War (25 page)

In the early evening Proudlocks returned to camp from a mysterious quest. A red sash draped from around his waist now, identifying him as a sergeant. He brought three more: one for Jude Kenny, the other platoon sergeant, one for Jock Fraser as lieutenant, and one for Jack Frake.

“Where did you find these?” asked Jack Frake, astonished as he tied one around his waist. The sashes were of finely made silk, and were regulation British army. Many of the northern militiamen’s officers and sergeants wore them.

Proudlocks said, “Some of the Massachusetts men here fought the British along the Concord road. They took them from captured sergeants. I traded a few bullets for them.”

Under a starry night, Jack Frake sat at a campfire with Fraser, Proudlocks and other men. As he listened to them talk, he felt anxious about what would happen tomorrow, and somehow vindicated. He could not help but think of Augustus Skelly and his gang facing British soldiers at the Marvel caves in Cornwall, and how he had wished he had been there to share the moment of supreme defiance. He fought the unreasonable notion that he was making up for that absence now. But the memory would not fade, nor the notion, and he smiled at their tenacity.

And then he thought of the puzzle that Skelly told him once he was destined to solve. He distinctly remembered the night that Skelly had joined him on the watch above the Marvel caves, and had replied, in answer to his assertion that living the life of an outlaw was more honorable than obeying unjust laws,
“‘Honor’ is such an empty notion nowadays. There is a better word for what you mean. The vilest rake in Parliament can claim honor. No, what moves us, Jack, is something more substantial…. I’m sure you’ll find the right word for it someday.”

Now he wondered if he would live long enough to know the answer.

At nine o’clock that night, Jack Frake received word from Brigadier
Putnam that his company was to join Colonel Prescott and march to Bunker Hill to help fortify it. Before the Virginians could be roused from their sleeping rolls, the order was countermanded by Prescott himself, who rode up to their encampment. “I’ve spoken with General Ward, Captain. We won’t have enough tools, and not enough water in our barrels to spare. It’s going to be dirty, dusty work all night, you see. Thank you for your offer. Your men have traveled far to be with us. Rest them, sir, so they’ll be fresh tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Jack Frake.

“S
tand to arms, men.”

The sound of guns at dawn had awakened the Virginians. It was distant fire, and as the men of the Company rose and prepared themselves to march, they wondered if the British had stolen up on Prescott, Putnam, and other units that had been sent to Bunker and Breed’s Hills to fortify them. A Connecticut officer rode by and informed Jack Frake that the navy at first light had begun bombarding the peninsula, but that the warships could not elevate their guns high enough to cause much damage.

“Where do we march, sir?” asked Jock Fraser.

“Follow the sound of the guns, sir,” said the officer with a smile, pointing in the direction of the peninsula, “and everyone else here, to Breed’s Hill.” He rode off to instruct other units.

The night had been hot, and the day promised to be hotter. The sky was cloudless and an intense blue. The rising sun promised to bake the heads of the armies and keep their powder dry.

Cletus stood with his drum by Jack Frake and beat the signal he had practiced so often. Travis Barret stood next to Cletus, nervously fingering his fife. Next to Jack Frake stood Fraser with the ensign. The men of the Queen Anne Volunteer Company quickly downed last gulps of coffee and pieces of bread, put out their fires, and rushed to form two lines. They stood at the ready, at attention, muskets shouldered.

Jack Frake addressed his troops. “We will march as smartly as we practiced in drill back home, men. Mind your sergeants’ commands. They’ll be mine. We will fight as well as any other company here.” He smiled. “Let us show the others that Americans can hale from the south, too.” Then he added, “And be sure to make your first shots a salute from Wendel Barret.” In each of the men’s pouches were two or three lead balls, fashioned from the Caxton
Courier
’s seized printing type long ago, and on which had been painted in white
WB
.

The men answered in unison, “Yes, sir!”

Jack Frake nodded to Fraser, who yelled, “In columns of twos, right face!” The Company obeyed. Then Fraser turned to Cletus and Travis
Barret. “Play the tune that Mr. Kenny taught you, sons.” The young men nodded.

Jack Frake and Fraser walked to the beginning of the formation. “March!” shouted Fraser.

The Queen Anne Volunteer Company moved forward in perfect step. “Left wheel!” The Company moved from the encampment onto a path that led into the distance and past other units that were preparing to march. Cletus beat a marching cadence, and Travis Barret, at first haltingly, then with more confidence, played “Yankee Doodle.”

“Cradle arms!”

The men swung their muskets around to rest the barrels in the crooks of their left arms.

Many of the northern men stopped what they were doing to watch the Virginians pass by. “What’s that they’re marching to?” asked a Connecticut militiaman.

“Sounds like the ‘Anacreon Song,’” answered another. “I sung it often enough in my cups.”

“No,” said another militiaman. “Not at all. It’s that new song I heard. ‘Yankee Macaroni.’”

