The Fort (21 page)

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“I believe I can say with great confidence,” Lovell addressed the Council of War in the commodore’s cabin aboard the
Warren
, “that we have achieved splendid things! Noble things!” The general was at his most avuncular, smiling at the men crowded about the table and along the cabin’s sides. “Now we must go on to achieve our larger designs. We must captivate, kill, and destroy the tyrant!”

For a while the Council indulged itself in pleasurable contemplation of the capture of Cross Island, a victory that surely presaged a greater triumph on the northern side of the harbor. Compliments were offered to the marines in the person of Captain Welch who said nothing, but just stood behind Saltonstall’s chair and looked grim. The commodore, also silent, appeared bored. Once or twice he deigned to incline his head when Lovell directed a question at him, but for the most part he appeared to be aloof from the matters under discussion. Nor did he seem in the least abashed by the petition sent to him by thirty-two officers from the rebel warships which had respectfully requested that the commodore should destroy or capture the three British sloops without any more delay. The letter had been couched in the politest terms, but no amount of courtesy could hide that the petition was a bitter criticism of Saltonstall’s leadership. Nearly all of the men who had signed that letter were in the cabin, but Saltonstall pointedly ignored them.

“I assume, gentlemen, we are agreed that we must make our assault soon?” Lovell asked.

Voices murmured their assent. “Tonight, go tonight,” George Little, first lieutenant of the
Hazard
, suggested forcibly.

“Wait too long,” Colonel Jonathan Mitchell, commander of the Cumberland County militia, said, “and they’ll have their damned fort finished. The sooner we attack, the sooner we go home.”

“Wait too long,” George Little warned, “and you’ll see British reinforcements coming upriver.” He pointed out of the cabin’s wide stern windows. The ebbing tide had turned the
Warren
on her anchor cable and the windows now looked towards the southwest. The sun was setting there, glossing the waters of Penobscot Bay into slithering patterns of red and gold.

“Let us not anticipate such things,” Lovell said.

Wadsworth thought such things were worth anticipating, especially if they lent haste to the job at hand. “I would suggest, sir,” he said warmly, “that we make our assault tonight.”

“Tonight!” Lovell stared at his deputy.

“We have a full moon,” Wadsworth said, “and with some small luck the enemy will be inattentive. Yes, sir, tonight.” A growl of approval sounded around the cabin.

“And how many men could you commit to such an attack?” A sharp voice asked and Wadsworth saw that it was Lieutenant-Colonel Revere who had posed the question.

Wadsworth felt the question was impertinent. It was not Revere’s business to know how many infantry could be landed, but Solomon Lovell seemed unworried by the brusque demand. “We can land eight hundred men,” the general said and Revere nodded as though satisfied with the answer.

“And how many men can the artillery train take ashore?” Wadsworth demanded.

Revere flinched, as though the question offended him. “Eighty men, exclusive of officers,” he said resentfully.

“And I trust,” Wadsworth rather surprised himself by the defiance in his voice, “that this time the ammunition will match the guns?”

Revere looked as if he had been slapped. He stared at Wadsworth, his mouth opened and closed, then he drew himself up as if about to launch a vicious response, but Colonel Mitchell intervened. “More to the matter at hand,” Mitchell said, “how many men can the enemy muster?”

William Todd who had also bridled at Revere’s intervention was about to give his usual high estimate, but Peleg Wadsworth silenced him with a gesture. “I’ve talked long and hard with young Fletcher,” Wadsworth said, “and his information is not guesswork, it is not an estimate, but derives directly from the enemy paymaster.” He paused, looking about the table. “I am persuaded that the enemy regiments can muster no more than seven hundred infantry.”

Someone gave a low whistle of surprise. Others looked dubious. “You have confidence in that number?” Major Todd asked skeptically.

“Complete confidence,” Wadsworth said firmly.

“They possess artillerymen too,” Lovell warned.

“And they have Royal Marines,” a ship’s captain spoke from the edge of the cabin.

“We have better marines,” Captain Welch insisted.

Commodore Saltonstall stirred himself, his gaze moving disinterestedly about the table as though he was faintly surprised to discover himself in such company. “We shall loan two hundred and twenty-seven marines to the militia,” he said.

