The gun crew cleaned the piece and made ready to hoist the gun back onto the sled. Colonel Knox resisted the crowd’s calls for another firing, explaining the powder was needed to drive the British from the Boston harbor. The teamsters began a brisk trade in betting games on the weight and size of the cannons, taking money or drinks in return. They let the male citizens straddle the barrels and the women sit demurely on them as if they were riding a horse side saddle. Some men were affecting more knowledge than others and opined the handles were too small to lift such heavy cannons. Others, using their own measurements and liberally interspersing their speech with references to diameter, circumference and trajectory, explained to those who were listening, the distance the cannons could propel a ball, and the damage it would do, though they had never seen a cannon fired until this morning. The drivers, liberally imbued with free hard cider, whisky and rum, were fully into the spirit of the day. They regaled the crowds with tall tales of the cannons’ origins, the service they had performed during the French and Indian War and fictitious first-hand accounts of how the Green Mountain Boys had captured Fort Ticonderoga from the British in 1775.
Will soon tired of watching the townspeople make fools of themselves. Uninterested in the merrymaking, he spent the rest of the afternoon striding around in his new boots, more for the joy of walking in them than having any place to go. He dried his old shoes in the sun outside the barn and placed them in his rucksack, thinking he might use them for leather scraps or patches in the future.
He found a quiet place in the loft, took off his boots, admired them and read Tom Jones for a while. He couldn’t concentrate. He was confused. First, he thought of the Colonel’s promise to give him paper and a quill. What would he write to Elisabeth? How would he even begin such a letter? “Elisabeth. Dear Elisabeth. My dearest Elisabeth. My dearest.” It sounded awkward, almost childish. He wanted to write to her as a man would, not a tongue-tied boy. Maybe he could find the right language in Tom Jones. He read a few more short chapters before his mind wandered again. He wondered why he had thought about training Big Red to stand still during cannon fire. He was not going off to war. He was delivering a cannon to Cambridge and returning to Schoharie and the farm. That would be the end of his adventure. But he did have hopes to do more, to be part of something grander. It was too much to think about for now. Besides, it was time to care for the horses and he was hungry again. Or still. It didn’t matter as long as he ate.
The next morning, under cloudy skies with a light warming wind from the east, the train began the relatively easy journey to Springfield. Will was in high spirits. Stuffed in his haversack were a loaf of freshly baked bread, a wedge of hard cheese and pieces of roasted chicken left over from the evening’s dinner. His feet were snug in his new boots. Yesterday he had decided, while grooming the horses, to wait and see what would happen when they reached Cambridge. Something Nat had said to him last night gave him hope.
“Merely showing up with the guns will not frighten the British to abandon Boston,” Nat observed. He was certain General Washington and the Colonel had plans for building forts and deploying the cannons in strategic positions to threaten the British army.
Surely, Will thought, the Colonel would be able to use him. And with his brother, Johan, trapped within the city until the British were driven out, he could not contact him and fulfill his father’s instructions. So, he concluded logically, he would be compelled to stay in Cambridge for a while. His adventure would not end immediately.
The road to Springfield was wide and relatively level. As the temperatures hovered above freezing during the day, the ice and snow drifts turned to slush and mud under the weight of the sleds. Those sleds in the vanguard, hauling the lighter cannons, had easier going than the heavier cannons in the middle section. It was worst for those at the end of the train. By the time they reached West Springfield, the road had been churned into a dirty brown ribbon of thick mud, weaving its way through pristine white snowy fields like a streak of filth from an overflowing latrine.
Will’s team struggled to pull the two-ton fortification gun through the sticky clay-like ooze. At one point, when the tops of the runners had sunk beneath the muck and he was holding up the train, they had to resort to levering the runners out of the mud’s grasp. The soldiers used the trees they had cut before the Blandford Summit and strapped to the already overloaded sleds. It was fortuitous, Will thought, they hadn’t discarded them along the road. He was thankful his boots, now caked with mud, didn’t leak.