“Look at that ensign!” said the sergeant of a Massachusetts regiment. “As brazen as a Beacon Hill doxy! We ought to get us one of those, and put our name on it.”

“‘Live free or die,’” said his companion. “Well, they march a bit like the bloody-backs, but those Virginians are flying the right idea.”

The Company followed other units to the Charlestown Neck, crossed it with them, passed Bunker Hill, and then marched down a road to Breed’s Hill into a square redoubt that Prescott’s men had built overnight. The eastern and western sides of the hill were steep, too steep for an assault, but the southern and northern sides were sloped and vulnerable. The redoubt’s walls were constructed of earth, wicker baskets filled with dirt, and fascines. Field guns were being positioned at the redoubt’s walls. Men were rushing back and forth to construct a breastwork on the northeast side of the redoubt. Dust from their efforts and from cannon balls that fell short of the redoubt was mixed with clouds of smoke from the warships drifting over the peninsula.

Five warships fired at the hill, and several gunboats or floating batteries from the Charles River, as well. It was eleven-thirty in the morning. Cannon balls from the gunboats had shrieked over the heads of Jack Frake’s
men on the Neck to plop harmlessly in the Mystic River. They still came, but fell far short of their target, the redoubt. Jack Frake saw the northern men working feverishly to construct the breastwork. He ordered his men to fall out, stack their arms, and pitch in to help complete it. This they did without hesitation.

Shortly after noontime, the roars of the British warships increased. Prescott urged his men to finish the breastwork. Jack Frake and Jock Fraser mounted the parapet facing Charlestown. With his spyglass Jack Frake counted nearly thirty barges being rowed in procession from Boston in the direction of Moulton’s Hill. They were thick with redcoats, and the sun winked ominously on fifteen hundred upright, fixed bayonets and on the cap plates of hundreds of grenadiers.

Behind them, a voice said, “It will take them some time to set up, once they land.” Jack Frake and Fraser turned to face Prescott. “In the meantime, Captain, do you see that rail fence there?”

Jack Frake turned north and nodded. A rough wooden fence spanned the pastureland from about one hundred feet north of the breastwork in the direction of the Mystic River. He saw militiamen working hurriedly to reinforce it with stones and cover it with hay. The fence, once fortified and manned, would protect the left flank of the redoubt and Bunker Hill, as well. “Yes, sir?”

“March your company out and join Captain Knowlton and his Connecticut men there. I have it from Ward that he’s sending over Colonel Stark’s two New Hampshire regiments. I’ll put them on the fence, too.” He paused. “I should warn you it’s likely that’s where Howe will concentrate an attack.”

“How do you know it will be his attack?”

Prescott held up his own spyglass. “I saw him on one of the barges. I guess Gage liked his plan best, whatever it might be.” He gestured to Moulton’s Hill. Already there was a great clot of redcoats assembled by the small hill, and it grew bigger as the barges disgorged the troops.

“There’s a gap between your breastwork and that fence, sir,” observed Jack Frake.

“I know,” answered Prescott. “Let’s hope Howe’s men don’t get that far.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack Frake and Fraser jumped down from the redoubt. The Company’s men collected their arms, formed up, and marched out of the redoubt and through the grass to join the Connecticut men. Jack Frake had
made Samuel Knowlton’s acquaintance yesterday when he toured the camps at Cambridge. Again, the Company stacked arms and pitched in to reinforce the fence.

At about one o’clock, when the task was nearly completed, Colonel Stark marched in along the fence with his regiments from Breed’s Hill. He assigned companies of the New Hampshire men to positions with the Connecticut troops. With him was Colonel James Reed, who led one of the regiments. As he passed by Jack Frake, Stark tipped his hat in greeting. “Welcome to hell, Captain. Good luck.”

“And you, sir,” answered Jack Frake, tipping his hat in turn.

Stark marched with the remainder of his men to the Mystic River and the beach below a bluff, where they proceeded to erect a wall of stone on the beach to protect that flank.

Jack Frake turned and used his spyglass to observe the British. He saw them forming up in three long lines, grenadiers first, one behind the other, nearly a thousand feet away. Every one of the grenadiers carried a full pack on his back. In addition, troops were pulling artillery into place to support the infantry. Jock Fraser said, “Eight guns, Mr. Frake. Six-pounders, twelve-pounders, and two howitzers. They mean to smash us by bayonet or ball.”

A slight breeze played lazily with the regimental colors of the British. Travis Barret glanced over at the Company’s ensign, which Fraser had planted in some grass behind the Company. It undulated in the warm air, as well. “Wind’s from the south, Mr. Frake,” he remarked.

Jack Frake heard the fear in the young man’s words. He smiled reassuringly at him. “So are we.” Then he turned to Fraser. “Jock, tell the men to load their pieces.”

Jock Fraser left to walk up and down the Company line to relay the order. John Proudlocks strode leisurely over to Jack Frake. He grinned and said casually, “Here we are again, Jack.”

