Bunker Hill (17 page)

“It’s
wasted,” Clinton said sourly.

“It’s a terrifying message,” Howe said with
satisfaction.

“It doesn’t seem to terrify them.”

“It will.”

“You’ll put the whole army ashore here? Every man we
have?”

“Such is my intention.”

“And Boston?”

“You will defend Boston,” Howe said smugly.

“With what?
Do I defend the city myself, alone?”

“I will
give you a hundred marines.”

“Good God,
sir, they have seven, eight thousand men in Roxbury and Dorchester.”

“My dear
Sir Henry, the Boston Neck is two hundred paces across. There is no other
approach to the city. We have four twenty-pounders and gunners to serve them at
the Boston Neck, and you have more than convinced me that the farmers will not
attack a fortified position. If you cannot hold the neck with four guns and a
hundred marines—”

“Did I say
that?” Clinton replied angrily. “What is to keep them from pushing across from
Dorchester? When the tide is out, you can almost walk across. What do I do with
a hundred
marines,
put ten on the shore and ten on
Beacon Hill and ten at the neck?”

“Dr.
Church says that there is absolutely no chance that they will attack Boston.
They are not an army, they are a mob. And by the way, I have made arrangements
for Mrs. Loring to have a place on
Vindicator
, where she can watch the
engagement. You will see that she has every comfort.”

Clinton’s retort died in his
throat. He stared at his commanding officer for a long moment; then he nodded
and walked away. He stood at the water’s edge, watching the barges land the
troops on Morton’s Point. He saw the grenadiers stumbling under their great
headgear and enormous packs, climb out of the barges, and scramble up the rocky
shore to the meadow; he thought that if there were a crew of gunners worth
their salt up there in the redoubt, the grenadiers could blow the barges out of
the water, one by one, as deftly as a man shooting ducks from a blind. He could
see the shape of the cannon in the embrasures of the redoubt, but for the life
of him, he could not understand why they were silent. For a moment he
fantasized himself up there at the redoubt with a company of trained
artillerymen. That would give Sir William a thing or two to think about.

“And here
I am, Evan Feversham,” he said to himself, “and
here’s my
medical staff
.” There they
were,
a tall,
skinny, dark-eyed Jew and an aged, white-haired Welshman, the three of them
apparently abandoned in a hodgepodge of confusion all around them. Warren had
taken off, and so had
Prescott,
and Gridley was
shouting at the men in the redoubt to get off their asses and start digging.
Bones and Gonzales stared at Eversham. What do we do now?

Do
something, he told himself. Say something.

At that
moment, a cannonball took the head off one of the diggers. His body stood for a
moment, headless; and the other men scrambled out of the shallow trench and
began to run. It was the first casualty of the day.

Feversham
found
himself
shouting at them, “Come back!

Damn you
all,
come back!” He had never imagined himself in such voice, a veritable roar of
command. Gridley leaped out of the redoubt and raced after the scattered men,
waving a pistol wildly and yelling, “Stop, you lousy, cowardly bastards!”
Another man, Captain Nutting by name, appeared from across the field,
intercepting the flight and flourishing a sword. The only thing Feversham could
think of at that moment was to climb up onto a pile of dirt and rocks and stand
there, shouting, “Look at me! They can’t hit me!”

“Heed me!”
he shouted with all the voice he could muster. “I’m in full sight of them. They
can’t hit anything with those balls. They can’t shoot grape at this distance.”
He waved his arms violently, and evidently the gunners below saw him and tried
to train their guns on him. Two balls thudded into the pile of rocks and dirt,
throwing up a shower of sand that covered him, and convincing him that he had
made his point. He hopped down from the embankment, wiping the sand out of his
hair and eyes. His action had its effect, and the men came walking back,
shamefaced. They gathered around the headless man whose skull and brains were
scattered across the ground behind the trench.

“What do
we do with him?” someone asked.

“Bury
him,” Gridley said, putting his pistol back into its holster. Nutting came back
and offered his hand to Feversham, whose own hand was shaking like a leaf.

“My name’s
Nutting, Captain Nutting. I’m with Knowlton. Who are you, sir?”

“Dr. Feversham.”

“My
word, that
was certainly something.”

The
militiamen were staring at the corpse, still unwilling to touch it. Feversham
motioned to Bones and Gonzales. “Give a hand with this.”

“Dig a
hole,” Gridley growled to the men who had picked up their spades.

“Where, sir?”

“Anywhere.
Over there.”

They dug a
grave quickly, furiously, to rid themselves of the headless corpse. Feversham
and Bones and Gonzales picked up the body and put it in the shallow grave.

Feversham
pointed to remains of the man’s head. “Throw some dirt on that. It’s not
something we want to think about. What was the poor devil’s name?”

“Simpkins,
Doctor. He’s from Marblehead.”

“We ought
to have some way to note the names,” Feversham said to Gridley.

“I should
have thought of that,” Gridley said wearily. “I’ll try to do something about
it.” He went back into the redoubt.

“You’re
doctors, all of you?” Nutting asked, pointing to the leather aprons Bones and
Gonzales wore, the big pockets heavy with surgical tools. Feversham’s equipment
was in his saddlebag, his horse tethered to a rock in the shelter behind the
redoubt.

“We’re all
there is at the moment,” Feversham said ruefully. “Dr. Warren will be back.
He’s none too well, and he’ll be in the redoubt.
So there’s
three of us—Dr. Bones, Dr. Gonzales, and myself.
Are you in command
here?”

“Until
Colonel Prescott returns.”

“Then if you show us the
line of defense, we’ll be better able to position ourselves.”

Prescott,
whipping his horse down the road to the Charlestown Neck, met up with Israel
Putnam, who was leading a contingent of some 250 Connecticut
militia
.

