by Howard Fast
“God knows.”
“And if they do, it will be next month or next year,” Warren said.
“Then you have to make a move,” Feversham agreed. “But why Charlestown?”
“What else?”
“Boston. Seize the causeway at night. You have fifteen thousand men. The British have less than four thousand. Pour into the city and take it back.”
Ward shook his head. “We have farm boys. They have soldiers.”
“We can’t attack,” Warren said hopelessly. “We don’t know how. It’s as simple as that. Our men won’t go up against the regulars. They won’t go up against bayonets.”
Staring at the map, Feversham said, “The hill is a death trap. Surely you can see that. If you held Boston, it would be different. But if you go into Charlestown, they will cut the causeway, and you’ll never get out.”
“We have bled it enough,” Warren said. “We’ll have some food, and we’ll talk to the women and pretend for a little while that things are as they should be.” He rose and took Feversham by the arm. “Come! Be a good colleague and a physician now. We’ll have a medical talk, which is the best talk of all.” He turned to Ward. “Eat with us, Artemus. We are all good Englishmen, and God wounds us for hating our mother. Have you ever felt that way, Feversham?”
“At times, yes.”
That night, five men slept on the rug in the Hunts’ living room, Putnam and Prescott among them. Feversham shared the rug for a while, but what with the wheezing and grunting and snoring and his own thoughts, sleep evaded him, and finally he gave up the attempt and went into the kitchen. A four-inch-thick night candle burned there, and Feversham took foolscap and pen and ink from the trestle table and then sat down in the kitchen to write a letter to his wife.
My dear Alice, I am here safely at Watertown in Massachusetts, where I have been welcomed at the house of Mr. Hunt, even though the house is so crowded already that men sleep on the floor in every room. I myself have been quartered in the sitting room, where, on a very splendid Chinese rug, I share very distinguished company. Perhaps you remember an Israel Putnam, who says that he remembers you and that he dined at your father’s house on two occasions. He has been made a general in this strange army that is besieging Boston and the British army there. He is one of the rug sleepers, and I must say that when awake he has by far the foulest mouth in New England—and asleep, a snore like a bugle. I decided that rather than lie in the sitting room awake with my own thoughts, I would share them with you, and since the kitchen is the only room in the house without sleeping guests, here I am.
I must explain that this condition of the little village of Watertown is due to the fact that half the population of Boston has fled to the suburbs and that right now Watertown is in the way of being the nerve center of this strange war. And a very strange war it is—if indeed we are at war—with this tiny colony of Puritan and Presbyterian farmers facing the might of the British Empire.
Strangely, I find them a more worldly and understanding lot than your Connecticut countrymen, for they are not shocked by the fact that I am Catholic, and they regard my being English and trained in the English army almost with worship. They are desperately looking for English officers to help them out of the almost indescribable confusion of affairs that exists here, and they constantly express the hope that if the colonies to the south decide to send men to reinforce them, such troops will be put under the command of either Charles Lee or Horatio Gates, both of them Englishmen, as I am given to understand.
As to who is actually in command of the fourteen or fifteen thousand men who have gathered around Boston, it is almost impossible to say. Nominally, the command would be in the hands of an elderly gentleman named Artemus War, but he is quite ill and suffering from stones. A certain Dr. Church, whom I have met and find most distasteful, bled him for the stones, which I think only worsens the pain, and Dr. Warren here agrees with me. Both Dr. Warren and I concur in grave doubts about the whole process of bleeding for cure, but I am afraid that our voices will little prevail on the subject.
This Dr. Warren, whose full name is Joseph Warren, is quite a remarkable man—one of those men whose plain manner of greeting and response is so gentle and, if I may use the expression, so noble, that he is virtually adored by everyone around him. He is a tall, handsome man, with wide shoulders and a shock of yellow hair, and simply by virtue of personal integrity has become the most valued and admired of the whole Boston crowd, many of whom I would not give twopence for. His reputation has become known in Philadelphia, and this incredible Continental Congress of yours—or should I say of mine as well—has responded by making him a major general and thereby adding to the current confusion. For not only is Joseph Warren the last person on earth to command an army, but he is ill with what I suspect to be milk fever, and since he asked me to examine him, I prescribed a week in bed with emetic salts—but with no hope that he will follow my advice.
