War

by Edward Cline

  “Look at Charlestown,” said one of the men. “It’s burning.” Everyone turned to look in that direction. What buildings they could see were indeed afire. They had not had the time to notice what was happening on that side of the peninsula. They would learn later that a British warship had fired a carcass, or incendiary shell, at the village, which was defended by Americans who had been firing on the rear ranks of the marines and regulars assaulting the south side of the redoubt. There were no means and no time to fight the blaze, and the Americans were driven out.

  John Proudlocks came up to Jack Frake. He, too, held a pipe. “It’s the Monongahela again, Jack. Do you remember?”

  Jack Frake shook his head once and jerked it back to the field behind him. “Look at that, John. I don’t need to remember the Monongahela. One slaughter is enough.”

  After a moment, Proudlocks asked, “Thought of Etáin?”

  Jack Frake merely smiled in answer.

  After a moment of silence, Proudlocks seemed to reach a decision. “I’ve been thinking of Lydia,” he said.

  Jack Frake grinned in surprise. He asked, softly, so no one else could hear, “Lydia Heathcoate, our seamstress?”

  Proudlocks cocked his head once in acknowledgement. “We’ve been keeping it quiet — ” He stopped speaking and pointed past his friend’s shoulder. “Look!”

  Jack Frake turned. The British had formed up again, both grenadiers and regulars. As he watched, on commands he could not hear, the ranks grounded their muskets, lay them down with bayonets pointed at the rail fence and breastwork, removed their knapsacks, and lay them in the grass, one company after another. On more commands, the soldiers retrieved their weapons and rested them against their shoulders, ready to assault the hill again.

  It was then that the British field guns, scattered from Moulton’s Hill to the outskirts of Charlestown, and oddly silent until now, began firing. Jock Fraser yelled, “Guess they found a way to ignite sugar, Captain!” The howitzers lobbed balls inside the redoubt, while the two twelve-pounders and four of the field guns blasted away at the breastwork and redoubt.

  The other two field guns were aimed at the rail fence. They fired consecutively.

  The first ball raised dust on the unoccupied hillside above them. The second struck the fence with a crash somewhere on Jack Frake’s left. He heard a scream and a shout and an instant later he and Proudlocks were showered with flying splinters. And blood. They dropped their pipes and made the platoons ready to receive the next charge. The drums had begun beating again. Jack Frake wiped his brow with a sleeve. He did not notice the blood and smudges of black powder on it that came off with the sweat.

  Smoke from the British guns and the fires in Charlestown drifted toward the rail fence. Through it the Virginians saw the lines move forward, then, to their amazement, pivot enmasse to the right, like a pendulum, and sweep in the direction of the breastwork and redoubt. Not one officer or enlisted man looked in the direction of the rail fence; it was as though the men at the rail fence were not there to notice. The lines did not stop moving. On another command, the grenadiers and regulars shouted “Huzzah!” and swung their muskets down, bayonets at the ready. Then the drums beat a faster cadence, and the lines broke into a quick march, almost a trot, and rushed up the hill, quickly enough for the king’s and regimental colors to ripple in the breeze. More British fell, but the lines kept moving.

  Jack Frake espied a party of horsemen in red at the far end of the lines, out of musket range. The generals, he thought.

  “They’re passing us by!” shouted Fraser, outraged. As if to contradict him, a ball from one of the field guns struck the soil in front of the fence and splattered the Virginians with pebbles and dirt.

  “They’ll cut us off from Bunker and a way out of here if they take the breastwork!” added Jude Kenny. Even as he spoke, they watched the northern men at the breastwork fall back as the twelve-pounders and field guns found their mark and razed it in geysers of rails, hay and stones. Only a few muskets among the northern men fired back at the swiftly advancing British.

  The guns at the redoubt did not answer.

  “They’re out of powder,” said Jack Frake. He glanced around. On both sides of the Virginians, the Connecticut and New Hampshire men saw the dilemma as well as he did. Staying here meant entrapment on this corner of the peninsula, with no means of escape, and assault from the land and by the warships. Already the northern men were abandoning the rail and moving up the hill toward Bunker.

