“We need disciplined troops, Wadsworth. We need General Washington’s men.”
Praise the Lord, Wadsworth thought, but did not betray his reaction. He knew how hard it had been for Lovell to make that admission. Lovell wanted the glory of this expedition to shine on Massachusetts, but the general must now share that renown with the other rebellious states by calling in troops from the Continental Army. That army had real soldiers, disciplined men, trained men.
“A single regiment would be enough,” Lovell said.
“Let me convey the request to Boston,” the Reverened Jonathan Murray suggested.
“Would you?” Lovell asked eagerly. He had become more than slightly tired of the Reverend Murray’s pious con- fidence. God might indeed wish the Americans to conquer here, but even the Almighty had so far failed to move the commodore’s ships past Dyce’s Head. The clergyman was no military man, but he possessed persuasive powers and Boston would surely listen to his pleas. “What will you tell them?”
“That the enemy is too powerful,” Murray said, “and that our men, though filled with zeal and imbued with a love of liberty, nevertheless lack the discipline to bring down the walls of Jericho.”
“And ask for mortars,” Wadsworth said.
“Mortars?” Lovell asked.
“We don’t have trumpets,” Wadsworth said, “but we can rain fire and brimstone on their heads.”
“Yes, mortars,” Lovell said. A mortar was even more deadly for siege work than an howitzer and, anyway, Lovell possessed only one howitzer. The mortars would fire their shells high in the sky so that they fell vertically into the fort and, as the fort’s walls grew higher, so those walls would contain the explosions and spread death among the redcoats. “I shall write the letter,” Lovell said heavily.
Because the rebels needed reinforcements.
Next day Peleg Wadsworth tied a large piece of white cloth to a long stick and walked towards the enemy fort. Colonel Revere’s guns had already fallen silent and, soon after, the British guns went quiet too.
Wadsworth went alone. He had asked James Fletcher to accompany him, but Fletcher had begged off. “They know me, sir.”
“And you like some of them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then stay here,” Wadsworth had said, and now he walked down the ridge’s gentle slope, between the shattered tree stumps, and he saw two red-coated officers leave the fort and come towards him. He thought that they would not want him to get too close in case he saw the state of the fort’s walls, but he was evidently wrong because the two men waited for him inside the abatis. It seemed they did not care if he had a good view of the ramparts. Those ramparts were under constant bombardment from Revere’s guns, yet to Wadsworth’s eyes, they looked remarkably undamaged. Maybe that was why the British officers did not mind him seeing the walls. They were mocking him.
It had rained again that morning. The rain had stopped, but the wind felt damp and the clouds were still low and threatening. The wet weather had soaked the men encamped on the heights, it had drenched the stored cartridges and increased the militia’s misery. Some men had hissed at Lovell as the general accompanied Wadsworth to the tree line and Lovell had pretended not to hear the sound.
The abatis had been knocked about by gunfire and it was not difficult to find a way through the tangled branches. Wadsworth felt foolish holding the flag of truce above his head so he lowered it as he approached the two enemy officers. One of them, the shortest, had gray hair beneath his cocked hat. He leaned on a stick and smiled as Wadsworth approached. “Good morning,” he called genially.
“Good morning,” Wadsworth responded.
“Not really a good morning, though, is it?” the man said. His right arm was held unnaturally. “It’s a chill and wet morning. It’s raw! I am Brigadier-General McLean, and you are?”
“Brigadier-General Wadsworth,” Wadsworth said, and felt entirely fraudulent in claiming the rank.
“Allow me to name Lieutenant Moore to you, General,” McLean said, indicating the good-looking young man who accompanied him.
“Sir,” Moore greeted Wadsworth by standing briefly to attention and bowing his head.
“Lieutenant,” Wadsworth acknowledged the politeness.
“Lieutenant Moore insisted on keeping me company in case you planned to kill me,” McLean said.
“Under a flag of truce?” Wadsworth asked sternly.
“Forgive me, General,” McLean said, “I jest. I would not think you capable of such perfidy. Might I ask what brings you to see us?”
“There was a young man,” Wadsworth said, “a marine officer called Dennis. I have a connection with his family,” he paused, “I taught him his letters. I believe he is your prisoner?”
“I believe he is,” McLean said gently.
“And I hear he was wounded yesterday. I was hoping . . .” Wadsworth paused because he had been about to call McLean “sir,” but managed to check that foolish impulse just in time, “I was hoping you could reassure me of his condition.”
“Of course,” McLean said and turned to Moore. “Lieutenant, be a good fellow and run to the hospital, would you?”
Moore left and McLean gestured at two tree stumps. “We might as well be comfortable while we wait,” he said. “I trust you’ll forgive me if I don’t invite you inside the fort?”
“I wouldn’t expect it,” Wadsworth said.
“Then please sit,” McLean said, and sat himself. “Tell me about young Dennis.”
Wadsworth perched on the adjacent stump. He talked awkwardly at first, merely saying how he had known the Dennis family, but his voice became warmer as he spoke of William Dennis’s cheerful and honest character. “He was always a fine boy,” Wadsworth said, “and he’s become a fine man. A good young man,” he stressed the “good,” “and he hopes to be a lawyer when this is all over.”
“I’ve heard there are honest lawyers,” McLean said with a smile.
“He will be an honest lawyer,” Wadsworth said firmly.
“Then he will do much good in the world,” McLean said. “And yourself, General? I surmise you were a schoolteacher?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have done much good in the world,” McLean said. “As for me? I went to be a soldier forty years ago and twenty battles later here I still am.”
“Not doing good for the world?” Wadsworth could not resist inquiring.
McLean took no offense. “I commanded troops for the King of Portugal,” he said, smiling, “and every year there was a great procession on All Saint’s Day. It was magnificent! Camels and horses! Well, two camels, and they were poor mangy beasts,” he paused, remembering, “and afterwards there was always dung on the square the king needed to cross to reach the cathedral, so a group of men and women were detailed to clean it up with brooms and shovels. They swept up the dung. That’s the soldier’s job, General, to sweep up the dung the politicians make.”
“Is that what you’re doing here?”
“Of course it is,” McLean said. He had taken a clay pipe from a pocket of his coat and put it between his teeth. He held a tinderbox awkwardly in his maimed right hand and struck the steel with his left. The linen flared up and McLean lit the pipe, then snapped the box closed to extinguish the flame. “You people,” he said when the pipe was drawing, “had a disagreement with my people, and you or I, General, might well have talked our way to an accord, but our lords and masters failed to agree so now you and I must decide their arguments a different way.”
“No,” Wadsworth said. “To my mind, General, you’re the camel, not the sweeper.”
McLean laughed at that. “I’m mangy enough, God knows. No, General, I didn’t cause this dung, but I am loyal to my king and this is his land, and he wants me to keep it for him.”
“The king might have kept it for himself,” Wadsworth said, “if he had chosen any rule except tyranny.”
“Oh, he’s such a tyrant!” McLean said, still amused. “Your leaders are wealthy men, I believe? Landowners, are they not? And merchants? And lawyers? This is a rebellion led by the wealthy. Strange how such men prospered so under tyranny.”
“Liberty is not the freedom to prosper,” Wadsworth said, “but the freedom to make choices that affect our
