“Tide’s right this afternoon,” Hacker said in a very matter-of-fact voice. “I reckon it will taken an hour and a half to get the first three ships into position and an hour’s work to destroy their sloops. But I’m worried that we’ll have the best part of our fleet in the harbor, sir, and even after we’ve taken the enemy vessels we’ll still be under the cannons in their fort.”
“So you want us to attack the fort?” Wadsworth guessed.
“I think that’s advisable, sir,” Hacker said respectfully, “and I plan to put one hundred marines ashore, sir, to aid your endeavor. Might I suggest they occupy the lower ground with some of your militia?” He put a broad, tar- stained finger on the map, indicating the land between the fort and the British ships.
“Why that ground?” Lovell asked.
“To prevent the enemy’s marines coming ashore from the defeated ships,” Hacker explained, “and if our marines assault the fort from the south, sir, then the rest of your forces can attack from the west.”
“Yes,” Peleg Wadsworth said enthusiastically, “yes!”
Lovell was silent. The fog was too thick to allow any gunner to shoot accurately so the cannons of both sides were quiet. A gull called. Lovell was remembering the shame of the previous day, the sight of McCobb’s militia running away. He flinched at the memory.
“It will be different this time,” Wadsworth said. He had been watching Lovell’s face and had divined the general’s thoughts.
“In what manner?” Lovell asked.
“We’ve never used all our men to attack the fort, sir,” Wadsworth said. “We’ve only attacked the enemy piecemeal. This time we use all our strength! How many cannon will we take into the harbor?” This question was put to Hoysteed Hacker.
“Those ships,” Hacker put a tar-stained finger on his chart, “will carry over two hundred cannon, sir, so say a hundred guns in broadside.”
“A hundred cannon, sir,” Wadsworth said to Lovell. “A hundred cannon filling the harbor! The noise alone will distract the enemy. And the marines, sir, leading the way. We hurl a thousand men against the enemy, all at once!”
“It should get the business done,” Hacker said in much the same tone he might have used to describe striking down a topmast or shifting a ton of ballast.
“A hundred marines,” Lovell said in a plaintive voice that made it clear he would have preferred to have all the marines ashore.
“I need some to board the enemy ships,” Hacker said.
“Of course, of course,” Lovell conceded.
“But the marines are begging for a good fight,” Hacker growled. “They can’t wait to prove themselves. And just as soon as the enemy ships are taken or destroyed, sir, I’ll order the rest of the marines and every sailor I can spare to join your assault.”
“Ships and men, sir,” Wadsworth said, “fighting as one.”
Lovell’s gaze flicked uncertainly between Wadsworth and Hacker. “And you think it can be done?” he asked the naval captain.
“Soon as the tide floods,” Hacker, said, “which it will this afternoon.”
“Then let it be done!” Lovell decided. He planted both fists on the table. “Let us finish the job! Let us take our victory!”
“Sir? Captain Hacker, sir?” A midshipman appeared at the edge of the clearing. “Sir?”
“Boy!” Hacker acknowledged the breathless lad. “What is it?”
“Commodore Saltonstall’s compliments, sir, and will you return to the
The men at the table all stared at the boy. “Commodore Saltonstall?” Lovell eventually broke the silence.
“He was discovered this morning, sir.”
“Discovered?” Lovell asked in a hollow voice.
“On the riverbank, sir!” The midshipman appeared to believe he had brought good news. “He’s safe on board the
“Tell him . . .” Lovell said, then could not think what he wanted to say to Saltonstall.
“Sir?”
“Nothing, lad, nothing.”
Hoysteed Hacker slowly crumpled the hand-drawn chart and tossed it onto the campfire. The first gun of the new day fired.
Lieutenant John Moore, paymaster to His Majesty’s 82nd Regiment of Foot, knocked nervously on the house door. A cat watched him from the log pile. Three chickens, carefully penned by laced withies, clucked at him. In the garden of the next door house, the one nearer the harbor, a woman beat a rug that was hanging from a line suspended between two trees. She watched him as suspiciously as the cat. Moore raised his hat to the woman, but she turned away from the courtesy and beat dust from the rug even more energetically. A gun fired from the fort, its sound muffled by the trees surrounding the small log houses.
Bethany Fletcher opened the door. She was wearing a shabby brown dress beneath a white apron on which she wiped her hands, which were red from scrubbing clothes. Her hair was disarrayed and John Moore thought she was beautiful. “Lieutenant,” she said in surprise, blinking in the daylight.
“Miss Fletcher,” Moore said, bowing and removing his hat.
“You bring news?” Beth asked, suddenly anxious.
“No,” Moore said, “no news. I brought you this.” He held a basket towards her. “It’s from General McLean, with his compliments.” The basket contained a ham, a small bag of salt, and a bottle of wine.
“Why?” Beth asked, without taking the gift.
“The general is fond of you,” Moore said. He had discovered the courage to face four times as many rebels as the men he led, but he had no courage to add “as am I.” “He knows life is hard for you and your mother, Miss Fletcher,” he explained instead, “especially with your brother absent.”
“Yes,” Beth said, but still did not take the proffered gift. She had never refused the simpler rations offered by the garrison to the inhabitants of Majabigwaduce, the flour, salted beef, dried peas, rice, and spruce beer, but McLean’s generosity embarrassed her. She walked a few paces further from the house so that her neighbor could see her clearly. She wanted to give no excuse for any gossip.
“The wine is port wine,” Moore said. “Have you ever tasted port wine?”
“No,” Beth said, flustered.
“It is stronger than claret,” Moore said, “and sweeter. The general is fond of it. He served in Portugal and acquired a taste for the wine which is said to be a tonic. My father is a doctor and he frequently prescribes port wine. Can I put it here?” Moore placed the basket on the threshold of the house. Inside, beyond an open inner door, he had a glimpse of Beth’s mother. Her face was sunken, still and white, her open mouth dark, and her hair straggling white on a pillow. She looked like a corpse and Moore turned away quickly. “There,” he said, for lack of anything else to say.
Beth shook her head. “I cannot accept the gift, Lieutenant,” she said.
“Of course you can, Miss Fletcher,” Moore said with a smile.
“The general would not . . .” Beth began, then evidently thought better of whatever she had been about to say and checked herself. She brushed away a stray lock of hair and tucked it under her cap. She looked anywhere but at Moore.
“General McLean would be hurt if you refused the gift,” Moore said.
“I’m grateful to him,” Beth said, “but . . .” Again she fell silent. She took a thimble from the pocket of her apron and turned it in her fingers. She shrugged. “But . . .” she said again, still not looking at Moore.
“But your brother fights for the rebels,” Moore said.
She turned her eyes on him, and those eyes widened with surprise. Blue eyes, Moore noted, blue eyes of extraordinary vitality. “The general knows?” she asked.
“That your brother fights for the rebels? Yes, of course he knows,” Moore said with a reassuring smile. He stooped and recovered the thimble which had fallen from her hands. He held it out to her, but Beth made no move to take it and so, very deliberately, he placed it in the basket. Beth turned to look at the harbor through the trees.
