by Seymour Reit
It was the easygoing disorder of his troops that troubled General Washington, but that could be corrected. These good-natured amateurs with their pitchforks and hunting rifles had to be welded into a real military force or the cause would be lost. Yes, rules and discipline had to be established. Officers had to dress according to rank, and their orders had to be carried out. March and drill practice would be increased. Work parties would be organized. Sanitation would be improved.
Washington had wanted to make soldiers of his men—and under his leadership the changes came quickly. Still, many problems remained, and the commander wasn’t sure they could ever be solved.
For one thing, all the discipline in the world couldn’t combat the weather. Winter was coming and soon it would turn bitterly cold. There were thousands of troops in Cambridge, badly dressed and poorly housed. The countryside had been stripped bare, and firewood was scarce. The army was short of blankets, soap, shoes, medical supplies, tools, muskets, and gunpowder. In August, Washington had been told that the arsenal held over three hundred barrels of gunpowder. Later, when these figures were checked, it turned out that only ninety barrels were on hand, which meant that each man could fire his musket only eight or nine times before the powder would be gone!
What troubled the general even more was that he had no artillery. Several big siege guns, hidden in Concord, had been captured by the redcoats. Now there were only a few small brass cannons that could fire six-pound shots. Compared to Howe’s weapons, they were no better than popguns.
Sitting at his desk on a cold November day, General Washington worried about all this. Outwardly he seemed calm, but his spirits were low. Picking up his quill pen, he continued the letter he’d begun to his friend Joseph Reed in Philadelphia. In it he wrote: “Could I have foreseen what I have, and am like to experience, no consideration on earth would have induced me to accept this command.”
The general put down his pen, sealed the letter, and buttoned his coat. He stepped outside. From the top of Prospect Hill—the very spot where Will Knox had stood earlier—he could see Boston clearly. With his pocket telescope he could make out the red jackets of Howe’s marines drilling on the Common and patrolling Barton’s Point.
Like his British enemy, Washington needed a victory. On the land side the rebels were in control, surrounding Boston in a huge ring from Roxbury to Chelsea on the Mystick River. In manpower they far outnumbered the British. But the British had all the gunpowder and all the artillery. If the patriots tried to drive them from Boston Harbor, Howe’s warships could bombard the city. Or by firing “carcasses”—thin shells filled with flaming oily rags—they could burn it to the ground. The forces were deadlocked. Without cannons the colonists couldn’t liberate Boston. Without men the British couldn’t attack Cambridge.
Both sides had spies in Boston, and Washington knew that Howe was expecting reinforcements. Meanwhile, winter was here and smallpox was creeping through the big camp. Some of the volunteers, sick, bored, and lonesome for their families, were beginning to drift away. When the icy winds came, with no victories to raise morale, the trickle of deserters would become a flood. Washington was afraid that his army, short of so many things, might fall apart—and with it the whole precious cause.
I can’t tell you half I saw,
They kept up such a smother,
So I tipped my hat, made a bow,
And scampered home to mother.
Yankee Doodle keep it up,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy!
The squad, with its lone fifer, came straggling back to camp. Their cart held very little wood, since every tree, fence, and barn-siding for miles around had already been fed to the campfires.
Slowly the general walked back to his quarters. At the rate the army used it, firewood would soon be worth more than gold. Of course the men needed fuel to stay warm, but they also needed the fuel of success. His ragged soldiers needed a victory. Time was running out. Somehow the Continental Army had to work a miracle; if they could defeat Howe and set Boston free, it would electrify the colonies. That would put heart into the rebellion before it was too late.
Or was it too late already? General Washington wasn’t sure.
4
Paul and William
“You, boy! Come here!” The marine raised his musket suspiciously.
Paul turned and saw the redcoat. Quick as a hare, he vaulted a low wall and raced into a nearby alley. The soldier’s heavy boots came pounding after him, but fifteen-year-old Paul Revere, Jr., knew the back routes and byways of Boston far better than any lobsterback. He had spent all afternoon fishing in Mill Cove and had been lucky enough to land two plump fish—and he wasn’t about to let some British bully take them away.