“This is splendid,” Lovell said, trying to rouse the fervor of the Council, “truly splendid!” He leaned back in his chair, planted his fists wide apart on the table, and beamed at the company. “So, gentlemen, we have a motion! And the motion is that we attack this night with all our land forces. Permit me to put a proposition to the Council’s vote, and may I suggest we attempt a resolution by acclamation? So, gentlemen, the motion is, do you think the force we possess sufficient to attack the enemy?”

No one responded. They were all too astonished. Even Saltonstall, who had appeared entirely disengaged from the discussion in his cabin, now gazed wide-eyed at Lovell. For a moment Wadsworth was tempted to think the general was venturing a clumsy joke, but it was apparent from Lovell’s expression that he was serious. He really expected every officer present to vote on the motion as though this was a meeting of the General Assembly. The silence stretched, broken only by the footsteps of the watch-keepers on the deck above.

“In favor, aye,” Wadsworth managed to say, and his words broke the surprise in the cabin so that a chorus of voices approved the motion.

“And is anyone opposed?” Lovell asked. “None? Good! The ayes have it.” He looked at his secretary, John Marston. “Record in the minutes that the motion proposing that we possess sufficient force to make the assault was passed unanimously by acclamation.” He beamed at the assembled officers, then looked inquiringly at Saltonstall. “Commodore? You will support our assault with a naval action?”

Saltonstall looked at Lovell with an expressionless face which nevertheless managed to suggest that the commodore thought the general was a witless fool. “On the one hand,” Saltonstall finally broke the embarrassing silence, “you wish my marines to take part in your assault, and on the other you wish me to attack the enemy shipping without my marines?”

“I, well’” Lovell began awkwardly.

“Well?” Saltonstall interrupted harshly. “Do you want the marines or not?”

“I would appreciate their assistance,” Lovell said weakly.

“Then we shall engage the enemy with gunfire,” Saltonstall announced loftily. There was a murmur of protest from the officers who had signed the letter condemning the commodore, but the murmur died under Saltonstall’s scornful gaze.

All that was left now was to decide where and when to attack, and no one demurred from Wadsworth’s proposal to assail the bluff again, but this time to attack by moonlight. “We shall attack at midnight,” Wadsworth said, “and assault the bluff directly.” To Wadsworth’s exasperation Lovell insisted on offering both the time and place as motions for the Council’s vote, but no one voted against either, though Colonel Mitchell diffidently observed that midnight left little time to make the necessary preparations.

“No time like the present,” Wadsworth said.

“You expect me to attack their shipping by night?” Saltonstall reentered the discussion. “You want my ships grounded in the dark?”

“You can attack in the dawn, perhaps?” Lovell suggested and was rewarded with a curt nod.

The council ended and men went back to their ships as the bright moon climbed among the stars. The rebels had voted unanimously to make their attack, to bring the enemy to battle, and, with God’s good help, to make a great victory.

The fog came slowly on the morning of Wednesday, July 28th, 1779. At first it was a mist that thickened imperceptibly to shroud the cloud-haunted moon with a glowing ring. The tide rippled along the anchored ships. Midnight had come and gone, and there was still no attack. The
Hunter
and
Sky Rocket
, the two privateers that would cannonade the heights of the bluff as the rebels landed, had to be rowed upriver before anchoring close to shore and both ships arrived late. Some transport ships had too many lighters or longboats, and others too few, and the confusion had to be disentangled. Time passed and Peleg Wadsworth fretted. This was the attack that must succeed, the attack to capture the bluff and surge on to assault the fort. This was why the fleet had come to Penobscot Bay, yet one o’clock came and passed, then two o’clock, then three o’clock, and still the troops were not ready. A militia captain suggested the attack should be abandoned because the creeping fog would dampen the powder in the musket pans, a notion Wadsworth rejected with an anger that surprised him. “If you can’t shoot them, Captain,” he snapped, “then beat them to death with your musket butts.” The captain looked at him with an aggrieved face. “That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?” Wadsworth asked. “To kill the enemy?”

