Guns for General Washington (2 page)

Still, the general had to admit—albeit grudgingly—that these boors and roughnecks were surprisingly brave. They knew how to use their long muskets, pouring out volley after volley of deadly fire. The skirmishes at Lexington and Concord, the recent fighting at Breed's and Bunker Hills, had proved that they could be tough and dangerous.

A staff officer stepped up to General Howe and touched his hat. “Word's come from our friends in Boston, sir. Three rebel regiments have just reached Cambridge. Militia from Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Maryland.”

Sir William nodded and continued his pacing. Worse and worse. It wasn't just a Massachusetts affair anymore; the rebellion was spreading to
all
the colonies.

Cambridge was out of range of his heaviest guns—otherwise he'd blow the whole place to bits. He also had four thousand marines under his command—veterans whose fighting skills were famous. But this wasn't a big enough force to sweep across the Charles River and attack the Yanks in their stronghold. At Breed's Hill his redcoats had taken heavy casualties and many were out of action. There were just enough left to control Boston, protect the loyalists in the city, and fight off rebel patrols—and that was all.

The general had other problems. Scurvy, a dread disease, was increasing, and fresh food was scarce. His hungry troops were living on biscuits and salt pork, half-rotted from lying so long in casks. The men had little to do except walk guard duty, drill on Boston Common, and go on scouting parries, hoping to round up a few cattle or sheep.

William Howe had been sent over to stamp out this colonial treachery. Instead he found himself in a stalemate. He knew from letters and messages that his expedition was becoming a laughingstock at home. One of the songs popular in England's pubs and taverns went:

 

In days of yore our noble troops

Took warlike kings in battle.

But now, alas, their valour fades—

They capture harmless cattle!

 

Back at the railing, Sir William watched a squad of redcoats climb down the rope ladder into a waiting barge. Another party was going off to scour the countryside in search of food. They'd probably come back empty-handed.

He turned away, frowning. For the present he'd have to be patient and bide his time. But not for long. Heavy reinforcements were on their way from England; soon he'd have more ships, more guns, and a lot more troops. When these came he'd smash the rebels once and for all, and then sail home a hero. Yankee independence be hanged! Against the full force of England, the country bumpkins didn't stand a chance.

Feeling better at this happy thought, Sir William allowed himself a brief smile. As his bad mood slowly passed, he strode back to his cabin to order fresh tea.

3

Father and I went down to camp,

Along with Captain Gooding,

And there we saw the men and boys

As thick as hasty pudding.

 

Yankee Doodle keep it up,

Yankee Doodle dandy,

Mind the music and the step,

And with the girls be handy!

 

A ragged squad, led by a lone fifer, made its noisy way through camp. The fife shrilled and squeaked, and the men raised their voices to follow the melody. The ditty had first been sung by the British to mock the rebels. But the colonists liked the lively tune, so they added new words and made it their own:

 

There was Captain Washingtons

Upon a slapping stallion,

A-giving orders to his men;

I guess there were a million.

 

Yankee Doodle keep it up,

Yankee Doodle dandy,

Mind the music and the step,

And with the girls be handy!

 

The squad, on its way to gather wood, marched past the camp headquarters. An officer working at his desk stopped to listen, and the song gave him a welcome lift. George Washington had been sitting and brooding. Like General Howe, his opponent aboard HMS
Somerset
, Washington was worried about the stalemate—but not for the same reasons.

Months earlier, in June of 1775, the Continental Congress had chosen him to command the new Continental Army. The delegates in Philadelphia couldn't have made a better choice. Tall, dignified, with good military experience, the Virginia landowner was a staunch patriot. When the call came, he accepted it gladly.

Full of exciting plans and high hopes, he had hurried to Massachusetts by fast coach. But after a few days in Cambridge, his excitement and hopes had begun to fade. What the general found when he reached headquarters was something close to chaos. The Continental Army was a force without shape; there was no organization and no discipline. Shelters were scattered everywhere, no two alike. The men were living in tumble-down shacks, rickety lean-tos, or tents patched together from scraps of canvas and blankets. Their clothes were shabby, and there were no uniforms except for a few companies funded by their wealthy officers.

Washington had a neat, precise military mind. Over and over he tried to remember that his raw troops were colonists, not professional soldiers. They were a noisy, good-humored, democratic mob, willing and brave but
not
happy taking orders. In fact, orders and royal commands were the very things they were
against
. So they'd come together to put an end to King George's tyranny— this odd assortment of farmers and fishermen, carpenters and cobblers, tradesmen and teachers, barbers, blacksmiths, frontier scouts, seamen, clerks, weavers, tanners, tailors, shopkeepers, stonemasons, lumberjacks, and young men just seeking adventure. Also, the good pay of six dollars a month for army privates drew many colonials to the cause.

It was the easygoing disorder of his troops that troubled General Washington, but that could be corrected. These good-natured amateurs with their pitchforks and hunting rifles had to be welded into a real military force or the cause would be lost. Yes, rules and discipline had to be established. Officers had to dress according to rank, and their orders had to be carried out. March and drill practice would be increased. Work parties would be organized. Sanitation would be improved.

Washington had wanted to make soldiers of his men—and under his leadership the changes came quickly. Still, many problems remained, and the commander wasn't sure they could
ever
be solved.

For one thing, all the discipline in the world couldn't combat the weather. Winter was coming and soon it would turn bitterly cold. There were thousands of troops in Cambridge, badly dressed and poorly housed. The countryside had been stripped bare, and firewood was scarce. The army was short of blankets, soap, shoes, medical supplies, tools, muskets, and gunpowder. In August, Washington had been told that the arsenal held over three hundred barrels of gunpowder. Later, when these figures were checked, it turned out that only
ninety
barrels were on hand, which meant that each man could fire his musket only eight or nine times before the powder would be gone!

