by Howard Fast
He had joined the huge, loosely organized mob around Boston that called itself an army with a good deal of cynicism, yet he found himself accepted without prejudice and with open arms. And in the few hours he had been with this handful of men who were willing to face the best soldiers in the world with simple decision and without vainglory, he had forged a very real attachment to them. He was not the kind of man who indulged dramatics, who might say to himself, I believe in what these men are willing to die for, and I have decided to stay with them and offer whatever comfort I can, even if it should result in my own death, as it probably will. Yet that was the case, and he knew perhaps better than anyone on Breed’s Hill how hopeless their situation was, even if they should manage to slow the attack with their handful of men.
Feversham was filled with admiration for Warren and Prescott and Gridley. He had never really known such men before—their easy comradeship with the volunteers they led, their lack of pretension, Warren’s willingness to laugh off the fact that he had been made a general by the witless Committee of Safety, Prescott’s flexibility with old Putnam, Gridley’s rocklike patience and fortitude. Feversham felt strongly that they were as convinced as he was that somewhere along the line they had been betrayed, left on this little peninsula with a comparative handful of men. Yet they accused no one and never even entertained the notion of retreat.
When the drums first sounded from the beach below, he had found himself a slightly sheltered spot, a small hollow about ten paces behind the entrenchment. There he had meticulously laid out his instruments: his needles, strung with catgut; his tourniquets, tied and ready for use; his dressings and bandages; his jug of water and quart flask of rum; his shears and bone saw and probes and forceps. He had in his jacket pocket a piece of linen, about a yard square, upon which his wife, Alice, had embroidered the word surgeon. It might help if he were trapped with wounded in a retreat. But in spite of his commitment to what he was supposed to do, he could not remain there as the sound of drums came closer, and when the crash of rifle fire exploded from Stark’s position, he joined Prescott on the parapet.
“You shouldn’t be here, Doctor.”
“Forgive me. My teacher swore I was born to be hanged.”
“Then look and tell me what on earth they’re waiting for. Stark beat them back. The kid said they took terrible losses.”
“Now,” Feversham said as the drummers beat their furious tattoo and the line of light infantry began their advance, even as Howe ordered his grenadiers forward against Major Knowlton’s Connecticut militia. Both men leaped off the parapet, and Prescott raced along his line of defense, pleading, “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. Keep your heads down. Wait till you see the whites of their eyes. Wait! Wait!”
At sixty yards, the light infantry and the marines paused and fired. As with the grenadiers, they were in columns of eight, with the marines, ten columns, an advancing front of eight men, two hundred feet across, the marines facing the redoubt, the light infantry facing Prescott’s long earthworks, the long front bursting into a sheet of flame. Feversham felt the wind of bullets inches from his face, and still he stood erect, gripped with a fascination stronger than fear. Then the whole front of the British, the ten columns of men—egged on by their shouting officers and their bayonets fixed—surged forward at the barricade.
At forty feet, Prescott shouted at the top of his lungs, “Now! Now!” And the Massachusetts farmers stood up and emptied two hundred muskets and rifles at point-blank range, even as the men in the redoubt fired.
As with the grenadiers, the whole front of the British force buckled, as if some flaming scythe had ripped the eight men into shreds of torn flesh. The ranks behind them pulled back, stunned by the execution of their entire front, staring for a long moment at the carpet of broken bodies, while Prescott dashed back and forth shouting: “Reload! Reload and stay down! Reload!”
They had less than fifty second guns, and the loaders passed them forward. The single British officer who remained on his feet screamed for his men to follow him and raced for the embankment.
As he mounted it, Prescott killed him with his pistol. In front of the redoubt, General Pigot staggered away with a bullet in his thigh. As the light infantry swayed back and forth, caught between the desire to run and the training that urged them to advance, the Massachusetts farmers loaded and shot methodically.
In the redoubt as at the embankment, the rush of flame from the American muskets had sent the marines reeling back, but they formed again in better order than the light infantry and charged the redoubt once more. Prescott waved his reserve loaders into the redoubt, and a wild hand-to-hand struggle raged on the firing step until the marines were beaten back. Eight of the defenders of the redoubt were killed, and Gridley had a bayonet thrust in his arm.
Bit by bit, the light infantry and the marines gave back, even as the grenadiers had given back, the whole British force retreating down the slope of Breed’s Hill, leaving the grassy slope red with blood and carpeted with their dead.
Feversham had torn himself away from the awful struggle, and now he was at work, surrounded by bleeding men. There was no time to be careful, to take pains. Stop the bleeding. Suture where he had to. No time to probe for bullets. Use dressings, bandages, tourniquets. He was being overwhelmed, and he shouted, “Warren! Warren, can you help me?” He had no idea of what had happened in the redoubt.
Gridley appeared and said, “Warren has all he can handle.” He was holding the cut in his arm. “We’re out of bandages. Can you spare something for my arm?” He was trying to stanch the flow of blood with his other hand.
“Let me,” Feversham said, cursing the lack of foresightedness. He needed more of everything. He applied a tourniquet. “I’ll suture it later.”