Thus, we have two men in command of the same army, which is no army at all, but only a mob of men and boys gathered around Boston, without uniforms or more than a few rounds of ammunition or a few days’ supply of food, and neither men have even the vaguest notion of what to do or when to do it. If anyone is in command of this motley lot, it is Israel Putnam, a wild old man whose contempt for the British will surely lead us into some kind of disaster. He and an engineer named Gridley have some idea of fortifying a hill outside of Charlestown and thereby gaining the upper hand over the British. They talk of doing this tomorrow night or the night after, but perhaps they will think better of it, since Charlestown, as you may remember, is almost an island and to fortify it in face of the British fleet is to be cut off and destroyed.
As to what the British may be thinking or doing in the face of all this, I cannot image. We hear that they have almost four thousand men, among them some of the best regiments in the army, and it would appear to me that they have only to march onto the mainland and there would be nothing to oppose them. I think they hesitate to make a war. It is not yet a war, and perhaps if things go well, there will be no war, and please believe that I hope for this as much as you do. How many times have you heard me say that of all the obsessions of mankind, war is the most stupid and the most beastly? To think that intelligent men can find no other way of settling disputes is to lose heart and hope in man.
It is well past midnight now, and I have written much of the conditions here and the men I have met but little of myself. Why is it so easy to communicate when we are far apart—and so hard to find proper words to speak to each other when we are together? Of course you were right in charging me that I was not what you like to think of as a patriot, and that it was no great surge of emotional indignation that took me away from you and brought me here. I think that as a physician I know better than most how complex people are and how difficult it is for them to know why they do what they do, much less to explain coherently to others.
I wonder how many of the thousands of men around Boston could explain the truth of what brought them here. I know that I cannot. But you were wrong, my dear, to say that I fled from you. Better have it that I fled from myself and, like all men who engage in doing so, found that the flight was quite futile.
What will be of my coming here and what will ensue over the next few days, I cannot imagine. But let me say that I am filled with unease, for there is something morose and heartbreaking in the making here. I would not say this and leave you in uncertainty if I intended to send this letter off now. But rather than do that, I shall hold it for a few days so that perhaps I may have a more cheerful postscript—or indeed find that there is no immediate need for me here and that I can make my way back to Connecticut…
Then Feversham sat pen in hand for a while, brooding over what he had written. His eyes were heavy, and he put the pen into the ink bottle, pushed it away, and thought that he would rest his head on his arms for just a moment and doze. When he opened his eyes, dawn was creeping through the many-paned windows. He spread hi
s cramped arms and yawned, and a voice said, “I bid you good morning, Dr. Feversham.”
He turned to see a lovely young woman kneeling by the great hearth and gently breathing an ember to life. It caught, and as she fed wood shavings to it, she explained that her name was Betsy Palmer and that she was Mr. Hunt’s married daughter and that they had met the evening before.
“And I deplore the awakening, sir. Forgive me.” “Let me help you with the fire,” Feversham hastened to say. “No, no. It’s not fitting. And see, it’s already alight, and there’s
wood in plenty. Just rest you, Doctor, and I will have coffee for you. The coffee is dreadful, but we have heavy cream and sweet honey, so you will not drink it with too much distaste. Let me pamper you, for my heart is gladdened by your presence.”
Smiling, amused by her prim speech, Feversham asked, “But why, my dear?”
“Because you are a physician,” she replied simply. “I am gifted with sight, and I can hear them crying as they die.”
JUNE 15
Maj. Gen. Sir William Howe, a tall, dark, heavy-set man of forty-six years, had two passions in life: whist and women. And since he was a military man, he often observed that war without both would be intolerable. Thus, his first inquiry upon his arrival in Boston was whether there was a club? He was informed that indeed there was, the Anacreon, and there, on any given night, two or three games of whist would be in progress. He was escorted there the night after the dinner party at the home of Reverend Hallsbury by his junior, Henry Clinton, where he was introduced to his partner for the game, a tall, good-looking, richly endowed woman by the name of Elizabeth Loring.