What troubled the general even more was that he had no artillery. Several big siege guns, hidden in Concord, had been captured by the redcoats. Now there were only a few small brass cannons that could fire six-pound shots. Compared to Howe's weapons, they were no better than popguns.

Sitting at his desk on a cold November day, General Washington worried about all this. Outwardly he seemed calm, but his spirits were low. Picking up his quill pen, he continued the letter he'd begun to his friend Joseph Reed in Philadelphia. In it he wrote: “Could I have foreseen what I have, and am like to experience, no consideration on earth would have induced me to accept this command.”

The general put down his pen, sealed the letter, and buttoned his coat. He stepped outside. From the top of Prospect Hill—the very spot where Will Knox had stood earlier—he could see Boston clearly. With his pocket telescope he could make out the red jackets of Howe's marines drilling on the Common and patrolling Barton's Point.

Like his British enemy, Washington needed a victory. On the land side the rebels were in control, surrounding Boston in a huge ring from Roxbury to Chelsea on the Mystick River. In manpower they far outnumbered the British. But the British had all the gunpowder and all the artillery. If the patriots tried to drive them from Boston Harbor, Howe's warships could bombard the city. Or by firing “carcasses”—thin shells filled with flaming oily rags—they could burn it to the ground. The forces were deadlocked. Without cannons the colonists couldn't liberate Boston. Without men the British couldn't attack Cambridge.

Both sides had spies in Boston, and Washington knew that Howe was expecting reinforcements. Meanwhile, winter was here and smallpox was creeping through the big camp. Some of the volunteers, sick, bored, and lonesome for their families, were beginning to drift away. When the icy winds came, with no victories to raise morale, the trickle of deserters would become a flood. Washington was afraid that his army, short of so many things, might fall apart—and with it the whole precious cause.

 

I can't tell you half I saw,

They kept up such a smother,

So I tipped my hat, made a bow,

And scampered home to mother.

 

Yankee Doodle keep it up,

Yankee Doodle dandy,

Mind the music and the step,

And with the girls be handy!

 

The squad, with its lone fifer, came straggling back to camp. Their cart held very little wood, since every tree, fence, and barn-siding for miles around had already been fed to the campfires.

Slowly the general walked back to his quarters. At the rate the army used it, firewood would soon be worth more than gold. Of course the men needed fuel to stay warm, but they also needed the fuel of success. His ragged soldiers needed a victory. Time was running out. Somehow the Continental Army had to work a miracle; if they could defeat Howe and set Boston free, it would electrify the colonies. That would put heart into the rebellion before it was too late.

Or was it too late already? General Washington wasn't sure.

4

“You, boy! Come here!” The marine raised his musket suspiciously.

Paul turned and saw the redcoat. Quick as a hare, he vaulted a low wall and raced into a nearby alley. The soldier's heavy boots came pounding after him, but fifteen-year-old Paul Revere, Jr., knew the back routes and byways of Boston far better than any lobsterback. He had spent all afternoon fishing in Mill Cove and had been lucky enough to land two plump fish—and he wasn't about to let some British bully take them away.

Hanging on to his precious catch, Paul turned a bend in the alley, dove through a hedge, and raced along a ditch. He cut to a weedy path behind Friends Street, circled Cockerel Church, and darted across Middle Street. From there another alley took him to North Square, where he stopped to catch his breath. The marine had long since given up the chase, and Paul was able to cross the square and slip into the Revere house by the back way.

He bolted the door, dropped his catch onto the kitchen table, and leaned his pole against the wall. Now he'd have a good dinner—but first there was something to attend to. He put one fish in a skillet. The other, he wrapped in a scrap of paper and tucked inside his patched coat. He looked out the parlor window to make sure the coast was clear, then hurried to Clark's Wharf.

As far back as Paul could remember, his father had kept a workshop here on the wharf. In the old days, before the troubles, Mr. Revere had been Boston's most successful craftsman. His workshop turned out beautiful silver pitchers, bowls, and tankards. He created surgeons' tools, copper engravings, serving spoons, eyeglass frames, church Communion cups, handsome sword hilts, even silver dog collars. And as a sideline, busy Mr. Revere acted as a dentist, pulling bad teeth or making false ones of ivory and gold wire.

Now, with his father branded a traitor by the British, the shop had been left in charge of a silversmith named Isaac Clemens. Since old Clemens was a Tory, loyal to the king, the redcoats had left the shop alone. Paul Junior didn't like Mr. Clemens much (he didn't like
anyone
opposed to the cause), but the man was important to the family, so the boy thought a gift of food a good idea. In Boston that winter, Tories got just as hungry as patriots.

The gift was appreciated and Clemens thanked Paul warmly. “Your father and I,” the old man added, “don't agree on much these days. But I grant you, son, he's the best craftsman in the colonies. Send word to him, if you can, that old Clem is keeping a keen eye on everything.”

Back home Paul fried his supper with the last of the stovewood and ate it slowly. There were no sounds in the empty house. And none outside, except for the whining of a hungry dog and the pounding of boots as a squad of soldiers marched by.

Sitting there, Paul Junior decided that being lonely was the worst of all feelings. Even worse than being afraid. Under the hard thumb of the British, Boston was a town of ghosts and memories—shadow images that filled his thoughts and empty hours. As he cleaned up after his little meal, Paul remembered the good times before the warships came. North Square, where the Reveres lived, had been a bustling area ringed with neat, prosperous houses. There were handsome trees, tidy gardens, shiny brass nameplates, elegant doorways, and fancy hitching-posts for horses and carriages. And at the far end of the square was Old North Church, one of the finest in all New England.