“Yes, of course, it’s nothing,” Gridley said, wincing, as Feversham sprinkled rum on the raw wound.
Some of Prescott’s men leaped the barricade and picked up muskets from the dead light infantry. They wanted the bayonets. Prescott roared at them to get back behind the earthworks. Feversham glanced up and saw Gonzales. “I can help,” Gonzales said, and told Gridley, “Tear up shirts for bandages.” Knowlton’s Connecticut men had few wounded.
Panting, Stark appeared, reported to Prescott, and then loped back across the rise to his own position. He saw his son standing behind the barricade, unharmed, and he broke into tears. He had been told that his son had been killed, and stifling his sobs, he resisted an impulse to embrace the boy, but instead raced back to his position. Knowlton, shaking, informed Prescott that the grenadiers had been destroyed.
Ninety percent of Howe’s beloved grenadiers had been killed or wounded. The sloping meadow in front of Knowlton’s position was covered with their bodies. Weeping tears of rage and frustration, Sir William stormed at the light infantry and marines, commanding them to stand and fight. He looked for the junior officers, but only two were on their feet, Lieutenant Fredericks and Captain Ford. “Form the men!” he shouted to them. “Form ranks!” Limping and bleeding, Pigot joined him.
Out of rifle shot, the British retreat halted. Marine major Sutherman, calm and reassuring, managed to control his troops and whip them into order. General Howe took a center position, sword in hand, and pointed to the earthworks that stretched off to the right of the redoubt. Pitcairn, another marine major, only slightly wounded, joined Howe and spoke a single word, “Again?”
Only one of the drummer boys was still alive. “Beat the advance!” Howe said sharply. The drumbeat began, and Howe, Pitcairn beside him, moved forward deliberately, Sir William with sword in hand. A British soldier, carrying the blue banner of the grenadiers, which he had rescued from among the dead, ran forward and took his place beside Howe. As the three men began to climb the hill once again, the light infantry and the marines burst out cheering and surged forward. At one hundred yards, a rifleman killed Major Sutherman, but Howe marched on, seemingly invulnerable.
Behind the barricade, Prescott talked to his men. “Easy
, my braves, easy my darlings, easy now. Don’t fire. Hold your fire. Hold your fire.”
Feversham and Gonzales, working with the wounded, heard Prescott’s voice as background. Occasionally, Feversham glanced at Gonzales, wondering what was in the man’s mind. Here they were trapped; here they must stay. Under the pressure of what he did, he could lose his fear and awareness of himself in jeopardy. He had lived this awful scene before. But what of Gonzales? Who was this tall, painfully thin man with his long, dark Spanish face?
“Bones is dead,” Gonzales said suddenly. “Shot through the head.” He worked meticulously and did not stop suturing a torn shoulder as he spoke.
With the death of Sutherman, the heart went out of the British. Yet the light infantry and the marines continued to advance. Their formation was ragged, and they began to fire at sixty yards. At thirty-five yards, with no answering fire from Prescott’s men, they surged forward, and the men behind the earthworks, backed up now by Knowlton’s Connecticut men, stood up and released a sheet of fire that literally flung the British back, as if some giant hand had reached out and swept them away. There was no holding them now. The British line collapsed, and the light infantry and the marines broke into full retreat, running, stumbling, falling, as they fled down Breed’s Hill, with a forlorn Sir William Howe, sword in hand, disdaining to run and marching majestically behind them.
“Give the stupid bastard his due,” Burgoyne said to Clinton later. “He doesn’t know the meaning of fear.”
The Americans shouted and cheered and waved their guns and danced wildly. There were sixteen dead who did not dance, and another thirty wounded, crowding around Feversham and Gonzales and Warren, the latter out of bandages and using what was left of the supplies that Feversham had brought with him. As the enthusiasm calmed down, the loaders as well as the marksmen began to complain about powder. Some had no powder left to them, and others had only a charge or two.
The attack had been directed at the redoubt and at Prescott’s breastworks. Stark had led his men in a half circle. The New Hampshire riflemen, in loose order, continued to fire at the retreating light infantry with their long Pennsylvania rifles, and then, seeing the British out of range as they retreated down to Morton’s Point, Stark called his men back and led them to join Prescott behind the barricade. “We’re almost out of powder,” he told Prescott.
Prescott, pulling himself away from the unbelievable sight of a British army in full retreat, called out to Feversham, “Doctor, spare me a moment.”
His face grim, Feversham went on with his ministrations to the groaning, bleeding militiamen. Prescott went to him. “Can you take a moment to look?”
“No,” Feversham said shortly.
“They’re in full retreat, all of them.”
“Yes.”
“You know them. What will they do now?”
“How many men have they lost?”
“Five, six hundred. Maybe more. How the hell do I know?”
“They still have two thousand.” He paused, a needle in his hand. Head to foot, he was covered with blood, exhausted for want of sleep. Putnam and Johnny Stark joined them.
“We’re almost out of powder,” Putnam said.