“I will be of service to you,” Sir Henry had said to his commander in chief upon Sir William’s arrival in Boston.
“I expect no less.”
“There is a lady, name of Elizabeth Loring.”
“Oh?”
“She is a prime beauty,” Sir Henry said.
“I trust your judgment. On the other hand, if you are throwing me a bone you picked dry—”
“Sir William, believe me, I am otherwise involved.”
“She’s a colonial?”
“Loyal to the Grown.”
“I see.” The general stared at Sir Henry Clinton thoughtfully.
“This business that these wretched peasants have thrust upon us is no small game. It could go on for weeks or months.”
“So it could. Or we could finish it tomorrow,” Howe said.
“Hardly likely,” Clinton replied.
“This Elizabeth Loring, is she married?”
“Oh, yes, to a Mr. Joshua Loring.”
“Also loyal to the Crown?”
“Oh, yes,” Sir Henry Clinton said.
“And what is he like, this Joshua Loring?”
“Loathsome. A wretched, dirty little man. He wants to be of service. I let him know that there might be something for him. He’s useful, and he’s so full of hate for the rebels that it’s like a sickness with him.”
“It doesn’t speak for the lady’s good taste,” Sir William Howe said. “Why the marriage?”
“He had money. She had none. I speak of the past. He was a ship owner with a warehouse. They burned him out. I would guess that if the price is right, he would sell his mother.”
“And this lady, this Elizabeth Loring, does she play whist?”
“With a passion.”
“I would not like to think, sir,” the general said, “that you are offering Johnny Burgoyne’s leavings?”
“Rest assured, like myself, he is otherwise occupied.”
“He, too? War is a heavy duty for both of you.”
“Boredom is a heavy duty,” Clinton said.
“And you wish to lessen mine. I would enjoy a game of whist tonight.”
Boredom, General Howe decided, might easily be overcome and perhaps laid aside for the duration of this campaign. He faced a woman whose beauty was on the edge of being wanton, whose full figure was on the edge of being fat, at least five feet ten inches tall, her breasts overflowing her bodice, her dark eyes bold and direct. For all of her physical form, there was nothing soft or easily pliable. He felt immediately that this was a woman no one owned or dominated.
The large, generous gaming room of the Anacreon, with a beamed ceiling, green wainscoting, and lovely hand-blocked wallpaper, boasted a hearth that could take a five-foot-long log. But the night being warm, no fire burned, only half a hundred candles in three chandeliers. And in their unsteady light, Mrs. Loring was almost unreal. Her eyes welcomed General Howe, and her slight smile convinced him that Sir Henry Clinton had prepared the ground well. She held out her hand, and when Sir William took it, the pressure was firm.
“General Sir William Howe,” Clinton said, “and this, sir, is Mistress Elizabeth Loring.”
Sir William bowed and lifted her hand to his lips. All eyes in the room observed them, the big man in his glittering red-and-gold coat, his gold-embroidered waistcoat, his white trousers and silk stockings, and facing him, this extraordinary woman, her black hair piled on top of her head, her handsome face framed in tight curls.
“I am delighted, madam,” Howe said.
“And I am honored. I have heard a great deal about you, Sir William.”
“Things to the good, I hope.”
She bowed her head.
“I am told you favor the game of whist.”
“Times I have played a hand. Yes, indeed, sir.”
“Then shall we be partners this evening?”
“I would like nothing better, sir.”
They joined Clinton at a table where a pretty woman sat, her head bent demurely. She smiled at Sir William. “Mistress Prudence Hallsbury,” Clinton said.
“We met at General Gage’s home, Sir William.”
Earlier, Clinton had whispered to Howe a few words of explanation. “Temper your language if you would, sir. Not that her heart’s cold. There’s fire there, believe me, but she’s the wife of a priest.”
