The New Land

by The New Land (retail) (epub)

The brothers looked at each other. “So, you heard the story?” Ben asked Franklin.

  “Just that he found her.” A gunshot startled them, then another. Jumping to their feet, they looked back toward town.

  “Nathan,” Christopher Talbot called to a laughing man near the road. “Who’s shooting who?”

  “Some of the boys opened up on a regiment from the goose army, a fierce-looking group they are. We drove ‘em off, but no meat for dinner tonight!”

  It was mid-afternoon before Captain Bellamy arrived with the wagons. Looking grim, he called the company together.

  “All right, boys,” he said, “this camp ain’t exactly organized yet. We have a chance to show the rest of them how a camp should be set up and how soldiers should carry themselves. I’ve spoken to General Ward, who’s commanding. We picked up provisions for the evening. Apparently the local folk are sharing very generously.”

  “You mean the Tories?” a man asked with a laugh.

  The captain didn’t smile. “We’re here to fight the British, not our own countrymen. There’s a provision system set up and that’s how we’ll feed ourselves. Now, Jonathan and I are going to lay out where the tents should go up. Leave at least five feet between them and keep them orderly. You’ll have to share the tools.

  “Now, Mr. Talbot—” he turned to address Ben — “back next to those willows looks a good spot for the latrines. Could you direct our stout young friends from down east in the proper preparation of such a facility? And”—he turned back to the full group—”if you see any fool taking a shit on this field, you have my approval to open fire. Run ‘em off with their pants around their ankles. We’re going to be dirty enough without other men’s shit under our feet.”

  The men began to break up, but the captain raised his hand and shouted, “One other thing. Drill begins directly after breakfast, at nine. We’re soldiers here, not picnickers.”

  “You need to tell the rest of those boys over there,” a man called out.

  “We’ll show them,” Bellamy answered. “Now let’s get our work done.”

  Ben turned to Franklin and Marcus. “I’ll just get you boys a couple of shovels. You’ve got the most important job here.” He slapped Franklin on the shoulder. “It’s been a wet spring. The ground’ll be soft.”

  * * * * * *

  The gleaming furniture around Franklin appeared to be cherry wood, a kind his father valued above others.

  “What’ve you got there, lad?”

  Franklin’s pulse, already elevated since he entered the house by the back door, shot up. He hadn’t heard the man. Franklin wasn’t certain it was a Tory house, though no one but a Tory would leave his home unattended with thousands of foraging soldiers around. Foraging had become a principal pastime of the American army. Most of the food had long since vanished from the homes of Tories who sought British protection in Boston. Some soldiers had been eating better than they ever had at home, acquiring a taste for clams and hams, imported coffee and tea. The first round of foraging targeted liquor cabinets and wine cellars.

  On one of the early days, the Essex County company marched past a scene worthy of Roman times, two casks broken open and soldiers squatting to catch the wine in their mouths. Captain Bellamy stopped that directly, but he couldn’t be everywhere. What would he think if he heard that Franklin was acting like the least disciplined recruit from Connecticut?

  When he turned to the voice, Franklin resolved to brazen it out, “What’s it to you? Are you the owner here?”

  The man, whose clothes were as filthy as Franklin’s, grinned. One hand held a sack and the other a short sword. “Rightful owner I am, sir,” he said. “That’s it. I’m the rightful owner. By my mother’s side. Terrible injustice they did, stripping all this away from dear old mum while they go off and live like dukes and earls.”

  Franklin picked up his rifle. “You’ll want to be speaking to General Ward about that,” Franklin said, “or maybe Dr. Warren.”

  The man pushed his sword through his waistband and lifted a candelabra from a side table. “They’re busy men. I’d hate to bother them with family troubles. Especially when those can be easily fixed.” The man spun and offered his wolfish grin. “That is, if you’re not feeling too greedy yourself.”

  Franklin resented being in league with this scoundrel, but he was in no position to make moral judgments. He had two pilfered bottles of brandy in his own sack. “I wish you joy of your family home,” he said with a small bow. He held up the sack so the man could see he wasn’t taking much. The bottles clinked.

  “Hope you left some for me, young fellow. Soldiering’s thirsty work.”

