Part 17 (2/2)

”Oh, aye, all twenty-two of us,” McClure said.

”If they knew what they faced,” Moore said, ”they'd turn right around and row away.”

”Permission to let them know, sir?” McClure asked, appalled at his young officer's bravado.

”Let's kill them instead, Sergeant,” Moore said, though his words were lost as a chain shot drove noisily through the branches overhead to shower the picquet with pinecones and needles.

”Don't fire yet!” Captain Archibald Campbell shouted from the bluff's center. ”Wait till they're on the beach!”

”b.l.o.o.d.y fool,” Moore said. And so, with drawn sword, and under the bombardment of the rebel broadsides, he walked the bluff and watched the enemy draw nearer. Battle, he thought, had come to him at last and in all his eighteen years John Moore had never felt so alive.

Wadsworth winced as the oars threw up droplets of water that splashed on his face. It might be July, but the air was cold and the water even colder. He was s.h.i.+vering in his Continental Army jacket and he prayed that none of the marines would mistake that s.h.i.+vering for fear. Captain Welch, beside him, looked entirely unconcerned, as if the boat was merely carrying him on some mundane errand. Israel Trask, the boy fifer, was grinning in the longboat's bows, where he kept twisting around to stare at the bluff where no enemy showed. The bluff climbed two hundred feet from the beach, much of that slope almost perpendicular, but in the fog it looked much higher. Trees thrashed under the impact of bar and chain shot, and birds circled over the high ground, but Wadsworth could see no redcoats and no puffs of smoke betraying musket-fire. Fog sifted through the high branches. The leading boats were well within musket range now, but still no enemy fired.

”You stay on the beach, boy,” Welch told Israel Trask.

”Can't I'” the boy began.

”You stay on the beach,” Welch said again, then gave a sly glance at Wadsworth, ”with the general.”

”Is that an order?” Wadsworth asked, amused.

”Your job is to send the boats back for more men, and send those men where they're needed,” Welch said, seemingly unabashed at telling Wadsworth what he should do. ”Our job is to kill whatever b.a.s.t.a.r.ds we find at the top of the slope.”

”If there are any there at all,” Wadsworth said. The boat was almost at the beach where small waves broke feebly, and still the enemy offered no resistance.

”Maybe they're sleeping,” Welch said, ”maybe.”

Then, as the bows of the boat grounded on the s.h.i.+ngle, the bluff's face exploded with noise and smoke. Wadsworth saw a stab of flame high above, heard the musket-b.a.l.l.s whip past, saw splashes of water where they struck the sea, and then the marines were shouting as they leaped ash.o.r.e. Other boats sc.r.a.ped onto the narrow beach, which rapidly filled with green-coated men looking for a way up the bluff. A marine staggered backwards, his white crossbelt suddenly red. He fell to his knees in the small surf and coughed violently, each cough bringing more dark blood.

James Fletcher, his musket unslung, had run to a vast granite boulder that half-blocked the beach. ”There's a path here!” he shouted.

”You heard him!” Welch bellowed. ”So follow me! Come on, you rogues!”

”Start playing, boy,” Wadsworth told Israel Trask, ”give us a good tune!”

Marines were scrambling up the slope, which was steep enough to demand that they slung their muskets and used both hands to haul themselves up by gripping on saplings or rocks. A musket-ball struck a stone and ricocheted high above Wadsworth's head. A marine staggered backwards, his face a mask of red. A musket-ball had slashed though his cheekbone and the cheek's flesh now dangled over his leather collar. Wadsworth could see the man's teeth through the ragged wound, but the marine recovered and kept climbing, making an incoherent noise as a chain shot sighed overhead to explode a larch into splinters. Wadsworth heard a clear, high voice shouting at men to aim low and, with a start, he realized he must be hearing an enemy officer. He drew his pistol and aimed it up the steep bluff, but he could see no target, only gray-white drifts of smoke revealing that the enemy was about halfway up the slope. He shouted at the longboat crews to get back to the transports where more men waited, then he walked northwards along the beach, his boots scrunching the low ridge of dried seaweed and small flotsam that marked the high-tide line. He found a dozen militiamen crouching under a shelf of rock and urged them up the slope. They stared at him as if dazed, then one of them abruptly nodded and ran out of his shelter and the others followed.

