Cannons for the Cause

by Martin Ganzglass

  “I think I did intend to kick at it,” Will replied, “but I slipped before I reached it. There was nothing else to do.”

  “None of the other men moved,” Hadley replied. “They owe their lives to you.” He patted Will on the shoulder. “Including me.”

  Will did not know how to respond. He welcomed the praise from the Lieutenant and the respect he sensed from the men in the gun crews.

  They had restarted the cooking fires. Will squatted on his haunches feeling drained and weak. Once the aroma of roast meat filled the air, he realized that despite the pain in his hand he was voraciously hungry.

  “No soup tonight,” a soldier said, looking at a pot pierced by several pieces of shrapnel. He grinned at Will.

  “Better that than being blown to hell in pieces,” another said soberly.

  “I know,” the first man said. “Come here Will. I have some pork fat in my food stores. Use it on your hand and keep it greased. It will help with the healing and make you smell more appetizing,” the soldier added. They all laughed, good-naturedly teasing him. It was, Will realized, their way of welcoming him as one of them and thanking him for his actions. He fell asleep in the early morning hours, lying on the ground in a tent, his injured hand with the bent fingers cushioned by his good arm.

  Three hours later, he awoke at dawn stiff and sore, covered by Lieutenant Hadley’s cloak. The line on his hand from the hot fuse had puffed up into an ugly blister. He tried to stretch his fingers but they would not extend. Not much use for dropping his pants and pissing he muttered, as he relieved himself outside. Nor for writing he thought, ruefully.

  He made the ride from Nook’s Hill to Cambridge with Lieutenant Hadley in a daze. He could hold the reins in his cupped right hand but he had use his good left hand to control Big Red. He gripped the horse tightly with his knees, thinking he would be more secure if just this once he had a saddle. He was grateful they rode at a slow pace. At the Regiment’s solid brick building, which had been converted from a hospital back to their barracks, Hadley talked to a Sergeant and Will was assigned a cot near the fireplace. He struggled awkwardly with his one good hand to pull off his muddy boots, before he collapsed exhausted on top of the blanket.

  It was dark when he awoke and the room was filled with the chatter of tired soldiers, enjoying the warmth and safety of the barracks. Will closed his eyes and listened to the fragments of conversation swirl around him.

  “That first night’s bombardment, before we moved to the Heights? Several of our shots hit the barracks at The Neck. Took off the legs and arms of at least six Redcoats.”

  “Now, how would you know what went on inside the Regulars’ barracks?” a gruff voice said disparagingly.

  “No. It is true. There were Redcoat deserters who came through the lines the following night. They had been told we had no cannons or mortars. There was much distress and confusion in their ranks when our bombardment began.”

  Another voice, deeper chimed in. “I heard our batteries at Lechmere Point struck the Old South Church which the Death Head Dragoons had turned into a stable. Our cannon shot went through the roof and killed a few of them and their horses as well.”

  “Pity about the horses. Though it was Divine punishment being visited on the Dragoons,” someone answered.

  “The British desecrated every church in the city, except for the Episcopal ones of course,” another voice added. “They made the Brattle and Hollis Street Churches their barracks. They used the pulpit area as their latrine. The pews are gone, ripped out and used for firewood.”

  “I used to attend at Hollis Street. At least they are still standing. I heard the Regulars tore down the Old North Church for the timber and for fuel.”

  Will listened as the soldiers’ voices became angrier at the embellished stories of desecration and destruction of Boston’s churches. “I am not surprised. They were Sabbath breakers from the day they occupied Boston,” one said. “More the pity we have to let them depart peacefully, instead of teaching them a lesson on the Heights.”

  “We almost had the battle. I heard, and I cannot say from whom, General Washington was furious we occupied Nook’s Hill. The entire British line erupted in cannon fire against our positions. They say our troops collected more than 500 cannonballs from below Nook’s Hill alone.” 1

  “I would say your source is the orderly who empties the General’s chamber pot,” someone said derisively, “judging by the quality of your information.”

