Part 30 (2/2)

”The commodore'” Lovell began Wadsworth again interrupted him. ”We have never offered the commodore our wholehearted support,” he said emphatically. ”We've asked him to destroy the s.h.i.+ps before we attack and he has asked us to destroy the fort before the attacks. Then why not make a compromise? We both attack. If he knows our land force is making an a.s.sault then he will have no choice but to support us!”

”Perhaps the regular troops will arrive,” McCobb put in.

”The Diligent Diligent has sent no word,” Lovell said. The has sent no word,” Lovell said. The Diligent Diligent, the fast Continental Navy brig captured from the British, had been posted at the mouth of the Pen.o.bscot River to serve as a guard boat that could give warning of the approach of any s.h.i.+pping, but her captain, Philip Brown, had sent no messages which suggested to Lovell that any reinforcements, for either side, were at least a day away.

”We can't wait to see if Boston sends us troops,” Wadsworth insisted, ”and besides, British reinforcements are just as likely! We were sent here to perform a task, so for G.o.d's sake, let us do it! And do it now before the enemy is strengthened.”

”I doubt we can do it now,” Lovell said, ”tomorrow, maybe?”

”Then tomorrow!” Wadsworth said, exasperated. ”But let us do it! Let us do what we came here to do, to do what our country expects of us! Let us do it!”

There was silence, broken by Lovell who looked brightly about the cabin. ”We certainly have something to discuss,” he said.

”And let us not discuss it,” Wadsworth said harshly, ”but make a decision.”

Lovell looked startled at his deputy's forcefulness. For a moment it seemed as if he would try to wrest back the command of the cabin, but Wadsworth's face was grim and Lovell acceded to the demand. ”Very well,” he said stiffly, ”we shall make a decision. Would all those in favor of General Wadsworth's proposal please so indicate now?” Wadsworth's hand shot up. Lovell hesitated, then raised his own hand. Other men followed Lovell's lead, even those who usually supported an end to the siege. All but one.

”And those opposed?” Lovell asked. Lieutenant-Colonel Revere raised his hand.

”I declare the motion carried,” Lovell said, ”and we shall beg the commodore to support us in an attack tomorrow.”

The next day would be Friday, August the thirteenth.

Friday the thirteenth dawned fair. The wind was light and there was no fog, which meant the rebel battery on Cross Island opened fire at first light, as did the more distant eighteen-pounder on the northern sh.o.r.e beyond the peninsula. The b.a.l.l.s slammed hard into the hulls of the British sloops.

Captain Mowat was resigned to the bombardment. He had moved his s.h.i.+ps twice, but there was no other anchorage to which he could retreat now, not unless he moved the sloops far away from the fort. The pumps on all three sloops worked continually, manned by sailors who chanted shanties as they drove the great handles up and down. The Albany Albany's carpenter was patching the hull as well as he was able, but the big eighteen-pounder shots tore up the oak planking with savage force. ”I'll keep her afloat, sir,” the carpenter promised Mowat at dawn. He had plugged three horrible gashes at the sloop's waterline, but a proper repair would have to wait till the sloop could be beached or docked.

”Luckily they're still shooting high,” Mowat said.

”Pray G.o.d they go on doing that, sir.”

”I hope you are b.l.o.o.d.y praying!” Mowat said.

”Day and night, sir, night and day.” The carpenter was a Methodist and kept a well-thumbed copy of the Bible in his carpenter's ap.r.o.n. He frowned as a rebel ball struck the taffrail and showered splinters across the afterdeck. ”I'll mend the topsides when we've done the lower strakes, sir.”

”Topsides can wait,” Mowat said. He did not care how ragged his s.h.i.+p looked so long as she floated and could carry her guns. Those guns were silent for now. Mowat reckoned his nine-pounders could do little damage to the battery on Cross Island and none of his guns was powerful enough to reach the new battery to the north, and so he did not waste powder and shot on the rebels. One of Captain Fielding's twelve-pounders, up at the fort, slammed shots into Cross Island, a fire that merely served to keep the rebels hidden deep among the trees. A crackle of muskets sounded ash.o.r.e. In the last few days that noise had been constant as McLean's men infiltrated the trees by the neck or else hunted through the fields and barns of the settlement in search of rebel patrols. They were doing it without orders and McLean, though he approved the sentiments behind such rebel hunting, had commanded that it be stopped. Mowat guessed that the flurry of shots came from Captain Caffrae's Light Company, which had kept up its hara.s.sment of the enemy lines.

”Deck ahoy!” a lookout called from the foremast. ”Swimmer!”

”Do we have a man overboard?” Mowat demanded of the officer of the watch.

”No, sir.”

