War

by Edward Cline

  “‘Live free or die,’” said his companion. “Well, they march a bit like the bloody-backs, but those Virginians are flying the right idea.”

  The Company followed other units to the Charlestown Neck, crossed it with them, passed Bunker Hill, and then marched down a road to Breed’s Hill into a square redoubt that Prescott’s men had built overnight. The eastern and western sides of the hill were steep, too steep for an assault, but the southern and northern sides were sloped and vulnerable. The redoubt’s walls were constructed of earth, wicker baskets filled with dirt, and fascines. Field guns were being positioned at the redoubt’s walls. Men were rushing back and forth to construct a breastwork on the northeast side of the redoubt. Dust from their efforts and from cannon balls that fell short of the redoubt was mixed with clouds of smoke from the warships drifting over the peninsula.

  Five warships fired at the hill, and several gunboats or floating batteries from the Charles River, as well. It was eleven-thirty in the morning. Cannon balls from the gunboats had shrieked over the heads of Jack Frake’s men on the Neck to plop harmlessly in the Mystic River. They still came, but fell far short of their target, the redoubt. Jack Frake saw the northern men working feverishly to construct the breastwork. He ordered his men to fall out, stack their arms, and pitch in to help complete it. This they did without hesitation.

  Shortly after noontime, the roars of the British warships increased. Prescott urged his men to finish the breastwork. Jack Frake and Jock Fraser mounted the parapet facing Charlestown. With his spyglass Jack Frake counted nearly thirty barges being rowed in procession from Boston in the direction of Moulton’s Hill. They were thick with redcoats, and the sun winked ominously on fifteen hundred upright, fixed bayonets and on the cap plates of hundreds of grenadiers.

  Behind them, a voice said, “It will take them some time to set up, once they land.” Jack Frake and Fraser turned to face Prescott. “In the meantime, Captain, do you see that rail fence there?”

  Jack Frake turned north and nodded. A rough wooden fence spanned the pastureland from about one hundred feet north of the breastwork in the direction of the Mystic River. He saw militiamen working hurriedly to reinforce it with stones and cover it with hay. The fence, once fortified and manned, would protect the left flank of the redoubt and Bunker Hill, as well. “Yes, sir?”

  “March your company out and join Captain Knowlton and his Connecticut men there. I have it from Ward that he’s sending over Colonel Stark’s two New Hampshire regiments. I’ll put them on the fence, too.” He paused. “I should warn you it’s likely that’s where Howe will concentrate an attack.”

  “How do you know it will be his attack?”

  Prescott held up his own spyglass. “I saw him on one of the barges. I guess Gage liked his plan best, whatever it might be.” He gestured to Moulton’s Hill. Already there was a great clot of redcoats assembled by the small hill, and it grew bigger as the barges disgorged the troops.

  “There’s a gap between your breastwork and that fence, sir,” observed Jack Frake.

  “I know,” answered Prescott. “Let’s hope Howe’s men don’t get that far.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack Frake and Fraser jumped down from the redoubt. The Company’s men collected their arms, formed up, and marched out of the redoubt and through the grass to join the Connecticut men. Jack Frake had made Samuel Knowlton’s acquaintance yesterday when he toured the camps at Cambridge. Again, the Company stacked arms and pitched in to reinforce the fence.

  At about one o’clock, when the task was nearly completed, Colonel Stark marched in along the fence with his regiments from Breed’s Hill. He assigned companies of the New Hampshire men to positions with the Connecticut troops. With him was Colonel James Reed, who led one of the regiments. As he passed by Jack Frake, Stark tipped his hat in greeting. “Welcome to hell, Captain. Good luck.”

  “And you, sir,” answered Jack Frake, tipping his hat in turn.

  Stark marched with the remainder of his men to the Mystic River and the beach below a bluff, where they proceeded to erect a wall of stone on the beach to protect that flank.

  Jack Frake turned and used his spyglass to observe the British. He saw them forming up in three long lines, grenadiers first, one behind the other, nearly a thousand feet away. Every one of the grenadiers carried a full pack on his back. In addition, troops were pulling artillery into place to support the infantry. Jock Fraser said, “Eight guns, Mr. Frake. Six-pounders, twelve-pounders, and two howitzers. They mean to smash us by bayonet or ball.”