More boats sc.r.a.ped their bows ash.o.r.e and more men piled over the gunwales. The whole length of the bluff's narrow beach was now filled with men who ran into the trees and began to climb. The musket-b.a.l.l.s buzzed, splashed, or struck stone, and still the cannons of Hunter Hunter and and Sky Rocket Sky Rocket crashed and boomed and dizzied the air with their vicious missiles. The noise of cannons and muskets was deafening the foggy sh.o.r.e, but Israel Trask played a descant to the gun's percussion. He was trilling the jaunty ”Rogue's March” and standing exposed on the beach where, as he played, he gazed wide-eyed up the bluff. Wadsworth took hold of the boy's collar, causing a sudden hiccup in the music, and dragged him to the seaward side of the vast boulder. ”Stay there, Israel,” Wadsworth ordered, reckoning the boy would be safe in the granite's shelter. crashed and boomed and dizzied the air with their vicious missiles. The noise of cannons and muskets was deafening the foggy sh.o.r.e, but Israel Trask played a descant to the gun's percussion. He was trilling the jaunty ”Rogue's March” and standing exposed on the beach where, as he played, he gazed wide-eyed up the bluff. Wadsworth took hold of the boy's collar, causing a sudden hiccup in the music, and dragged him to the seaward side of the vast boulder. ”Stay there, Israel,” Wadsworth ordered, reckoning the boy would be safe in the granite's shelter.

A body, facedown, was floating just by the rock. The man wore a deerskin jacket and a hole in the jacket's back showed where the killing ball had left his body. The corpse surged in on the small waves, then was sucked out. In and out it moved, relentlessly. The dead man was Benjamin Goldthwait, who had elected to abandon his father's loyalties and fight for the rebels.

A militia captain had scrambled to the boulder's top and was shouting at his men to get on up the bluff. The enemy must have seen him because musket-b.a.l.l.s crackled on the stone. ”Get up the bluff yourself” Wadsworth shouted at the captain, and just then a ball struck the militia officer in the belly and his shout turned into a groan as he bent double and the blood seethed down his trousers. He fell slowly backwards, blood suddenly arcing above him. He slid down the boulder's side and thumped into the surf just beside Ben Goldthwait's corpse. Israel Trask's eyes widened. ”Don't mind the bodies, boy,” Wadsworth said, ”just keep playing.”

James Fletcher, ordered to stay close to Wadsworth, waded into the small waves to pull the wounded officer out of the water, but the moment he took hold of the man's shoulders a pulse of blood spurted into James's face and the injured captain writhed in agony.

”You!” Wadsworth was pointing at some sailors about to row their boat back to the transports. ”Take that wounded man back with you! There's a surgeon on the Hunter Hunter! Take him there.”

”I think he's dead,” James said, shuddering at the blood which had splashed on his face and spread in the small waves.

”With me, Fletcher,” Wadsworth said, ”come on!” He followed the path by the boulder. To his left the militia were struggling through the thick undergrowth that choked the bluff, but Wadsworth sensed the marines to his right were far higher up the slope. The path slanted southwards along the bluff's face. It was not much of a path, more a vague track interrupted by roots, scrub, and fallen trees and Wadsworth had to use his hands to haul himself over the most difficult parts. The track zigzagged back north and at the turn a wounded marine was tying a strip of cloth round his bloodied thigh while just beyond him another marine lay as if asleep, his mouth open, but with no sign of a wound. Wadsworth felt a pang as he looked at the young man's face; so good-looking, so wasteful. ”He's dead, sir,” the injured marine said.

