Late that afternoon, however, the drama picked up. Washington had sat in the meeting day after day, dressed in a buff and blue uniform. Laddie had stared at him curiously, a tall, tall man, long-faced and wrapped in a deep mantle of silence. His silence was something almost physical and alive, while others raved and John Adams roared, “Oh, the imbeciles! The fools, with all their talk!”
One of the delegates sitting in front of Laddie asked another sitting beside him, “Who is he?”
“Well, nobody important. Name’s Washington. He’s a farmer from Virginia.”
“Well, he looks important,” the other said.
“He’s rich—maybe as rich as Hancock.”
“He never speaks?”
“No.”
“Maybe he’s got nothing to say?”
Later in the day, Sam Adams motioned to Laddie. He was talking to his cousin John, and he paused long enough to dictate a note; then as Laddie was writing it, Sam Adams asked, “How much is this Washington worth?”
“Got as much money as any man in America,” John Adams said.
Sam gave him a sharp look, then said, “He’s the one I want.”
“Commander in chief? Hancock wants it like he wants heaven!”
Sam grinned at his cousin. “You want it, too, don’t you, John?”
“Yes—but I can’t wear a uniform.”
“We’ve got to have somebody from the South, John—you know that!”
They both knew it, for the New England delegations were safe, but southerners would not follow a leader from that area. The two men talked about it at length; then Laddie heard John Adams say, “All right, Sam, I’ll nominate him.”
“Hancock will blow up!”
“He’ll have to go along.”
Late that afternoon, John Adams rose and talked about qualifications needed for a commander in chief. Most of the delegates thought he was speaking for Hancock, and Hancock himself was flushed and looked around the room with a smile.
Then Adams said, “Gentlemen, the qualifications are high, but we must not make a mistake in this matter. Do we have such a man? I say that we do, and I nominate George Washington of Virginia!”
Hancock’s face turned pale, and Washington got up and left the room without a word.
And that had been it.
Washington was elected, and the country had a new leader.
Laddie was anxious to return to Boston, for there had been a flock of rumors about the wire-tight tensions of that city, but Adams had said, “I want Washington to hear your report.” Two days later Laddie was startled as Sam Adams grabbed her arm and whispered, “Come along—Washington wants to hear what you’ve brought.”
She followed him, her nervousness rising, and then she entered the large room where Washington sat at a desk flanked by two men. She recognized them as General Charles Lee and General Philip Schuyler.
“General, this is Laddie Smith,” Adams said, then stepped back.
Washington looked up, and Laddie saw lines of fatigue on his craggy face, and his voice was raspy as he said, “What’s the situation there, Mr. Smith?”
Laddie gave him the information from Nathan, and he looked interested at once. He said nothing, but when she had finished, he nodded and said, “Tell Mr. Winslow we appreciate his help.”
The interview was over, but Laddie swallowed and said quickly, “General, Mr. Knox gave me some information on the location of troops around Boston.”
“Henry Knox?” Washington’s face broke into a smile, and he said, “I might have expected it.” He looked at the thin, ugly man who was half-listening to the report, and said, “You must get to know Henry Knox, General Lee.”
“Who is he?” Lee was an Englishman, had served in Europe and was reputed to be an excellent soldier.
“A bookseller from Boston,” Washington smiled. “But he’s studied gunnery out of his books—knows more about cannon than any man in America, I’d guess. I’m going to commission him and put him in charge of our artillery.” Then he reached his hand out and said, “I’ll take the report, Mr. Smith.”
“Well, it’s not in writing, General. Mr. Knox thought it might be safer that way. But I can give it to you orally.”
“Sloppy work!” Lee sighed in disgust.
Washington said quickly, “Give me your report,” and Laddie quickly outlined the position of the British, their numbers and their officers. Then she did the same with the American troops, and as she finished, Washington shot a knowing look at Schuyler, saying evenly, “We must hurry, General. I can’t for the life of me imagine why General Gage hasn’t hit our people!”
“He won’t wait much longer—and our men there need you,” Schuyler nodded. “We’ve got to make an army out of them quickly.”