  Jack Frake turned again and saw another column of redcoats, independent of the main attack, marching up the hill. As he watched, it swung out into two lines and advanced without missing a step. The British in it looked fresh, although a few had bandaged heads. He thought there might be four or five hundred of them. Reserves, thought Jack Frake. He did not recognize the uniforms. There were grenadiers, but they were not as tall as the ones from the first two charges. The regulars accompanying them did not share the same color coat facings on their uniforms. Probably the remnants of companies decimated in the first two charges, he thought. They were marching for the rail fence. He heard commands relayed down the line, and another “Huzzah!” as the muskets and bayonets came down.

  “All right!” shouted Jack Frake. “We’re finished here! Up the hill to Bunker, but in good order!”

  The Virginians turned and began moving up the hill in platoons. Jock Fraser snatched up the ensign and ran ahead to lead the way. Jack Frake and Proudlocks trailed behind.

  They had not gone many yards when Colonel Stark emerged from the smoke and confusion with a company of New Hampshire men. He came alongside Jack Frake and yelled as they moved uphill, as balls from the field guns fell around them, “Captain Frake, I want you to join some of my men to cover our fellows from the breastwork and redoubt — do you see? the lobster-backs are already there! — so they aren’t chased down while they show tail! The British can’t shoot well, but they’re hell with the bayonet and we aren’t! Keep them off our men until we’re over the Neck. We’ve got to save this army to fight another day! Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If anything happens to me, you take orders from Captain Knowlton or Captain Dearborn here!”

  Jack Frake glanced at the colonel’s companion, and nodded.

  They all looked down at the oncoming British. “Fusiliers, Captain Frake, or what’s left of them! They’re plenty mad after the licking we gave them at the beach! Left them in piles! Those regulars look like business, too! Don’t let them get near you!” He slapped Jack Frake’s shoulder. “Your face is dirty, guess you’ve been shooting! You Virginians aren’t all pen and paper, after all! Good luck!” Without further word, Stark and Dearborn sprinted off to join other New Hampshire companies, leaving the one that accompanied them behind.

  The supporting field guns stopped firing. The American tide flowed uphill, pursued by the red.

  To the right of the Company, northern men were pausing in flight to pour volleys into the British as they swarmed past the breastwork. By now, many British were dashing over the abandoned breastwork and through the gap into the redoubt or over the parapet; others were in pursuit of the defenders. Jack Frake looked down the hill and saw the Fusiliers climbing over the rail fence the Company had abandoned only moments before. He ordered the Company to halt and fire in platoons, and each platoon to move up the hill once it had discharged its muskets.

  His men obeyed without question. They brought down a soldier who carried the Fusiliers’ regimental colors, a sergeant, an officer, and several rank and file. But the mass of red pressed forward. Half the soldiers were over the fence by now. The New Hampshire and Connecticut men to the Company’s left were firing into the British farther down the rail fence, delaying the advance.

  Jack Frake knew that as long as they kept the British at bay, they would be safe, but there was a risk that if he moved the Company too slowly uphill, they could be surrounded by redcoats, and that would be the end. A quick appraisal of
his dilemma revealed that he was protecting the flank of the northern men retreating from the rail fence, who in turn were covering the men retreating from the breastwork and redoubt. He tried to keep pace with the retreating northern men, but it was difficult.

  Just as he noticed that a redcoat had picked up the regimental colors, he saw a line of Fusiliers and regulars pause to take up firing positions. “Present firelocks!” shouted a sergeant.

  “First two platoons, fire! Now!” Jack Frake yelled, even though he was in the line of fire. Proudlocks, closer to the first two platoons, relayed the command.

  “Fire!” shouted a British lieutenant.

  Thundering flame from the British muskets shot up at Jack Frake, and flame exploded from behind him. Something struck his steel gorget and blinded him for a second. When he recovered his sight and hearing a second later, he saw that several of the Fusiliers and regulars had fallen. Without taking his eyes off the enemy, he stumbled backwards and tripped on a body. He looked down. It was “Shootin’ legislation”; a musket ball had pierced his neck and come out the other side. He turned and waved the Company further up the hill, then followed it. On his way up, he stepped over the bodies of two more of his men. He did not have time to see who they were.