James Fletcher, at Wadsworth’s side, grinned, His only uniform was a white crossbelt from which hung a cartridge pouch, but most of the militia were similarly dressed. Only the marines and some militia officers wore recognizable uniforms. James’s heart was throbbing palpably. He was nervous. His job was to show the attackers where paths climbed the bluff, but right now that bluff was just a moon-shadowed cliff in the mist. No light showed there. Longboats bumped and jostled alongside the transport ships, waiting to take the soldiers ashore, while on deck men sharpened knives and bayonets and obsessively checked that the flints in their musket locks were firmly embedded in the dogheads. Wadsworth and Fletcher were on board the sloop
Centurion
from which they would embark with Welch’s marines. Those marines in their dark green jackets waited patiently in the
Centurion
’s waist and among them was a boy whom Wadsworth remembered from Townsend. The boy grinned at the general who tried desperately to remember the lad’s name. “It’s Israel, isn’t it?” Wadsworth said, the name suddenly coming to him

“Marine Fifer Trask now, sir,” the boy said in his unbroken voice.

“You joined the marines!” Wadsworth said, smiling. The lad had been provided with a uniform, the dark green coat cut down to his diminutive size, while at his waist hung a sword-bayonet. He lacked the marine’s distinctive leather collar and instead had a black scarf wound tight round his scrawny neck.

“We kidnapped the little bastard, General,” a marine spoke from the dark.

“Then make sure you look after him,” Wadsworth said, “and play well, Israel Trask.”

A rowboat banged against the
Centurion
’s side and a harried militia lieutenant scrambled over the gunwale with a message from Colonel McCobb. “Sorry, sir, it’ll be a while yet, the Colonel says he’s sorry, sir.”

“God damn it!” Wadsworth could not help exclaiming.

“There still aren’t enough boats, sir,” the lieutenant explained.

“Use what boats you have,” Wadsworth said, “and send them back for the rest of the men. Send me word when you’re ready!”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant, abashed, backed away to his boat.

“They call them minutemen?” Captain Welch appeared beside Wadsworth and asked with a hint of amusement.

Wadsworth was taken aback that the dour marine captain had even spoken. Welch was such a grim presence, so baleful, that his customary silence was welcome, yet he had sounded friendly enough in the darkness. “Your men have food?” Wadsworth asked. It was an unnecessary question, but the tall marine made him nervous.

“They have their morsel,” Welch said, still sounding amused. General Lovell had sent a message that every man must take “a morsel ashore to alleviate hunger,” and Wadsworth had dutifully passed the order on, though he suspected hunger would be the least of their problems. “Have you ever been to England, General?” Welch suddenly asked.

“No, no. Never.”

“Pretty place, some of it.”

“You visited it?”

Welch nodded. “Didn’t plan on it. Our ship was captured and I was taken there as a prisoner.”

“You were exchanged?”

Welch grinned, his teeth very white in the dark. “Hell, no. I strolled out of the prison and walked all the damn way to Bristol. I signed as a deckhand on a merchantman sailing for New York. Got home.”

“And no one suspected you?”

“Not a soul. I begged and stole food. Met a widow who fed me.” He smiled at the memory. “Glad I seen the place, but I won’t ever go back.”

“I’d like to see Oxford one day,” Wadsworth said wistfully, “and maybe London.”

“We’ll build London and Oxford here,” Welch said.

Wadsworth wondered if the usually laconic Welch was talkative because he was nervous, and then, with a start, he realized that the marine was talking because Welch had divined Wadsworth’s own nervousness. The general stared at the dark bluff, which, in the thickening mist, was being limned by a dull lightening of the eastern sky, just a hint of gray in the black. “Dawn’s coming,” Wadsworth said.

And then, suddenly, there were no more delays. Colonel McCobb and the Lincoln County militia were ready, and so the men clambered down into the boats and Wadsworth took his place in a longboat’s stern. The marines were gray-faced in the wan light, but to Wadsworth they looked reassuringly resolute, determined, and frightening. Their bayonets were fixed. The
Centurion
’s sailors gave a low cheer as the boats pulled away from the transport.

A louder cheer sounded from the
Sky Rocket
, and then Wadsworth plainly heard Captain William Burke shout at his crew, “For God and for America! Fire!”

The
Sky Rocket
split the dawn with its eight-gun broadside. Flame leaped and curled, smoke spread on the water and the first missiles crashed ashore.