The Fort: A Novel of the Revolutionary War

make their own battery there, a battery that would be close to Mowat’s line and could hammer his three ships mercilessly. The southern bulwark of the harbor, Cross Island, was captured and, as the sun leaked scarlet fire across the west and as the rebel ships still pounded their shots towards the distant sloops, Major Daniel Littlefield’s militia was being rowed towards the northern bulwark.

That bulwark was Dyce’s Head, the high rocky bluff on which the redcoats waited and from where the battery of six-pounders fired down at the bombarding ships. The evening was so calm that the smoke of the guns hung in the trees, indeed there was scarce enough breeze to move the American ships that belched flame, bar shot, chain shot, and round shot towards Mowat’s three sloops, but a vagary of that small wind, a sudden stirring of the summer air, lasted just long enough to blow the smoke away from HMS Albany, which lay at the center of Mowat’s line, and the Scottish captain, standing on his afterdeck, saw the longboats pulling away from the American transports and heading towards the bluff. “Mister Frobisher!” Mowat called.

The Albany’s first lieutenant, who was supervising the starboard guns, turned towards his captain. “Sir?”

A shot whistled overhead. Bar or chain shot, Mowat reckoned from the sound. The rebels seemed to have been aiming at his rigging mostly, but their gunnery was poor and none of the sloops had suffered significant damage. A few shrouds and halliards had been parted, and the hulls were scarred, but the sloops had lost neither men nor weapons. “There are launches approaching the shore,” Mowat called to Frobisher, “d’you see them?”

“Aye aye, sir, I see them!”

Frobisher tapped a gun captain on the shoulder. The gunner was a middle-aged man with long gray hair twisted into a pigtail. He had a scarf wrapped about his ears. He saw where Frobisher was pointing and nodded to show he understood what was wanted. His cannon, a nine-pounder, was already loaded with round shot. “Run her out!” he ordered, and his crew seized the train-tackle and hauled the cannon so that the muzzle protruded from the gunwale. He shouted at his gun-deafened men to turn the heavy carriage, which they did with long spikes that gouged Mowat’s carefully holy-stoned deck. “Don’t suppose we’ll hit the buggers,” the gun captain said to Frobisher, “but we might make ’em wet.” He could no longer see the rebel rowboats because the vagary of wind had died and thick pungent smoke was again enveloping the Albany, but he reckoned his cannon was pointed in the right general direction. The gun captain thrust a thin spike through the touchhole to pierce the canvas powder bag in the breech, then slid a portfire, a quill filled with finely mealed powder, into the hole he had made. “Stand back, you bastards!” he bellowed and touched fire to the quill.

The gun shattered the evening air with its noise. Smoke, thick as a London fog, billowed and stank. A flame stabbed the smoke, lighting it and fading instantly. The gun leaped back, its truck wheels screaming until the breech ropes were snatched bar-tight to check the recoil. “Swab out!” the gun captain shouted, plunging his leather- protected thumb onto the touchhole.

“Give those launches one more shot,” Frobisher shouted over the noise of the guns, “then aim at their ships again.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

The cannons had been firing at the American ships which maneuvered three quarters of a mile to the west. The launches were about the same distance away, so the gun captain had not needed to change his barrel’s very slight elevation. He had used a fourth-weight charge, two and a quarter pounds of powder, and the round shot left the muzzle traveling at nine hundred and eighty feet every second. The ball lost some speed as it covered the four thousand three hundred feet before striking the water, but it had taken the shot less than five seconds to cover that distance. It slapped onto a wave, ricocheted shallowly upwards and then, trailing a shower of spray, it struck Major Littlefield’s longboat plumb amidships.

To General Wadsworth, watching from the Bethaiah, it seemed as if the leading longboat simply disintegrated. Strakes of wood flew in the air, a man turned end over end, there was a flurry of white water and then nothing but floating oars, shattered scraps of timber, and men struggling to stay afloat. The other longboats went to the rescue, pulling swimmers from the water as a second round shot splashed harmlessly nearby.