  Jack Frake, struggling against the smoke of the guns and muskets that stung his eyes and made him cough, happened to glance up at the Company ensign that now rippled in the wind over his men’s heads. The words in the cobalt canton commanded his attention for a brief, eternal moment: Live free, or die. Yes! he thought. Yes! I will! Yes, Augustus! Yes, Redmagne! I know! I know! I’ve known all these years, what you knew that day in Falmouth! Then the thought was gone, the thought of a man who was certain he was near his end — a thought quick and fleetingly final and glorious in its dedication.

  “Push on, men! Push on! They’re on the run!”

  He heard the voice, and turned to see, not five yards from him, a regular officer holding up a sword, looking back at a clot of hesitant Fusiliers and regulars, urging them to follow.

  “Push on, men! We have them! For king and country, push on!”

  Jack Frake stood to his full height, raised his musket, pulled back the hammer, readied his finger on the trigger, and aimed for the officer’s heart.

  The officer turned to look up. His face was taut with purpose. It was a handsome, boyish face, unafraid, confident, and enthused in expectation of victory. But the officer’s expression turned, first to surprise when it saw the muzzle of a musket leveled at his heart, then to brave acceptance of the inevitable, and finally to astonishment when he glimpsed the face behind the hammer.

  The officer’s mouth opened in recognition of Jack Frake, and in the instant that he pressed the trigger, Jack Frake recognized Roger Tallmadge.

  It was a mercifully clean shot. Roger Tallmadge jerked backwards, his tricorn flying off, still gripping his sword, then fell and rolled downhill to rest at the feet of some Fusiliers, leaving the sword behind in the trampled grass.

  This time it was Jack Frake who stood in immobilizing astonishment, staring at the man he had just killed. He did not notice a Fusilier corporal rush at him with a lowered bayonet, yelling, “You bloody rebel!” He did not notice John Proudlocks suddenly appear and knock the corporal’s weapon aside with his musket, then raise his musket and slam the butt end of it into the corporal’s face. The corporal fell backwards into a pair of regulars.

  Jack Frake regained full consciousness only when Proudlocks yanked him around by the arm and pulled him uphill.

  “Are you all right?” asked Proudlocks as they moved.

  “Yes,” answered Jack Frake.

  “I saw,” said Proudlocks. “I know.”

  “What do you know?” demanded Jack Frake. “What did you see?”

  “Tallmadge. Mr. Kenrick’s friend.”

  Jack Frake instead ordered, “Get with your platoon! We’ll fire on them again!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  * * *

  By dusk, the guns, muskets, and drums were silent. The only sounds heard by the victors on the Charlestown peninsula now were the moans, wails, and pleadings of the wounded. When night fell, dozens of flambeaux moved about the darkened hills in search of those sounds.

  Most of the Americans had fled across the Neck, some over the causeway to Cobble Hill on the mainland, and made their way back to Cambridge. It was a rout, but an orderly one. The Americans knew they had inflicted significant casualties on the British, who did not pursue them off the peninsula. Lacking specific information, they could not decide whether the British dared not or could not attempt to disperse them further beyond Bunker Hill. They were grateful that the momentum of defeat ended once the Neck was behind them. Most of the army had been saved to fight another day, as Colonel Stark had hoped it would be.

  The British counted over one thousand casualties, a quarter of them dead. Over ninety officers perished. The victors, licking their wounds and beginning to comprehend the enormous cost of their success, could not quite savor it. General Henry Clinton, who had come across from Boston to join in the battle, and who had ridden up to Breed’s Hill only to find officerless troops wondering what to do next, wrote that it was “a dear bought victory. Another such would have ruined us.”

  The Americans, after the militiamen and regiments completed their roll calls, estimated they had lost over a hundred dead, and counted nearly three hundred wounded. How many had been captured, they did not know. More than a score of the dead, men trapped inside the redoubt as the British poured in, were bayoneted by vengeful redcoats.