“Thank God
for small favors!” Prescott exclaimed. “You’re the answer to my prayers. We’re
weakest at the barricade, from the redoubt to Knowlton’s position.”

“I’m not
bound for Breed’s Hill,” Putnam replied.

“Then where the hell are you going?”

“We’re fortifying
Bunker Hill.”

Prescott
cried, “Why Bunker Hill? The attack is at Breed’s Hill. There’s no one there,
do you understand me? A hundred men who’ve been digging all night and they can
hardly stand on their feet, and you’re fortifying Bunker Hill!”

“General
Ward says the attack will be on Bunker Hill,” Putnam said, trying to restrain
his hair-trigger temper. “And you will not address me in such voice, sir!”

“Ward
doesn’t know his ass from his elbow!”

“And you,
sir, where the hell is your knowledge from?”

“From the
eyes God gave me, General. Right at this minute the British are landing an army
at the foot of Breed’s Hill. Our intelligence says they’re going to throw
everything at us, the whole army, the whole three thousand of them, the light
infantry, the grenadiers, the marines, everything, and you’re fortifying Bunker
Hill!”

“It’s a
ruse, Prescott!” Putnam snapped. “Not even Howe could be that stupid and order
his men to climb Breed’s Hill in a frontal attack. He’ll turn your left flank
and march on Bunker Hill.”

“He won’t
turn our left flank. Johnny Stark’s holding the flank with his riflemen. They
know every move we make, and they know that we have nothing on Breed’s Hill and
nothing in the damn redoubt!”

“Fuck the
redoubt,” Putnam growled.

“To hell with you!”
Prescott whipped his horse and raced past the file of Connecticut militia to
the Charlestown Neck. Across the neck, at the junction of the Cambridge Road,
he saw the big brown tent that the Committee of Safety had raised for their
command post. Dozens of men were milling around the tent. In the pasture beyond
it, the Massachusetts militia were sprawled in the morning sunshine around
their cook fires. A dozen horses were being watered at the Mill Pond, and still
other troops were camped on the slope of Cobble Hill. Prescott felt sick at the
sight. Back at Breed’s Hill, Johnny Stark’s few hundred New Hampshire men and
Knowlton’s few hundred Connecticut men and the hundred or so exhausted men
around the redoubt waited for extinction, and here was a whole army lounging in
the June sunshine.

“Is
General Ward inside?” he asked as he dismounted.

“Yes, sir.”

Prescott
pushed through the cluster around the tent. Inside it was as crowded as
outside, Ward sitting at a table, staring at a map. Three men whom Prescott
recognized as members of the Committee of Safety were grouped around him, a
clutch of militia officers argued hotly, and four men with muskets stood
stiffly by the open flap. A large rent in the roof of the tent let in a shaft
of sunlight.

Prescott,
without
so
much as a by your leave, pushed the militia
officers aside and leaned over the table, facing Ward, who looked up in
surprise at the appearance of the colonel.

“Prescott?
I thought you were at the redoubt?”

His voice
as cold as ice, Prescott said, “Will you clear the tent, General? I must talk
to you.
Just the two of us, alone.”

The two
men were the same age, forty-eight years: Prescott a tall, broad-shouldered,
powerful, and athletic man; Artemus Ward, small, paunchy,
prematurely
aged, with the precise, didactic manner of a schoolmaster.

“Why,
sir?”

Prescott leaned
over and whispered, “Concerning Johnny Lovell.”

Troubled,
Ward stared at him.

“Did he ever find you?” Prescott asked softly.

“When, sir?
Do you mean today?”

“I
mean today.”

“No, not today.”

“Then let
me inform you of his intelligence,” Prescott said coldly. “The entire British
army of more than three thousand disciplined regulars is at this moment landing
in the meadows at the foot of Breed’s Hill. They will launch a frontal attack
upon Breed’s Hill and the redoubt within three or four hours from now. We
cannot defend either the redoubt or the fortifications we have been trying to
build between the redoubt and Johnny Stark’s riflemen, who hold the left flank
down to the Mystic River. The few men we have are exhausted.”

Ward
protested. “General Putnam says the attack will come on Bunker Hill.”

“He’s
wrong.”

“How do I
know he’s wrong?”

“General
Ward,” Prescott said deliberately, “you know me a little. Then believe me. I
will not allow Johnny Stark and his riflemen, and Tom Knowlton and his Connecticut
men, and the men who built the redoubt and are too tired to stand on their feet
to die on that hill. And die they will unless you give me a thousand
Massachusetts men to defend Breed’s Hill. They’re sitting on their asses
outside this tent.”

“They are
here to defend the Charlestown Neck.”

“General,
the British will not attack the neck. They have no men left to attack the neck.
Their entire army is committed to the attack on Breed’s Hill.”

“So you
say,” Ward replied defensively. “Putnam says otherwise. If Johnny Lovell had
this intelligence, why didn’t he come here?”

“I don’t
know that,” Prescott said, “and I don’t give a tinker’s fart for what Putnam
said. The Committee of Safety gave me the command and the responsibility for
the Charlestown peninsula. We have more damn generals and major generals than
we know what to do with, but the command is mine, and I don’t give a damn who
calls himself a general.”

“I sent
four brigades to Bunker Hill. They are there right now, under the command of
General Putnam.” Ward’s voice sank to a whimper.

“No, sir.
I need a
thousand men on Breed’s Hill, and you will either order them to follow me now,
immediately, or so help me God, I will put you under arrest and order them
myself.”

“You
wouldn’t dare.”

Prescott
put his hand on the butt of his pistol. “Don’t try me, General Ward! Don’t try
me.”

A long
moment stretched itself between the two men, and then Ward bowed his head.
“Very well, Colonel Prescott.
Be it upon your head. You can
have the men.”