Hanging on to his precious catch, Paul turned a bend in the alley, dove through a hedge, and raced along a ditch. He cut to a weedy path behind Friends Street, circled Cockerel Church, and darted across Middle Street. From there another alley took him to North Square, where he stopped to catch his breath. The marine had long since given up the chase, and Paul was able to cross the square and slip into the Revere house by the back way.
He bolted the door, dropped his catch onto the kitchen table, and leaned his pole against the wall. Now he’d have a good dinner—but first there was something to attend to. He put one fish in a skillet. The other, he wrapped in a scrap of paper and tucked inside his patched coat. He looked out the parlor window to make sure the coast was clear, then hurried to Clark’s Wharf.
As far back as Paul could remember, his father had kept a workshop here on the wharf. In the old days, before the troubles, Mr. Revere had been Boston’s most successful craftsman. His workshop turned out beautiful silver pitchers, bowls, and tankards. He created surgeons’ tools, copper engravings, serving spoons, eyeglass frames, church Communion cups, handsome sword hilts, even silver dog collars. And as a sideline, busy Mr. Revere acted as a dentist, pulling bad teeth or making false ones of ivory and gold wire.
Now, with his father branded a traitor by the British, the shop had been left in charge of a silversmith named Isaac Clemens. Since old Clemens was a Tory, loyal to the king, the redcoats had left the shop alone. Paul Junior didn’t like Mr. Clemens much (he didn’t like anyone opposed to the cause), but the man was important to the family, so the boy thought a gift of food a good idea. In Boston that winter, Tories got just as hungry as patriots.
The gift was appreciated and Clemens thanked Paul warmly. “Your father and I,” the old man added, “don’t agree on much these days. But I grant you, son, he’s the best craftsman in the colonies. Send word to him, if you can, that old Clem is keeping a keen eye on everything.”
Back home Paul fried his supper with the last of the stovewood and ate it slowly. There were no sounds in the empty house. And none outside, except for the whining of a hungry dog and the pounding of boots as a squad of soldiers marched by.
Sitting there, Paul Junior decided that being lonely was the worst of all feelings. Even worse than being afraid. Under the hard thumb of the British, Boston was a town of ghosts and memories—shadow images that filled his thoughts and empty hours. As he cleaned up after his little meal, Paul remembered the good times before the warships came. North Square, where the Reveres lived, had been a bustling area ringed with neat, prosperous houses. There were handsome trees, tidy gardens, shiny brass nameplates, elegant doorways, and fancy hitching-posts for horses and carriages. And at the far end of the square was Old North Church, one of the finest in all New England.
Three times a week the square had become a grand town market where food of all kinds could be bought. Paul remembered the stalls piled with fruits and farm vegetables, fat sacks of grain, and firkins of churned butter. Other booths held turkeys, hams, mutton, and veal. There were quails and partridges. There were bags of flour and rye meal, kegs of oysters, tubs of pickled pork. There were venison and bear steaks brought in by hunters
. And lobsters were plentiful, too, at a halfpenny each.
Now it was all changed. The stalls were gone—and so were most of the people who once brought life and excitement to Paul’s world. His father had helped to rouse the countryside at Lexington and Concord; now he was hiding in Philadelphia and working with John Hancock, Sam Adams, and the other colonial leaders. His mother, sisters, and brothers had also fled, slipping away in a horse-drawn cart in the middle of the night. Only Paul remained at home—and for a reason. Many supporters of the rebellion had left everything behind when they escaped from Boston. To keep discipline, General Howe had decreed martial law: Thousands of people still lived in the besieged city, and the marines had strict orders not to harm them. But empty, abandoned houses were looked upon as fair game. The redcoats had looted these quickly, taking everything of value. They’d even ripped out doors, stairways, fine wood panels, and hand-carved railings to feed their campfires.
