The Fort: A Novel of the Revolutionary War

the galley, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“The leaves captured by the brig King-Killer, sir,” Todd said, sipping his own tea.

“It’s kind of the enemy to supply us with tea,” Lovell said lightly.

“Indeed it is, sir,” Todd said and then, after a pause, “So Mister Revere is delaying us?”

Lovell knew of the antipathy between Todd and Revere and did his best to defuse whatever was in the major’s mind. Todd was a good man, meticulous and hardworking, but somewhat unbending. “I’m sure Lieutenant- Colonel Revere has very good cause to be absent,” he said firmly.

“He always does,” Todd said. “In all the time he commanded Castle Island I doubt he spent a single night there. Mister Revere, sir, likes the comfort of his wife’s bed.”

“Don’t we all?”

Todd brushed a speck of lint from his blue uniform coat. “He told General Wadsworth that he supplied rations for Major Fellows’ men.”

“I’m certain he had cause for that.”

“Fellows died of the fever last August,” Todd then stepped a pace back in deference to the approach of the commodore.

Saltonstall glowered again at Lovell from beneath the peak of his cocked hat. “If your damned fellow isn’t coming,” Saltonstall said, “then perhaps we might be allowed to get on with this damned war without him?”

“I’m sure Colonel Revere will be here very soon,” Lovell said emolliently, “or we shall receive news of him. A messenger has been sent ashore, Commodore.”

Saltonstall grunted and walked away. Major Todd frowned at the retreating commodore. “He takes after his mother’s side of the family, I think. The Saltonstalls are usually most agreeable folk.”

Lovell was saved from responding by a hail from the brig Diligent. Colonel Revere, it seemed, had been sighted. He and three other officers were being rowed in the smart white-painted barge that served Castle Island, and the sternsheets of the barge, which was being rowed by a dozen blue-shirted men, were heaped high with baggage. Colonel Revere sat just forrard of the baggage and, as the barge came close to the Warren on its way to the brig Samuel, Revere waved up at Lovell. “God speed us, General!” he shouted.

“Where have you been?” Lovell called sharply.

“A last night with the family, General!” Revere shouted happily, and then was out of earshot.

“A last night with the family?” Todd asked in wonderment.

“He must have misunderstood my orders,” Lovell said uncomfortably.

“I think you will discover, sir,” Todd said, “that Colonel Revere misunderstands all orders that are not to his liking.”

“He’s a patriot, Major,” Lovell reproved, “a fine patriot!”

It took more time for the fine patriot’s baggage to be hoisted aboard the brig, then the barge itself had to be readied for the voyage. It seemed Colonel Revere wished the Castle Island barge to be part of his equipment, for her oars were lashed to the thwarts and then she was attached by a towline to the Samuel. Then, at last, as the sun climbed to its height, the fleet was ready. The capstans turned again, the great anchors broke free and, with their sails bright in the summer sun, the might of Massachusetts sailed from Boston harbor.

To captivate, to kill, and to destroy.

Lieutenant John Moore sat astride a camp stool, his legs either side of an empty powder barrel that served as a table. A tent sheltered him from a blustery west wind that brought spits of rain to patter hard on the yellowed canvas. Moore’s job as paymaster for the 82nd Regiment bored him, even though the detailed work was done by Corporal Brown who had been a clerk in a Leith countinghouse before becoming drunk one morning and so volunteering for the army. Moore turned the pages of the black-bound ledger that recorded the regiment’s wages. “Why is Private Neill having fourpence a week deducted?” Moore asked the corporal.

“Lost his boot-blacking, sir.”

“Boot-blacking cannot cost that much, surely?”

“Expensive stuff, sir,” Corporal Brown said.

“Plainly. I should buy some and resell it to the regiment.”

“Major Fraser wouldn’t like that, sir, on account that his brother already does.”

Moore sighed and turned another stiff page of the thick paybook. He was supposed to check the figures, but he knew Corporal Brown would have done a meticulous job, so instead he stared out of the tent’s open flaps to the western rampart of Fort George where some gunners were making a platform for one of their cannon. The rampart was still only waist high, though the ditch beyond was now lined with wooden spikes that were more formidable to look at than negotiate. Beyond the rampart was a long stretch of cleared ground studded with raw pine stumps. That land climbed gently to the peninsula’s bluff where trees still stood thick and where tendrils of fog drifted through dark branches. Corporal Brown saw where Moore was looking. “Can I ask you something, sir?”

“Whatever enters your head, Brown.”

The corporal nodded towards the timbered bluff that was little more than half a mile from the fort. “Why didn’t the brigadier make the fort there, sir?”

“You would have done so, Corporal, if you had command here?”

“It’s the highest piece of land, sir. Isn’t that where you make a fort?”

Moore frowned, not because he disapproved of the question, which, he thought, was an eminently sensible inquiry, but because he did not know how to frame the answer. To Moore it was obvious why McLean had chosen the lower position. It was to do with the interlocking of the ships’ guns and the fort’s cannon, with making the best of a difficult job, but though he knew the answer, he did not quite know how to express it. “From here,” he said, “our guns command both the harbor entrance and the harbor itself. Suppose we were all up on that high ground? The enemy could sail past us, take the harbor and village, and then starve us out at their leisure.”

“But if the bastards take that high ground, sir . . .” Brown said dubiously, leaving the thought unfinished.

“If the bastards seize that high ground, Corporal,” Moore said, “then they will place cannon there and fire down into the fort.” That was the risk McLean had taken. He had given the enemy the chance to take the high ground, but only so that he could do his job better, which was to defend the harbor. “We don’t have enough men,” Moore went on, “to defend the bluff, but I can’t think they’ll land men there. It’s much too steep.”

Yet the rebels would land somewhere. By leaning forward on his makeshift stool Moore could just make out the three sloops-of-war anchored in line across the harbor mouth. General McLean had suggested the enemy might try to attack that line, break it, and then land men on the beach below the fort, and Moore tried to imagine such a fight. He tried to turn the wisps of fog into powder smoke, but his imagination failed. The eighteen-year-old John Moore had never experienced battle, and every day he wondered how he would respond to the smell of powder and the screams of the wounded and the chaos.

“Lady approaching, sir,” Corporal Brown warned Moore.

“Lady?” Moore asked, startled from his reverie, then saw that Bethany Fletcher was approaching the tent. He stood and ducked under the tent flap to greet her, but the sight of her face tied his tongue, so he simply stood there, awkward, hat in hand, smiling.

“Lieutenant Moore,” Bethany said, stopping a pace away.

“Miss Fletcher,” Moore managed to speak, “as ever, a pleasure.” He bowed.

“I was told to give you this, sir.” Bethany held out a slip of paper.

The paper was a receipt for corn and fish that James Fletcher had sold to the quartermaster. “Four shillings!” Moore said.

“The quartermaster said you’d pay me, sir,” Bethany said.

“If Mister Reidhead so orders, then I shall obey. And it will be my pleasure to pay you, Miss Fletcher,” Moore said. He looked at the receipt again. “It must have been a rare quantity of corn and fish! Four shillings’ worth!”

Bethany bridled. “It was Mister Reidhead who decided the amount, sir.”

“Oh, I am not suggesting that the amount is excessive,” Moore said, reddening. If he lost his composure when faced by a girl, he thought, how would he ever face the enemy? “Corporal Brown!”

“Sir?”