Will had no idea what an army should look like. It seemed that every unit was distinct with its own flag flying in front of a larger tent or from a wooden pole on a drill field. The soldiers were dressed differently from each other. One militia on parade wore brilliant scarlet coats trimmed with buff facings and gauntlets and yellow metal jacket buttons, black tri-corn hats with gold trim, knee-length pants and tall black half-boots topped by white stockings. These, Will discovered from their name emblazoned on their flag, were the Baltimore Independent Cadets. Their tents were pristine white, standing out against the muddy snow. From the vantage point of his seat on the sled, he could see rows of cots and blankets inside, with haversacks and wooden canteens neatly stacked beside the open tent flaps.
The next unit was as different as a moth to a butterfly. The men of the Pennsylvania Associators, who were rigorously drilling on a field in the center of their encampment, wore plain brown coats over white buttoned vests, round hats, and tapered pants without leggings that were tucked into simple low shoes with buckles. Will thought their shoes were better suited for strolling through town than for marching. The trek from Great Barrington to Westfield had taught him the need of proper footwear. He noticed some of the Associators were limping, their stockings stained and frozen from the slush. He moved his feet up and down, taking pleasure in the feel and sound of his boots on the sled’s wood.
There were units from Connecticut, also in red coats over red vests with two rows of gold buttons, buff breeches, stockings and buckled shoes. He drove the sled past a group of soldiers marching on the road, heading toward Cambridge. The pennant at the head of their column declared them to be a regiment of the Pennsylvania Battalion. Their uniforms were brown with green facing. At least, Will thought, they were properly equipped with their buff-colored half-gaiters to protect their feet from the mud and slush.
The bulk of the troops were from Massachusetts, militias composed of farmers, tradesmen and mechanics. They were dressed in an odd mix of hunting shirts and cloaks, long black frock coats, thigh-length hunting shirts, broad-brimmed hats cocked and worn in every possible way, or tri-corns, some adorned with feathers, others with red or white cockades.
As the train slowly moved through the Army’s encampment, Will noticed a group of lean-tos and shelters made of branches abutting one of the few remaining stands of trees on the opposite side of the road. It was the only unit there. Smoke curled from their cooking fires, and the smell of roasting meat wafted toward him, reminding Will of the deep gnawing in his stomach. He couldn’t see any flag or pennant. Several of the men loped from the tree line toward the road to watch the procession of artillery. They moved with a fluid grace coming down the paths already worn in the snow, their bodies naturally bent to present a smaller target with their rifles held in one hand. Their powder horns, yellowed from use and age, were strapped close to their hips on broad dark brown leather belts. They came on like wolves running down an elk, not like men curious to see the cannon train. They were generally tall and lean. Some were bearded, with their hair long over the ears. They wore dyed nut-brown hunting shirts, and a few had fur or buckskin hats, some with white deer tails attached to the side. Many carried large hunting knives in leather sheaths strapped to their waists. A few wore tomahawks or hatchets. They had long rifles almost as tall as their bodies, much longer than the muskets and fowling pieces he had seen the men of the other militias carrying. Will stared at them as they assessed the fortification cannon on his sled.
“That piece able to shoot that big ball?” one of them asked. “Yes, sir,” Will replied. “Colonel Knox says once the cannons are in place, they will send a cannon ball far enough to drive the British out of Boston,” he added enthusiastically.
“Well I can hit a man in the throat at 250 yards,” the soldier replied, patting his rifle. “You be sure and leave some of the Redcoats for me.” He grinned. 1
“What militia are you?”
“We are from western Pennsylvania. Go by the name of our Captain, Samuel MacDowell. We’re MacDowell’s Rifles.” He waved his arm to encompass the others and their camp in the woods behind. 2 “We’ll come by and see a demonstration of that big cannon of yours. You come visit us and I will show you what this rifle can do.”
Will put his hand to his hat in acknowledgment, proud the man had considered the cannon his. “I will do that, sir,” he said, flicking the reins and making a clicking sound to urge the team forward, as they passed through the American lines.
From Lechmere Point, Will saw the city, the harbor and the British fleet for the first time. He stopped counting the British men-ofwar at 46. The ships were spread out beyond the harbor, off the land he knew from Nat’s description as Dorchester Heights. Several ships were heading out to sea. He could make out the small black dots of sailors in the rigging, as the ships turned and cut a narrow white line of spray with their bows. The wind filled their sails. He thought it was a fine sight with their canvas billowing out in taut white squares.
Will stood up on the sled’s bench and marveled as the ships maneuvered in the harbor. He had never seen ships this big before. They had crossed the ocean, he thought. They were under full sail now. The scene unfolding before him was so beautiful. He imagined being out on such a ship with Nat in command, sailing full speed with the wind behind them. His reverie was broken by the booming sound of cannons. The first ship leaving the harbor had tacked into the wind and fired a broadside out to sea. He watched it come around and fire another from the other side. The second and third ships performed the same maneuver, firing broadsides one after another, practicing for a sea battle against enemy ships. American ships, he thought. Do we have a navy, he thought. And how could it fight against so many British ships?