  Franklin rapped on the cabinet he stood next to. “You have a thirsty family.”

  “Aye, it’s been our downfall.” The man let out a belly laugh as Franklin left by the back door.

  After a half-dozen strokes, the water spurted from the backyard pump. Franklin put his head under the cold stream and ran his hands through his hair to dislodge the worst of the dirt. He pumped again and used the next spurt on his hands and face. He stepped easily into the road. There was little chance he would be challenged now. Filthy soldiers carrying sacks of looted goods were a familiar sight. The only man he feared meeting was Captain Bellamy. He had a good reason for taking the brandy, but the captain could be particular.

  Franklin lengthened his stride, ignoring achy muscles. For six days in a row, they had dug entrenchments. They dug them in Roxbury, and in Chelsea, and everywhere in between. The men grumbled about it, complaining that they were digging entrenchments that lazier militias would occupy without any effort of their own.

  Captain Bellamy paid no attention. “Many a battle’s been won with the shovel, not the musket,” he liked to say. “That’s how we took Louisbourg. We dug and we dug until the French knew they couldn’t win.” That wasn’t how Robert McDonnell told about that glorious triumph, but Franklin’s father always warned that Robert tended to improve on the truth.

  Franklin thought that Bellamy was keeping the men busy so they wouldn’t fall into the bad habits that afflicted other volunteers, bored by the wearisome standoff with the British. Just a few days before, the Americans had cheered an escapade led by General Putnam, a feisty old number from Connecticut who lured a dimwitted British sea captain to wait too long in shallow water as the tide ebbed. When the ship became grounded, the British had to abandon it. Putnam’s men ripped out its cannon and rigging, then set her on fire until she exploded, a fireball in the night. Captain Bellamy said he’d watched warships explode at Louisbourg, but never expected to see such a sight again. That part agreed with Robert McDonnell’s accounts.

  The Essex County men had no role in Putnam’s adventure. They concentrated on digging. Franklin wondered what the people in Waldoborough knew about this great confrontation, and whether the town had approved a call to oppose the king and Parliament. Most days Franklin was impatient for the armies to get on with the fighting. Some days, though, he wondered whether he should be happy with this bloodless stalemate.

  The problem was that men were starting to get sick. Marcus definitely was. He began with a fever and aches. Neither he nor Franklin thought much of it. They were tired from the digging, from sleeping out in the cold air. And there was the stink of sweat and unwashed clothes, of dirt, of latrines and of men who were too ill or too drunk or too lazy to make it to the latrine in time. The stink was a degradation.

  When it rained, water ran into the shelter Marcus and Franklin had built, then pooled under them. One storm blew off their canvas covering, forcing them to scavenge wood and bricks to build a stronger base for the shelter. Then Marcus started to puke. Spots came out on his face and hands. After one look, the captain said it was the pox, they had to get him into a hospital before he infected the whole company. Franklin worried that he might have picked up the disease, too, but so far he felt all right.

  Marcus’s sores were becoming vile and angry-looking. There was no hospital system, so he was quar
antined in a Cambridge house where a royal official had lived. Some local women managed it. They kept Marcus as clean and comfortable as they could. After seeing Marcus, a physician said there was nothing to do but let the disease run its course. With the captain’s approval, Franklin spent most nights there, with Marcus.

  He halted in surprise as he stepped into the parlor of the Cambridge house, which held five sick soldiers plus an unexpected figure. “Well, look who’s here,” Bellamy said from Marcus’s bedside. “It’s that other man from Waldoborough. By the looks of him, he’s brought you something.”

  The sack in Franklin’s hand felt like it held an anvil. “I, well, I,” he stammered, “Mrs. Pendleton, one of the ladies here, she thought some brandy might comfort Marcus, might help with the fever. Might help him sleep.”

  “She sounds a wise woman,” Bellamy said, reaching for the sack. “How’d you come by this? Two bottles!”

  “I traded for them.”

  Bellamy pulled out a bottle and appraised it. “Shrewd trading indeed. Why don’t we give it a try? Private Straub could certainly use a boost.”