The destruction was ongoing. Recently, the steeple of West Street Church had been pulled down for fuel. In Old South Church the pews had been torn out and gravel spread over the floor—now it served as a riding ring for General Burgoyne’s fancy horses. Only one pew had been left in the church—and it had been turned into a pigsty.
Because Paul still lived in the house, the Revere family home had been spared by the redcoats. But he felt their hatred and contempt. Now, sitting on his bed, the boy took a crumpled, stained piece of paper from his shirt pocket. It was a letter from his father that had been smuggled to him, and Paul had read it over and over. In an artist’s fine hand, Paul Senior had written:
My Son: It is now in your power to be of service to me, your mother, and yourself. I beg you to keep yourself safely at home. Behave well. Attend to my business. Do not come away until I send you word.
Your loving father, P. R.
Paul slipped the letter back into his pocket and frowned. He was dying to leave and join the rebels in Cambridge. He was old enough—almost—to be with the Continental Army and fight beside the other men. But he knew that was impossible. He’d made a solemn promise to stay; it was now his responsibility. In a way he was like a soldier under orders—a soldier whose enemies were fear and loneliness.
Unable to sleep, Paul paced the floor of his room. Plague take General William Howe! Plague take his warships! Plague take his cannons and his redcoats and—
TAP, TAP . . . tap-tap-tap . . .
Startled by the signal, he raced downstairs to the kitchen. Through the window he could see Will Knox’s face, pale in the darkness. Quickly, Paul unlatched the back door and pulled his friend inside.
William, tall and gangly, wiped his nose and grinned. “Greetings from General Washington and the Sons of Liberty, Paulie.”
At nineteen, William was four years older than Paul Junior, but they’d been friends for a long time. Together, as boys, they’d gone swimming off Hudson’s Point and fishing in Mill Pond. They’d explored the byways of the city and played at ninepins on Boston Common. Paul was delighted to see Will again.
“How’d you get here?” he asked.
“Toby rowed me over. It was simple. No moon tonight, it’s black as pitch. So I decided to pay you a visit and see how things were going in Boston.”
Paul shook his head anxiously. “You dasn’t do this, Will. It’s way too dangerous. If they catch you they’ll put you in chains for sure. Or—or worse.”
William grinned again and held up a fat, fresh-killed rabbit. “Lobsterbacks don’t scare me. Look, I fetched you a present. Shot it this afternoon near Phipps Farm.”
Paul took the rabbit happily. “Well now, I do thank you. I’ll have rabbit stew for supper tomorrow. But I still think you should—”
His friend waved a carefree hand, kicked off his boots, and sat down near the stove, still a bit warm from Paul’s cooking. “Lordy,” he sighed, “this feels good. It’s powerful cold in Cambridge, and barely any firewood left. Not enough to warm a man’s big toe.”
Paul pulled a stool up next to his friend, and stared at him with envy. William was a Massachusetts soldier and his older brother, Henry, was a colonel of artillery on Washington’s staff. They were really in the fight—not sitting it out in Boston like he was.
“Things are bad here,” Paul said sadly, “and getting worse. What’s happening, Will? When’s Washington going to come and throw them out?”
William shrugged. “We’re trapped, Paulie. Scotched and hog-tied. We’ve almost no powder and ball left. And we can’t make a move without cannons. If we marched on Boston, Howe would blow the whole city to bits, and us along with it.”
Paul looked thoughtful. “Any news of my father?”
His visitor nodded. “He’s been riding express for the congress. And I hear tell he’s etching some new copper plates. The delegates want to print money—our own currency instead of the king’s paper. New currency for a new country.”
Paul frowned. “It’s a grand gesture, but we need a lot more than that. They say Howe’s getting reinforcements. If we don’t stop him, there won’t be a new country.”
Will got up and drank water from a tin dipper at the kitchen pump. He had an odd, eager look on his weathered face. “Paulie, I’m not right sure yet, but I’ll pass you a secret. Not a word to anyone, mind you, but something big is brewing. My brother, Henry, has a marvelous plan. Some of the officers think he’s daft, but Henry doesn’t care. He’s going to talk to the War Council tomorrow.”