From the vantage of Lechmere Point, Will could see the buildings and streets of Boston: the steeples of several churches and the many wharves on the southeast side, one long pier stretching out like a finger into the harbor, with British ships tied up alongside. In the distance, was the slender strip that connected the city to the mainland. There was a massive fort and gate at the narrow neck, leading to Roxbury. It was protected by smaller forts with blockhouses on either side. Masses of red-coated troops marched up and down the Common, located on the side of Boston closest to the American lines. Immediately he recognized the contrast between the American militias he had seen and the perfectly even ranks of the British troops. Every soldier was dressed identically. Orderly red squares of men, the winter sun glinting off their bayonets and the metal plates on their dark caps, wheeled and turned, knelt and fired in perfect unison, at commands he imagined, though from that distance he could not hear them.
William Knox rode up and down the line of sleds, instructing the teamsters where to halt and place the cannons. He greeted Will enthusiastically.
“We made it from Fort Ticonderoga to Cambridge in forty days. My brother says he knew there was something biblical about our journey,” he shouted before riding off. Will was going to respond that it had taken the entire train almost fifty days, but Billy Knox was already gone. Will maneuvered the sled into place and unhitched and hobbled six horses of the team together. He left Big Red and the grey loosely tethered to a tree.
Several militia men, supervised by the Massachusetts Regiment of Artillery, a gun crew of the Colonel’s own unit, hoisted the fortification piece off the sled with well worn gun tackle and expertly lowered it onto its gun carriage. Will had nothing to do. He stood unexpectedly idle, stomping his feet in the brown, dirty snow. Two men from the gun crew gathered up the worm pole, the swab, the powder box and bucket from his sled. He joined them in carrying the cannon balls. They accepted his help but it was clear they didn’t need him. He wandered away, staring across a narrow body of water toward the charred ruins of Charlestown and the British fortifications on Bunker Hill. The sight of redcoats drilling in the distance, on what Colonel Knox had called sacred soil, increased his gloomy mood.
He returned to the gun emplacements and l
ooked down toward the Common and the streets beyond, and then along the line of the American artillery. Several of the fortification guns and mortars were already in place. He counted fifteen pieces, including his fortification cannon. The trek was now truly over. There was nothing more for him to do. He was uncertain as to what was next for him. The gun crews were busy and he was shy about asking them where to find Colonel Knox.
Will re-hitched his team and followed the other drivers back through the lines and along the road to Cambridge. They bedded down at farms on the outskirts of the town. That night Will sat around the fire with the few New Yorkers who had remained with the train and some drivers from the Springfield region. They talked eagerly about returning home, something Will dreaded and desired to postpone as long as possible. He ate the last of his hard cheese and bread from Framingham and fell asleep in the loft of a barn, partially protected by the bales of straw he erected as a barrier to the bitter cold wind that whistled through the boards.
He awoke hungry and stiff from the frigid winter temperature. After seeing to his horses, he rode to Cambridge on a sled of one of the Springfield teamsters. The drivers were in a boisterous mood, anticipating being paid and leaving for their homes. As he hoped, he found the Colonel’s brother at the aptly named Golden Goose Tavern with a ledger, a pay clerk and a leather saddle bag filled with coins. A table had been set up on one side of the large room, away from the fireplace, and the wagoners lined up against the far wall. Will waited for a long time while each of the teamsters received his pay and signed his name in the ledger. Will was conscious of the hot food being served at the nearby tables. The aromas and scents of bacon and bread, the bowls of hot porridge, and the sight of others eating tortured him. He wiped saliva from the corner of his mouth and pulled his gut muscles tight to stop the noise of his stomach, which growled in rebellion at not being fed.
After the last driver had left, Will approached the table. He had taken off his blanket in the warmth of the Inn. It was rolled between the straps of his haversack, which hung from his right shoulder. The pay clerk, having closed the ledger and re-buckled the saddle bag, looked annoyed, assuming Will was another teamster arriving late to be paid. Billy greeted him warmly.
“Master Stoner, come join me for breakfast. These teamsters were in such a hurry to get their pay and be off, I haven’t yet eaten,” he said putting his arm around Will’s shoulder and walking with him back into the main room. Billy was several years younger than the Colonel and while a tall man, he had none of his brother’s large girth. Will eagerly accepted his invitation and was so busy devouring the porridge, slices of bacon and buttered bread, and drinking from his mug of weak hot coffee, followed by second helpings of each, that he barely said a word.
“It seems that you have not eaten since Springfield,” Billy remarked, smiling, as Will wiped his bowl clean with another piece of bread.
“In truth, I have not eaten much for the past two days, sir,” Will replied, thinking that his haversack was now empty and he didn’t know when or where his next meal was coming from. He knew to eat as if each meal would be his last. “Thank you, sir,” Will added somewhat ashamedly, knowing his manners suffered while he wolfed down food.