“Again, John? We’ve always been here, you and I.” Jack Frake paused, then said gruffly. “Get back to your men. When they come at us up the hill, we’ll give them a taste of their own discipline, and fire in successive platoons. Four. Tell Mr. Fraser that.”

Proudlocks answered, “Yes, sir.” He turned and walked away. He knew that his friend felt the same pit in his stomach as he did.

Jack Frake busied himself loading his own musket, and succeeded in stopping the shaking in his hands, so that only a few grains of powder fell
from his powder horn to the ground as he filled the flash pan. He did not relish the prospect of killing any British. But they had made it necessary. He glanced at his men preparing themselves to fire, eyes fixed on the impressive lines of red below. He wondered what they thought about it.

And he thought of Etáin, safely in Edinburgh. He had not yet received a letter from her. Perhaps one was waiting for him at Morland Hall. He must make sure that he returned home to read it.

When he was finished loading his musket, he walked up and down the line, and his words were punctuated by the sound of guns firing from the warships. “Men, we opposed their Stamp Act and every other law they passed to enslave us. We would not obey those laws. The soldiers you see down there are just as much a part of those laws as the men who created the laws. They are how the king and Parliament always meant to enforce them. Those soldiers are the power behind the laws. That’s what you should think as you bring them down as they advance.”

“Shootin’ legislation?” queried one of the men. “No trouble with that, Captain! Look at all those laws!” he exclaimed, pointing to the lines of redcoats. “Let’s repeal ’em!”

Many of the men around him laughed at the remark.

“Yes,” said Jack Frake. “That’s the way to think of it today.”

“Good point,” said Proudlocks, who had studied law in London. “Wish I’d made it.”

As the Company reformed into four lines behind the fence, the roar of guns from the warships abated, and they heard the beat of a score of drums and the faint shriek of many fifes. The lines of redcoats began to advance up the hill toward the rail fence.

Jack Frake conceded to himself that the sight was majestic. Even magnificent. He took the spyglass from his pack and swept it over the front rank, studying the faces. He could see that every British soldier looked stolidly ahead of him, brow and mouth grim, musket poised straight up to lean on his left shoulder. The grenadiers were tall, their bearskin caps made them appear taller, and their fixed bayonets soared almost two feet above the bearskins. They looked formidable and unbeatable. But he knew they were men, and that any one of them would die just as quickly as short men with a well-placed musket ball. Many of the grenadiers were handsome, worthy-looking men. He was sorry they would need to die.

He slid the spyglass back into his pack and observed his own men. Many of them stared with wide-eyed fixation on the advancing spectacle; it
was a new phenomenon to them, the terrifying pageantry of parade ground warfare. Some were swallowing their spit, others wiping their brows of sweat that was not entirely drawn by the heat and sun.

John Proudlocks, in command of the rear fourth platoon, watched with calm, almost studious regard, as though he were listening to a lecture at the Middle Temple in London. Jock Fraser, in charge of the third, watched the advancing army with a faint, greedy smile, as though a meal were coming to him. Jude Kenny, in command of the second platoon, watched with disbelief. Travis Barret, in the second platoon, stood biting his lip; Cletus, behind him in the third, watched with the air of a prince.

Jack Frake glanced to his left and saw the Connecticut and New Hampshire men had made ready. Some were kneeling, muskets or rifles already aimed, trigger fingers curled to fire; others lay on the ground, the barrels of their weapons steadied atop a rail or stone.

As the British drums and the tramp of the grenadiers’ boots came closer, Jack Frake yelled to the first platoon, “When they’re fifty yards away, fire on my order. Don’t waste your shots.”

Cannon fire erupted from Breed’s Hill, but the iron balls fell short of the first line, bounded uselessly, and disappeared in the grass. There were remnants of fences and large rocks, and when the tightly organized line of grenadiers encountered them their formation was broken up. As the grenadiers scrambled on command from their officers and sergeants to reform their lines, the northern men behind the fence opened fire. At the same time, the guns from Breed’s Hill found their range and ploughed iron through the confused mass of redcoats. Muskets also fired from the redoubt, but Jack Frake did not think many could be effective from that distance.

“First platoon, fire!” shouted Jack Frake, and he brought up his musket to his shoulder and fired.

Many grenadiers died swiftly, silently, and fell like knocked over dolls. Others screamed in pain, fell, writhed on the ground, then were still. Others stumbled to their knees, dropping their muskets to clutch at their heads or limbs. The second line of grenadiers moved forward and became merged with the remnants of the first.

“Mr. Kenny, second platoon, please!” shouted Jack Frake as he reloaded. At first he thought he could not be heard over the deafening musket blasts on either side of him. But he was heard.

Jude Kenny shouted, “Fire!” The second platoon fired.

Jack Frake finished replacing his ramrod under the barrel. Redcoats were still falling. He saw a drummer boy in the rear swing wildly around as he was hit. When he fell, his drum came loose from his strap and rolled back down the hill. “Third platoon, Mr. Fraser!”

The third platoon fired.