Mowat went forrard to see that a man was indeed swimming towards the Albany Albany from the direction of the harbor mouth. He looked exhausted. He swam a few strokes, then trod water before feebly trying to swim again, and Mowat shouted at the bosun to heave the man a line. It took a moment for the man to find the line, then he was hauled to the sloop's side and dragged up on deck. He was a seaman with a long pigtail hanging down his bare back and pictures of whales and anchors tattooed onto his chest and forearms. He stood dripping and then, exhausted and s.h.i.+vering, sat on one of the nine-pounder trucks. ”What's your name, sailor?” Mowat asked. from the direction of the harbor mouth. He looked exhausted. He swam a few strokes, then trod water before feebly trying to swim again, and Mowat shouted at the bosun to heave the man a line. It took a moment for the man to find the line, then he was hauled to the sloop's side and dragged up on deck. He was a seaman with a long pigtail hanging down his bare back and pictures of whales and anchors tattooed onto his chest and forearms. He stood dripping and then, exhausted and s.h.i.+vering, sat on one of the nine-pounder trucks. ”What's your name, sailor?” Mowat asked.

”Freeman, sir, Malachi Freeman.”

”Fetch him a blanket,” Mowat ordered, ”and some tea. Put a tot of rum in the tea. Where are you from, Freeman?”

”Nantucket, sir.”

”A fine place,” Mowat said. ”So what brought you here?”

”I was pressed, sir. Pressed in Boston.”

”Onto what vessel?”

”The Warren Warren, sir.”

Freeman was a young man, scarce twenty years old Mowat judged, and he had swum from the Warren Warren in the night's dark. He had reached the beach beneath Dyce's Head where he had s.h.i.+vered and waited for the guard boats to retreat in the dawn. Then he had swum for the sloops. in the night's dark. He had reached the beach beneath Dyce's Head where he had s.h.i.+vered and waited for the guard boats to retreat in the dawn. Then he had swum for the sloops.

”What are you, Freeman?” Mowat asked. He saw how Freeman's hands were stained black from continually climbing tarred rigging. ”A topman?”

”Aye aye, sir, four years now.”

”His Majesty always appreciates a good topman,” Mowat said, ”and are you willing to serve His Majesty?”

”Aye aye, sir.”

”We'll swear you in.” Mowat said, then waited as a blanket was draped about the deserter's shoulders and a can of hot rum-laced tea thrust into his hands. ”Drink that first.”

”They're coming for you, sir,” Freeman said, his teeth chattering.

”Coming for me?”

”The commodore is, sir. He's coming today, sir. They told us last night. And he's making bulwarks on the Warren Warren's bow, sir.”

”Bulwarks?”

”They're strengtherning the bows, sir, and putting three layers of logs across the fo'c'sle, sir, to protect the marines.”

Mowat looked at the s.h.i.+vering man. He played with the idea that the rebels had sent Freeman with deliberately misleading information, but that made little sense. If Saltonstall wished to mislead Mowat he would surely pretend he was withdrawing, not attacking. So the rebels were coming at last? Mowat gazed westwards to where he could just see the anch.o.r.ed wars.h.i.+ps beyond Dyce's Head. ”How many s.h.i.+ps will come?” he asked.

”Don't know, sir.”

”I don't suppose you do,” Mowat said. He walked to the main shrouds and propped a gla.s.s on one of the ratlines. Sure enough he could see men working on the bows of the Warren Warren. They appeared to be roving new lines to the bowsprit, while others were hauling logs up from a longboat. So, at long last, they were coming? ”It won't be till the afternoon flood,” he said to his first lieutenant.

”That gives us most of the day to get ready, sir.”

”Aye, it does.” Mowt collapsed the gla.s.s and looked up at the sky. ”The gla.s.s?” he asked.

”Still falling, sir.”

”So there's dirty weather coming as well, then,” Mowat said. The sky was pellucid now, but he reckoned there would be clouds, fog, and rain before nightfall by when, he knew, he would either be dead or captured. He was under no illusions. His small flotilla could do grievous damage to the American s.h.i.+ps, but he could not defeat them. Once the Warren Warren turned her broadside onto the sloops she could pound them with guns that were twice as heavy as the British cannon, and defeat was inevitable. The turned her broadside onto the sloops she could pound them with guns that were twice as heavy as the British cannon, and defeat was inevitable. The Warren Warren would be hurt, but the would be hurt, but the Albany Albany would die. That was unavoidable, so the most Mowat could hope for was to hurt the would die. That was unavoidable, so the most Mowat could hope for was to hurt the Warren Warren badly, then get his men safe on land where they could help McLean defend the fort. ”All marines are to be brought back aboard,” he told his first lieutenant, ”and all guns double-shotted. Sand the decks. Tell the surgeon to sharpen his d.a.m.n knives. We'll go down snarling, but by G.o.d, they'll know they've been fighting against the Royal Navy.” badly, then get his men safe on land where they could help McLean defend the fort. ”All marines are to be brought back aboard,” he told his first lieutenant, ”and all guns double-shotted. Sand the decks. Tell the surgeon to sharpen his d.a.m.n knives. We'll go down snarling, but by G.o.d, they'll know they've been fighting against the Royal Navy.”

Then he sent a message to McLean.

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