  “Nonsense, men.” Will recognized Lieutenant Hadley’s voice. He opened his eyes and sat up. “Corporal. You are wrong on both counts, but right in the main,” he said, addressing a soldier who was in the process of shaving. “It was closer to 700 cannonballs, all now waiting to be melted down and recast, courtesy of King George.” He executed a low bow toward the Corporal as if greeting the royal monarch. The men smiled and chuckled at Hadley’s mockery. “General Washington has taken note of our Regiment and commended Colonel Knox for his aggressiveness and initiative in seizing Nook’s Hill. The General still fears a ruse and praised us for strengthened our position by moving cannon to a point overlooking the harbour.” He unfastened his cape, threw it over his arm and looked around.

  “Ah, Will. Well rested I see.” He sat down next to him on the cot. “Still in need of a bath though,” he said, wrinkling his nose. He was clean-shaven with his hair brushed and tied in a queue. The brass buttons on his blue waistcoat sparkled in the firelight. “I have brought a clean linen shirt for you to wear,” he said reaching in his leather carrying bag. “And this, both compliments of the Colonel.” He pulled out two envelopes. The handwriting on each was small, neat and cursive, slanting attractively from left to right. In large letters across the middle, it said “For Colonel Henry Knox.” In the lower left hand corner were the words: “Personal Correspondence for Master Willem Stoner.”

  Will instinctively reached for the letters with his right hand. Just as quickly, he dropped his injured hand greasy with pork lard, and took the letters gently in the fingers of his left.

  “I was at headquarters this morning when the Colonel gave them to me,” Hadley said by way of explanation. “My intuition tells me these are from a young lady. Let me see your hand.” Will held out his arm. The Lieutenant took the right wrist in his hand and peered at the palm. “I believe the pork lard has done some good.” He released Will’s hand. “I can see you are eager to read these letters. Perhaps it would do more honor to the young lady who wrote them, if you washed first.” He grinned at Will. “After they have traveled all the way from Albany, it would be a pity to get them smudged now.”

  “How do you know. . .?”

  The Lieutenant laughed. “It came in the pouch from General Schuyler to General Washington. Your true love must have a very influential father. Influential indeed to have such correspondence included.” Will blushed, ashamed of his dirty clothes and appearance, even in the presence of Elisabeth’s letters.

  Later that night, Will crouched on a stool reading the two letters from Elisabeth yet another time. He had waited his turn on line, washing in the wooden tub of lukewarm water, shivering in the cold air of the barracks. Dressed in the clean linen shirt, which was too big for him, he read the letters twice before joining the gun crews at the long tables for food. For once, food didn’t interest him. He ate quickly, washing down the bread, roast meat and beans with bitter hard cider. He left the soldiers to their talk, made louder by an extra ration of rum. He read the letters again and again, until he had them memorized. Each one started off “My Dearest Will,” a salutation that brought a warm flush to his face and turned his thoughts to galloping immediately to Albany. She had received his first letter and decided the distance was too great and her thoughts of him so overwhelming, to wait for a response from him, before writing again. She wrote of her fear for his health and safety, the cold he must be enduring during the journey, the dangers of being with rough men, the possibility of an attack by the British to prevent the train of artil
lery from reaching Cambridge, and the raging of a smallpox epidemic in New York City that she had read about in an Albany paper, wondering whether there was a similar danger in Boston.

  She wrote of the mundane details of her life, all of which made her more real for him- her embroidery of a floral pattern of heather and thistles as a cover for the large armchairs in the front parlor and the book of poems she had been given for her birthday. Will regretfully realized he did not even know the date of her birth. She recalled for him the sermons her family had heard in Church and news from New York City her father passed on at the dinner table. She wrote that every word, reference and bit of news made her think of him, a thought that thrilled him to the core.

