said confidently, “or rather you will.”

  “I will?”

  “I’ll bring the company forward and you command it. Advance on the battery, but watch your right. If they’re there, they’re going to charge you, so wheel when you’re ready, give them a volley and countercharge.”

  Moore’s heart gave a leap. He knew McLean must have suggested that Caffrae allow him to command the company, and he knew too that this was his chance for redemption. Do this right and he would be forgiven for his sins on the day the rebels landed.

  “We’ll do it noisily,” Caffrae said, “with drums and squeals. Let ’em know we’re the cocks on this dunghill.”

  So what could go wrong? Moore supposed that it would be a disaster if the enemy did number a couple of hundred men, but what McLean would be watching for was evidence that Moore demonstrated good sense. His job was to smack the enemy, not win the war. “Drums and squeals,” he said.

  “And bayonets,” Caffrae said with a smile. “And enjoy yourself, Lieutenant. I’ll fetch the hounds, and you can flush the covert.”

  It was time to dance.

  The muskets were close, so close that Saltonstall involuntarily jumped in shock. He almost dropped the telescope.

  At the foot of the hill, between him and the harbor, were redcoats. They were running in loose order. They had evidently fired a volley because the smoke lingered behind them. They had not stopped to reload, but now followed that volley with a bayonet charge, and Saltonstall understood that these men had to be the Royal Marines he had seen vanishing up the Majabigwaduce River. He had thought they must be foraging to the north, but instead they had landed on the river’s bank then worked their way southwards through the woods and now they drove off the men who had been making the battery on Haney’s land. They were cheering. Sunlight glinted off their long bayonets. Saltonstall had a glimpse of his men running southwards, then the closest British marines saw the commodore at the hill’s top and a half dozen of them turned towards him. A musket banged and the ball skittered through the leaves.

  Saltonstall ran. He went east down the hill, leaping the steeper sections, blundering through brush, pelting as fast as he could. A white-scutted deer ran ahead of him, alarmed by the shouts and shots. Saltonstall stumbled through a stream, cut southwards and kept running until he found a thick patch of undergrowth. There was a stitch in his left side, he was panting, and he crouched among the dark leaves and tried to calm himself.

  His pursuers were silent. Or else they had abandoned the hunt. More muskets sounded, their distinctive crackling an unmistakable noise, but they seemed far away now, a wicked descant to the deeper bass rhythm of the big cannons beyond the harbor.

  Saltonstall did not dare move till the light faded. Then, alone except for the cloud of mosquitoes, he worked his cautious way westwards. He went very slowly, ever alert to an enemy, though when he reached the harbor shore he saw that the redcoats were all gone.

  And so were his longboats. He could see them. Every one had been captured and taken back to the enemy sloops. The British had not even bothered to slight the new earthworks of the battery Saltonstall’s men had thrown up. They knew they could recapture it whenever they wished and leaving the low wall was an invitation to the rebels to return and be chased away again.

  Saltonstall was stranded now. The enemy-filled harbor lay between him and his fleet, and no rescue would be coming. There was no choice but to walk. He recalled the chart in his cabin on board the Warren and knew that if he followed the harbor’s shore he must eventually come back to the Penobscot River. Five miles? Maybe six, and the light was almost gone and the mosquitoes were feasting and the commodore was unhappy.

  He started walking.

  To the north, beyond the neck, Peleg Wadsworth had found a shelf of pastureland in Westcot’s farm. He had not needed to make any earthworks to defend the shelf because it was edged by a sudden steep slope that was defense enough. Fifty militiamen, goaded and commanded by Captain Carnes of the marines, had manhandled one of Colonel Revere’s eighteen-pounder cannon onto a lighter that had been rowed northwards. The gun was landed, then dragged over a mile through the woods until it reached the farm. There had been a few moments of worry when, shortly after Wadsworth and Carnes had discovered the site, four longboats filled with British marines had rowed up the Majabigwaduce River and Wadsworth had feared they would land close by, but instead they had gone to the farther bank of the river where they offered no threat to the big cannon which, at last, was dragged onto the pastureland. The militiamen had carried thirty rounds for the gun which Carnes laid in the fading light. “The barrel’s cold,” he told the gun’s crew, “so she’ll shoot a little low.”
br />   The range looked much too long to Peleg Wadsworth’s untutored eye. In front of him was a strip of shallow water and then the low marshy tail of Majabigwaduce’s peninsula. The cannon was pointed across that tail at the British ships just visible in the harbor beyond. Carnes was aiming at the central sloop, HMS Albany, though Wadsworth doubted he could be sure of hitting any of the ships at such a distance.

