Bunker Hill (19 page)

The
nominal commander of our forces is a gentleman by the name of Artemus Ward, a
person whose indecisiveness and ill health makes him as little fitted for his
position as I would be. I thank God that we do have two most remarkable men who
have taken over the fortification and defense of this high point of ground,
which is central to our defense of Charlestown. One is Col. William Prescott,
who has been charged with the defense of the high ground. He is an
extraordinary man—tall, handsome, gentle in his orders—and as much as I could
see, beloved by the men. The other is Colonel Gridley, who is in command of the
redoubt, the fortification of which I spoke. Like Prescott, he is calmly in
charge, soft-voiced, and not given to excitement. These two men have won my
profound respect. I must add that perhaps a thousand
paces
behind our position here, there is another high point called Bunker Hill. That
position is being held by Gen. Israel Putnam, who clings to the belief that the
British will attack his position instead of ours—in spite of the fact that we
can see the British forming for an attack upon our position even as I write. He
is a stubborn man who smarts because Colonel Prescott rather than
himself
has been given command of the defense of
Charlestown.

Let
me explain that the peninsula which we are to defend is about a mile in length
and somewhat less than a mile in width, shaped like a humpback whale, with the
tail of the whale connecting it with the mainland. Charlestown itself is a tiny
village of a few dozen houses at the foot of the hill where we are. If the
British attack us head-on, which we think they mean to do, and if we are
properly reinforced, we have a small chance of beating back their attack. I
write this to you in detail because I must face the fact of my decision to be
here. There is a very large possibility that I will be killed or captured, and
I leave it to the honor of my captors to see that this letter reaches you. I
try not to be pessimistic, but the situation here does not inspire confidence.
At least half of the men here are not men at all, but boys of sixteen and
seventeen years, wide-eyed, woefully innocent, and very afraid. Overnight, at
least a third of them have disappeared, run away, gone home. Those still here
are absolutely exhausted from building the redoubt and digging a barricade,
yesterday was a day of great confusion—

A wild din
of shouting interrupted Feversham’s letter writing, and he ran with others in
the redoubt to the gate on the backside, to see Prescott riding his horse at
the head of a column of men marching four abreast, while the men in the redoubt
and along the barricade waved their hats and shouted in excitement.

Feversham went back to his
letter: “My dear Alice, suddenly, I am filled with hope. Colonel Prescott has
just delivered to us a column of reinforcements. I leave you now, and I will
finish this letter later, perhaps after this day is over. I must note
,
if the worst comes, that my wife, to whom I write, is
Alice Feversham, in the village of Ridgefield in Connecticut, and I charge you
who reads this to deliver it to her.”

There was no shelter from
the burning sun for the grenadiers, who were being landed in the meadow at
Morton’s Point. There were two well-leafed maple trees, but Howe felt it would
be deleterious to the spirit of the men for them to huddle together in the
shade; although he did order water to be given to them, as well as a ration of
bread and cheese. Aside from their high shakos, the grenadiers carried full
pack, consisting of cloak and canteen and powder and fifty extra balls of lead,
made into cartridges. They were also in heavy uniform and leather boots, armed
with musket and bayonet. They stood in the June sun, sweat running down their
faces and soaking their underclothes. Whatever complaints they made were voiced
in whispers.

It was
Howe’s plan to assemble his forces across the entire front of the half mile
between Charlestown village and the mouth of the Mystic River, and then, with
the grenadiers in the forefront, to march calmly up Breed’s Hill, take the
redoubt by assault, and breach the entire line of defenses in one massive
thrust. Laying out his plan to Burgoyne, he said, “My feeling is that they will
cut and run, facing the grenadiers. Do you agree?”

“No
question about it,” Burgoyne assented. “We make a mistake if we consider them
as soldiers. They are not soldiers, and they have no discipline whatsoever.
Each does as he pleases. We saw that in April.”

General
Gage, aware that he was in the minority, his head aching from the heat, was
less certain. “It’s just that we don’t know how many of them there are up
there,” he said, pointing to the top of the hill.

“I have a
message from Church,” Burgoyne said. “He writes that half of them assigned to
the defenses deserted last night. They simply slip away. No punishment, no
measures against them.”

“Yes, I
suppose some of them are afraid.”

They were
joined by Admiral Graves. His marines were landing on the extreme left, within
rifle shot of the houses of abandoned Charleston.

“I’ve lost
five men, and two more wounded,” Graves told them angrily. “I can’t ask them to
stand there and be shot at.”

“Why not?”
Burgoyne
quipped. “It’s in the nature of their profession. It’s what they’re paid for.”

“I don’t
appreciate that, General.”

“If it
came down to that,” Burgoyne said as an aside to Gage, “I’d rather be shot at
in what the marines are wearing than stand in this bleeding sun under a
grenadier’s shako.”

“I don’t
appreciate that, either.” Graves had caught a few words. “It’s no joking
matter.”

“Can’t we
stand in the shade,” Burgoyne asked, “and have this discussion out of the sun?”

“If you
require your comfort, sir,” Howe said, annoyed by Burgoyne’s attempt at wit. As
they moved into the shade of a tree, Sir William asked Graves what he proposed.
“I must detail the men for the advance. Do you want the whole army huddled over
here in the meadow?”

“Why must
we endure those cursed riflemen?”

“What do
you propose?”

“I’m
willing to move into the village with the marines. We’ll soon clean out that
nest of vipers.”

“And lose
half a hundred of your men?”

“There’s a clean and simple solution,” Burgoyne
observed.

“Is there? Enlighten us.”

“Burn the filthy place.”

“What!”

“Exactly.”

“Clinton’s
up on Copp’s Hill with the battery. He’s out of it as far as the hill is
concerned, out of range. Every shot he’s fired falls short.
Wasting
ammunition.
I like your notion, Johnny,” Howe said to Burgoyne.

