Cannons for the Cause

by Martin Ganzglass

After the oxcarts had been unloaded, Merriam directed Will to drive his wagon behind the batteries. The side boxes were quickly taken off and opened, and the bags of powder placed next to the old side boxes that were drying in the mid-morning sun.

  “We are ready for them now,” Merriam declared, satisfied with the preparations around The Albany. “I heard from one of the drivers that dry powder has been brought for the infantry too. If that is so, then we are as fit for battle as we were before the storm.”

  “What do we do now?” Will asked.

  “We wait,” one of the gun crew said. “And dream of the lovely young ladies waiting for us in Boston,” another added.

  “None of that, men,” Merriam said sharply. “First we must deal with the British. You unmarried men, keep your minds clear and out of the brothels of the harbor. Avenge the innocents killed by the Redcoats before you wallow in your sinful thoughts.”

  Will walked away from The Albany. Some of the men began mocking their Sergeant for his puritan attitudes. “And the married men, Sergeant. They are not to think about the beds waiting for them, warmed by the bodies of their wives who have been without for months?” Will heard one shout.

  “The married men of this Regiment have been tormented to the core every day of the Redcoats’ occupation, by thoughts of the perversities and dangers their wives, mine included, are exposed to. Not to mention the stray cannonballs from our own bombardments,” Merriam shouted, losing his temper and turning toward the gunner. He stared around him at the men. Some, embarrassed for having mocked their Sergeant and provoked his outburst, looked down at their worn muddy shoes.

  “Everyone do their duty today,” Merriam muttered, stalking off to be by himself.

  The shelter where Will had slept for two stormy nights had been dismantled. He couldn’t tell which sheets of canvas drying on the ground had been his, but it didn’t matter. He moved Big Red down to the familiar hollow that now seemed more hospitable in the crisp air and bright sunlight. He walked back to the batteries, joined the men at their makeshift cooking fires and listened to their chatter. Sometime after noon, Will took off his boots and tried to dry his stockings over the flames. When he walked, the wet leather rubbed against his bare feet, and before long he gave up and pulled his wet stockings on again. It would be good, he thought, to be inside a brick barracks in front of a fine blazing fire, warming his toes and hands. Restless, he walked to the edge and looked down at Boston.

  “They will not come if you look for them,” one of the gun crew called out, noting Will’s frequent trips to the parapet. A few of the men laughed. He moved away from the edge. The men’s readiness for action in the early morning had worn off. Will, like the others, was bored, tired, cold and hungry. Most of all, he was keen for something to happen. He wanted a release from the pent-up eagerness, of getting on with the fighting, of testing whether he would do his duty under fire. As he thought about it, he wasn’t sure what his duty was. He would try and help where needed. Maybe he could be more useful with the Mariners. He quickly rejected the thought. He didn’t know how to row, and the Mariners were taking General Putnam’s troops into battle, not hangers-on from their camp. Unofficially, he was a hanger on with the Artillery as well. True, it was Colonel Knox’s unit but the Colonel didn’t need him. Will was jarred from his sense of uselessness by a cry, “Ships sailing from the Island.”

  He ran with the others to the parapets. First one vessel appeared around Dorchester Point, followed by the rest of the transports, their sails billowing and full in the afternoon breezes. Like a line of white swans on a lake, they glided across the calm waters of the harbor and docked. The gun crews silently watched the troops, Dragoons and artillery disembark on to the wharves.

  “What does it mean, Sergeant?” one of the men asked.

  “I am not sure,” Merriam replied. “We will have to await word from the Colonel.”

  “It means no good,” another said grimly. “I would say they are planning a night attack.”

  “Yes,” another agreed. “Straight across The Neck. They did not spy us when we came up the slope to the Heights. We will not see them when they come across The Neck.”

  “Have you no head on your shoulders or eyes to see with?” Merriam said, waving his hand in disgust. “Once they cross The Neck, they either have to follow the causeway and come up the narrow road, or go into the salt marshes below the slope and charge straight up.” He shook his head angrily. “No good will come of your guessing at military strategy.” Having said that, he turned his back on them and limped toward The Albany. Will followed and sat next him at the campfire behind the cannons.

