The Fort: A Novel of the Revolutionary War

of the Warren. The thought of that frigate’s big guns gave Selby a sudden empty feeling in his belly and, to disguise his nervousness, he leveled his glass towards the approaching ships. He saw green- jacketed marines in the frigate’s fighting tops and he thought of the musket-fire that would rain onto his deck and then, inexplicably, he saw some of the enemy’s sails flutter and begin to turn away from view. He lowered the glass, still staring. “Good God,” he said.

The American frigate was turning. Had she lost her rudder? Selby gazed in puzzlement and then saw that all the rebel ships were following the frigate’s example. They were falling off the wind, their sails shivering as the crews loosened sheets. “They surely aren’t going to open fire from there?” he wondered aloud. He watched, half- expecting to see the hull of the leading ship vanish in a sudden cloud of powder smoke, but none showed. She just turned sluggishly and kept on turning.

“The bastards are running away!” Henry Mowat called from the Albany. The singing on the sloops faltered and died as men stared at their enemy turning away. “They’ve got no belly for the fight!” Mowat shouted.

“Dear God,” Selby said in astonishment. His telescope showed him the name on the stern of the ship that had been leading the attack, and which was now the rearmost vessel of the retreating fleet. “General Putnam,” he read aloud. “And who the devil is General Putnam?” he asked. But whoever he was, the ship named for General Putnam was now sailing away from the harbor, as was the rebel frigate and the three other ships. They were all stemming the flooding tide to return to their anchorage. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Selby said, collapsing his glass.

On board the North and on board the Albany and on the sanded deck of the Nautilus the seamen cheered. Their enemy had run away without firing a shot. Mowat, usually so grim and purposeful, was laughing. And Captain Selby ordered an immediate extra issue of rum.

Because it seemed he might see Ushant again.

The Americans on the beach were Generals Lovell and Wadsworth, Lieutenant Downs of the Continental Marines, and the four majors who would lead the militia companies uphill. Only now it seemed there was not going to be any attack because Commodore Saltonstall’s ships were turning away. General Lovell stared openmouthed as the ships slowly wore around just beyond the harbor entrance. “No,” he protested to no one in particular.

Wadsworth said nothing. He just stared through his telescope.

“He’s turned away!” Lovell said in apparent disbelief.

“Attack now, sir,” Downs urged.

“Now?” Lovell asked, bemused.

“The British will be watching the harbor mouth,” Downs said.

“No,” Lovell said, “no, no, no.” He sounded heartbroken.

“Attack, please!” Downs pleaded. He looked from Lovell to Wadsworth. “Avenge Captain Welch, attack!”

“No,” Peleg Wadsworth supported Lovell’s decision. He closed the telescope and stared bleakly at the harbor mouth. He could hear the British crews cheering aboard the sloops.

“Sir,” Downs began to appeal.

“We need every man to attack,” Wadsworth explained, “we need men attacking along the ridge and we need cannon-fire from the harbor.” The signal for Colonel Mitchell and Colonel McCobb to begin their advance was the sight of the American ships engaging the British and it seemed that signal was not going to be sent now. “If we attack alone, Captain,” Wadsworth went on, “then McLean can concentrate his whole force against us.” There was a time for heroics, a time for the desperate throw that would write bright glory on a new page of American history, but that time was not now. To attack now would be to kill men for nothing and give McLean another victory.

“We must go back to the heights,” Lovell said.

“We must go back,” Wadsworth echoed.

It began to rain even harder.

*    *    *

It took over two hours to get the men and the pair of four-pounder cannons back to the heights by which time dark had fallen. The rain persisted. Lovell sheltered under the sail-canvas tent that had replaced his earlier shelter. “There must be an explanation!” he complained, but no news had come from the fleet. Saltonstall had sailed towards the enemy and then, at the last moment, had turned away. Rumor said that strange ships had been sighted on the river’s sea-reach, but no one had confirmed that report. Lovell waited for an explanation, but the commodore sent none and so Major William Todd was sent in search of the answer. A longboat was hailed from the nearest transport and Todd was rowed southwards to where the lanterns of the warships glimmered through the wet dark. “Warren ahoy!” the steersman called from the longboat, which banged against the frigate’s hull. Hands reached down from the gunwale to help Major Todd aboard.

“Wait for me,” Todd ordered the longboat’s crew, then he followed Lieutenant Fenwick down the frigate’s deck, past the big guns that still bore their chalked inscriptions, and so to the commodore’s cabin. Water dripped from Todd’s coat and hat, and his boots squelched on the checkered canvas carpet.

“Major Todd,” Saltonstall greeted Todd’s arrival. The commodore was seated at his table with a glass of wine. Four spermaceti candles in fine silver sticks lit a book he was reading.

“General Lovell sends his compliments, sir,” Todd began with the politic lie, “and asks why the attack did not take place?”

Saltonstall evidently thought the question brusque, because he jerked his head back defiantly. “I sent a message,” he said, looking just past Todd’s shoulder at the paneled door.

“I regret to say none arrived, sir.”

Saltonstall marked his place in the book with a strip of silk, then turned his attention back to the cabin door. “Strange ships were sighted,” he said. “You could hardly expect me to engage the enemy with strange ships at my rearward.”

“Ships, sir?” Todd asked and hoped that they were the reinforcements from Boston. He wanted to see a regiment of trained soldiers with their flags flying and drums beating, a regiment that could assault the fort and wipe it from the face of Massachusetts.

“Enemy ships,” Saltonstall said bleakly.

There was a short silence. Rain pattered on the deck above and a boxed chronometer made an almost indiscernible ticking. “Enemy ships?” Todd repeated feebly.

“Three frigates in their van,” Saltonstall went on relentlessly, “and a ship of the line with two more frigates coming behind.” He turned back to his book, removing the silk marker.

“You’re sure?” Todd asked.

Saltonstall spared him a pitying glance. “Captain Brown of the Diligent is capable of recognizing enemy colors, Major.”

“So what . . . ?” Todd began, then thought that there was no use in asking the commodore what should happen now.

“We retreat, of course,” Saltonstall divined the unasked question. “We have no choice, Major. The enemy has anchored for the night, but in the morning? In the morning we must go upriver to find a defensible place.”

“Yes, sir.” Todd hesitated. “You’ll forgive me, sir, I must report back to General Lovell.”

“Yes, you must. Goodnight,” Saltonstall said, turning a page.

Todd was rowed back to the beach. He stumbled up the slippery path in the darkness, falling twice so that when he appeared in Lovell’s makeshift tent he was muddied as well as wet. His face told Lovell the news, news that Todd related anyway. Rain beat on the canvas and hissed in the fire outside as the major told of the newly arrived British fleet that was anchored to the south. “It seems they’ve come in force, sir,” Todd said, “and the commodore believes we must retreat.”

“Retreat,” Lovell said bleakly.

“In the morning,” Todd said, “if there’s wind enough, the enemy will come here, sir.”

“A fleet?”

“Five frigates and a ship-of-the-line, sir.”

“Dear God.”

“He seems to have abandoned us, sir.”