Washington turned to Laddie and said, “That’s very complete, Mr. Smith. We are in your debt.”
Adams motioned to Laddie, and when they were outside, he said, “Get back to Boston. Tell Knox what’s happened, and tell Winslow to try to find out something about what Gage may do!” Then he put his hand out, a rare smile on his face. “You did well, my boy—very well!”
Laddie hurried away and was on the coach out of Philadelphia three hours later, pleased that it was over and she could go back to Boston. It shocked her to realize how the simple thought of seeing Nathan sent such a thrill of pleasure through her, and she shook her head angrily as the coach rolled along. Don’t think like that—you’re nothing to him!
* * *
Washington assembled a staff hurriedly, and on June 21 he set forth, accompanied by Lee and Schuyler and a brilliant escort. Crowds cheered them in every village as they passed through, but they had not ridden over twenty miles when they were met by a messenger on a lathered, wind-blown horse, who cried out his news: “General—there’s been a battle!”
“Where?” Washington rose in his stirrups, and his face grew flushed.
“Place called Bunker Hill outside of Boston!”
Washington was a huge figure on his white horse, and he asked in an intense voice: “Did the militia fight?”
“Yes, General—like wildcats!”
Washington abruptly looked up to the blue sky, and half raised his hands. Suddenly he clapped them together in a vigorous gesture and cried out in a voice packed with emotion:
“Then the liberties of the country are safe!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“THE WHITES OF THEIR EYES!”
When Laddie returned to Boston, she found the reports of activity had not been exaggerated—for the city swarmed with British regulars. The newly landed generals—Sir William Howe, Henry Clinton, and handsome John Burgoyne—had come to settle the business of rebellion.
Nathan had picked her up in a bear hug when she had come into the warehouse to find him, saying, “Laddie! Bless God! you’re back!” When he put her down, he laughed at her rosy face. “Sorry, Laddie. I guess no young fellow likes to be hugged by a big ugly chap like me, does he now?”
Laddie gave a shake of her head, pulled shut the coat that had popped open, and then smiled. “I guess once won’t hurt, Nathan. I missed you, too.”
He grabbed her arm, pulling her to The Blue Boar, and when Nelson saw Laddie, he called out, “Wife, ’ere’s yer old tenant back again,” and he gave Laddie a swipe on the shoulder.
“Bring us the best you’ve got, Nelson,” Nathan smiled; then he turned to Laddie and his eyes, blue as cornflowers, shone as he said, “Lord, I’ve missed you, boy! Now, tell me everything.”
Laddie told it all, and finally Nathan sat back and stared at her. “So Washington is our commander! By heaven, that’s what we’ll have to have if we’re to get out of this thing with our necks whole.”
“What’s wrong? I thought our men had Boston surrounded? That’s the word we got.”
Nathan shook his head sadly, lines of worry creasing his smooth brow. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with the British officers. Guess it pays to court a Tory girl who moves in their circle
s,” he added wryly, not heeding the sudden frown on Laddie’s face. “And they know about what we know about those units around the city.”
“They’re good men, aren’t they, Nathan?”
“Yes, but untrained and unequipped—and worst of all, they’ve got no leadership.”
Nathan had been so glad to see Laddie that it warmed her to think of it, but in the next few days, he grew sober, and she knew he was fearful of a British attack.
When the attack came, it caught Nathan off guard. On the morning of the seventeenth, he was working at the warehouse, and Laddie looked up to see Henry Knox come in, his face tight with anxiety. She had introduced the two men, and there had been a mutual trust almost instantly.
“What’s wrong, Henry?” Nathan asked, moving to meet him.
“There’s the devil to pay, that’s what!” Knox looked around to be sure they were alone, then said with great agitation, “General Ward’s made a bad mistake—and the British are going to cash in on it. Haven’t you noticed all the troops moving to the ships?”
“Why, I didn’t think anything about it,” Nathan said in surprise. “Howe’s always got them doing some sort of training.”
“Well, this is no drill! They’re moving in force to attack!”
