own destiny.”
“But would a tyranny allow you to prosper?”
“You have restricted our trade and levied taxes without our consent,” Wadsworth said, wishing he did not sound so pedagogic.
“Ah! So our tyranny lies in not allowing you to become wealthier still?”
“Not all of us are wealthy men,” Wadsworth said heatedly, “and as you well know, General, tyranny is the denial of liberty.”
“And how many slaves do you keep?” McLean asked.
Wadsworth was tempted to retort that the question was a cheap jibe, except it had stung him. “None,” he said stiffly. “The keeping of Negroes is not common in Massachusetts.” He felt acutely uncomfortable. He knew he had not argued well, but he had been surprised by his enemy. He had anticipated a pompous, supercilious British officer, and instead found a courteous man, old enough to be his father, who seemed very relaxed in this unnatural encounter.
“Well, here the two of us are,” McLean said happily, “a tyrant and his downtrodden victim, talking together.” He pointed his pipe stem towards the fort where John Moore had gone on his way to the hospital. “Young Moore reads his history. He’s a fine young man too. He likes history, and here he is, here we both are, writing a new chapter. I sometimes wish I could peer into the future and read the chapter we write.”
“You might not like it,” Wadsworth said.
“I think it certain that one of us will not,” McLean said.
The conversation faltered. McLean drew on his pipe and Wadsworth gazed at the nearby ramparts. He could see the timber spikes in the ditch and, above them, the earth and log wall that was now higher than a man’s head. No one could leap the ramparts now, the wall would need to be climbed and fought for. It would be hard and bloody work and he wondered if even Continental Army troops could manage it. They could if the wall were breached and Wadsworth looked for evidence that Colonel Revere’s guns were having any effect, but other than the mangled roof of the storehouse inside the fort there was little sign of the cannonade. There were places where the wall had been battered by round shot, but those places had all been repaired. Mortars, he thought, mortars. We need to turn the interior of the fort into a cauldron of shrieking metal and searing flame. The curtain wall between the protruding corner bastions was lined with redcoats who gazed back at Wadsworth, intrigued by the proximity of a rebel. Wadsworth tried to count the men, but there were too many.
“I’m keeping most of my men hidden,” McLean said.
Wadsworth felt guilty, which was ridiculous because it was his duty to examine the enemy. Indeed, General Lovell had only agreed to this inquiry about Lieutenant Dennis’s fate because it offered Wadsworth an opportunity to examine the enemy’s defenses. “We’re keeping most of ours hidden too,” Wadsworth said.
“Which is sensible of you,” McLean said. “I see from your uniform you served in Mister Washington’s army?”
“I was an aide to the general, yes,” Wadsworth said, offended by the British habit of referring to George Washington as “mister.”
“A formidable man,” McLean said. “I’m sorry young Moore is taking so long.” Wadsworth made no answer and the Scotsman smiled wryly. “You very nearly killed him.”
“Lieutenant Moore?”
“He insisted on fighting the war single-handed, which I suppose is a good fault in a young officer, but I’m profoundly grateful he survived. He had great promise.”
“As a soldier?”
“As a man and as a soldier. Like your Lieutenant Dennis, he is a good young man. If I had a son, General, I should wish him to be like Moore. Do you have children?”
“Two sons and a daughter, and another child coming very soon.”
McLean heard the warmth in Wadsworth’s voice. “You’re a fortunate man, General.”
“I think so.”
McLean drew on the pipe, then blew a stream of smoke into the damp air. “If you will allow an enemy’s prayers, General, then let me pray you will be reunited with your family.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” McLean said blandly, “you could effect that reconciliation by withdrawing now?”
“But we have orders to capture you first,” Wadsworth said with some amusement in his voice.
“I shall not pray for that,” McLean said.
“I think, perhaps, we should have attempted it a week ago,” Wadsworth said ruefully, and immediately wished he had left the words unspoken. McLean said nothing, merely inclined his head, which small gesture might have been interpreted as agreement. “But we shall attempt it again,” Wadsworth finished.
“You must do your duty, General, of course you must,” McLean said, then turned because Wadsworth had looked towards the fort’s southwestern corner. John Moore had appeared there and now walked towards them with a scabbarded sword held in one hand. The lieutenant glanced at Wadsworth, then bent and whispered in McLean’s ear and the general winced and closed his eyes momentarily. “I am sorry, General Wadsworth,” he said, “but Lieutenant Dennis died this morning. You may be assured that he received the best treatment we could offer, but, alas, the ministrations were not sufficient.” McLean stood.
Wadsworth stood too. He looked at McLean’s grave face and then, to his shame, tears rolled down his cheeks. He turned away abruptly.
“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” McLean said.
“He was a fine man,” Wadsworth said, and he knew he was not crying because of Dennis’s death, but because of the waste and indecision of this campaign. He sniffed, composed himself, and turned back to McLean. “Please thank your doctor for whatever he attempted.”
“I will,” McLean said, “and please be assured we shall give Lieutenant Dennis a Christian burial.”
“Bury him in his uniform, please.”
“We shall do that, of course,” McLean promised. He took the scabbarded sword from Moore. “I presume you brought this because it belonged to the lieutenant?” he asked Moore.
“Yes, sir.”
McLean handed the sword to Wadsworth. “You might wish to return that to his family, General, and you may tell them from his enemy that their son died fighting heroically. They can be proud of him.”
“I shall,” Wadsworth said and took the sword. “Thank you for indulging my inquiry,” he said to McLean.
“I enjoyed most of our conversation,” McLean said and held a hand towards the abatis as though he were a host conducting an honored guest towards his front door. “I am truly sorry about your Lieutenant Dennis,” he said, walking westwards beside the much taller American. “Maybe one day, General, you and I can sit in peace and talk about these things.”
“I’d like that.”
“As would I,” McLean said, stopping just short of the abatis. He smiled mischievously. “And do please give my regards to young James Fletcher.”
“Fletcher,” Wadsworth said as if the name was new to him.
“We have telescopes, General,” McLean said, amused. “I regret he chose the allegiance he did. I regret that very much, but do tell him his sister is well, and that the tyrants give her and her mother rations.” He held out his hand. “We won’t resume our cannon practice till you’re back among the trees,” he said.
Wadsworth hesitated, then shook the offered hand. “Thank you, General,” he said, then began the long, lonely walk back up the ridge’s spine.
McLean stayed at the abatis, watching Wadsworth’s solitary walk. “He’s rather a good man, I think,” he said when the American was well out of earshot.
“He’s a rebel,” Moore said disapprovingly.
“And if you or I had been born here,” McLean said, “then like as not we would be rebels too.”
“Sir!” John Moore sounded shocked.
McLean laughed. “But we were born across the sea, and it’s not so many years since we had our own rebels in Scotland. And I did like him.” He still watched Wadsworth. “He’s a man who wears his honesty like a badge, but luckily for you and me he’s no soldier. He’s a schoolmaster and that makes us fortunate in our enemies. Now let’s get back inside before they start shooting at us again.”
