Guns for General Washington (3 page)

Three times a week the square had become a grand town market where food of all kinds could be bought. Paul remembered the stalls piled with fruits and farm vegetables, fat sacks of grain, and firkins of churned butter. Other booths held turkeys, hams, mutton, and veal. There were quails and partridges. There were bags of flour and rye meal, kegs of oysters, tubs of pickled pork. There were venison and bear steaks brought in by hunters. And lobsters were plentiful, too, at a halfpenny each.

Now it was all changed. The stalls were gone—and so were most of the people who once brought life and excitement to Paul's world. His father had helped to rouse the countryside at Lexington and Concord; now he was hiding in Philadelphia and working with John Hancock, Sam Adams, and the other colonial leaders. His mother, sisters, and brothers had also fled, slipping away in a horse-drawn cart in the middle of the night. Only Paul remained at home—and for a reason. Many supporters of the rebellion had left everything behind when they escaped from Boston. To keep discipline, General Howe had decreed martial law: Thousands of people still lived in the besieged city, and the marines had strict orders not to harm them. But empty, abandoned houses were looked upon as fair game. The redcoats had looted these quickly, taking everything of value. They'd even ripped out doors, stairways, fine wood panels, and hand-carved railings to feed their campfires.

The destruction was ongoing. Recently, the steeple of West Street Church had been pulled down for fuel. In Old South Church the pews had been torn out and gravel spread over the floor—now it served as a riding ring for General Burgoyne's fancy horses. Only one pew had been left in the church—and it had been turned into a pigsty.

Because Paul still lived in the house, the Revere family home had been spared by the redcoats. But he felt their hatred and contempt. Now, sitting on his bed, the boy took a crumpled, stained piece of paper from his shirt pocket. It was a letter from his father that had been smuggled to him, and Paul had read it over and over. In an artist's fine hand, Paul Senior had written:

 

My Son: It is now in your power to be of service to me, your mother, and yourself. I beg you to keep yourself safely at home. Behave well. Attend to my business. Do not come away until I send you word
.

Your loving father, P. R
.

 

Paul slipped the letter back into his pocket and frowned. He was dying to leave and join the rebels in Cambridge. He was old enough—
almost
—to be with the Continental Army and fight beside the other men. But he knew that was impossible. He'd made a solemn promise to stay; it was now his responsibility. In a way he was like a soldier under orders—a soldier whose enemies were fear and loneliness.

Unable to sleep, Paul paced the floor of his room.
Plague take General William Howe! Plague take his warships! Plague take his cannons and his redcoats and
—

TAP, TAP . . . tap-tap-tap . . .

Startled by the signal, he raced downstairs to the kitchen. Through the window he could see Will Knox's face, pale in the darkness. Quickly, Paul unlatched the back door and pulled his friend inside.

William, tall and gangly, wiped his nose and grinned. “Greetings from General Washington and the Sons of Liberty, Paulie.”

At nineteen, William was four years older than Paul Junior, but they'd been friends for a long time. Together, as boys, they'd gone swimming off Hudson's Point and fishing in Mill Pond. They'd explored the byways of the city and played at ninepins on Boston Common. Paul was delighted to see Will again.

“How'd you get here?” he asked.

“Toby rowed me over. It was simple. No moon tonight, it's black as pitch. So I decided to pay you a visit and see how things were going in Boston.”

Paul shook his head anxiously. “You dasn't do this, Will. It's way too dangerous. If they catch you they'll put you in chains for sure. Or—or worse.”

William grinned again and held up a fat, fresh-killed rabbit. “Lobsterbacks don't scare me. Look, I fetched you a present. Shot it this afternoon near Phipps Farm.”

Paul took the rabbit happily. “Well now, I do thank you. I'll have rabbit stew for supper tomorrow. But I still think you should—”

His friend waved a carefree hand, kicked off his boots, and sat down near the stove, still a bit warm from Paul's cooking. “Lordy,” he sighed, “this feels good. It's powerful cold in Cambridge, and barely any firewood left. Not enough to warm a man's big toe.”

