and keep hitting.”
“Our hope,” Wadsworth said, “is to advance with such fervor that we shall overrun the fort before the enemy gathers his wits.”
“Amen to that,” the Reverend Murray said.
“But if the fort is not captured immediately,” Wadsworth was talking to Revere again, “then your guns shall be fetched ashore.”
“And any guns we capture,” Revere insisted, “belong to the State of Massachusetts. Isn’t that right?”
Captain Welch bridled at that, but said nothing.
“Of course,” Lovell said. “Indeed, everything we capture shall belong to the great State of Massachusetts!” he beamed at the assembly.
“I believe, sir,” John Marston, the general’s secretary, put in quietly, “that the Council decreed that all plunder taken by privateers would be deemed as their private property.”
“Of course, of course!” Lovell said, disconcerted, “but I’m sure there will be more than sufficient plunder to satisfy their investors.” He turned to the Reverend Murray. “Chaplain? A word of prayer before we disperse?”
“Before you pray,” Captain Welch interrupted, “one last thing.” He looked hard at the men commanding the militia. “There’s going to be noise and smoke and confusion. There will be blood and screams. There will be chaos and uncertainty. So have your men fix bayonets. You’re not going to beat these bastards volley to volley, but sharp steel will scare the shit out of them. Fix bayonets and charge straight at the enemy. Shout as you charge and, believe me, they’ll run.” He paused, his hard eyes looking at each of the militia commanders in turn who, all except for Major Daniel Littlefield who had nodded enthusiastic agreement, appeared somewhat daunted by the marine’s grim words. “Use sharp steel and blunt courage,” Welch growled, “and we will win.” He said the last four words slowly, distinctly and with a grim emphasis.
The cabin stayed silent as the men contemplated the marine’s words, then the Reverend Murray cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,” he said, “let us bow our heads.” He paused. “O Lord,” he continued, “Thou hast promised to cover us with Thy strong wings, so protect us now as we go’” He was interrupted by the sound of a cannon firing. The noise was sudden and shockingly loud. The echo of the gun rebounded back from the bluff, then the afternoon was riven by gunfire, by cannon after cannon and by echo after echo, and the rest of the prayer went unspoken as men hurried on deck to watch Commodore Saltonstall’s warships make their first attack.
From the Oath demanded by Brigadier-General Francis McLean of the inhabitants around the Penobscot River, July 1779:Calling the most great and sacred God to the truth of my Intentions, I do most solemnly promise and swear that I will hear true Allegiance and be a faithful subject to his most sacred Majesty George the Third King of Great Britain France and Ireland, and of the Colonies of N. America, Now falsely stiling themselves the United States of America . . .
From the Proclamation to the inhabitants of the Penobscot region, issued by Brigadier-General Solomon Lovell, 29th July 1779:I do hereby assure the Inhabitants of Penobscot and the Country adjacent, that if they are found to be so lost to all the virtues of good Citizens . . . by becoming the first to desert the cause of Freedom of Virtue and of God . . . they must expect to be the first also to experience the just resentment of this injured and betrayed Country, in the condign punishment which their treason deserves.
Excerpt of letter from Colonel John Frost, Massachusetts Militia, to the Council of Massachusetts, July 20th, 1779:I would beg leave to inform your Honors In calling for Officers from the third Regiment in the Brigade to my Surprise I found that their was neither Officer in said Regiment . . . that had a Proper Commission the reason is all the Officers in said Regiment were Commissioned in the year 1776 with the Stile of George the Third King and Colonel Tristrum Jordan then commanded said Regiment but did not take proper care that the Commissions were altered agreable to an Act of this State . . . should be glad of your Honors Direction about the Affair and shall wait your Honors Orders.
Chapter Five
The Tyrannicide, flying the pine-tree flag of the Massachusetts Navy, was the first warship to engage the enemy. She came from the west, sliding before the freshening wind towards the harbor’s narrow entrance. To the men watching from the shore it seemed she was determined to force that entrance by sailing into the small gap between HMS Nautilus and the battery on Cross Island, but then she swung to port so that she sailed northwards, parallel with the British sloops. Her forrard starboard gun opened the battle. The Tyrannicide was armed with six-pounders, seven in each broadside, and her first gun shrouded the brig in thick smoke. The ball struck the sea a hundred yards short of the Nautilus, bounced off a small wave, bounced a second time, and then sank just as the whole British line disappeared behind its own smoke as Captain Mowat’s ships took up the challenge. The Hampden, the big ship from New Hampshire, was next into action, her nine-pounders firing into the British smoke. All that Captain Salter of the Hampden could see of the three enemy sloops were their topmasts above the cloud. “Batter them, boys!” he called cheerfully to his gunners.
The wind was brisk enough to shift the smoke quickly. Titus Salter watched as the North reappeared from the smoke cloud, then another stab of bright flame flashed from one of the British sloop’s gunports and he heard the crash as her round shot struck the Tyrannicide ahead, then his view was again obscured by the gray, acrid smoke of his own guns. “Reload!” a man bellowed. The Hampden sailed out of her smoke and Captain Salter cupped his hands and shouted. “Hold your fire! Hold it!” A British round shot screamed close overhead, smacking a hole through the Hampden’s mizzen sail. “Hold your damned fire!” Salter bellowed angrily.
A brig had suddenly appeared on the Hampden’s starboard quarter. She was a much smaller vessel, armed with fourteen six-pounders, and her skipper, instead of following the New Hampshire ship, was now overtaking her and so putting his ship between the Hampden’s guns and the British sloops. “Damned fool,” Salter growled. “Wait till she’s clear!” he called to his gunners
The brig, flying the pine-tree ensign of the Massachusetts Navy, was the Hazard, and her captain was vomiting from a stomach upset so her first lieutenant, George Little, was commanding her. He was oblivious to the Hampden, concerned only with taking his ship as close to the enemy as he could and then pounding the sloops with his seven-gun broadside. He wished the commodore had ordered a proper assault, an attack straight into the harbor mouth, but if he was ordered to restrict himself to a bombardment then he wanted his guns to do real damage. “Kill the bastards!” he shouted at his gunners. Little was in his early twenties, a fisherman turned naval officer, a man of passion, a patriot, and he ordered his sheets released so that the power went from his sails and the Hazard slowed in the water to give her gunners a more stable platform. “Fire, you bastards!” He gazed at the smoke cloud shrouding the British ship Nautilus and saw it infused with a red glow as a gun fired. The ball struck the Hazard low by the waterline, shuddering the hull. The ship shook again as her own guns fired, the noise seeming to fill the universe. “Where the devil is the Warren?” Little protested.
“He’s holding her back, sir,” the helmsman answered.
“For what?”
The helmsman shrugged. The gunners on the nearest six-pounder were swabbing out the barrel, propelling a jet of steam through the touchhole that reminded Little of a whale spouting. “Cover that touchhole!” he screamed at them. The rush of air caused by a thrust swab could easily ignite powder residue and explode the rammer back into the gunner’s guts. “Use your thumb-stall, man,” he snarled at the gunner, “and block the touchhole when you swab!” He watched approvingly as the charge, wadding, and shot were thrust efficiently down the cleared gun, then