  A slight breeze played lazily with the regimental colors of the British. Travis Barret glanced over at the Company’s ensign, which Fraser had planted in some grass behind the Company. It undulated in the warm air, as well. “Wind’s from the south, Mr. Frake,” he remarked.

  Jack Frake heard the fear in the young man’s words. He smiled reassuringly at him. “So are we.” Then he turned to Fraser. “Jock, tell the men to load their pieces.”

  Jock Fraser left to walk up and down the Company line to relay the order. John Proudlocks strode leisurely over to Jack Frake. He grinned and said casually, “Here we are again, Jack.”

  “Again, John? We’ve always been here, you and I.” Jack Frake paused, then said gruffly. “Get back to your men. When they come at us up the hill, we’ll give them a taste of their own discipline, and fire in successive platoons. Four. Tell Mr. Fraser that.”

  Proudlocks answered, “Yes, sir.” He turned and walked away. He knew that his friend felt the same pit in his stomach as he did.

  Jack Frake busied himself loading his own musket, and succeeded in stopping the shaking in his hands, so that only a few grains of powder fell from his powder horn to the ground as he filled the flash pan. He did not relish the prospect of killing any British. But they had made it necessary. He glanced at his men preparing themselves to fire, eyes fixed on the impressive lines of red below. He wondered what they thought about it.

  And he thought of Etáin, safely in Edinburgh. He had not yet received a letter from her. Perhaps one was waiting for him at Morland Hall. He must make sure that he returned home to read it.

  When he was finished loading his musket, he walked up and down the line, and his words were punctuated by the sound of guns firing from the warships. “Men, we opposed their Stamp Act and every other law they passed to enslave us. We would not obey those laws. The soldiers you see down there are just as much a part of those laws as the men who created the laws. They are how the king and Parliament always meant to enforce them. Those soldiers are the power behind the laws. That’s what you should think as you bring them down as they advance.”

  “Shootin’ legislation?” queried one of the men. “No trouble with that, Captain! Look at all those laws!” he exclaimed, pointing to the lines of redcoats. “Let’s repeal ’em!”

  Many of the men around him laughed at the remark.

  “Yes,” said Jack Frake. “That’s the way to think of it today.”

  “Good point,” said Proudlocks, who had studied law in London. “Wish I’d made it.”

  As the Company reformed into four lines behind the fence, the roar of guns from the warships abated, and they heard the beat of a score of drums and the faint shriek of many fifes. The lines of redcoats began to advance up the hill toward the rail fence.

  Jack Frake conceded to himself that the sight was majestic. Even magnificent. He took the spyglass from his pack and swept it over the front rank, studying the faces. He could see that every British soldier looked stolidly ahead of him, brow and mouth grim, musket poised straight up to lean on his left shoulder. The grenadiers were tall, their bearskin caps made them appear taller, and their fixed bayonets soared almost two feet above the bearskins. They looked formidable and unbeatable. But he knew they were men, and that any one of them would die just as quickly as short men with a well-placed musket ball. Many of the grenadiers were handsome, worthy-looking men. He was sorry they would need to die.

  He slid the spygla
ss back into his pack and observed his own men. Many of them stared with wide-eyed fixation on the advancing spectacle; it was a new phenomenon to them, the terrifying pageantry of parade ground warfare. Some were swallowing their spit, others wiping their brows of sweat that was not entirely drawn by the heat and sun.

  John Proudlocks, in command of the rear fourth platoon, watched with calm, almost studious regard, as though he were listening to a lecture at the Middle Temple in London. Jock Fraser, in charge of the third, watched the advancing army with a faint, greedy smile, as though a meal were coming to him. Jude Kenny, in command of the second platoon, watched with disbelief. Travis Barret, in the second platoon, stood biting his lip; Cletus, behind him in the third, watched with the air of a prince.

  Jack Frake glanced to his left and saw the Connecticut and New Hampshire men had made ready. Some were kneeling, muskets or rifles already aimed, trigger fingers curled to fire; others lay on the ground, the barrels of their weapons steadied atop a rail or stone.

