The Fort

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Captain Carnes’” Marett began.

  “Captain Carnes? Is he an officer in this regiment? Sergeant! I want the barrel raised. Loosen the breech wedge by two degrees. Good day, General,” he at last greeted Lovell.

  “I came to congratulate the gunners,” Lovell said.

  “We’re just doing our duty, General,” Revere said briskly and again crouched behind the gun after the sergeant had loosened the wedge. “Much better!”

  “I trust you’ll be at the Council of War this afternoon?” Lovell said.

  “I shall be there, General. What are you waiting for?” This last was to the gunners. “Give the bastards some iron pills!”

  The sergeant had pierced the powder bag with a spike and now inserted the portfire. “Stand back!” he shouted, then, satisfied that the space behind the gun was clear, he touched the burning slow-fuse to the portfire. There was a hiss, a puff of smoke from the touchhole, then the gun roared and smoke billowed to fill the sky around the battery. The cannon leaped back, its wheels bouncing off the stony soil.

  The shot flew down the Nautilus’s deck and narrowly missed her masts, though it passed close enough to shatter a stand of boarding pikes at the base of the mainmast before smacking harmlessly into the beach of the peninsula. A sailor on the sloop twisted and fell, scrabbling at his throat, and Captain Farnham saw blood where a splinter from a shattered pike-shaft had speared into the man’s gullet. “Get him below,” he ordered.

  The surgeon’s assistant tried to withdraw the splinter, but the man convulsed before he could slide it free. Blood spilled across the dark lower deck, the man’s eyes widened to stare vacantly at the deck above, then he made a choking, gurgling noise and more blood welled from his throat and mouth. He convulsed again, then went still. He was dead, the first man killed on board the sloop. The surgeon himself was wounded, his thigh pierced by a sharp blade of wood driven from the hull by one of the earlier shots. Six men were in the sick bay, all of them similarly injured by splinters. The surgeon and his assistant were pulling the wood fragments free and bandaging the wounds, and all the while waiting for the dreaded hammer blow of the next shot to smash into the hull. The ship’s carpenter was hammering wedges and caulking into the damaged bows, and the ship’s pumps were clattering constantly as men tried to stop the water rising in the bilge.

  “I do believe,” Captain Farnham said after another eighteen-pounder shot had screamed just above his deck, “that they’ve lifted their aim. They’re trying to dismast us now.”

  “Better that than hulling us, sir,” his first lieutenant observed.

  “Indeed,” Farnham said with evident relief, “oh indeed.” He aimed his glass out of the harbor and saw, to his further relief, that the rebel warships showed no sign of readying themselves for another attack.

  “Signal from the Albany, sir!” a midshipman called. “Prepare to move ship, sir!”

  “That’s hardly a surprise, is it?” Farnham said.

  Colonel Revere’s battery on Cross Island had started its day in confusion, but now it had succeeded in one ambition. The three British sloops that barred the harbor entrance were being driven away eastwards.

  And the door to Majabigwaduce had been opened.

  General McLean stood on Dyce’s Head and stared towards the enemy battery on Cross Island. He could see nothing of the rebel guns because their smoke shrouded the clearing the rebels had made on the island’s summit, but he recognized the damage that had been done to his defenses. Yet he could never have spared enough men to garrison Cross Island properly. Its fall had been inevitable. “The wretched Yankees have done well,” he said grudgingly.

  “A slow rate of fire,” Captain Michael Fielding observed.

  Yet if the rebel gunners were slightly slower than Fielding’s men of the Royal Artillery, they had still unblocked the harbor. Captain Mowat had sent a young lieutenant ashore who discovered McLean on the high bluff. “The captain regrets, sir, that he must move the sloops away from the enemy guns.”

  “Yes, he must,” McLean agreed, “indeed he must.”

  “He proposes to make a new line at the harbor’s center, sir.”

  “Give Captain Mowat my best wishes,” McLean said, “and thank him for informing me.” The three sloops and their attendant transport ships were already moving slowly eastwards. Captain Mowat had marked their new anchorage with buoys made from empty barrels and McLean could see that their new position was not nearly as formidable as their old. The ships would now make a line well to the east of the harbor entrance, no longer a cork in a tight bottleneck, but halfway inside the bottle, and their retreat would surely invite an attack by the enemy fleet. That was a pity, McLean thought, but he understood that Mowat had no choice but to retreat now that the rebels possessed Cross Island.