A musket-ball thumped into a tree beside Wadsworth, opening a scar of fresh wood. He pulled himself up the hill. He could hear the musketry close ahead, and he could hear Welch roaring orders above that splintering noise. The marines were still advancing, but the slope had eased now, which freed their hands to use their muskets. A scream sounded from the trees and was abruptly cut off. ”Don't let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds stand!” Welch shouted. ”They're running! Keep the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds running!”

”Come on, Fletcher!” Wadsworth called. He felt a sudden exaltation. The scent of victory was redolent in the rotten egg stench of powder smoke. He saw a redcoat among the trees to his left and pointed his pistol and pulled the trigger, and though he doubted his aim at that distance, he felt a fierce delight in shooting at his country's enemies. James Fletcher fired his musket uphill, the recoil almost throwing him back off the track. ”Keep going!” Wadsworth shouted. More militia were landing, and they too sensed that they were winning this fight and scrambled upwards with a new enthusiasm. Muskets were firing all along the bluff now, American as well as British, and the shots were filling the trees with b.a.l.l.s and smoke, but Wadsworth sensed that the heavier fire came from the Americans. Men were shouting at each other, encouraging each other and whooping with delight as they saw the redcoats retreating ever higher. ”Keep them running!” Wadsworth bellowed. My G.o.d, he thought, but they were winning!

A militiaman brought the American flag ash.o.r.e and the sight of it inspired Wadsworth. ”Come on!” he shouted at a group of Lincoln County men, and he pushed uphill. A musket-ball slashed close enough to his cheek for the wind of its pa.s.sage to jar his head sideways, but Wadsworth felt indestructible. To his right he could see a rough line of marines, their bayonets glinting as they climbed the shallower upper slope of the bluff while to his left the woods were thick with militiamen in their deerskin coats. He heard the distant war cries of the Indians on the American left, then the militia took up the sound to fill the trees with the eerie, high-pitched shout. The rebel fire was much denser than the enemy's musketry. The two wars.h.i.+ps had ceased firing, their broadsides more a danger to their own side than to the enemy, but the sound of American musket-fire was incessant. The top of the bluff was being riddled by musketry and every moment took the attackers higher.

Rachel, one of the smallest transport schooners, had been rowed to the sh.o.r.e. Her bows touched the s.h.i.+ngle and still more attackers jumped down onto the beach. They brought the flag of the Ma.s.sachusetts Militia. ”Get on up!” Israel Trask paused in his playing to shout at them. ”You'll miss the fighting! Get on up!” The men obeyed him, streaming up the path to reinforce the attackers. Wadsworth realized he was close to the summit now and he reckoned he might rally the attackers there and keep them moving along Majabigwaduce's ridge as far as the fort itself. He knew the fort was unfinished, he knew it was short of guns, and with such fine men and with such impetus why should the job not be done before the sun evaporated the fog? ”Onwards,” he shouted, ”on! On! On!” He heard a cannon fire, its sound much deeper and more percussive than any musket, and for an instant he feared the British had artillery on the bluff's crest, then he saw the smoke jetting southwards and realized that the small enemy cannon on Dyce's Head must still be firing at Cross Island. No danger from those guns, then, and he shouted at the marines that the cannon-fire was not aimed at them. ”Keep going!” he bellowed, and scrambled upwards amidst a tangle of marines and militia. A man in a homespun tunic was leaning against a fallen tree, panting for breath. ”Are you wounded?” Wadsworth asked, and the man just shook his head. ”Then keep going!” Wadsworth said. ”Not far now!” A body lay sprawled across Wadsworth's path and he saw, almost with astonishment, that it was the corpse of a redcoat. The dead soldier wore a dark kilt and his hands were curled into fists and flies were crawling on the butcher's mess that had been his chest. Then Wadsworth reached the summit. Men were cheering, the British were running, the American flags were being carried uphill and Wadsworth was triumphant.

Because the bluff was taken, the redcoats were defeated, and the way to the fort lay open.