The longboats had stopped pulling for the bluff now. Wadsworth had expected them to land and then return to collect more men, indeed he had planned to go ashore with that second group, but instead the rowboats turned and headed back towards the transports. “I hope Littlefield’s not wounded,” Wadsworth said.

“Take more than a round shot to put the major down, sir,” James Fletcher commented cheerfully. Fletcher was now attached to Wadsworth’s staff as an unofficial aide and local guide.

“I must assume Littlefield decided not to land,” Wadsworth said.

“Hard to fight when you’re wet as a drowned rat, sir.”

“True,” Wadsworth said with a smile, then consoled himself that the threat to the bluff appeared to have achieved its purpose, which was to prevent the British sending reinforcements or a counterattacking force to Cross Island.

The light faded fast. The eastern sky was already dark, though no stars yet showed, and the gunfire died with the day. The American warships sailed slowly back to their anchorage while Mowat’s men, unscarred by the evening’s duel, secured their guns. Wadsworth leaned on the Bethaiah’s gunwale and looked down at the shadowy boats as they approached the sloop. “Major Littlefield!” he hailed. “Major Littlefield!” he called again.

“He’s drowned, sir,” a voice called back.

“He’s what?”

“He and two other men, sir. Lost, sir.”

“Oh, dear God,” Wadsworth said. On shore, at the top of the bluff, a fire showed through the trees. Someone brewing tea, maybe, or cooking a supper.

And Major Littlefield was dead.

“Tragic,” General Lovell said when Wadsworth told him the news of Daniel Littlefield’s death, though Wadsworth was not entirely sure that his commanding officer had listened to what he said. Lovell, instead, was examining a British flag that had been brought on board the Sally by a squat marine sergeant. “Isn’t it splendid!” Lovell exclaimed. “We shall present it to the General Court, I think. A first trophy, Wadsworth!”

“The first of many that your Excellency will send to Boston,” the Reverend Jonathan Murray observed.

“It’s a gift from the marines,” the sergeant put in stolidly.

“So you said, so you said,” Lovell said with a hint of testiness, then he smiled, “and you must render Captain Welch my sincerest gratitude.” He glanced at the table which was covered with papers. “Lift those documents a moment, Marston,” he ordered his secretary and, when the table was clear of paper, ink, and pens, he spread the flag beneath the gently swinging lanterns. It was dark now, and the cabin was lit by four lanterns. “’Pon my soul!”’Lovell stood back and admired the trophy’“but this will look impressive in Faneuil Hall!”

“You might think of sending it to Major Littlefield’s wife,” Wadsworth said.

“To his wife?” Lovell asked, evidently puzzled by the suggestion. “What on earth would she want with a flag?”

“A reminder of her husband’s gallantry?”

“Oh, you’ll write to her,” Lovell said, “and assure her that Major Littlefield died for the cause of liberty, but I can’t think that she needs an enemy flag. Really I can’t. It must go to Boston.” He turned to the marine sergeant. “Thank you, my fine fellow, thank you! I shall make certain the commodore knows of my approbation.”

Lovell had summoned his military family. John Marston, the secretary, was writing in the orderly book, Wadsworth was leafing through the militia rosters, while Lieutenant-Colonel Davis, the liaison officer for the transport ships, was tallying the small craft available for a landing. The Reverend Murray was beaming helpfully, while Major Todd was cleaning a pistol with a scrap of flannel. “You did send my orders to the Artillery Regiment?” Lovell demanded of Todd.

“Indeed, sir,” Todd said, then blew on the pistol’s frizzen to clear some dust.

“Colonel Revere understands the need for haste?”

“I made that need abundantly clear, sir,” Todd said patiently. Lieutenant-Colonel Revere had been commanded to take guns to the newly captured Cross Island, which would now be defended by a garrison of sailors from the Providence and Pallas under the command of Hoysteed Hacker.