The Fort: A Novel of the Revolutionary War

inside Fort George because the ready magazines were not properly finished, and the powder charges were protected from sparks and the weather by nothing more solid than number three sail canvas. “You’re our paymaster, Lieutenant,” McLean said teasingly, “I can’t afford to lose a good paymaster now, can I?”

“I’m a soldier, sir,” Moore said stubbornly.

McLean smiled, then relented. “Take twenty men. And take Sergeant McClure. Report to Captain Campbell, that’s Archibald Campbell. And John?”

John Moore, thus given permission to join the picquets on the bluff, turned a delighted face on the brigadier. “Sir?”

“The duke won’t thank me if you die. Take care.”

“I’m immortal, sir,” Moore said happily, “and thank you, sir.”

Moore ran and McLean turned to greet Major Dunlop, who was the senior officer of the 82nd and had replaced McLean as that battalion’s commanding officer for as long as McLean had heavier responsibilities. The wind was brisk enough to blow Major Dunlop’s cocked hat from his head. “I’m sending Moore to join the picquets on the bluff, Dunlop,” McLean said as a sentry chased after the errant hat, “I hope you have no objection?”

“None at all,” Dunlop said, “but I doubt he’ll see any action there.”

“I doubt it too, but it’ll keep the young puppy happy.”

“That it will,” Dunlop agreed and the two men talked for a moment before the brigadier walked to the single twelve-pounder cannon that occupied the southwestern bastion of Fort George. The blue-coated men of the Royal Artillery stood as the general approached, but he waved them back down. Their gun pointed towards the harbor mouth, its barrel aimed above the cannon in the Half Moon Battery, which was dug into the shoreline. McLean looked across Mowat’s ships to where he could just make out a handful of the enemy’s warships, though by far the largest part of the enemy’s fleet was hidden beyond the bluff.

“Will they come today, sir?” an artillery sergeant asked.

“What’s your name, Sergeant?”

“Lawrence, sir.”

“Well, Sergeant Lawrence, I fear I cannot tell you what the enemy will do, but if I were in their shoes I’d certainly make an assault today.”

Lawrence, a broad-faced man in his thirties, patted the cascabel of his long-barreled cannon. “We’ll give them a proper English welcome, sir.”

“And a proper Scottish one too,” McLean said reprovingly.

“That as well, sir,” Lawrence responded stoutly.

The brigadier walked north along the rampart. It was a pitiable thing for a defense, no higher than a man’s waist and protected by just two cannon and by a row of wooden spikes in the shallow ditch. McLean had made his dispositions, but he was too old and too experienced to deceive himself. The enemy had come in force. They outnumbered him in ships and men. He reckoned there were only two places they might come ashore. They would either batter their way into the harbor and land on the closest beach, or else put their men ashore at the neck. The companies he had sent to those places would doubtless give a good account of themselves, but eventually they would be forced to retreat into Fort George, and then the rebels would advance against the pathetic ramparts and his cannon would greet them, but what could two guns do against three thousand men or more?

“God’s will be done,” McLean said.

By nightfall, he reckoned, he would be a prisoner. If he was lucky.

Lieutenant-Colonel Paul Revere sat in a corner of the Sally’s overcrowded stern cabin. It was dominated by an unlit black-lead stove around which the expedition’s senior army officers were gathered. Captain Welch, whose marines would join the militia for the assault, was also present. General Lovell stood on the bricks that surrounded the stove, but the cabin beams were so low that he was forced to stoop. A freshening wind buffeted the sloop, making her quiver and jerk on her anchor rode. “General Wadsworth has good news,” Lovell opened the proceedings.

Wadsworth, even taller than Lovell, did not stand, but stayed seated on a sea chest. “We’ve been joined by forty-one Penobscot Indians,” he said. “The enemy attempted to subvert the tribe with wampum and promises, but they are determined to fight for liberty.”

“Praise God,” the Reverend Jonathan Murray put in.

“And more Indians will come, I’m sure,” Wadsworth continued, “and they’re stout fellows.”

“They’re damned savages,” someone muttered from the cabin’s darkest corner.

Wadsworth pointedly ignored the comment and instead gestured to the good-looking young man who squatted at the cabin’s edge, “And Mister Fletcher was in Majabigwaduce just yesterday. He tells us the fort is far from finished, and that the enemy numbers less than a thousand men.”

“Praise be,” the Reverend said.

“So this afternoon,” Lovell took over, “Commodore Saltonstall will attack the enemy’s ships!” He did not explain that the commodore had refused to sail his squadron into the harbor, but had rather elected to bombard the sloops with long-range gunfire. “We pray for the navy’s success,” Lovell continued, “but we shan’t leave all the fighting to them! We’re going ashore, gentlemen. We shall attack the enemy with spirit!” The fierce look that accompanied these words was rather undercut by the general’s cramped posture. “Captain Welch will land on the right, leading his marines.”

“God bless them,” the Reverend interjected.

“Colonel McCobb will detach two companies to support the marines,” Lovell said, “while the rest of his splendid regiment will assault in the center.”

Samuel McCobb, who commanded the Lincoln County militia, nodded. He had a lean, weatherbeaten face in which his eyes were very blue and against which his mustache was very white. He glanced at Captain Welch and seemed to approve of what he saw.

“The men of Cumberland County will attack on the left,” Lovell said, “under Colonel Mitchell. Colonel Davis will assign boats to each transport, isn’t that right, Colonel?”

“The orders are written,” Colonel Davis said curtly. He was one of Lovell’s aides, responsible for liaising with the civilian skippers of the transports.

“And what about us?” a man of about Wadsworth’s age asked. He wore homespun and deerskin, and had a strong, enthusiastic face darkened by the sun. “You’re not leaving the men of York County out of the game, are you, sir?”

“Ah, Major Littlefield,” Lovell acknowledged the man.

“Our fellows are eager to assault, sir, and they won’t be happy being left aboard the ships,” Littlefield said.

“It’s a question of boats and lighters,” Lovell replied. “We don’t have enough to land every man together, so the boats will return for the York County militia.”

“So be sure to have your fellows ready,” Colonel Davis said.

“And you make sure you leave some of the fighting for us!” Daniel Littlefield said, looking disappointed.

“We don’t have enough landing boats?” Revere spoke for the first time. He sounded incredulous. “Not enough boats?”

“Nowhere near,” Davis said brusquely, “so we land what men we can, then the boats return for the rest.”

“So what about my guns?” Revere asked.

“General Wadsworth will command the attack,” Lovell responded, “so perhaps he can answer Colonel Revere?”

Wadsworth smiled at the indignant-looking Revere. “I am hoping, Colonel, that your guns will not be needed.”

“Not needed! I didn’t bring them all the way here just to be ballast!”

“If our information is right,” Wadsworth said emolliently, “then I trust we shall capture the bluff, and then advance straight on the fort.”

“With speed,” Welch insisted.

“Speed?” Lovell asked.

“The faster we go, the greater the shock,” Welch said. “It’s like prize-fighting,” he explained. “We give the enemy a hard blow, then hit him again while he’s dazed. Then hit him again. Keep him dazed, keep him off-balance