Gen.
Robert Pigot of the grenadiers, second in command to Sir William, joined the
group and informed Howe that in another hour or so the bulk of the army would
be onshore.

Howe
nodded with pleasure and turned to Admiral Graves. “Admiral, tell me, is the
tide right to bring
Symmetry
and
Glasgow
up the Charles River and
within cannon shot of the Charlestown Neck?”

“The tide will be with us, but there’s no wind to
speak of, Sir William.” “You heard Pigot. In another hour, the army will be
onshore. You could work the ships in with boats? Could you?”

“I guess
we could. It might take a while.”

“By two, three o’clock?”

“Certainly
by three o’clock.”

“Oh, splendid!”
Burgoyne cried. “They’re rats in a trap. Cut them off
at the Charlestown Neck and we have them.”
“And my marines?”
Graves demanded. “We’ll solve that,” Howe said. “We’ll drop a few salvos of
fire

bombs
out of the siege mortars on Copp’s Hill. That
wretched

village
will go up like a bonfire.”

“You can’t be serious?” Gage said.

“I am very serious, General Gage, completely serious.”

“Burn an entire village?”

“It’s a
stinking little village,” Burgoyne said.

“We don’t
burn villages,” Gage said. “My God, Sir William, we are not barbarians. There
are rules of war.”

“Tell me,
who are the barbarians, General Gage? They snipe at us from behind their damned
stone walls. They hide in that abandoned village and murder our marines. There
are no families left in Charlestown. No, let the world decide who are the
barbarians. We’ll burn that damned village to the ground!”

“Sir
William,” Gage said, “I beg your forbearance. Please, understand me. I know as
well as you do the need to bring this wretched rebellion to an end. But we are
fighting our own people. If we burn Charlestown, we will give them a source of
rage and bitterness they will never forget. I know these people, and if you
will forgive me, you do not. They are stiff-necked and determined beyond any of
our folk at home. They are Puritans, and they believe they are God’s chosen. They
hacked a civilization out of the wilderness. They are not European peasants,
and they are not Scottish gillies. We have them trapped on the peninsula, and
we can destroy them in a fair fight. They will accept that because it will be a
defeat with honor. But if we burn Charlestown, they will have a symbol that
they will not forget.”

“Oh, come
on, sir,” Burgoyne put in. “The houses are empty. The town is a spoil of war, a
legitimate target.”

“Am I to
stand by and watch my marines murdered?” Graves demanded.

“You can assemble your marines out of rifle shot.”

“Bloody nonsense!”

“I hear you, General Gage,”
Howe said, “but the command here is mine, and it is my responsibility to bring
this wretched rebellion to an end.” He signaled an end to the argument by
turning to Burgoyne: “Off with you, Johnny.
Copp’s Hill.
Tell Clinton that he is to prepare firebombs and shell the village. Meanwhile,”
he said to Graves, “you may begin working
Symmetry
and
Glasgow
into
the river to the range of the Charlestown Neck. Once and for all, I intend to
put a finish to what is up there on Breed’s Hill and Bunker Hill. When the sun
sets tonight, this rebellion will be done with.”

On Breed’s
Hill, the officers’ horses were tethered behind the redoubt. In the redoubt,
Prescott sat on the firing step, facing the officers who would defend Breed’s
Hill. Feversham stood to one side, studying the faces and manner of the four
men who would to one degree or another decide his own fate on Breed’s Hill: Tom
Knowlton, short, stocky, and amazingly relaxed; John Stark of New Hampshire,
tall, brown as a berry, wearing a sleeveless waistcoat and fringed leggings,
his pale blue eyes bloodshot from want of sleep; young Captain Nutting, nervous
now, excited, rubbing his chin anxiously; and Gridley, three days’ growth of
red beard on his face, sunburned red on his bald head, chewing thoughtfully on
a straw. Warren sprawled on the ground to one side, his bright, fanciful
clothes stained and sweat-soaked. And on the opposite wall of the redoubt,
crouched wearily on the firing step and taking advantage of the little shade
the wall offered, were the thirty-two men who remained of the larger group that
had built the redoubt. Feversham noticed, among them, two Negroes, both of them
stripped to the waist and dressed in ragged pantaloons. They were barefoot, but
so were others of the men in the redoubt. Probably, they were slaves, but whom
they belonged to and what brought them to the redoubt, Feversham did not know.

“We are in
good stead and good strength,” Prescott said. “I come with five hundred and
fifty-two men, and they’re fine men and better rested than we are. I intend to
station some of them here in the redoubt and to station the large part of the
rest in a line from the redoubt to the first stone wall. That’s about three
hundred yards, which is easy firing position for four hundred men. Tom,” he
said, addressing Knowlton, “how many men have you?”

“Two hundred and twelve by last count.”

“We’ll
anchor my left flank on the stone wall. You have a fieldstone wall along the
whole slope of the hill. Put your men shoulder to shoulder, and that should
take you to Stark’s right flank.”

He said to
Stark, “Johnny, can you make your position tight enough to anchor your line to
Tom’s and yet prevent the British from flanking
your
left along the river?”

“I have
three hundred riflemen,” Stark replied. “There’s a wooden fence, goes a ways,
and a sort of stone wall.
We been
at it all morning,
digging a little, stuffing the holes with hay, which won’t stop a musket ball
but might spoil their aim. If Knowlton here can hold my right and keep them
from turning me, we can stop any damn thing on God’s earth that comes at our
front. We can not only stop it. We can send it to hell and gone.”

Prescott
turned to young Nutting, reminding him of a stone-andlog root cellar which made
a sort of projecting knob between the entrenchments and Knowlton’s position.
“Could you find room for five men in there?” Prescott wanted to know.