  The brigadier had gone to the bluff to see whether Fielding’s twelve-pounders could be deployed to shoot down at the new rebel battery on Cross Island. The small six-pounders on the bluff were already firing at the rebel position, but they were puny cannons and, besides, the new enemy battery lay in the island’s center and was shooting down a corridor of cleared trees, and that corridor pointed northwards. The guns themselves were hidden from Dyce’s Head, lying to the northwest of the enemy battery, and Midshipman Fenistone’s three guns were spitting their small balls into Cross Island’s trees in optimistic hope of hitting whatever was hidden by the smoke and the foliage. “I’m not sure we gain much by using twelve-pounders, sir,” Fielding said, “except to cause more damage to those trees.”

  McLean nodded, then walked a few paces westwards to gaze at the enemy shipping. He was astonished that the Americans had made no move to attack him. He had expected the rebel warships to be at the harbor entrance, adding their fire to the new battery, and that rebel infantry would already be assaulting him, but the anchored fleet lay peacefully under the sun. He could see clothes hung out to dry on lines slung between the transport ships’ masts. “My worry,” he said to Fielding, “is that if we put twelves here we won’t have time to withdraw them when the enemy attacks.”

  “Without horse teams,” Fielding agreed, “we won’t.”

  “I do miss my horses,” McLean said gently. He took off his cocked hat and stared ruefully at the inner leather band, which was coming apart. His white hair lifted in a sudden waft of wind. “Well,” he said, “I dare say we can afford to lose a trio of six-pounders, but I won’t abide the loss of any twelves.” McLean turned and gazed at the smoke enveloping Cross Island, then carefully replaced his hat. “Leave the twelves at the fort,” he decided, “and thank you, Captain.” He turned as footsteps sounded loud among the trees. Lieutenant Caffrae, a Hamilton, was running towards the general. “More bad news, I suspect,” McLean said.

  Caffrae, a lithe and energetic young man, was panting as he stopped in front of McLean. “The rebels have landed men north of the neck, sir.”

  “Have they indeed! Are they advancing?”

  Caffrae shook his head. “We saw about sixty men in boats, sir. They landed out of sight, sir, but they’re in the trees beyond the marsh.”

  “Just sixty men?”

  “That’s all we saw, sir.”

  “Major Dunlop is apprised?”

  “He sent me to tell you, sir.”

  “The devil moves in a mysterious way,” McLean said. “Is he trying to make us stare northwards while he attacks here? Or is that the advanced guard of his real attack?” He smiled at the breathless Caffrae, whom he considered one of his best young officers. “We’ll have to wait and see, but the onslaught must come soon. Well, I’m going back to the fort and you, Caffrae, are going to tell Major Dunlop that I’ll reinforce his picquet on the neck.”

  On board the sloops the sailors readied to drop anchors for their new position. The guns on Cross Island still pounded the Nautilus where men bled and died. North of the isthmus the rebels began making an earthwork where cannon could command the redcoats’ escape route from Majabigwaduce. It was Tuesday, July
27th, and the ring around Fort George was closing tight.

  * * *

  “I believe I can say with great confidence,” Lovell addressed the Council of War in the commodore’s cabin aboard the Warren, “that we have achieved splendid things! Noble things!” The general was at his most avuncular, smiling at the men crowded about the table and along the cabin’s sides. “Now we must go on to achieve our larger designs. We must captivate, kill, and destroy the tyrant!”

  For a while the Council indulged itself in pleasurable contemplation of the capture of Cross Island, a victory that surely presaged a greater triumph on the northern side of the harbor. Compliments were offered to the marines in the person of Captain Welch who said nothing, but just stood behind Saltonstall’s chair and looked grim. The commodore, also silent, appeared bored. Once or twice he deigned to incline his head when Lovell directed a question at him, but for the most part he appeared to be aloof from the matters under discussion. Nor did he seem in the least abashed by the petition sent to him by thirty-two officers from the rebel warships which had respectfully requested that the commodore should destroy or capture the three British sloops without any more delay. The letter had been couched in the politest terms, but no amount of courtesy could hide that the petition was a bitter criticism of Saltonstall’s leadership. Nearly all of the men who had signed that letter were in the cabin, but Saltonstall pointedly ignored them.