The drivers were exhausted and mud splattered when the last of the train slogged into Springfield. They were in no frame of mind to accommodate the enthusiastic curiosity of the townspeople. They did accept the free cider and rum, but there was none of the celebratory mood or gaiety of their stay in Westfield.
Nat, who had ridden with the Colonel for most of the day and arrived in Springfield a good few hours before Will, reported that the New York teamsters were leaving that night. The Colonel didn’t even try to persuade them to stay. He knew they were tired and far from home and there was no promise that the roads would freeze to make the journey to Cambridge that much easier.
“There are plenty of other sleds and oxen for hire in Springfield,” he said confidently, as Will sat next to him behind The Black Horse Inn, scraping the caked mud off his boots with a stick he had carved in the shape of a flat spoon. “Closer to Cambridge, we can leave the heavier cannons behind and come back for them with more men and soldiers from the camp. And fresh oxen too,” he said, assessing the practical aspects of the situation.
“My team will pull the cannon all the way,” Will said confidently, examining the seam where the boot met the sole and thinking he should rub lard in and seal it better. “I am not the one to let the Colonel down,” he said vehemently, recalling the Colonel’s words of praise at the Westfield tavern.
“I did not think you would,” Nat replied quickly. “We should make Worcester in two days if the roads remain muddy. Perhaps only one day, if the ground freezes again. After that, the Colonel intends to ride quickly with the light cannon into Framingham and then on to Cambridge. It is possible General Washington will ride out from Cambridge to meet him.”
In his imagination, Will saw the Colonel tipping his tri-corn to the General and pointing behind him to the unending train of artillery winding through the snowy countryside, with Will’s four-span team and the large iron fortification gun glinting in the sun, clearly visible. In his mind, he was standing on the seat waving his own hat to the Colonel and shouting exuberantly at the top of his lungs. Silly daydream, he thought to himself. Only an inexperienced youth would drop the reins of eight horses to show off.
“Are you thinking of Elisabeth? Again?” Nat said to Will, seeing him smile.
Will blushed, shook his head and put his boots back on. “No. It was something else.”
“You must write to the young lady,” Nat said. “I myself am courting Miss Anna Gibbs, a servant in the home of Benjamin Edes, a Boston printer. She assists Martha, his wife, who is kindly toward her. He is a good patriot, a Mason and Presbyterian,” he added quickly, as if her employer’s membership and religion would matter to Will. “The young lady favors me. Her father, a farmer near Salem, is not as certain of my suit. He worries that I will not be able to protect and provide for his daughter. I am either away at sea or as he puts it ‘engaging in these foolish rebel activities,’.” He shrugged. “I hope I will be able to persuade him. I do not know what I will do if Anna’s father does not consent.”
Will looked at his friend in a new light. He hadn’t thought of Nat as struggling with love.
“Have you written to her?” he asked.
“Every day in my mind and occasionally on paper,” Nat replied, with more emotion than Will had heard him express before. It gave meaning to the phrase he had read in Tom Jones, “pining away,” which he hadn’t really understood until now.
“What do you say? How do you begin? How to do you address he
r?” Will asked, eager for his friend’s advice.
Nat paused before answering. “I address her simply as Dear Anna and I write her of where I have been and what I have been doing. I end each letter telling her when I estimate I will return and repeating my hope I will be able to call on her.”
“That is all?” Will asked, thinking of some of the more romantic passages of courting he had read in Tom Jones. Nat’s letters seemed so devoid of love and passion.
“I am not good with words,” he said defensively.
“You certainly are,” Will immediately replied. “You tell stories well. Of great interest. You talk easily with men, many of them older than you. The teamsters of this train respect and follow your orders. I have seen them do so.”
“Thank you, Will, for saying this. However, commanding men and earning their respect is far different from courting.”
Inexperienced as he was, Will knew that was true. Nat’s description of his letters to Anna revealed nothing of his feelings or affection for her. If he were writing to Elisabeth he would tell her how much he missed hearing her voice and laughter, seeing her smile, how every day there was an emptiness in his life, in his very existence by not being with her. He would tell her of his adventures but only to write that they were nothing compared to a day spent in her company. He hoped he would remember these thoughts when he arrived in Cambridge and could write to her. No. He knew he would recall them word for word because they were heartfelt, something deep within him. He would have to begin his letters with more than “Dear Elisabeth.”