  Peleg Wadsworth walked a long way to the east until he was far enough from the big cannon to be sure that its smoke would not blot his view. He had borrowed Captain Carnes’s good telescope again and now he sat on the damp ground and propped his elbows on his knees to hold the long tubes steady. He saw a large group of empty longboats tethered to the Albany and a sailor leaning on the rail above. The sloop quivered every time she fired one of her cannon at the battery on Cross Island which still kept up its harassing fire. The splintering sound of musket-fire sounded far away, but Wadsworth resisted the temptation to swing the glass. If that was Lovell’s ambush it would be hidden from him by the loom of the ridge. He kept watching the enemy sloop.

  Carnes took a long time aiming the cannon, but at last he was satisfied. He had brought wooden pegs with him and he pushed three into the turf, one beside each wheel, and the third next to the gun’s trail. “If it’s aimed right,” he told the crew, “those pegs will guide us back. If it’s wrong, we know where to start our corrections.” He warned the crew to step back and cover their ears. He blew on the tip of the linstock to brighten the glowing fuse, then leaned over to touch fire to the powder-filled reed thrust down the touchhole.

  The gun leaped back. Its thunder cracked the sky. Smoke jetted out beyond the shelf to spread across the nearer water. A flame curled and vanished inside the smoke. The noise was so sudden and loud that Wadsworth jumped and momentarily lost his focus, then he steadied the glass and found the Albany and saw a sailor smoking a pipe at the rail, and then, to his astonishment and joy, he saw the sailor leap back as a bright gouge of newly shattered timber showed in the sloop’s hull just above the waterline. “A direct hit!” he shouted. “Captain! Well done! A direct hit!”

  “Reload and run back!” Carnes shouted.

  He was a marine. He did not miss.

  Solomon Lovell thought his careful ambush must have failed. He waited and waited, and morning passed into afternoon, and the afternoon melded into the early evening, and still the British offered no challenge to the men who had occupied the deserted battery close to the harbor shore. A small crowd had gathered on the eastward side of Dyce’s Head, many of them skippers of the anchored ships who had heard that the British were about to be given a thorough trouncing and so had rowed ashore to enjoy the spectacle. Commodore Saltonstall was not present, he had evidently gone to make a new battery on the harbor’s farther shore and Peleg Wadsworth was similarly employed north and east of the neck. “New batteries!” Lovell exulted to Major Todd, “and a victory today! We shall be in a fine position tomorrow.”

  Todd glanced south to where new ships might appear, but nothing showed in the river’s seaward reach. “General Wadsworth sent for an eighteen-pounder,” he told Lovell. “It should have reached him by now.”

  “Already?” Lovell asked, delighted. He felt that the whole expedition had turned a corner and hope was renewed. “Now we only need McLean to snap at our bait,” Lovell said anxiously. He gazed down at the battery where the militiamen who were supposed to be pretending to raise a defensive rampart were instead sitting in the fading sunlight.

  “He won’t take the bait if we’re all watching,” a harsh voice said.

  Lovell turned to see Colonel Revere had come to the bluff. “Colonel,” he said in wary greeting.

  “You’ve got a crowd gawping up here like Boston nobs watching the town on Pope Night,” Revere said. He pointedly ignored Todd!

  “Let us hope the destruction equals Pope Night,” Lovell responded genially. Every November 5th the townsfolk of Boston made giant effigies of the Pope which were paraded through the streets. The supporters of the rival effigies fought each other, a superb brawl that left bones broken and skulls bloodied, and at the end the effigies were burned into the night as the erstwhile foes drank themselves insensible.

  “McLean’s not a fool,” Revere said. “He’ll know something’s amiss with this crowd up here!”

  Lovell feared his artillery commander was right, indeed the thought had already occurred to him that the presence of so many spectators might signal something extraordinary to the British, but he wanted these men to witness the success of the ambush. He needed word to spread through the army and the fleet that McLean’s redcoats could be thrashed. The men seemed to have forgotten their great victory in taking the bluff, the whole expedition had become mired in pessimism and it needed to be whipped into enthusiasm again.

  “So McLean’s no fool, is he?” Todd asked caustically.

  Because at the foot of the hill, between a barn and a cornfield, the redcoats had appeared.

  And Solomon Lovell had his ambush.

  “They’re all yours, Mister Moore!” Captain Caffrae called.

  Fifty men, two drummer boys, and three fifers were now Moore’s responsibility. The company had formed just north of Jacob Dyce’s house. They were in three ranks with the musicians behind. Caffrae, before leading his men from concealment, had ordered them to load their muskets and fix their bayonets. “Let’s hear the ‘British Grenadier’!” Moore called. “Smartly now!”

