The Fort: A Novel of the Revolutionary War

“I will not allow British colors to fly from my ship.”

“Of course not, sir,” Fenwick said again, “but we could go upriver, sir?” he added nervously.

“We are aground,” Saltonstall said sarcastically.

“The tide is flooding, sir,” Fenwick said. He waited, but Saltonstall made no comment. “And there are French ships, sir.”

“There are French ships, Lieutenant?” Saltonstall asked caustically.

“A French flotilla might arrive, sir.”

“You are privy to the French fleet’s movements, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir,” Fenwick said miserably.

“Then kindly obey my orders and prepare the ship for burning.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Saltonstall walked to the taffrail. The early light was pellucid and the air still. The slow tide gurgled at the Warren’s waterline. He was gazing downstream to where a gaggle of ships was clustered by a bluff. Two sloops were using the tide to come upriver, but it seemed most of the ships had decided to stay by the bluff where longboats and lighters were carrying supplies to the western bank. The British ships were out of sight, presumably still below Odom’s Ledge where the smoke rose to tarnish the sky. The smoke rose vertically, but Saltonstall knew that as soon as that pillar of smoke was ruffled by the wind the enemy sloops and frigates would start upstream.

It had been a shambles, he thought angrily. From start to finish, a goddamned shambles, and to the commodore’s mind the only successes had been achieved by the Continental Navy. It had been the marines who captured Cross Island and the marines who had led the fight up the bluff at Dyce’s Head, and after that Lovell had quivered like a sick rabbit and demanded that Saltonstall do all the fighting. “And what if we had captured the sloops?” the commodore demanded angrily.

“Sir?” a sailor within earshot asked.

“I’m not talking to you, damn your eyes.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Would Lovell have captured the fort if the sloops had been taken? Saltonstall knew the answer to that question. Lovell would have found another obstacle to prevent a fight. He would have whined and moaned and tarried. He would have demanded a battery on the moon. He would have dug more trenches. It was a shambles.

The Warren trembled as the tide lifted her. She shifted a few inches, settled again, then trembled once more. In a moment she would swing her stern upstream and tug at her anchor rode. Lieutenant Fenwick looked at the commodore with a hopeful expression, but Saltonstall ignored him. Fenwick was a good officer, but he had little comprehension of what was at stake here. The Warren was a precious piece of equipment, a well-found, well-armed frigate, and the British would love to hang their damned flag from her stern and take her into their fleet, but Saltonstall would be damned to the deepest circle of hell before he allowed that to happen. That was why Saltonstall had declined battle the previous day. Oh, he could have sacrificed the Warren and most of the other rebel warships to give the transports more time to escape the enemy, but in making that sacrifice he might well have been boarded and then the Warren would become His Majesty’s frigate. And it was all very well for Fenwick to suggest sailing upriver, but the Warren had the deepest draught of all the fleet and she would not get far before she grounded again and the British, seeing her, would do their utmost to capture her.

“Boat approaching, sir!” a bosun called from the Warren’s waist.

Saltonstall grunted an acknowledgment. He went and stood by the ship’s wheel as the longboat pulled across the tide. He watched the Pidgeon, a transport schooner, being towed upstream and noted that the river’s current was fighting the tide and giving the oarsmen a hard time. Then the longboat banged into the frigate’s hull and a man climbed onto the deck and hurried aft towards the commodore. “Lieutenant Little, sir,” he introduced himself, “first lieutenant of the Hazard.”

“I know who you are, Lieutenant,” Saltonstall said coolly. In the commodore’s opinion Little was a firebrand, an impetuous, unthinking firebrand from the so-called Massachusetts Navy which, so far as the commodore was concerned, was nothing but a toy navy. “Where is the Hazard?” Saltonstall asked.

“Upstream, sir. I was lending a hand to the Sky Rocket, sir.” The Sky Rocket, a fine sixteen-gun privateer, was aground by the bluff and waiting for the tide. “Captain Burke sends his compliments, sir,” Little said.

“You may return them, Lieutenant.”

Little looked about the deck. He saw the powder bags, the slow-matches and the combustibles stacked around the masts. Then he looked back to the immaculate commodore in his black shining top-boots, white breeches, blue waistcoat, blue tailcoat, and with his brushed cocked hat glinting with gold braid. “Captain Burke wants orders, sir,” Little said in a curt voice.

“Captain Burke is ordered to deny his ship to the enemy,” Saltonstall said.

Little shuddered, then turned so suddenly that Saltonstall instinctively put a hand to his sword’s hilt, but the Lieutenant was merely pointing to the place where the river swirled around the bluff. “That’s where you should be, sir!”

“Are you presuming to give me orders, Lieutenant?” Saltonstall’s voice was icy.

“You haven’t even fired a gun!” Little protested.

“Lieutenant Little’” Fenwick began.

“Lieutenant Little is returning to his ship,” Saltonstall interrupted Fenwick. “Good day to you, Lieutenant.”

“Damn you!” Little shouted and sailors stopped working to listen. “Put your ship at the bend,” he snapped, still pointing to where the river swirled around the western bluff. “Anchor her fore and aft. Put springs on the anchors so your broadside points downstream and fight the bastards!”

“Lieutenant’” Saltonstall began.

“For God’s sake, fight!” Little, an officer of the Massachusetts Navy, was now screaming into the commodore’s face, spattering it with spittle. “Move all your big eighteens to one side! Let’s hurt the bastards!” Little’s face was just two inches from Saltonstall when he bellowed the last four words. Neither Saltonstall nor Fenwick said anything. Fenwick plucked feebly at Little’s arm and Saltonstall merely looked disgusted, as though a turd had suddenly appeared on his holy-stoned deck. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Little said, struggling to control his anger, “the river below the bend is narrow, sir! A ship can’t turn in the width of that channel! The British will be forced to come single file, bows to our guns, and they can’t answer our shots. They can’t answer! They can’t bring their big ships up here, they have to send frigates, and if we put guns there we can slaughter the bastards!”

“I am grateful for your advice, Lieutenant,” Saltonstall said with utter disdain.

“Oh, you cowardly bastard!” Little spat.

“Lieutenant!” Fenwick seized Little’s arm. “You don’t know who you’re speaking to!”

Little shook off the lieutenant’s hand. “I know who I’m speaking to,” he sneered, “and I know where I am and I damned well know where the enemy is too! You can’t just burn this ship without a fight! Give her to me! I’ll damn well fight her!”

“Good day, Lieutenant,” Saltonstall said icily. Fenwick had beckoned two crewmen who now stood menacingly close to the furious Little. James Fletcher had evidently come aboard during the argunment. “Get off my ship!” Saltonstall snarled at Fletcher, then turned back to Little. “I command here! On this ship you take my orders! And my orders are for you to leave before I have you put in irons.”

“Come ashore,” Little invited the commodore, “come ashore, you yellow bastard, and I’ll fight you there. Man on man, and the winner takes this ship.”

“Remove him,” Saltonstall said.

Little was dragged away. He turned once and spat at Saltonstall, then was pushed down to his waiting longboat.

The Warren lurched and came free of the sandbank. A breath of wind touched Commodore Saltonstall’s cheek and lifted the snake ensign at the frigate’s stern. The smoke in the clear sky wavered and started to drift northwest.

Which meant the British were coming.