“Well, my brother did not bring you all the way from Great Barrington to starve you to death,” he said. “He is riding along somewhere, overseeing the installation of the cannons and the preparation of fortifications. He has been given a house in Cambridge as headquarters for his Regiment. I must return there before attending to other business and you shall come with me.”
They walked from the Inn through the frozen slush. The buildings were shabby, run-down structures, low wooden houses with paint peeling off the siding and crumbled mortar between the slats that let in the cold January air. The homes became noticeably more substantial as they moved further away from the Charles River. Here they were made of brick, with tendrils of smoke wafting out of their chimneys, many with wide double wooden entry doors and matching painted shutters. The cobblestones were icy under foot, which made their walking treacherous.
Will listened to Billy describe the gracious welcome General Washington had given his brother, meeting him west of Cambridge and praising his prodigious effort for the cause. The soldiers had enthusiastically cheered the cannons’ arrival, as if that alone would pry the British out of Boston. The cannons had been a boost to their flagging morale, he said. The men grumbled about the constant drilling. They were cold and hungry much of the time, and sorely in need of firewood. Each day many more of them succumbed to the bloody flux and outbreaks of the pox. There were more than fourteen thousand soldiers encircling Boston, although he had to admit most of them were untested in battle and many were ill and unfit for service. Almost six thousand troops, he said, their enlistments up at the end of December, had simply decamped and gone home.
“General Washington calls them ‘chimney corner soldiers,’” Billy said, as they hurried along. “The new companies, raised from the other colonies, are eager enough, it seems. The General says they need discipline and training and he is worried there will not be enough time.”
“Will the army attack Boston?” Will asked.
“I have heard rumors General Washington is considering it. Nothing is known for the moment.” Billy replied. “I have been busy helping my brother. Henry’s commission as Colonel was approved by the Congress in Philadelphia while he was bringing the artillery to Cambridge,” he said proudly. “Now, he is in charge of all the artillery.”
“What about Ensign Holmes? Do you know where I can find him,” Will asked.
“He should be with the Mariners at the General’s Headquarters. It is half a mile from Cambridge center.” As they walked, Billy explained that General Washington had taken over the home of a wealthy Royalist who had fled in fear of his life when threatened by the patriotic Safety Committee of Cambridge.
“The locals still refer to it as the John Vassall house,” he said, adding with satisfaction the former owner now lived in meaner dwellings on tighter rations, dependent upon the protection and hospitality of General Howe in Boston. “That will change,” he predicted. “When we force the British out of Boston, the place where General Howe now sleeps will be General Washington’s Headquarters.”
They came to a handsome brick building. “This is my brother’s temporary residence until we take Boston,” he said. He directed Will to continue up this street until he came to a broad road called Brattle Street and to proceed down it. There would be fewer houses and more open fields. The largest of the homes, the one guarded by troops, he said, was General Washington’s headquarters.
“Be certain to return here later. I will tell my brother we have met and you are ready to be of service.”
“Yes, sir.” Will replied. He would do anything the Colonel asked of him but he had no idea how he could help now that Knox was Commander of Artillery.
Will had no trouble finding General Washington’s headquarters. It was a substantial two-story wooden building, light brown in color with black shutters framing the eight large windows, four on each side of the central entrance, as well as the two peaked gables on the roof. Two tall brick chimneys rose at both ends, promising large fireplaces and warmth within. White columns, which supported the triangle over the entrance, made the door seem small in comparison. The imposing structure was enhanced by decorative additional columns on the four corners of the building, placed there as if needed for support of a nonexistent marble structure.
Even from a distance, as Will approached, his boots crunching on the snow crusted street, he thought it was the grandest building he had ever seen. A three-foot-high grey stone wall, now partially covered with snow, surrounded the property. It was level across the top around the entire perimeter, indicating it had been constructed by masons and was not some simple farmer’s effort to mark off his pastures with stones unearthed by his oxen pulling a plow.
Four sentries barred the long carriage road, lined with tall evergreens, that led up
to the Headquarters building. He recognized the familiar navy blue jackets with the broad red cuffs at the wrist and the white canvas breeches of the Marblehead Mariners.
“Pardon, sir” he asked one of the men. “I am looking for Ensign Holmes.”
“That will be Lieutenant Holmes you would be seeking,” he replied, lowering his musket from the ready position. Even though he held his musket loosely, Will could see he had the powerful shoulders of a man accustomed to rowing for a living. His black hair was pulled back and tied neatly in a queue with a dark blue ribbon.
“Colonel Knox spoke to our Colonel Glover, who recommended him for promotion. We men voted our approval,” he added, “although ‘tis a bit hard to swallow—a Mariner promoted for deeds he performed on land.” He laughed at the concept. Will liked the easy lilt of his voice.
“He may be down with our Colonel at his house, the big square one over there,” he replied, gesturing to the left of the headquarters building, past the leafless trees of an apple orchard. “He just rode hard in, his horse all a lather. And who are you?” he asked, eyeing Will up and down. Will was conscious of his mud-stained breeches and dirty brown jacket. He shifted his haversack to his side, pulled the blanket tighter between the straps, and stood up taller.
Cannons for the Cause Page 12