Paul pulled a stool up next to his friend, and stared at him with envy. William was a Massachusetts soldier and his older brother, Henry, was a colonel of artillery on Washington's staff. They were
really
in the fight—not sitting it out in Boston like he was.

“Things are bad here,” Paul said sadly, “and getting worse. What's happening, Will? When's Washington going to come and throw them out?”

William shrugged. “We're trapped, Paulie. Scotched and hog-tied. We've almost no powder and ball left. And we can't make a move without cannons. If we marched on Boston, Howe would blow the whole city to bits, and us along with it.”

Paul looked thoughtful. “Any news of my father?”

His visitor nodded. “He's been riding express for the congress. And I hear tell he's etching some new copper plates. The delegates want to print money—our
own
currency instead of the king's paper. New currency for a new country.”

Paul frowned. “It's a grand gesture, but we need a lot more than that. They say Howe's getting reinforcements. If we don't stop him, there won't
be
a new country.”

Will got up and drank water from a tin dipper at the kitchen pump. He had an odd, eager look on his weathered face. “Paulie, I'm not right sure yet, but I'll pass you a secret. Not a word to anyone, mind you, but something big is brewing. My brother, Henry, has a marvelous plan. Some of the officers think he's daft, but Henry doesn't care. He's going to talk to the War Council tomorrow.”

“What's it about?”

William pulled on his boots. “Can't say—I've said too much already. But pray hard that the council lets him go ahead. And now, I'd best be on my way.”

The young trooper gave his friend a clumsy bear hug. Then, with a quick salute, he slipped out the door and melted into the night.

Paul hung the rabbit in the wash shed and climbed the stairs. Will's visit had cheered him up. He didn't feel quite so lonely anymore; he decided to get ready for bed.

Lying there, staring at the ceiling, Paul thought about Colonel Knox. What was this “marvelous plan” Will had mentioned? And why did some of the officers think Henry Knox was daft? Well, no matter. Daft or sane, he would pray for the colonel. He would pray hard.

In the distance he could hear the thud of marching boots. The British were changing the guard company at the North Battery. The ominous sound gradually faded, and in the cold, dark silence Paul dozed off, wondering about tomorrow.

5

The day after Will's secret visit, the War Council met in Cambridge. The council was made up of leading officers of the army; among them was Henry Knox.

Everyone at headquarters, including the commander, liked Colonel Knox. He was only twenty-five, but he had a way about him that inspired confidence. Over six feet tall with big shoulders and a booming laugh, he was lively, enthusiastic, and completely fearless. In fact, some of the men thought Henry wanted to take on the British all by himself and lick them single-handedly.

Before the rebellion, Henry had owned a bookshop on Boston's Cornhill Street and Will had worked with him. It was an unusual shop; along with books, they sold tobacco, musical instruments, telescopes, patent medicines, and a brand of snuff said to “cure deafness and improve memory.” But the books were Henry's main interest, and he read most of them. Especially the ones dealing with weapons and warfare. Between his reading and his long talks with army men, Henry had become something of an expert on artillery. His shop had also been a meeting-place for Boston's Whigs—the party that wanted independence for the colonies. Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Nathaniel Greene, Paul Revere, and others all met at Henry's to gossip, talk politics, and grumble about the stupidity of the British.

But Henry liked action as well as talk, so he became a lieutenant in a militia company called the Grenadier Corps. At that time the British were closing in on “rebel troublemakers” and he was ordered not to leave the city without permission. Henry was now in great danger, so he and his wife, Lucy, decided to escape. Late at night (like many others) they slipped away from the city, leaving everything behind. Everything but Henry's handsome militia sword, which Mrs. Knox managed to hide under her ample petticoats.

Once Lucy was safe in the town of Worcester, Henry hurried to join the colonial army. His knowledge and experience were badly needed, and before long he was made colonel of artillery. Of course it was just the right job for him and he was delighted. But when he asked at headquarters where the artillery was kept, a young officer replied sheepishly, “Uh, well—I'm afraid, sir, there
isn't
any.”