“No! You don’t mean—”
“Just as sure as hell. The same Prudence Hallsbury, and she’s the wife of the Very Reverend Hallsbury, who is High Church and most loyal.”
“Then what in hell is she doing in a gambling club?” Howe demanded. “Of course, I remember. She hides her face.”
“I put her down last night. She is a darling thing.”
“Does her husband know?”
Clinton shrugged. “I really don’t give a damn.”
“Is that wise?” Sir William wondered.
“You mean we might disturb his loyalty? But where would he go with his stinking loyalty? He’s very rich, more sterling on his dinner than you’ll find in Westminister. The rebels would tear him to pieces.”
“Still and all—”
“Oh, believe me, Sir William,” Clinton assured him, “if he had serviced her properly, he might have cause to howl.”
“And you tell me she plays whist?”
“So she says. After all, the reverend’s not a Presbyterian. He plays himself.”
When the four of them were seated at the table, Howe partner to Elizabeth Loring and Clinton partner to Prudence Hallsbury, each with a glass of bright red wine, Sir Henry offered a toast.
“To you, Sir William, my commander in chief, and to these lovely and gracious ladies, and to the fortunes of war, may they be neither brief nor demanding!”
Mrs. Loring shuffled the pack and dealt the cards. General Howe was impressed by her dexterity, her long, strong fingers sending the cards to each of the four players with never a moment of hesitation, until finally she dealt the last card face up, the king of hearts.
“How so!” Clinton snorted. “I don’t believe it.”
“For you, sir,” Mrs. Loring said to her partner. “Hearts are trump.”
“As always,” Howe replied gallantly.
She smiled at him, and her smile defined the relationship. Howe arranged his cards. He had seven hearts—ace, jack, nine, eight, six, five, and two
. Mrs. Loring folded the king and played hearts to Prudence Hallsbury; a bold move to force the trump and challenge the enemy. Howe recognized it and nodded slightly. Prudence played the queen, a forced or a stupid move. Since she had not hesitated when she cast the card, Howe decided that she had only a single trump, and he covered her queen with his ace. They finished the game with twelve tricks, and Howe raised his glass to salute his partner.
“You play well, my dear Betsy,” he said.
“Too bloody damn well,” Clinton observed.
“Ah, now,” Mrs. Hallsbury said soothingly, “the evening has only begun, Sir Henry. Shall we double the stakes?”
“Is your hand that deep in your husband’s purse?”
“For shame?” Howe snorted.
“For shame, indeed,” Prudence said. “The purse is mine, Sir Henry.”
“Touché!” Mrs. Loring cried. “Pru’s father owns half the shipping that sails out of Boston Harbor.”
“Or did before this stupid war started,” Prudence added. “You haven’t answered me, Sir Henry. Shall we double the stakes, or does Sir William shy away from a rich game?”
Mrs. Loring answered to that. “I think,” she said, “that in games or love or war, Sir William has yet to meet a situation that frightens him.”
When the rubbers were over, almost at midnight, General Howe had won sixty guineas for himself and sixty more for his partner. Sir Henry Clinton and Mrs. Hallsbury stepped into a carriage that was waiting, offering a ride to the other couple.
“Would you go with them?” Howe asked Mrs. Loring, and dropping his voice, “They can take you home. On the other hand, my quarters are only a short walk from here.”
“I should love to see your quarters, as you call it.”
The carriage drove off, and Elizabeth Loring took Sir William’s arm with firm, possessive pressure. It was a cool, moon-washed evening, the wind from the bay fresh and salty, the docks deserted of any presence except for the grenadiers standing guard. More than half of the houses were empty, their owners having taken refuge behind the Continental lines. Sir William and Mrs. Loring walked slowly, comfortable with each other. There was no need to speak now. The night of whist had bonded them, and as for who she was and what she was and where her husband was, all that would come later, after the fire that burned in both of them had been quenched. Their only conversation now was a question from Elizabeth Loring. “Do you believe in fate, Sir William?”