  Franklin looked to Marcus. Some sores had crusted while others still wept. What skin was visible beneath the sores was whiter than any sheet. Marcus clutched the blanket to his chin. His eyes were bad.

  The captain spilled the contents of Marcus’s cup out a nearby window and poured in a healthy slug of brandy. Franklin fetched a chair from across the room. “Now just sip it,” Bellamy said, his hand cupping the back of Marcus’s head. Marcus swallowed and coughed. Then took a swallow without coughing. He nodded and let his head fall back.

  “I was just telling Private Straub,” Bellamy said, keeping his voice bright, “about our brilliant progress digging entrenchments.”

  “The men are saying,” Franklin answered in the same tone, “that we’ll tunnel to Boston and surprise the redcoats by coming out of the ground, blinking and shading our eyes like moles.” Marcus, his eyes a little better, smiled. He seemed to have no energy to talk.

  “Don’t joke about that,” the captain said. “It’s been tried for centuries, though not quite such long tunnels.”

  “Does it ever work?” Franklin nodded at Marcus, suggesting some more brandy might be in order.

  “Ah,” the captain grunted as he helped the sick man drink again. “Not often, but let’s hope no one proposes it to our commanders. They might try it.”

  “Captain,” Franklin said in a lower voice, “I hope you don’t mind the question, but who exactly’s in charge? There’s talk that General Putnam’s attack on that ship wasn’t even authorized. That there’s no general in charge.”

  Looking down at the cup, Bellamy said, “It’s not easy to create an army out of farmers and carpenters and cobblers. Us, in other words. The British Army’s been around for centuries. They know what they’re about. Everything’s written down and orderly.”

  Franklin nodded.

  “But war’s a difficult business, even if you’ve been about it for centuries. Even the British get beat. More times than they like to admit.”

  “But who’s in charge?”

  The captain poured more brandy into the cup and fed it to Marcus, who nodded again. “I wish I knew. There’s General Ward, who’s supposed to be. He’s a well-spoken gentleman. A patriot. He’s been trying to get us organized and fed and armed, and that’s no small matter. I’m not sure he’s had time, or taken the time, to think about fighting. Then there’s General Putnam, who thinks about nothing but fighting, lets the devil worry about supplies and organization. He comes across as the tavernkeeper he is, and the old ranger he was, but he looks to be a fair man in a scrap.

  “One thing you may be sure,” Bellamy said as he moved his gaze between the younger men. “The British aren’t going to sit in Boston all summer. We’re going to fight. I don’t think it’ll be long now. We’ll be short of powder and ball, and not very disciplined, but we’ll fight.”

  Marcus’s eyes were closed. Captain Bellamy rose from his chair. “The brandy,” he said to Franklin in a low voice, “was an excellent idea. You do whatever Mrs. Pendleton says.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And we’ll see you at morning muster?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll be having several hours of drill.”

  “After all the digging, that sounds very good.”

  A sad look passed over the captain’s face. He put his hand on Franklin’s arm. “I’ll pray for your friend.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  †

  The order came for the Essex County men to muster on Cambridge Common at 6 p.m. They were to bring blankets and guns. The men knew. Something was about to happen. Maybe now, one of the men joked, they’d dig trenches in the dark.

  When the company reached the common, the day’s heat was spent. A breeze whispered through the leaves of the arching elms. Captain Bellamy led the men to the near side of the open area, where Colonel Brickett stood before the rest of Frye’s regiment. Franklin marched with the Talbot brothers, his companions since Marcus died. They had come to the burial, along with Captain Bellamy. Then, without saying anything, they took Franklin on. Christopher still spoke little, Ben a bit more.

  Two other regiments stood two-deep in their stinking clothes and broad-brimmed hats. Most men wore a coat or long waistcoat, stained brown with walnut or sumac bark. Their guns were mostly muskets.

  Colonel Prescott paced before them, his tan coat flying out each time he pivoted. When he took off his hat, his bald head reflected the slanting sun.

  A man in black broadcloth, a minister, emerged from Hastings House, the army’s headquarters. As he climbed a platform, Prescott gestured for the men to come forward. Franklin took off his hat and bowed his head with the others. The minister was red-faced with passion, but Franklin couldn’t make out his words.