It suddenly dawned on Lieutenant John Moore that the incon-ceivable was happening, that the rebels were winning this fight. The realization was horrible, d.a.m.ning, overwhelming, and his response was to redouble his efforts to beat them back. His men had been firing down the bluff's steep slope, and at first, as his green-coated enemies struggled on the steepest portion of their climb, Moore had seen his fire throw the a.s.sailants backwards. Those attackers had been following a rough and uneven path that zigzagged up the bluff, and Moore's men could fire down at them, though in the shadowed darkness the attackers were hard to see. ”Fire!” Moore shouted, then realized the call was unnecessary. His men were shooting as fast as they could reload, and all along the bluff the redcoats were hammering musket-fire down into the tangled trees. For a few moments Moore had thought they were winning, but there were scores of attackers who, as they reached less precipitous ground, began to shoot back. The bluff crackled with unending musket-fire, smoke filling the branches, heavy b.a.l.l.s thumping into trees and flesh.

Captain Archibald Campbell, appalled by the sheer numbers of attackers, shouted at his men to retreat. ”You heard that, sir?” Sergeant McClure asked Moore.

”Stay where you are!” Moore snarled at his men.

He tried to make sense of what had happened, but the noise and smoke were chaotic. All he was certain of was that beneath him on the slope were uniformed men and Moore's duty was to throw them back to the sea, and so he stayed on the bluff's upper face as the rest of Campbell's picquet retreated to the summit. ”Keep firing!” he told McClure.

”Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” McClure said, and fired his musket down into a group of attackers. The response was a crash of musketry from below, flames leaping upward in smoke, and Private McPhail, just seventeen, gave a mewing sound and dropped his musket. A sliver of rib, astonis.h.i.+ngly white in the dawn, was protruding through his red coat and his deerskin trousers were turning red as he fell to his knees and mewed again. ”We can't stay here, sir,” McClure shouted over the musket din to Moore.

”Step back!” Moore conceded. ”Slow now! Keep firing!” He stooped beside McPhail, whose teeth were chattering, then the boy gave a convulsive shudder and went still and Moore realized McPhail had died.

”Watch right, sir,” McClure warned, and Moore had a second's panic as he saw rebels climbing past him through the thick brush. Two squirrels went leaping overhead. ”Time to get the h.e.l.l uphill, sir,” McClure said.

”Go back!” Moore called to his men, ”but slowly! Give them fire!” He sheathed his sword, unbuckled McPhail's belt with its cartridge pouch, then carried the belt, pouch, and musket up the slope. The marines to the north had seen him and their musket-b.a.l.l.s slashed around him, but then they veered away to attack Captain Campbell's rearward men, and that distraction gave Moore time to struggle up the last few feet to the bluff's top where he shouted at his men to form a line and stand. Some pine needles had dropped down the back of his neck and were trapped by his collar. They irritated him. He could not see Captain Campbell's men and it seemed that his small picquet was the only British presence left on the bluff, but just then a blue-coated artillery lieutenant came running from the east.

The lieutenant, one of Captain Fielding's men, commanded the three small cannon placed just behind Dyce's Head. The gunners had replaced the naval crews, releasing the sailors back to their s.h.i.+ps, which expected an attack by the enemy fleet. The gunner lieutenant, a boy no older than Moore, stopped beside the picquet. ”What's happening?”

”An attack,” Moore said with brutal simplicity. He had looped the dead man's belt through his sword belt and now fumbled in the pouch for a cartridge, but McClure distracted him.

”We should go back, sir,” the sergeant declared.

”We stay here and keep firing!” Moore insisted. His Hamiltons were now in a single line at the bluff's top. Behind them was a small clearing, then a stand of pines beyond which the three cannon still fired across the harbor at the rebel battery on Cross Island.

”Should I take the guns away?” the artillery lieutenant asked.

”Can you fire down the bluff?” Moore asked.

”Down the bluff?”

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