  “The addle-pated fools,” Merriam muttered, more to himself. “If it is not brothels then their thoughts run to the impossible. This is what comes of idle minds,” he said looking directly at Will. “We need more attention paid to the Bible with regular readings for the troops.” He stretched out his leg and leaned forward with a grunt, reaching over his paunch to rub his bad ankle.

  “Is it better?” Will asked solicitously.

  “It is good enough,” Merriam responded. He sat silently, his lips moving. Will respectfully remained quiet.

  “I have prayed for the Lord to give me strength to help these men to see His ways, to guide me so I refrain from lashing out at them in anger, and to be an example for them to follow.”

  “Am I included in your prayers, Sergeant?” Lieutenant Hadley asked mirthfully. His voice was hoarse. “No need to answer. I know you to be a God-fearing man who seek to help all of his fellow men. Call the men to parade, Sergeant. The entire battery is meeting at the center.”

  Will stood up, uncertain what to do. Hadley’s eyes were watering and his nose was red from constant blowing. A soggy handkerchief protruded from the cuff of his sleeve.

  “I have developed a cold and fever,” Hadley said to him. “And you, Will. No sign of the pox yet?”

  “No, sir,” Will replied, feeling sorry for the Lieutenant.

  “Good for you. I am sure Dr. Thaxter will be relieved.”

  Will unconsciously scratched the mark on his forearm.

  “Do you have news, sir?” Will asked, eagerly.

  “I do indeed.” He coughed from deep in his throat and spit the phlegm out on the ground. “Come along and hear of our great victory, won without firing a shot,” he said, his voice tinged with regret.

  “Or more correctly, only one shot, The Albany’s cannonball.”

  The gun crews quickly assembled, ninety men lined up in ranks on a relatively flat area behind the batteries. Lieutenant Hadley stood in a row in front together with the other Lieutenants, facing Colonel Knox.

  The Colonel sat on his large white New England saddle horse, his cape loosely around his shoulders. The Regiment’s two Lieutenant Colonels and Majors were mounted and slightly behind him. Knox was grinning broadly.

  “Men,” he cried in his booming voice, loud enough for the troops on either side of the batteries to hear. “I have just come from General Thomas’s headquarters in Roxbury. A delegation of Selectmen from Boston have passed through the British lines with a written message. General Howe will not destroy the city if we do not impede his troops departure. Boston is ours.” With that, he raised his tri-corn in the air and waved it as the gunners shouted loudly. Will joined in the general celebration.

  1

  Knox let the men continue before raising a gloved hand for silence. Down the line, on both sides of the batteries, there were sporadic cheers as the word spread, followed in some cases by the irregular discharge of muskets.

  The Colonel frowned at the sound of gunfire. “General Washington has accepted the Selectmen’s message. We will let the Redcoats depart unmolested. However, we must remain vigilant. Some of you will return to barracks. Some will remain here, manning our cannons, the very guns which have forced General Howe’s decision.” He looked down at the gunners with pride. “With Providence’s blessing, soon many of us will be returning to our homes in our dear city. I p
ersonally look forward with fervent anticipation to that glorious day.”

  Will walked back to the guns with Sergeant Merriam and the crew of The Albany. They were part of the Regiment assigned to remain on the Heights. He was thankful there would be no assault on the Heights and the British were leaving. But he was confused. Can we have won without beating their army in a battle? If he was honest with himself, wasn’t he more relieved from not being tested under fire than that the siege was over?

  “At the Officers’ meeting this morning, the Colonel reported that General Washington suspects a ruse,” Lieutenant Hadley said to Merriam. He motioned for them to follow him to the parapet and pointed to a rocky hill about fifty feet below. It sat, like the knuckle of an index finger, facing The Neck and the eastern edge of Boston.

  “From Nook’s Hill, nine and twelve-pounders could easily reach the British forts at The Neck, their batteries on this side of the harbor and even the wharves. Do you agree, Sergeant?”

  Merriam nodded. Will looked at Hadley. His face was flushed, his eyes bright either from fever or enthusiasm.