  As the British drums and the tramp of the grenadiers’ boots came closer, Jack Frake yelled to the first platoon, “When they’re fifty yards away, fire on my order. Don’t waste your shots.”

  Cannon fire erupted from Breed’s Hill, but the iron balls fell short of the first line, bounded uselessly, and disappeared in the grass. There were remnants of fences and large rocks, and when the tightly organized line of grenadiers encountered them their formation was broken up. As the grenadiers scrambled on command from their officers and sergeants to reform their lines, the northern men behind the fence opened fire. At the same time, the guns from Breed’s Hill found their range and ploughed iron through the confused mass of redcoats. Muskets also fired from the redoubt, but Jack Frake did not think many could be effective from that distance.

  “First platoon, fire!” shouted Jack Frake, and he brought up his musket to his shoulder and fired.

  Many grenadiers died swiftly, silently, and fell like knocked over dolls. Others screamed in pain, fell, writhed on the ground, then were still. Others stumbled to their knees, dropping their muskets to clutch at their heads or limbs. The second line of grenadiers moved forward and became merged with the remnants of the first.

  “Mr. Kenny, second platoon, please!” shouted Jack Frake as he reloaded. At first he thought he could not be heard over the deafening musket blasts on either side of him. But he was heard.

  Jude Kenny shouted, “Fire!” The second platoon fired.

  Jack Frake finished replacing his ramrod under the barrel. Redcoats were still falling. He saw a drummer boy in the rear swing wildly around as he was hit. When he fell, his drum came loose from his strap and rolled back down the hill. “Third platoon, Mr. Fraser!”

  The third platoon fired.

  “Mr. Proudlocks!”

  The fourth platoon fired.

  By now the smoke from so many muskets created a bluish-gray cloud over and in front of the rail fence. It was rising and thinning, but too slowly for any man to see through it yet.

  “Hold your fire until we have targets, men!” shouted Jack Frake. He risked a glance at his men. Some were visibly shaken and had trouble filling their flash pans or fixing their ramrods into the muzzles. Some men took swigs from their canteens, others from black liquor flasks.

  Jack Frake glanced to his left and right. The northern men on both sides of him were still firing into the curtain of smoke, certain of hitting a soldier. Then he heard an explosion of musketry from the direction of Mystic beach. Stark’s men, he thought. Musket fire on the other side of Breed’s Hill also grew in intensity. He had forgotten about the troops he had seen marching south in the direction of Charlestown. Howe must have launched an attack on the south end of Breed’s Hill, as well.

  The smoke cleared enough now in front of the Company that they could see that the grenadiers had gained ground after the first volley, but now were retreating back down the hill. Some cheering was heard on either side of the Queen Anne Volunteer Company.

  “That’s strange, Mr. Frake,” said Jock Fraser. “None of their artillery fired.”

  Jack Frake shrugged. He was too distracted to speculate on why. “Perhaps they brought the wrong ordnance, or packed sugar instead of powder.” Down the hill, the grenadiers had withdrawn completely out of range of muskets and the cannon at the redoubt. The grass on the slope below was littered with inert red figures. Even the firing at the beach had diminished to single, distinguishable musketry.

  Jack Frake witnessed something he had seen at Monongahela twenty years ago. Soldiers were removing their officer’s red sashes and using them as litters to carry their owners from the field. Most of the downed officers seemed to be dead; others gestured crazily in the air. One officer still gripped his sword and waved it as though still urging his troops on. Some grenadiers limped away from the field; others could be seen crawling. Officers ran onto the field to retrieve fallen colors.

  “Captain Frake,” said John Proudlocks. Jack Frake turned. “They must have got off some shots.” He nodded to a man at the far end of the third platoon. The man lay on his stomach, his face turned in Jack Frake’s direction, a look of surprise on it. He had been hit in the midst of reloading his musket; the ramrod protruded from the muzzle. Jack Frake knew the man only slightly; he had been a small farmer near Proudlocks’s Sachem Hall.

  “That’s a shame,” said Jock Fraser. “Someone close his eyes.”

  Jack Frake looked away, reached for his canteen, and took a long draught of water.