  In one of the ironic coincidences of the battle, Major John Pitcairn, whose men had fired on the militia on Lexington Green in April, died with scores of his marines during a second assault on the south slope of Breed’s Hill, while Dr. Joseph Warren, the man who had sent riders to alert the militia of the British march to Lexington and Concord, died while trying to leave Breed’s Hill.

  The Queen Anne Volunteer Company had survived almost intact. It marched resolutely back across the Neck, in formation, while hundreds of other Americans dashed across it under further bombardment by the floating batteries on the Charles. Colonel Stark, marching with his own men across the Neck, had observed the coolness of the Company in action, and now in retreat, and it inspired his further admiration.

  But the mood inside the Company’s camp at Cambridge was as somber as it was in all the units that camped again near the headquarters. Five more of its number had perished on the peninsula, mostly from musket fire from the pursuing British, including Jude Kenny. Once the fires had been lit to warm their food, hands and souls, a few of the men permitted themselves to cry in relief or in horror. Most men sat around their fires that night and traded anecdotes about close calls and lost friends, and speculated about what would happen next. And all of them regarded Jack Frake with gratitude, for his ruthless leadership during the retreat had more than once saved them from certain death or perilous capture.

  What will you do? Jack Frake asked himself in his mind, over and over again.

  “What will you do?” asked John Proudlocks, who sat next to him at one of the fires. He brought two battered pewter mugs of coffee from another platoon’s campfire, and gave one to his captain.

  Jack Frake took it and sipped the acrid brew first, before answering. “About what?”

  “Captain Tallmadge.”

  “Tell him the truth,” replied Jack Frake without emphasis.

  “The captain was his friend.”

  Will he remain mine? thought Jack Frake. They were both thinking of Hugh Kenrick.

  “Did you know it was him?” asked Proudlocks.

  “Not until it was too late.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  After a moment, Jack Frake answered, “No.” Not even if he does not remain my friend, he thought to himself. He paused. “No more about it, John. I am tired.”

  “Yes, Jack.” Proudlocks sipped his coffee.

  “Thank you for clubbing that
Fusilier,” said Jack Frake. “I didn’t see him coming.”

  “You already thanked me.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I did. On the Neck, on our way back.”

  Jack Frake had already tortured himself in wondering if it had been possible — if the fraction of a second could have existed — to lower or shift his musket a fraction of an inch, and simply wound Tallmadge, perhaps in the arm, or in the leg, and stopped him from rallying his troops, but left him alive.

  But he knew he was torturing himself needlessly; he knew that the fraction of a second never existed. By the time he recognized the face, the flint and the spark and the powder had already sent the ball on its journey down the barrel and out the muzzle.

  But then, he thought, Tallmadge was there, serving the Crown, taking part in an effort to conquer the colonies. He was the enemy. Why was he there? Tallmadge himself had told him, over supper at Meum Hall the previous June, that he planned to sail back to England when he reached Boston, possibly to resign his commission in the army and work at Hugh’s father’s bank, or at least apply for an assignment, possibly as a consular military attaché on the Continent, that did not conflict with his reservations about what Parliament wished to do in the colonies. “It’s plum duty, Mr. Frake,” he heard the voice saying with a gaiety that tried to mask embarrassment.

  But Tallmadge was there, and he had died.

  No one else in the company but John Proudlocks knew the significance of the incident.

  Jack Frake’s gorget now had an indentation. A ball that was deflected from the steel had nearly obliterated aude in the inscription. Jock Fraser was the first to notice it, once they had reached their old campground. “God’s oath, Mr. Frake!” he exclaimed as he examined the whorl in the gorget, “I was only jesting there in Yorktown! Thank God it wasn’t tin or copper! You owe Mr. Kenrick some thanks for it!” Jack Frake smiled humorlessly in reply. Make up your mind, he thought to himself: Thank God, or thank Mr. Kenrick. God, however, might be more forgiving; Mr. Kenrick may wish it had been tin or copper.