  “To get there, we would have to make our own road below the Heights and go up the back of Nook’s Hill,” Merriam said thoughtfully. “How many guns would we be moving, Sir?”

  “No more than eight. The ground is still frozen. It would not be rutted and churned by the caravan of wagons and sleds on the slope road up to the Heights.” Hadley surveyed the ground between the Heights and Nook’s Hill with his telescope, grunted, and handed it to Merriam.

  “It definitely can be done, Sir,” Merriam agreed, as he held the scope to his eye.

  “Yes it can, Sergeant. Yes it can. And we will do it,” he said with conviction. “Colonel Knox has approved. We will use our three nine- pounders. The Colonel will make arrangements to draw some guns off the line and perhaps bring others up from Roxbury. Care to look, Will?”

  Will took the telescope and focused on Nook’s Hill and beyond to the forts on The Neck. It seemed as if from the Hill, the gun crews could throw snowballs down on the British positions.

  “Are you game to pull a cannon or two for us?” Hadley asked.

  “Certainly, Sir” Will replied without hesitation, ignoring the stomach cramp of fear which returned as he spoke.

  Chapter 11 - Screams in the Night By midmorning the next day, extra rations and rum had arrived and been distributed. The rum was quickly consumed by the men of the Regiment who were going to occupy Nook’s Hill. Around noon, the eight cannons, supply wagons and men moved off the Heights. Big Red easily pulled a nine pounder over the rough frozen terrain between the Heights road and the base of Nook’s Hill. Lieutenant Hadley, still riding the grey mare, pointed ahead up the hill. There was a trace of a narrow cow trail snaking the fifty feet up to the summit. The Lieutenant led the way, followed by the cannons. The metal studs of the large gun carriage wheels spun, striking sparks before gaining traction on the frozen mud and stones. Reaching the top, Will looked back. The artillerymen had left the wagons they were riding and were pushing the gun carriages from behind as the oxen plodded up the narrow twisting path.

  At the Lieutenant’s direction, the eight guns were positioned in a loose half circle facing the harbor. The ox drivers quickly left the exposed hill, anxious to return to safety. They took Big Red and the mare with them back to the Heights.

  The gun crews grabbed shovels and pickaxes and began hacking at the frozen rocky turf. Will took an axe and chopped down several trees. He worked alone, concentrating on the rhythmic swinging, the blade biting into the soft pitch pine and releasing easily. It was clean work. After all the sitting and waiting on the Heights, wet and shivering, he felt invigorated, energized by the stretching of his muscles. He trimmed the branches with his hatchet, the smell of the freshly cut evergreen boughs filling his nostrils. He dragged the trunks, bottom first, to the gun emplacements, where the crews would decide how to use them, and returned to fell more trees.

  They finished the fortifications in the late afternoon, just as it was turning dark. They had constructed a protective wall of stone, earth and pine trees on the forward edge of Nook’s Hill around the guns and powder. On the far side of the hill facing the Heights, they had erected their tents in a relatively flat rocky area, away from the British gunners line of sight. Will squatted near the cooking fire of Sergeant Merriam’s crew, warming his hands and anticipating a dinner of roasted meat.

  He heard the boom of a cannon and flinched. One of the gun crew looked up from stirring a large cooking pot. “They will not be able to elevate their guns,” he said returning his attention to his soup. Will tried to assume an attitude of studied indifference to the booming of the increased cannon fire.

  “Mortars,” Merriam yelled suddenly, throwing himself sideways onto the ground and covering his head with his arms. Will was aware of the rest of the gun crew doing likewise as the whistling sound overhead grew louder. He heard, rather than saw, an explosion in the sky over the gun emplacements. A shower of fiery metal fell on their little battery. They scurried up the hill, grabbed the side boxes with the gunpowder and carried them down to the relative safety of the slope where they were camped. The whistling of the mortar and howitzer shells was constant now. The British gunners had the range and the shells burst consistently over the nine and twelve-pounders. A few cannon balls struck below the summit, but close enough to send stone fragments against the protective parapets.