  Some twenty minutes later, the grenadiers and supporting regular infantry had formed in lines again. The drums began beating the march, and they could hear officers and sergeants shout commands. The glittering red beast moved inexorably forward over the grass dotted with fallen grenadiers. It was advancing directly for the rail fence.

  “This is hellishly easy,” said Jock Fraser. There was a note of disapproval in his words. “If they came at us in columns instead of lines, we wouldn’t stand a chance. Why don’t they?”

  Jack Frake shook his head. “Because their general believes them invincible. Take your place, Mr. Fraser. This is no time to discuss foolishness.”

  The cannon from the redoubt opened up again, cutting swathes through the ordered ranks of redcoats. And when the wave reached fifty yards, the men at the rail fence and breastwork delivered a thunderous volley and kept firing. Jack Frake’s platoons this time were able to fire two volleys each.

  Again the disposition of the enemy was obscured by a thick pall of smoke. And when it cleared, the grenadiers and regulars had retreated again, leaving more dead and wounded in the grass.

  The northern men to the right continued to fire until they realized that none of their bullets were finding a target, but dropping uselessly among the dead and wounded below.

  Jack Frake stepped up on one of the fence rails and looked to his right at the breastwork further down the line. It was almost parallel with the rail fence. He noted the gap between the fence and the breastwork, and remembered Prescott’s hope that the British would not come that far.

  Then he glanced back down at the redcoats, and wondered if they had enough resolve left to try. He took out his spyglass and surveyed the carnage. The grass was strewn with hundreds of British, this time with many regulars as well as grenadiers. Some of the shapes still moved. He saw another officer being taken from the field on his sash by a pair of drummer boys. Half of the man’s right arm was gone, and he could not discern where the bloody stump ended and the torn red sleeve began. In the man’s other hand were his regiment’s colors on a broken pike, dragging over the grass and bodies as the drummers carried the man off. A ball from the redoubt must have severed both the arm and the pike. The officer’s mouth was open, and he thought he could hear it emit a howl.

  The sight appalled Jack Frake, and clashed with his hope that the British had had enough.

  “Reload, men,” he said as he stepped down from the fence, “and rest easy. They won’t try again for a while.�
�� It was a redundant order. The men of the Company had already reloaded and were standing at ease. Jack Frake reloaded his musket and rested his back against the fence. When he was finished, he happened to glance up at the ensign fluttering idly behind their position. There were two holes in it that were not there before. Beyond the ensign, he saw Bunker Hill and men standing atop it.

  Captain Knowlton came down the line, checking on the units. He stopped and asked Jack Frake, “How’s your powder, Mr. Frake?”

  “We’ve enough, and lead, too.”

  “Good. Lose anyone?”

  “One man, during the first charge.”

  “We lost a couple, too. But I’m worried about the redoubt. Mr. Prescott has little powder to spare. General Ward’s been very careful with the munitions.”

  “Where is General Ward?” asked Jack Frake.

  “Probably atop Cobble Hill, watching it all.” Knowlton took out a pipe and packed it with tobacco and lit it with a match as he spoke. “Colonel Stark down on the beach chopped up the Fusiliers who came at us that way. Half of them are still there, dead. They attacked in a column, all bunched together, there was no room for a line, and they died in bunches. They won’t be coming that way again.” Knowlton gestured with his pipe. “Well, I’d better check on the rest of the line. See you back in Cambridge, Captain. Or maybe Boston.” He glanced at the Company. “You Virginians are steady.”

  Jack Frake nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. “I’d like to see Boston,” he answered. He tipped his hat at Knowlton as the man turned and made his way through the Company to the northern men on the right. He remembered then that he had a pipe, as well. He removed it and a pouch from his pack, filled it with tobacco, and lit it. Some of his men saw him with the pipe, and took out their own.

  And someone remembered to remove the dead man’s hat and place it over his closed eyes.

  Chapter 8: The Retreat

  Twenty minutes passed. The sun beat down on living and dead alike. On either side of the Queen Anne Volunteer Company, men congratulated themselves and speculated about what the British would try next, if anything. But the Virginians said little. “Lots of laws repealed down there,” remarked the man who thought of “Shootin’ legislation.” He said it sadly. No one laughed. Jack Frake looked at Travis Barret and Cletus. They smiled back at him, reassured that he seemed calm and unafraid.