  “I assume, gentlemen, we are agreed that we must make our assault soon?” Lovell asked.

  Voices murmured their assent. “Tonight, go tonight,” George Little, first lieutenant of the Hazard, suggested forcibly.

  “Wait too long,” Colonel Jonathan Mitchell, commander of the Cumberland County militia, said, “and they’ll have their damned fort finished. The sooner we attack, the sooner we go home.”

  “Wait too long,” George Little warned, “and you’ll see British reinforcements coming upriver.” He pointed out of the cabin’s wide stern windows. The ebbing tide had turned the Warren on her anchor cable and the windows now looked towards the southwest. The sun was setting there, glossing the waters of Penobscot Bay into slithering patterns of red and gold.

  “Let us not anticipate such things,” Lovell said.

  Wadsworth thought such things were worth anticipating, especially if they lent haste to the job at hand. “I would suggest, sir,” he said warmly, “that we make our assault tonight.”

  “Tonight!” Lovell stared at his deputy.

  “We have a full moon,” Wadsworth said, “and with some small luck the enemy will be inattentive. Yes, sir, tonight.” A growl of approval sounded around the cabin.

  “And how many men could you commit to such an attack?” A sharp voice asked and Wadsworth saw that it was Lieutenant-Colonel Revere who had posed the question.

  Wadsworth felt the question was impertinent. It was not Revere’s business to know how many infantry could be landed, but Solomon Lovell seemed unworried by the brusque demand. “We can land eight hundred men,” the general said and Revere nodded as though satisfied with the answer.

  “And how many men can the artillery train take ashore?” Wadsworth demanded.

  Revere flinched, as though the question offended him. “Eighty men, exclusive of officers,” he said resentfully.

  “And I trust,” Wadsworth rather surprised himself by the defiance in his voice, “that this time the ammunition will match the guns?”

  Revere looked as if he had been slapped. He stared at Wadsworth, his mouth opened and closed, then he drew himself up as if about to launch a vicious response, but Colonel Mitchell intervened. “More to the matter at hand,” Mitchell said, “how many men can the enemy muster?”

  William Todd who had also bridled at Revere’s intervention was about to give his usual high estimate, but Peleg Wadsworth silenced him with a gesture. “I’ve talked long and hard with young Fletcher,” Wadsworth said, “and his information is not guesswork, it is not an estimate, but derives directly from the enemy paymaster.” He paused, looking about the table. “I am persuaded that the enemy regiments can muster no more than seven hundred infantry.”

  Someone gave a low whistle of surprise. Others looked dubious. “You have confidence in that number?” Major Todd asked skeptically.

  “Complete confidence,” Wadsworth said firmly.

  “They possess artillerymen too,” Lovell warned.

  “And they have Royal Marines,” a ship’s captain spoke from the edge of the cabin.

  “We have better marines,” Captain Welch insisted.

  Commodore Saltonstall stirred himself, his gaze moving disinterestedly about the table as though he was faintly surprised to discover himself in such company. “We shall loan two hundred and twenty-seven marines to the militia,” he said.

  “This is splendid,” Lovell said, trying to rouse the fervor of the Council, “truly splendid!” He leaned back in his chair, planted his fists wide apart on the table, and beamed at the company. “So, gentlemen, we have a motion! And the motion is that we attack this night with all our land forces. Permit me to put a proposition to the Council’s vote, and may I suggest we attempt a resolution by acclamation? So, gentlemen, the motion is, do you think the force we possess sufficient to attack the enemy?”

  No one responded. They were all too astonished. Even Saltonstall, who had appeared entirely disengaged from the discussion in his cabin, now gazed wide-eyed at Lovell. For a moment Wadsworth was tempted to think the general was venturing a clumsy joke, but it was apparent from Lovell’s expression that he was serious. He really expected every officer present to vote on the motion as though this was a meeting of the General Assembly. The silence stretched, broken only by the footsteps of the watch-keepers on the deck above.