  Each time he read both letters, he was elated throughout until he reached a place where his spirits sank. Elisabeth had attended a dinner dance, given by General and Mrs. Schuyler. The small orchestra played all the latest dances. She wrote she had not sat down for one moment, so great was her popularity with the young officers, one in particular having monopolized her for most of the evening. Her words cut directly into Will’s heart. He did not know how to dance. He imagined himself standing outside the General’s ballroom, in his scuffed boots and in his worn brown coat, covering the linen shirt that was too large. In his mind, he saw the Schuyler’s ballroom as the enlarged dining room of Colonel and Mrs. Knox’s house with a long row of chandeliers. Elisabeth’s partner, a Captain, resplendent in a dark blue uniform, looking much like Lieutenant Hadley, moved gracefully around the room with Elisabeth in his arms, as Generals and ladies beamed at the elegant young couple.

  Angrily he thought, who was he to love her. He was nothing but an ignorant farm boy without means or profession. But the ending of her letters rekindled his hope. She wrote she thought of him every spare moment and was frantic for a word from him. She worried for his safety and he must write her in great detail about his life and the great events he was part of. Will went over in his mind the last letter he had composed but had not yet put down on paper. It would not do. He lay down on the cot, closed his eyes, oblivious to the raucous sounds of gun crews celebrating their time away from the Heights and Nooks Hill, and began to write anew to Elisabeth, turning the phrases over in his mind.

  Two days later, after a hearty midday meal, Will returned to Nook’s Hill with Sergeant Merriam and the guns crews who had endured the British bombardment that first day. The men were well fed and cheerful, anticipating a few days of quiet duty followed by a triumphal march into Boston. The weather was cold and clear with little wind to speak of. Rumors swirled through the camp that General Washington would permit only troops who had been inoculated against smallpox to enter the city and that Colonel Knox and the Massachusetts Artillery would be in the vanguard.

  On the narrow path on the back of Nook’s Hill they met the gun crews coming down. The men were silent and grim. Will found their lack of high spirits and boisterousness surprising. After all, they were leaving their tents and the cold windy hill for the comforts of the Regiment’s solid barracks in Cambridge.

  “The Regulars and Tories are plundering the city. You can hear the cries of our innocents day and night,” one of the Sergeants told Merriam as his crew marched morosely past.

  “Tis worse at night, when all you hear are the screams of women and your imagination completes what must be happening below,” he said loud enough for Will and the rest of the crews to hear. “Tis a terrible burden, this duty of permitting the British to commit their depravities and destruction under orders not to fire a shot” he growled, kicking angrily at a loose stone before departing. “Your Lieutenant has been with us watching it all,” he said pointing toward the summit.”

  The gun crews scrambled up the cow path, more slippery now from constant use than when they had first occupied the Hill. They deposited their haversacks and muskets in the empty tents, located closer to the summit now that the danger of British artillery fire was gone, and gathered at the newly reinforced parapet. Will followed them. Lieutenant Hadley was studying the town with his telescope.

  Below, the harbor was a scene of agitation, as if an anthill had been kicked over by a giant boot, and its inhabitants, exposed to the elements for the first time, were racing around in disorganized frenzy. Groups of people crowded the quays, which were piled high with trunks, boxes of every description, and furniture. Carts, wagons, sleds, even wheelbarrows, were lined up, waiting to disgorge their cargo of personal possessions and household items onto the motley assembly of vessels lining the wharves. Streams of people and carts emerged from the streets leading to the harbor, adding to the chaos caused by the press of people and their piles of goods ahead of them.

  “It is the Tories and their families who had sought protection of the King’s troops, who are leaving first,” Lieutenant Hadley said, not taking his eye from the telescope.”

  “There are not enough ships for them and their belongings. Much is being thrown in the harbor.”

  Will watched as sailors on the closest wharf pitched chairs, divans, cupboards, and even a harpsichord into the water, while their owners wailed in protest and tried to protect their other possessions. People carried what they could up the ramps and disappeared below the decks, until finally the gangplanks were hauled aboard. The ship then pushed off from the wharf and moved out into the harbor, to be replaced by another. The entire harbor was dotted with vessels riding low in the water, indicating they were fully loaded with their human cargo of Tories and the personal property they had salvaged. More transports, riding high, angled toward the wharves. 2

  “Look there,” Lieutenant Hadley said, handing the telescope to Sergeant Merriam. “On the east side of The Neck. The warehouses between Arbuthnot’s and Child’s Wharves. See the Redcoats and that group of men.”