It took an entire day to pay the New York teamsters, unload their sleds and wagons and reload the cannons on those of the newly hired Springfield drivers. Will helped the soldiers and drivers hoist and lower the cannons, lashing them down using the knots Nat had taught him. The Colonel rode by frequently, urging the men to work faster, his impatience obvious. The weather turned colder by mid-afternoon, auguring well for the resumption of the journey tomorrow. Perhaps energized by the prospect of the end of the thaw, or simply a return to his own good nature, the Colonel assembled all of the teamsters, the New Yorkers and the new Massachusetts men, gave a short speech thanking all for participating in this “noble endeavor,” offered up a prayer for the safe journey of all concerned and generously stood a round of drinks at The Black Horse, for one and all.
They made good time, passing through Spencer and Worcester, heading north from Shrewsbury to Marlborough and then south to Framingham, which they reached two hours after dark, the evening of January 24th. It had been a monotonous, bumpy, bone-jarring ride over deeply rutted roads, the mud having frozen again as hard as iron. Will had dismounted once to check the wooden stays and traces after a particularly nasty stretch of road. The Colonel rode up and down the train, urging them on with words of encouragement. Clearly, with the worst of the journey over and the end within a few days reach, the Colonel wanted no further delays.
/1
Will’s arms ached from pulling on the reins all day and he was hungry as always. The bread and chicken saved from his dinner in Springfield had long since gone and the small towns they passed through barely had enough food for the occasional winter traveler. They could not adequately provide enough for all the drivers and soldiers of the train and would not sell their victuals. As for spirits, the locals sold them dearly.
He saw to the horses, spending extra time with Big Red, rubbing him down and checking his hooves and ankles for stones and bruises from the rock-hard mud. He sat on a bale of straw and scraped horse manure from the soles of his boots before walking the short distance to the Framingham Inn. He found Nat in the large room at a wooden table listening to the talk of the newly recruited Massachusetts teamsters, who were drinking heavily.
“I hear the Lobstah Backs in Boston are running out of food. Nothing but rotting vegetables and little meat for them,” one of the Springfield teamsters said.
“And how do you know that?” another asked, with contempt in his voice. He had a narrow weasel face, marred by the telltale scars of smallpox. His thinning grey hair was matted and hung down in unkempt wisps over his ears. “Been to Boston, have you?” weasel face sneered. “No. I thought not. Well, I myself made several trips from Watertown to Cambridge, carrying supplies, wood and provisions for General Washington’s army.” He blew snot into a dirty handkerchief, examined it and tucked the cloth into his shirt. “Some army. It is a ragtag collection, I can tell you. They look like scarecrows, underfed and diseased, and they drill like the untrained farmers they are. And then, I took my wagon over for a look of the harbor.” He paused, waiting for their attention. “There were dozens of British ships in the water, all bright and clean and sparkly in the sun, going through their gun drills and the like. General Washington is going to get beat and beat bad. I see that coming, for sure.” He took a draught from his mug and leaned back, as if he had the last word on the subject.
“You always see nothing good in anything anyone says or does, Israel Hosner” the first man rejoined. “I received a letter from my nephew in Boston and he wrote that the British troops are underfed and poorly disciplined. Their officers spend most of the time flogging the malcontents and trying to prevent more desertions. I tell you the Redcoats are sorry now they ever occupied the city.”
He turned to Nat. “What do you say, Ensign? You are from Marblehead, you said.”
Nat leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “When I left General Washington’s headquarters, more than a month ago, he was working to bring the different forces together. Militias were streaming in, not only from Massachusetts but the other colonies as well. It takes time to make them into an army. I have confidence General Washington will accomplish it.” He looked Hosner in the eye, and the man dropped his gaze. “And with these cannons, those fine British ships will be driven out of the harbor. If there are no British ships, the garrison must surrender. Boston will soon be liberated. I guarantee that, gentlemen.” There was a general murmuring of agreement, except from weasel-face.
