The Fort: A Novel of the Revolutionary War

there, they’re going to charge you, so wheel when you’re ready, give them a volley and countercharge.”

Moore’s heart gave a leap. He knew McLean must have suggested that Caffrae allow him to command the company, and he knew too that this was his chance for redemption. Do this right and he would be forgiven for his sins on the day the rebels landed.

“We’ll do it noisily,” Caffrae said, “with drums and squeals. Let ’em know we’re the cocks on this dunghill.”

So what could go wrong? Moore supposed that it would be a disaster if the enemy did number a couple of hundred men, but what McLean would be watching for was evidence that Moore demonstrated good sense. His job was to smack the enemy, not win the war. “Drums and squeals,” he said.

“And bayonets,” Caffrae said with a smile. “And enjoy yourself, Lieutenant. I’ll fetch the hounds, and you can flush the covert.”

It was time to dance.

The muskets were close, so close that Saltonstall involuntarily jumped in shock. He almost dropped the telescope.

At the foot of the hill, between him and the harbor, were redcoats. They were running in loose order. They had evidently fired a volley because the smoke lingered behind them. They had not stopped to reload, but now followed that volley with a bayonet charge, and Saltonstall understood that these men had to be the Royal Marines he had seen vanishing up the Majabigwaduce River. He had thought they must be foraging to the north, but instead they had landed on the river’s bank then worked their way southwards through the woods and now they drove off the men who had been making the battery on Haney’s land. They were cheering. Sunlight glinted off their long bayonets. Saltonstall had a glimpse of his men running southwards, then the closest British marines saw the commodore at the hill’s top and a half dozen of them turned towards him. A musket banged and the ball skittered through the leaves.

Saltonstall ran. He went east down the hill, leaping the steeper sections, blundering through brush, pelting as fast as he could. A white-scutted deer ran ahead of him, alarmed by the shouts and shots. Saltonstall stumbled through a stream, cut southwards and kept running until he found a thick patch of undergrowth. There was a stitch in his left side, he was panting, and he crouched among the dark leaves and tried to calm himself.

His pursuers were silent. Or else they had abandoned the hunt. More muskets sounded, their distinctive crackling an unmistakable noise, but they seemed far away now, a wicked descant to the deeper bass rhythm of the big cannons beyond the harbor.

Saltonstall did not dare move till the light faded. Then, alone except for the cloud of mosquitoes, he worked his cautious way westwards. He went very slowly, ever alert to an enemy, though when he reached the harbor shore he saw that the redcoats were all gone.

And so were his longboats. He could see them. Every one had been captured and taken back to the enemy sloops. The British had not even bothered to slight the new earthworks of the battery Saltonstall’s men had thrown up. They knew they could recapture it whenever they wished and leaving the low wall was an invitation to the rebels to return and be chased away again.

Saltonstall was stranded now. The enemy-filled harbor lay between him and his fleet, and no rescue would be coming. There was no choice but to walk. He recalled the chart in his cabin on board the Warren and knew that if he followed the harbor’s shore he must eventually come back to the Penobscot River. Five miles? Maybe six, and the light was almost gone and the mosquitoes were feasting and the commodore was unhappy.

He started walking.

To the north, beyond the neck, Peleg Wadsworth had found a shelf of pastureland in Westcot’s farm. He had not needed to make any earthworks to defend the shelf because it was edged by a sudden steep slope that was defense enough. Fifty militiamen, goaded and commanded by Captain Carnes of the marines, had manhandled one of Colonel Revere’s eighteen-pounder cannon onto a lighter that had been rowed northwards. The gun was landed, then dragged over a mile through the woods until it reached the farm. There had been a few moments of worry when, shortly after Wadsworth and Carnes had discovered the site, four longboats filled with British marines had rowed up the Majabigwaduce River and Wadsworth had feared they would land close by, but instead they had gone to the farther bank of the river where they offered no threat to the big cannon which, at last, was dragged onto the pastureland. The militiamen had carried thirty rounds for the gun which Carnes laid in the fading light. “The barrel’s cold,” he told the gun’s crew, “so she’ll shoot a little low.”

