The Fort: A Novel of the Revolutionary War

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 The Goldthwait girls wore lovely cotton print dresses that they must have received from Boston before the British had withdrawn from that city.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 same 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