  The drums gave a roll, the fifers found the rhythm and began the sprightly tune. “No man is to fire until I give the command!” Moore said to the company. He walked along the short front rank, then turned to see that the rebels in the Half Moon Battery had scrambled to their feet. They were watching him. He drew his sword and his heart gave a lurch as he heard the long blade scrape in the scabbard’s throat. He was nervous and he was excited and he was frightened and he was elated. Captain Caffrae had positioned himself beside the musicians, ready no doubt to take over command of the company if Moore did the wrong thing. Or if he died, Moore thought, and felt a lump in his throat. He suddenly needed to piss very badly. Oh God, he thought, let me not wet my breeches. He walked towards the company’s right- hand side. “We’re going to drive those scoundrels away,” he said, trying to sound casual. He took post at the right and sloped his sword blade over his shoulder. “Company will advance! By the right! March!”

  The fifes played, the drums rattled and the redcoats went at a steady pace to trample down Jacob Dyce’s newly weeded bean patch. The front rank held their muskets low, their bayonets making a line of glinting oiled steel. Guns boomed on the ridge above and other cannons crashed their sound across the harbor, but those conflicts seemed far away. Moore deliberately did not look to his right because he did not want to give the hidden rebels any hint that he knew they were present. He walked towards the Half Moon Battery and the handful of rebels there watched him come. One leveled a musket and fired, the ball flying high. “You’ll hold your fire!” Moore called to his men. “Just drive them away with steel!”

  The few rebels backed away. They were outnumbered by the advancing company and their orders were to draw the redcoats on till they could be trapped by McCobb’s two hundred men hidden in the corn and so they retreated across the semicircular rampart and up the slope beyond.

  “Steady!” Moore called. He could not resist a quick glance to his right, but nothing moved on that higher ground. Had the rebels abandoned the idea of an ambush? Maybe the Dutchman had been wrong and there were no rebels hidden in the corn. A gun bellowed at the ridgetop to make a sudden cloud of smoke above which white gulls flew like paper scraps in a gale. Moore’s mind was skittering like the gulls. What if there were two hundred rebels? Three hundred? What if the green-coated marines were there?

  Then there was a shout from the right, the corn was being trampled, there were more shouts and Lieutenant Moore felt a strange calm. “Company will halt!” he heard himself call. “halt!” He turned his back o
n the enemy to look at his redcoats. They had kept their dressing and their ranks were orderly and tight. “By the right!” he commanded loudly. “Right wheel! Half!” He stood motionless while the three short ranks swung about like a gate until they faced northwards. Moore turned to look up the slope where, from out of the high corn, a horde of enemies was appearing. Dear God, Moore thought, but there were far more than he had expected. “I want to hear the drum and fifes!” he shouted. “Company will advance! By the right! March!”

  And now go straight for them, he thought. No hesitation. If he hesitated then the enemy must smell his fear and that would give them courage. So just march with leveled bayonets and the “British Grenadier” filling the air with its defiance, and the enemy was in no order, just a mass of men appearing from the corn and too far away for a volley to have any effect and so Moore just marched up the slope towards them and the thought flickered through his mind that the enemy was far too numerous and his duty now was to retreat. Was that what McLean would want? Caffrae was offering no advice, and Moore sensed that he did not need to retreat. The enemy had begun to fire their muskets, but the range was still too long. A ball flicked through the grass beside Moore, another whipped overhead. One rebel shot his ramrod by mistake, the long rod circling in the air to fall on the grass. The enemy was obscured by patches of powder smoke that drifted back into the trampled maize, but Moore could see their disorganization. The rebels glanced left and right, looking to see what their friends did before they obeyed their officers’ shrill cries. One man had white hair falling almost to his waist, another was white-bearded, and some looked like schoolboys given muskets. They were plainly nervous.

  And suddenly Moore understood that the discipline of his men was a weapon in itself. The rebels, tired and hungry after a long day in the cornfield, were frightened. They did not see fifty equally nervous young men, they saw a red-coated killing machine. They saw confidence. And though they had burst out of the corn they had not charged down the hill, but were now being chivvied into ranks by officers and sergeants. They had made a mistake, Moore thought. They should have charged. Instead he was attacking and they were on the defensive, and it was time to frighten them even more. But not too close, Moore thought. He decided he would not wait till the enemy was inside easy musket range. Get too close and the enemy might realize just how easily his fifty men could be overwhelmed and so, when he gauged he was about eighty paces from the rebels, he called a halt.