Colonel Knox was shocked. And alarmed. And very angry. What good was an artillery colonel without artillery? And what good was an army without heavy weapons? If
this
army didn't have cannons, he'd jolly well
find
some.

Henry worried about the problem. He studied his maps and talked to the experts at headquarters. At last he came up with a wild plan that brought him to Washington's War Council. And now these high officers were ready to hear what young Knox had in mind.

While the men gathered around, Henry unrolled a large map that showed the colonies of New York, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts. In northern New York, between two lakes, there was a black dot marked
Fort Ticonderoga
. Henry jabbed his finger at the dot. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “here are the guns we need.”

The officers looked at him, a bit puzzled. They all knew about Fort Ticonderoga. Years earlier, during the French and Indian wars, this outpost had been seized by the British. They'd stayed in control until May of 1775, when Benedict Arnold, Ethan Allen, and Allen's “Green Mountain Boys” captured it in a surprise attack. Now the huge fort was in the hands of the rebels, but it was far from any fighting areas.

Colonel Knox read from a slip of paper. “According to Captain Arnold,” he said, “they found a lot of heavy artillery when they took Ticonderoga. There were one hundred eighty-three cannons, nineteen mortars, three howitzers, and fifty-one swivel guns—plus barrels of flints and crates of musket balls. Some of the big pieces may be in good condition. I propose, sirs, to go to the fort and bring them here to Cambridge.”

A few of the officers frowned. Others just shook their heads in puzzlement. One old general growled, “How do you plan to do it, colonel? Will you fit your cannons with wings and fly them here?”

The others laughed, but Henry stood his ground. “Wings won't be necessary, sir. Give me a dozen men and authority to hire more if I have to, and we'll handle it.”

A major of infantry swept his hand over the map. “This is bad terrain, Knox. You're talking about three hundred miles of mountain wilderness. No roads, no bridges, hardly any footpaths. How the devil are you going to move heavy guns?”

“I'll use everything,” Henry answered. “Boats, barges, sleds, ox teams. Whatever I can build, borrow, or buy. All I need are funds and men.”

“What about the weather?” someone asked. “This time of year you'll have ice storms, blizzards, heavy snow. Everything will freeze solid. You'll
never
get through.”

The others nodded in agreement They turned away and began muttering to each other. Henry caught words like “impractical,” “absurd,” and “foolhardy.” The old general spoke up again. “I admire your spirit, Knox, but the whole thing's impossible. Waste of time and good money. It simply can't be done.”

Henry sensed the mood of the group and his hopes began to fade. He hadn't convinced them; his wonderful scheme was about to be rejected. But at that point General Washington turned to him, put a fatherly hand on his arm, and said, “They may well be right. Considering the odds, it
does
sound impossible. But we need those guns and if anyone can get them,
you
can. So go ahead, Henry. Go ahead and try.”

 

An hour later, Henry Knox burst into his brother's tent. William, sitting on his cot, was trying to sew a button onto his tunic. He looked up, saw his brother's face, and let out a whoop. “They accepted the plan!”

Henry sat down, beaming. “Right, lad. At least Washington did—and that's what matters. Official permission has to come from Philadelphia, but that's only a formality. The general wants us to get started, and we're to spare no trouble or expense. He's rushing a letter to General Schuyler in Albany, ordering him to give us all the help we need.”

William narrowed his eyes and smiled. “You said ‘we' and ‘us.' That means I get to go with you?”

His brother laughed. “I have no choice; I promised father before he left for the Indies that I'd always keep an eye on you. So finish that button—we've got a lot of work to do.”

 

One of the ferrymen on the Charles River was William's friend, a grizzled veteran known as Old Toby. Early that evening, Toby tapped on the kitchen window of the Revere house in Boston. When Paul Junior answered, he handed him a note, winked, and hobbled away. Paul opened the scrawled note and read:

 

Paulie, The plan is under way. I won't be seeing you for a spell. Keep praying
.