“There are more cannons on those British ships, and trained gunners, than in Washington’s entire army, and the powder to use them,” he replied. “The Redcoats drill and fire. Washington’s troops just parade around without firing a rifle or cannon. I know what I have seen and heard,” he said, gesturing to his eyes and ears.
Nat sat listening to more of the back-and-forth among the men. After a while he stood up, and Will followed him outside. It felt good to breathe the clear night air.
“He is right. We do suffer from a shortage of powder and shot. The Colonel is worried about that,” Nat admitted. “Tonight he is dining with John Adams and Eldridge Gerry. They rode out from Cambridge.” He saw Will’s blank stare of non-recognition. “They are two members of the Massachusetts delegation to the Congress in Philadelphia,” he explained. “They have seen the artillery train and were excited. I was there when the Colonel showed them the cannons. I am certain the Colonel will educate them on the need to obtain ample powder and shot and persuade them to find the necessary funds to do so.”
“Nat,” Will asked. “Will there be a battle when we get to Cambridge?”
“I believe not immediately. It depends on General Washington of course,” he added quickly. “My sense is that we will need to get the guns in place and test the Redcoats’ reaction.” He shrugged. “It may take a week or more. But once these cannons are in place, we will drive the British out of Boston.”
“And you will get to see Anna?” Will asked, grinning.
“That will be one happy result of liberating the city,” Nat admitted. “Unless she has already left and is with her father in Salem,” he said, brightening at the thought.
He looked up at the night sky filled with stars. “Will,” he said, reaching up to put his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Divine Providence has not permitted us to deliver the cannons to Cambridge so we should fail. Of that I am sure.” He squeezed Will’s upper arm and grabbed his hand.
“Tom
orrow we part. The Colonel has asked me to ride with him to Cambridge. We will take many of the three and six pounders with us. Billy Knox will be in charge of seeing to the rest of the train. When you arrive in Cambridge, probably in two or three days’ time, come with him to General Washington’s headquarters.” He held his friend by the forearm. “The Colonel will give you paper and quills and you shall write to your Elisabeth.”
“While you court Anna in person,” Will responded.
“Until we meet again in Cambridge, Master Stoner” Nat said, firmly grasping his friend’s hand.
“Until then, Ensign Holmes,” Will replied.
Chapter 6 - In the Employ of Colonel Knox Will arrived in Cambridge on January 28th together with the eighteen and twenty- four pounders and mortars, and the sleds carrying the flint and shot. He and the teamsters in his segment, with their fortification guns and some of the eighteen and twenty-four pounders were directed to continue beyond Cambridge to Lechmere Point. The remaining heavy cannons and mortars were sent to the entrenchments below Roxbury.
They passed along the American lines on the road heading east out of Cambridge. Will had never seen so many men in one place. The militias were encamped on both sides. There was a constant movement of people and a cacophony of sounds. Soldiers marched and drilled, wagon drivers delivered supplies, horses were being exercised, sheep and cattle grazed nearby, dogs ran across the road. There was hammering and sawing, shovels striking the frozen earth, shouting of orders and just general yelling, the beat of many drums and the piping of fifes, and the smoke of cooking fires too numerous to count. Will was caught up in the excitement of being in the midst of this large army.
There were neat orderly rows of tents in some fields and rough makeshift shelters, made of boards, stone, turf or brush in no particular order, in others. Will noticed that the fields around the camp were stripped of fences. Lines of freshly cut stumps stood like tombstones in the snow, marking where fruit orchards had been before the trees were chopped down for firewood. Some soldiers, with nothing to do, wandered up to the road to view the cannons and cheer. Others ignored them and went about their business of cooking, cleaning their muskets or sharpening daggers, knives and bayonets. Here and there clusters of men crouched in tight circles, intently occupied in some game of chance. Away from the road he could see more groups engaged in drills, marching back and forth in the snow, some precise, some in ragged lines, their officers shouting at them to straighten up their lines. It seemed everyone on their separate muddy makeshift parade grounds were either learning to move and turn as a unit, or to load, mock-fire and reload.
Cannons for the Cause Page 11