The range looked much too long to Peleg Wadsworth’s untutored eye. In front of him was a strip of shallow water and then the low marshy tail of Majabigwaduce’s peninsula. The cannon was pointed across that tail at the British ships just visible in the harbor beyond. Carnes was aiming at the central sloop, HMS Albany, though Wadsworth doubted he could be sure of hitting any of the ships at such a distance.

Peleg Wadsworth walked a long way to the east until he was far enough from the big cannon to be sure that its smoke would not blot his view. He had borrowed Captain Carnes’s good telescope again and now he sat on the damp ground and propped his elbows on his knees to hold the long tubes steady. He saw a large group of empty longboats tethered to the Albany and a sailor leaning on the rail above. The sloop quivered every time she fired one of her cannon at the battery on Cross Island which still kept up its harassing fire. The splintering sound of musket-fire sounded far away, but Wadsworth resisted the temptation to swing the glass. If that was Lovell’s ambush it would be hidden from him by the loom of the ridge. He kept watching the enemy sloop.

Carnes took a long time aiming the cannon, but at last he was satisfied. He had brought wooden pegs with him and he pushed three into the turf, one beside each wheel, and the third next to the gun’s trail. “If it’s aimed right,” he told the crew, “those pegs will guide us back. If it’s wrong, we know where to start our corrections.” He warned the crew to step back and cover their ears. He blew on the tip of the linstock to brighten the glowing fuse, then leaned over to touch fire to the powder-filled reed thrust down the touchhole.

The gun leaped back. Its thunder cracked the sky. Smoke jetted out beyond the shelf to spread across the nearer water. A flame curled and vanished inside the smoke. The noise was so sudden and loud that Wadsworth jumped and momentarily lost his focus, then he steadied the glass and found the Albany and saw a sailor smoking a pipe at the rail, and then, to his astonishment and joy, he saw the sailor leap back as a bright gouge of newly shattered timber showed in the sloop’s hull just above the waterline. “A direct hit!” he shouted. “Captain! Well done! A direct hit!”

“Reload and run back!” Carnes shouted.

He was a marine. He did not miss.

Solomon Lovell thought his careful ambush must have failed. He waited and waited, and morning passed into afternoon, and the afternoon melded into the early evening, and still the British offered no challenge to the men who had occupied the deserted battery close to the harbor shore. A small crowd had gathered on the eastward side of Dyce’s Head, many of them skippers of the anchored ships who had heard that the British were about to be given a thorough trouncing and so had rowed ashore to enjoy the spectacle. Commodore Saltonstall was not present, he had evidently gone to make a new battery on the harbor’s farther shore and Peleg Wadsworth was similarly employed north and east of the neck. “New batteries!” Lovell exulted to Major Todd, “and a victory today! We shall be in a fine position tomorrow.”

Todd glanced south to where new ships might appear, but nothing showed in the river’s seaward reach. “General Wadsworth sent for an eighteen-pounder,” he told Lovell. “It should have reached him by now.”

“Already?” Lovell asked, delighted. He felt that the whole expedition had turned a corner and hope was renewed. “Now we only need McLean to snap at our bait,” Lovell said anxiously. He gazed down at the battery where the militiamen who were supposed to be pretending to raise a defensive rampart were instead sitting in the fading sunlight.

“He won’t take the bait if we’re all watching,” a harsh voice said.

Lovell turned to see Colonel Revere had come to the bluff. “Colonel,” he said in wary greeting.

“You’ve got a crowd gawping up here like Boston nobs watching the town on Pope Night,” Revere said. He pointedly ignored Todd!

“Let us hope the destruction equals Pope Night,” Lovell responded genially. Every November 5th the townsfolk of Boston made giant effigies of the Pope which were paraded through the streets. The supporters of the