“Where?”
Knox shook his head and there was desperation on his round face. “I tried to get Ward to fortify Dorchester. It’s high enough to command the neck of Boston peninsula—but he picked Charlestown across the James River.”
“Why, that won’t do!” Laddie said at once, a clear picture of the map of Boston springing to her mind.
“You see it, too?” Knox nodded with a grim smile. “Nathan is puzzled. Show him what the problem is.”
Laddie took a sheet of paper, drew a rough map, saying, “See this thing that looks like a polliwog? Well, that’s Charleston—there’s Breed’s Hill and Bunker Hill.”
When Nathan still looked puzzled, she said, “Look, this thing sticks out into the water like a polliwog—it’s attached by this little tail.” She pointed to the thin narrow tail that tied the peninsula to the mainland. If our men are on these heights, all the British have to do is put men ashore at this neck—and our men’ll be trapped like rats.”
“Right!” Knox nodded savagely. “You see it—and I see it—why can’t General Ward see it? By Harry, I wish General Washington were here!”
Nathan stared at him, then said, “What are you going to do, Henry?”
“Going to get myself killed, I suppose,” Knox shrugged. “We’ve got no cannon, not much ammunition, not much of anything—but the fight’s here! It’s time to quit talking and fight, Nathan!”
He wheeled and Nathan caught up with him, his face tense. “I’m going with you.”
Knox stopped, his eyes growing large. “Why, Nathan, you’ll do more good where you are—getting information—”
“Perdition take it all! I’ll not be a spy another day!” His eyes were electric, and stubbornness set his jaw. “I can find my way to Bunker Hill with or without you, Henry—but I’m going!”
Knox clapped him on the shoulder and said, “All right—but you need a musket.”
“Right here!” Nathan ran to the small storeroom and came back with his Kentucky rifle, a small bore rifle, and a shotgun.
Knox stared at the weapons, then threw back his head and laughed. “By Harry, we’ll get them far or near, eh, Winslow? Let’s go.”
“I’ll take the shotgun.” Laddie was holding out her hand, and Nathan was taken off guard.
“Why, Laddie,” he said quickly, “you can’t fight!”
“Why can’t I?” There was a stubbornness on Laddie’s full lips that matched Nathan’s own, and there was determination in the dark eyes of the youth.
Knox stood to one side, his blue-green eyes quizzical. He had grown attached to these young people, and he had heard enough of Caleb’s death from Laddie to know that Nathan Winslow was not ready to suffer another loss. Nathan’s taken Laddie for the brother he lost, he thought. Look at him! He can’t bear to think of losing another one. He said nothing, knowing that it was between the two of them, but he saw that Laddie was determined.
“I can find Bunker Hill, Nathan, just as well without you!”
Knox saw that Nathan was helpless, and he said, “Let the boy come, Nathan. Better with us where we can keep an eye on him, eh?”
Nathan nodded slowly, handing the shotgun to Laddie and the musket to Knox. “I’ll get the powder and balls,” he said quietly, and left Knox and Laddie alone.
“He’s afraid for you, Laddie,” Knox said gently.
“Well, so what?” The dark eyes flashed at him suddenly and Laddie added with just a trace of a quiver: “I’m afraid for him—but he can’t see that.”
Knox put his good hand on her shoulder and said quietly, “God will have to take care of you both, Laddie!”
* * *
“There’s a lot of them, Nathan.” Laddie looked down from the top of Breed’s Hill, the barrel of the shotgun burning her hands. General Ward’s orders had been to fortify Bunker Hill, the higher peak—but the order was misunderstood and Breed’s Hill had been occupied instead. It was closer to the water, to the guns of the Royal Navy, and to the beaches where hostile troops would be landed.
The perfection of a June day wore on, and there was a moving blaze of color as the barges and longboats filled with scarlet-clad regulars unloaded one after another. Drums pounded, fifes cut shrill into the warm air, and a floating pageant lurched out across the Charles River to the silver splash of oars. Men in red and blue—the Royal Regiment of Artillery—trundled field-pieces into crafts, and H.M.S. Lively and Falcon increased their rate of fire.