  Lieutenant Hadley scrambled down from the gun emplacements on the hill and crouched with them behind a low stonewall they had hastily erected. “We have certainly twisted the British lion’s tail,” he shouted between bursts. He was grinning with excitement. “Take those extra buckets from the gun carriages. Fill them with snow, slush, water, anything. We will need it to throw on the side boxes if any of this fiery metal falls on them.”

  Will ran out and grabbed a wooden bucket, scooped up snow with his bare hands and left it near one of the side boxes. He raced back to the meager protection of the stones and crouched there as the shells continued to burst overhead. The noise was continuous and deafening. From this vantage point of relative safety, the shells were bursting in front of them, right on target if the gun crews had been manning the cannons.

  “They are firing at us from other batteries,” Merriam shouted. “It is too thunderous to be only their guns below Nook’s Hill.”

  “The safest place for us is back with the Regiment on Dorchester Heights, where these mortars cannot reach us,” Hadley replied wryly. “We must hold our position without counterfiring. Colonel Knox specifically forbade us to fire back from Nook’s Hill. General Washington’s orders,” he said, with disappointment in his voice.

  Will was thankful the Lieutenant could not return fire. Their little eight-gun battery was enduring a hailstorm of flaming metal from the sky. The mortar and howitzer bursts were so intense, it seemed like fiery sheets were hanging from a fixed imaginary rod in the starry sky over Nook’s Hill.

  The cannonade continued unabated in sound, volume or fury. In a brief respite between incoming rounds, Merriam laconically observed that the British seemed to have plenty of powder, shot and shell. Will and the gun crews hunkered down, behind the stones, and waited.

  Will had stopped flinching at each blast and had almost lulled himself into a numbed state for protection. He concentrated on the pattern of lichen on the grey oblong piece of granite in front of him. He jerked up when a shell, overshooting the battery, burst directly above them.

  “Unexploded shell near the side boxes,” he heard someone shout in a panicky voice. A mortar shell, thirteen inches in diameter, had hit higher up the Hill, bounced and come to rest between two of the boxes, nearest to the men. The fuse hissed and sparked, the orange flame a scant few inches from the dark iron casing and the shell’s gunpowder within.

  Will dashed from the stone wall toward the shell and tripped on an icy rock. He lost his balance and fell forward on his chest toward the shell. Grabbing the red hot fuse with
his outstretched right hand, he tossed it farther down the hill. Then he lay on the frozen ground panting, his face inches from the iron of the mortar shell and the dark rim of the fuse hole. He held his breath and prayed no spark remained alive inside that ugly black cavity or smoldered among the grains of gunpowder within. The frightening whistle of an incoming howitzer round jarred him to move.

  Will ran back to the stone wall in a crouch and hugged against it, aware the artillery barrage was continuing and the palm of his hand had been burned by the fuse. Gingerly, he put some dirty snow in his palm and closed his fingers. He lay there and closed his eyes, willing the pain of his blistering skin to subside.

  “You men. Get those side boxes further down the hill,” Hadley ordered, placing a restraining hand on Will’s shoulder.

  Suddenly, it ended. Will stood up and curled his fingers gently back on his burned palm. They moved but when he straightened them out, the pain from his seared skin was intense. He followed the Lieutenant and the gun crews up to the summit. The light of the early March half moon showed the ground littered with shards of metal. In places it was so thick Will could not see the frozen earth. The brass of the nine and twelve-pounders was scratched and nicked here and there, but otherwise, the cannons were unharmed.

  “It is fortunate that in the barrage, none of the wood of the gun carriages caught fire,” Hadley observed. “And none of our men were killed or wounded.”

  “We should give thanks to Providence for that,” Merriam said, removing his tri-corn and bowing his head.

  “Will. Come here,” the Lieutenant commanded. “Let me take a look at your hand.”

  Hadley peered at Will’s right palm and the ugly narrow red diagonal line seared into his flesh. “It looks like it will keep until tomorrow. You will come back to Cambridge with me in the morning.”

  Hadley put his arm around Will’s shoulder and they walked down the slope to the tents. “The normal practice of artillery men is to kick a smoldering fuse away from an unexploded shell. You are the first I know to have attacked a British mortar shell barehanded.”