  Prescott, now with a cloak over one arm, ordered the men into marching formation, a drill Captain Bellamy had emphasized lately. The Essex company was near the end of the line. Ben put his head next to Franklin’s and Christopher’s. “If they’re praying over us,” he said, “look sharp.”

  Christopher gave a slight smile and pointed behind them. Two wagons stuffed with shovels and picks were pulling up at the end of the column. “Oh, Lord,” Ben said. “We are to dig by moonlight.”

  They took the eastern road to Charlestown, which lay close across the water from Boston and its British ships and British soldiers. No one spoke as they marched, skirting swampy ground and crossing two bridges across the same meandering creek. As the sky darkened, Franklin could see the pale bobbing glow of two hooded lanterns, carried just behind Colonel Prescott. Beyond, the city’s lights sparkled through the road dust raised by the march.

  The column came upon some American soldiers idling silently on a side road. They swung in behind Bellamy’s company. Franklin couldn’t tell how many marched now, but it was hundreds. They passed a pond and another empty stretch, then turned onto a narrow isthmus and halted. Before them rose a hill. Franklin would learn it was called Bunker Hill.

  For thirty minutes, no orders came. The soldiers kept quiet, shifting on their feet. Some knapsacks and rolled blankets slid to the ground. Bellamy’s company stood at parade rest, just as the captain had been drilling them. Christopher cocked an eyebrow. Ben shrugged. “Idiots,” he muttered, “have no idea what they’re doing.”

  When the column started again, it passed between Bunker Hill and Charlestown village, then ascended a second, gentler slope. At the crest, with a half-moon hanging large in the sky, they waited as the wagons pulled to the middle of the column. The night air felt warm and soft. Boston looked near enough to reach out and touch. It was a commanding position. From there, the Americans could threaten every location in the city, including the anchored British warships. The British, Franklin realized, would never let them stay here, not if they could help it.

  Orders came down the line. Start digging.

  With ropes, an offi
cer had laid out a perimeter about forty yards square. Overnight, they were to raise a fort there. Captain Bellamy called it a redoubt. He told them to be as quiet as possible. The men traded guns for tools. They knew to build earthen walls as vertical as possible on the inside, so they could take aim by resting their muskets on the top. On the outside, the walls needed more slope so the base was stable and the walls were thick enough to stop a cannonball.

  Franklin and the Talbots were on the village side of the redoubt, at a point where the wall thrust forward several yards. That would allow defenders to angle their fire at attackers. Franklin started swinging a pick, feeling it bite into dry soil. The brothers shoveled behind him. First they dug down the inside wall, working along Prescott’s line. Then they climbed over to dig on the outside, creating a ditch that attackers would have to cross. After an hour, they rested amid muffled sounds of thudding picks, shovels sliding into loose earth, and shovels thumping loose earth into shape. The city lay in silver moonlight, with a few evening flames still flickering. Christopher fetched a jug of water from his knapsack and passed it around. Their neighbors on either side asked for a taste, so it was quickly gone. Christopher took the pick from Franklin.

  By the beginning of the third hour, the redoubt wall stood about four feet high. Franklin felt fatigue taking over. If he paused, his eyelids drooped. His back and his legs ached. Though the night had cooled, sweat ran down both sides of his face, stinging when it carried crusted dirt into an eye.

  “Good work, lads.” He looked around. Colonel Prescott, still wearing his long coat, stood behind them. He spoke in a low voice. “Build them out nice and thick. Our lives’ll depend on it.”

  “Colonel,” a man to Franklin’s left called in a hoarse whisper. “Is there any water or rum? It’s thirsty work.”

  “Not yet, lads. We’re saving it.”

  “Christ,” Ben muttered. “That means there isn’t any.”

  Twenty minutes later, Prescott was back. He poked his head over the wall to speak to the men on the outside. “That’s good,” he said softly. “Now I need some of you over on the Mystic River side. We need a breastwork there in case the British come from that direction. Just a bit more.” Captain Bellamy came behind the colonel, carrying the shovel he’d been using. “All right, boys. We know how to do this.”