“There’s the Royal Marines,” Nathan said. And although it was too far to recognize individuals, he knew that John Pitcairn would be leading his troops up the hill. God! Don’t let him get in front of my gun! he breathed; then he saw Dr. Warren approaching to speak to Colonel Prescott, who was in charge. They were so close that Nathan heard Prescott say, “General Warren, you’re senior in rank.”
“No, I’m here as a volunteer, Colonel. I’ll take my place with the others.” He had a musket in his hand, and turning he saw Nathan and paused. A light touched his handsome face, and he smiled. “Might I join you, Mr. Winslow?”
“Certainly!” Nathan smiled grimly and said, “I’m in somewhat of a different frame of mind than when we first met at Sam Adams’ home, Doctor.”
“Sam’s talked to me of you, Mr. Winslow. I’m proud to see you here.” He nodded, then glanced down at the troops forming for a charge. “I think Gage must be senile, Nathan. He’s going to make a frontal attack against men in fortified positions.”
“I wonder why?”
“He has a contempt for us,” Warren said, and then he added with a smile, “I think he’ll not feel quite that way later on this afternoon!”
“There they come!” Prescott’s voice cut across the air, and he cried out, “Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes, men!”
The forces on the beaches shifted, reshuffled, and the assault began—long scarlet-and-white lines, three deep, climbing like a slow surf toward the redoubt. On they came under the hot sun, each man carrying a load reckoned at 120 pounds.
Laddie heard a voice, and turned to see an elderly farmer, his musket steadily aimed at the Redcoats. “I thank thee, Lord, for sparing me to fight this day. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” There was an incredible patience on his face, and Laddie said softly, “Amen!”
Sweat poured down Laddie’s face as the lines came on. She counted ten companies across the broad British front, and ten more right behind—hundreds of red-coated men laboring in slow steps up the hill.
Slowly, inexorably, the grenadiers and Royal Marines came on. A voice said, “No firing—hold your fire!” Laddie’s finger was on the trigger, and there was a taste of fear in her mouth—but it was fear of killing rather than of being killed. She could see their
faces clearly now—some of them fat and some thin; some sunburned and some pale, and the whites of nervous eyes were in all the faces.
“Fire!” came a sudden command, and a ragged sheet of flame belched out from the hundreds of rifles and muskets in the hands of the Americans. As the smoke cleared, Laddie saw that entire ranks were down, men thrashing and screaming, while their comrades stepped over them. She heard balls whistling over her head, and ten feet to her right a man suddenly stood up, shot in the throat. He was trying to speak but only spewed out a ragged stream of bright scarlet blood, fell down, kicked the ground twice, then died.
“They’re retreating!” Dr. Warren cried out, and it was so. The British were scrambling wildly down the hill, leaving their wounded behind.
“They won’t try that again!” someone cried out.
But they were mistaken.
The second attack came with more power than the first, and the first man that Nathan identified was John Pitcairn. Nathan was firing and reloading like a machine, but as he straightened up to fire, he hesitated, for there, right in his sights was the major. He carried only a saber, and he held it high in the air, crying out encouragement to his men. His face was red with strain, but there was no fear on it, and Nathan found that he could not pull the trigger!
But even as he hesitated, a ball struck Pitcairn in the side, and he fell to the ground, clutching the sudden blossom of blood that appeared on his blue coat.
Men were dropping all along the line, but the toll on the charging Redcoats was terrible. The hill was covered with bodies—some still, and some feebly trying to crawl away, many writhing like cutworms. Time seemed to stand still, and Nathan could not remember a time other than this. He seemed to have been on the hill firing and taking fire forever, and it came as a shock when he heard Laddie crying out, “Nathan! They’re leaving!”
He came out of the red haze of battle to see for the second time the British retreat. Then he heard Dr. Warren say, “I’m out of powder.” Men up and down the line were saying the same, and Warren said, “If they try again, we’re in trouble.”
The Gentle Rebel Page 17