“What’s it about?”
William pulled on his boots. “Can’t say—I’ve said too much already. But pray hard that the council lets him go ahead. And now, I’d best be on my way.”
The young trooper gave his friend a clumsy bear hug. Then, with a quick salute, he slipped out the door and melted into the night.
Paul hung the rabbit in the wash shed and climbed the stairs. Will’s visit had cheered him up. He didn’t feel quite so lonely anymore; he decided to get ready for bed.
Lying there, staring at the ceiling, Paul thought about Colonel Knox. What was this “marvelous plan” Will had mentioned? And why did some of the officers think Henry Knox was daft? Well, no matter. Daft or sane, he would pray for the colonel. He would pray hard.
In the distance he could hear the thud of marching boots. The British were changing the guard company at the North Battery. The ominous sound gradually faded, and in the cold, dark silence Paul dozed off, wondering about tomorrow.
5
“Go Ahead, Henry . . .”
The day after Will’s secret visit, the War Council met in Cambridge. The council was made up of leading officers of the army; among them was Henry Knox.
Everyone at headquarters, including the commander, liked Colonel Knox. He was only twenty-five, but he had a way about him that inspired confidence. Over six feet tall with big shoulders and a booming laugh, he was lively, enthusiastic, and completely fearless. In fact, some of the men thought Henry wanted to take on the British all by himself and lick them single-handedly.
Before the rebellion, Henry had owned a bookshop on Boston’s Cornhill Street and Will had worked with him. It was an unusual shop; along with books, they sold tobacco, musical instruments, telescopes, patent medicines, and a brand of snuff said to “cure deafness and improve memory.” But the books were Henry’s main interest, and he read most of them. Especially the ones dealing with weapons and warfare. Between his reading and his long talks with army men, Henry had become something of an expert on artillery. His shop had also been a meeting-place for Boston’s Whigs—the party that wanted independence for the colonies. Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Nathaniel Greene, Paul Revere, and others all met at Henry’s to gossip, talk politics, and grumble about the stupidity of the British.
But Henry liked action as well as talk, so he became a lieutenant in a militia company called the Grenadier Corps. At that time the British were closing in on “rebel troublemakers” and he was ordered not to leave the city without permission. Henry was now in great danger, so he
and his wife, Lucy, decided to escape. Late at night (like many others) they slipped away from the city, leaving everything behind. Everything but Henry’s handsome militia sword, which Mrs. Knox managed to hide under her ample petticoats.
Once Lucy was safe in the town of Worcester, Henry hurried to join the colonial army. His knowledge and experience were badly needed, and before long he was made colonel of artillery. Of course it was just the right job for him and he was delighted. But when he asked at headquarters where the artillery was kept, a young officer replied sheepishly, “Uh, well—I’m afraid, sir, there isn’t any.”
Colonel Knox was shocked. And alarmed. And very angry. What good was an artillery colonel without artillery? And what good was an army without heavy weapons? If this army didn’t have cannons, he’d jolly well find some.
Henry worried about the problem. He studied his maps and talked to the experts at headquarters. At last he came up with a wild plan that brought him to Washington’s War Council. And now these high officers were ready to hear what young Knox had in mind.
While the men gathered around, Henry unrolled a large map that showed the colonies of New York, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts. In northern New York, between two lakes, there was a black dot marked Fort Ticonderoga. Henry jabbed his finger at the dot. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “here are the guns we need.”
The officers looked at him, a bit puzzled. They all knew about Fort Ticonderoga. Years earlier, during the French and Indian wars, this outpost had been seized by the British. They’d stayed in control until May of 1775, when Benedict Arnold, Ethan Allen, and Allen’s “Green Mountain Boys” captured it in a surprise attack. Now the huge fort was in the hands of the rebels, but it was far from any fighting areas.