  “In favor, aye,” Wadsworth managed to say, and his words broke the surprise in the cabin so that a chorus of voices approved the motion.

  “And is anyone opposed?” Lovell asked. “None? Good! The ayes have it.” He looked at his secretary, John Marston. “Record in the minutes that the motion proposing that we possess sufficient force to make the assault was passed unanimously by acclamation.” He beamed at the assembled officers, then looked inquiringly at Saltonstall. “Commodore? You will support our assault with a naval action?”

  Saltonstall looked at Lovell with an expressionless face which nevertheless managed to suggest that the commodore thought the general was a witless fool. “On the one hand,” Saltonstall finally broke the embarrassing silence, “you wish my marines to take part in your assault, and on the other you wish me to attack the enemy shipping without my marines?”

  “I, well’” Lovell began awkwardly.

  “Well?” Saltonstall interrupted harshly. “Do you want the marines or not?”

  “I would appreciate their assistance,” Lovell said weakly.

  “Then we shall engage the enemy with gunfire,” Saltonstall announced loftily. There was a murmur of protest from the officers who had signed the letter condemning the commodore, but the murmur died under Saltonstall’s scornful gaze.

  All that was left now was to decide where and when to attack, and no one demurred from Wadsworth’s proposal to assail the bluff again, but this time to attack by moonlight. “We shall attack at midnight,” Wadsworth said, “and assault the bluff directly.” To Wadsworth’s exasperation Lovell insisted on offering both the time and place as motions for the Council’s vote, but no one voted against either, though Colonel Mitchell diffidently observed that midnight left little time to make the necessary preparations.

  “No time like the present,” Wadsworth said.

  “You expect me to attack their shipping by night?” Saltonstall reentered the discussion. “You want my ships grounded in the dark?”

  “You can attack in the dawn, perhaps?” Lovell suggested and was rewarded with a curt nod.

  The council ended and men went back to their ships as the bright moon climbed among the stars. The rebels had voted unanimously to make their attack, to brin
g the enemy to battle, and, with God’s good help, to make a great victory.

  The fog came slowly on the morning of Wednesday, July 28th, 1779. At first it was a mist that thickened imperceptibly to shroud the cloud-haunted moon with a glowing ring. The tide rippled along the anchored ships. Midnight had come and gone, and there was still no attack. The Hunter and Sky Rocket, the two privateers that would cannonade the heights of the bluff as the rebels landed, had to be rowed upriver before anchoring close to shore and both ships arrived late. Some transport ships had too many lighters or longboats, and others too few, and the confusion had to be disentangled. Time passed and Peleg Wadsworth fretted. This was the attack that must succeed, the attack to capture the bluff and surge on to assault the fort. This was why the fleet had come to Penobscot Bay, yet one o’clock came and passed, then two o’clock, then three o’clock, and still the troops were not ready. A militia captain suggested the attack should be abandoned because the creeping fog would dampen the powder in the musket pans, a notion Wadsworth rejected with an anger that surprised him. “If you can’t shoot them, Captain,” he snapped, “then beat them to death with your musket butts.” The captain looked at him with an aggrieved face. “That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?” Wadsworth asked. “To kill the enemy?”

  James Fletcher, at Wadsworth’s side, grinned, His only uniform was a white crossbelt from which hung a cartridge pouch, but most of the militia were similarly dressed. Only the marines and some militia officers wore recognizable uniforms. James’s heart was throbbing palpably. He was nervous. His job was to show the attackers where paths climbed the bluff, but right now that bluff was just a moon-shadowed cliff in the mist. No light showed there. Longboats bumped and jostled alongside the transport ships, waiting to take the soldiers ashore, while on deck men sharpened knives and bayonets and obsessively checked that the flints in their musket locks were firmly embedded in the dogheads. Wadsworth and Fletcher were on board the sloop Centurion from which they would embark with Welch’s marines. Those marines in their dark green jackets waited patiently in the Centurion’s waist and among them was a boy whom Wadsworth remembered from Townsend. The boy grinned at the general who tried desperately to remember the lad’s name. “It’s Israel, isn’t it?” Wadsworth said, the name suddenly coming to him