“God help me,” Feversham exploded. “I don’t understand your people. What in hell goes on here? You have twelve thousand men around Boston sitting on their bloody asses. Why don’t you ask for reinforcements? With a few thousand fresh troops, you could go down the hill and sweep the British into the sea. What are we? Some kind of stupid sacrifice?”
Controlling himself, Prescott said quietly, “I sent messengers five times. I sent runners to plead for reinforcement. There are no reinforcements.”
“That bastard Ward,” Putnam said bitterly. “He’s a coward or a traitor.”
“I don’t want that kind of talk,” Prescott said. “We’re here, and there’s no hope of reinforcement.”
“I can’t hold my position,” Stark said. “I have three hundred men, and half of them are out of powder. They can’t use the British cartridges, and even if they break them open, they won’t rob the dead, and even if they take those guns, they can’t fight with bayonets. It’s not their way. They won’t give up their rifles.”
“Feversham,” Prescott said, “you were in the British army. You spent years with them. You know how they think. What will they do?”
“They will attack again. They must,” Feversham said tiredly. “Their position down at the water’s edge is untenable. A British army was half-destroyed by a handful of Continentals. Every officer in the army faces court-martial and disgrace. If they go back to Boston, they carry a badge of shame forever. That’s how they think, and that’s how they come to a decision. So what is their choice?” As he spoke, in fits and starts, he sutured a hole in a militiaman’s
side, aware that the ribs under his fingers were shattered, knowing
that the wounded man would die.
“What is their choice?” Prescott insisted.
“They will attack,” Feversham muttered. “That is all they can do.”
Knowlton, Stark, Putnam, and Gridley held council together on what the next hour might bring them. Since Putnam had been instrumental in preparing a line of defense on Bunker Hill, arguing that the attack would be there rather than on Breed’s Hill, the others questioned him about the possibility of falling back to that position and surrendering both the breastworks and the redoubt.
“There were over a hundred men on Bunker Hill when I left,” Putnam said.
Gridley laughed painfully and declared that he would eat his hat if a dozen of them remained.
“I won’t surrender this position,” Prescott said. “We tore them to pieces when they came at us before. We can do it again.”
“Not without ammunition.”
“We can use the British powder bottles. They don’t all carry cartridges.”
“We’ll find little there,” Knowlton. “My men searched.”
Stark said, “The point is, we don’t have the powder. You can’t brush that away.”
“Can’t we spread it?” Prescott wondered. “Have we enough for two volleys?”
“Hardly,” Gridley said.
“I never agreed with this redoubt,” Putnam said. “I went along with it for Warren’s sake, but it’s wrong. Without Stark’s riflemen, they turn our flank. We can fall back to Bunker Hill, and if we hold Bunker Hill, we can keep the neck open.”
“On the other hand,” Prescott argued, “if we can hold the redoubt and the line of entrenchments and send those bloody bastards down the hill one more time, then it’s a victory plain and simple, and the war’s done.”
“Not so simple,” Putnam said slowly. “Wars aren’t done that way.”
They were interrupted by a rattle of drums from Morton’s Point, and the men at the barricade crowded the embankment to see what was happening below. The light infantry, the marines, and another brigade of troops Prescott did not recognize were being formed into ranks.
“By God,” Prescott whispered, “Feversham was right. They’re going to attack.” He swung around to the four officers who shared his command. “What do you say, gentlemen?”
“We fight,” Stark said. “I won’t show those red-jacket bastards my heels.”
“We fight,” Knowlton agreed.
Gridley nodded.
Putnam shrugged. “What the hell, fuck the lot of them. At my age, what difference does it make?”
Knowlton said that men whose powder was either gone or down to the last shot were slipping away.
“Let them go,” Prescott said. “We have more than enough to man the barricade.” Stark’s riflemen had joined the Massachusetts farmers behind the barricade, as had Knowlton’s Connecticut men. Prescott walked over to where Feversham and Gonzales were still treating the wounded.
“Doctor?”
Feversham looked at him without expression.
“I’m sending the wounded across the neck.”
“How?”
wounded down to the neck.”
“Some of these men can’t be moved.”
“Then the British will finish their work,” Prescott snapped. “Don’t argue with me, Feversham. You assured me that the British will attack. We have ten, fifteen minutes, and I have work to do. Do you want to go with them?”
Feversham shook his head. “I’ll stay,” he said bleakly.
Prescott had forgotten Gonzales’s name. “You, Doctor Spaniard, or whatever. Do you want to leave with the wounded?”
“I’ll stay with Dr. Feversham,” Gonzales replied without looking up.
“As you wish.”
“The doctor with Stark—where is he?”
“Dead. Shot through the head,” Gonzales said.
“I’m sorry. Feversham, do you want a gun?”
Feversham managed a hollow laugh.
“You find humor, sir?”
“If I do, it’s a poor joke, isn’t it? No, Colonel, I don’t want a gun. I’m a surgeon. What would I do with a gun?”
“I’m sorry,” Prescott said. “Today is not good for any of us, is it, Doctor?”
“No, Colonel.” Feversham rose. “Try to walk,” he said to the man whose leg he had just bandaged.