  From this distance, Will could see figures in the street, some in red uniforms, others in brown and black coats. “They are loading bales of something onto wagons,” Merriam announced to the others. “My tannery is on Short Street, between those wharves and Essex,” he said. “I know the merchants about and the men who own and work in those warehouses.”

  “We all have family, relatives and friends in the town,” Lieutenant Hadley replied. “They will not be safe until General Howe, his troops and their Loyalist toadies have embarked and left us in peace.”

  Will remained on the parapet for a while, fixing the scene in his mind. He listened to the angry talk of the gun crews, obsessing first over what they could see at the warehouses and then what they could not observe but only imagine as the troops disappeared down the narrow streets, followed by carts laden with their plunder.

  Lieutenant Hadley lent Will his field desk, ink and a quill and offered his tent as well. Will spent the remainder of late afternoon, transcribing his letter to Elisabeth from memory. He wrote slowly and carefully, pleased his hand had healed enough for him to comfortably grip the quill.

  It was a long letter. He mentioned the bombardment of Nook’s Hill, omitting anything about his burned hand or pulling a fuse from the live shell that had landed amidst the powder boxes. He ended with a description of the harbor and the British plundering of the city, adding what the Lieutenant had told him, that Mrs. Knox’s mother and siblings would be embarking with General Howe. The Colonel’s wife would be without her mother or sisters with the birth of the Colonel’s first child so imminent. He recalled the wistful look on Lucy Knox’s face at dinner when she had spoken of her parents. He knew she would be sorrowful at being separated from her family. The sentiment he expressed about her was correct. It felt peculiar to be writing it to Elisabeth. He stared at the words. If he could have crossed them out, he would have. Elisabeth would think him foolish for mentioning it. Her Captain at the dance would not have done so. With that thought, he was overcome by a feeling of hopelessness. Writing Elisabeth was an act of futility, a message from his heart for her affection that would not and never could be returned.

  “Finished writing to your true love?” Hadley said ch
eerfully, returning to his tent. He unclasped his cape and tossed it nonchalantly on to the cot. “I hope so. I am dining with the Colonel and Mrs. Knox tonight and can deliver your letter to him for the next dispatches to General Schuyler.” He winked at Will, who suppressed his melancholy thoughts, dipped the quill in the ink and added the last line: I conclude in haste in order my letter be included in the pouch. I trust this hurriedness will not offend you and ask you continue to keep me in your thoughts and prayers. You are always in mine. He signed it Your Dearest Friend and folded it carefully in half.

  Lieutenant Hadley offered him an envelope. Will shook his head.

  “Please, Will. My personal gift to the continuing courtship of your lady love.” His brown eyes shone in the candlelight. Will took the envelope, addressed it and handed it back to Hadley. It seemed as if he was irrevocably committing himself to a course of action he could not control, nor have much hope for a favorable outcome. Still, he had written the letter and it must be sent.

  Hadley stood up from the camp chair, smoothed his coat, placed the tri-corn on his head and threw his cape over his arm. “The wind remains from the southeast. The British will not leave until it is favorable. Perhaps in another day or so. Keep your spirits up, Will.” Hadley commanded. “We all are anxious to get to Boston.” He ducked through the tent flap with a wave of his gloves.

  There were few stars in the sky that cloudy night. Will joined Merriam and the others at the cooking fires. Their subdued conversation was interrupted by occasional musket shots from the town, sounds of glass being broken, shouting of unintelligible words, and occasionally, a woman’s piercing scream. At that sound, all conversation would cease, a soldier or two would walk to the parapet and look down into the blackness of Boston, where only a few buildings were lit by candles, before returning.

  “I can hear drunken men singing,” one of the soldiers said.