Kitabı oku: «The Fort», sayfa 3

Excerpt of letter from the Massachusetts Council, to the Continental Navy Board in Boston, June 30th, 1779:

Gentlemen: The General Assembly of this State have determined on an Expedition to Penobscot to Dislodge the Enemy of the United States lately enter’d There who are said to be committing Hostilities on the Good People of this State … fortifying themselves at Baggobagadoos, and as They are supported by a Considerable Naval Force, to Effect our Design, it will be expedient to send there, to aid our Land Operations a Superior Naval Force. Therefore … we write you … requesting you to aid our Designs, by adding to the Naval Force of this State, now, with all Possible Speed preparing, for an expedition to Penobscot; the Continental Frigate now in this Harbour, and the other armed Continental vessells here.

Excerpts from the Warrant of Impressment issued to Masschusetts Sheriffs, July 3rd, 1779:

You are hereby authorized and Commanded taking with you such Assistance as you judge proper, forthwith to take seize and impress any able-bodied Seamen, or Mariner which you shall find in your Precinct … to serve on board any of the Vessels entered into the Service of this State to be employed in the proposed expedition to Penobscot … You are hereby Authorized to enter on board and search any Ship or Vessel or to break open and search any Dwelling house or other building in which you shall suspect any such Seamen or Mariners to be concealed.

Excerpt from a letter sent by Brigadier-General Charles Cushing to the Council of the State of Massachusetts, June 19th, 1779

I have Issued orders to the officers of my Brigade requiring them to inlist men agreeable thereto. I would inform your Honors that at present there seems no prospect of getting one man as the Bounty offered is in the Esteem of the people inadequate.

TWO

Lieutenant-Colonel Paul Revere stood square in the Boston Armory yard. He wore a light blue uniform coat faced in brown, white deerskin breeches, knee boots, and had a naval cutlass hanging from a thick brown belt. His wide-brimmed hat was made of felt, and it shadowed a broad, stubborn face that was creased in thought. ‘You making that list, boy?’ he demanded brusquely.

‘Yes, sir,’ the boy answered. He was twelve, the son of Josiah Flint who ruled the armory from his high-backed, well-padded chair that had been dragged from the office and set beside the trestle table where the boy made his list. Flint liked to sit in the yard when the weather allowed so he could keep an eye on the comings and goings in his domain.

‘Drag chains,’ Revere said, ‘sponges, searchers, relievers, am I going too fast?’

‘Relievers,’ the boy muttered, dipping his pen into the inkwell.

‘Hot today,’ Josiah Flint grumbled from the depths of his chair.

‘It’s summer,’ Revere said, ‘and it should be hot. Rammers, boy, and wad hooks. Spikes, tompions, linstocks, vent-covers. What have I forgotten, Mister Flint?’

‘Priming wires, Colonel.’

‘Priming wires, boy.’

‘Priming wires,’ the boy said, finishing the list.

‘And there’s something else in the back of my mind,’ Flint said, frowning, then thought for a moment before shaking his head. ‘Maybe nothing,’ he said.

‘You hunt through your pa’s supplies, boy,’ Revere said, ‘and you make piles of all those things. We need to know how many we’ve got. You note down how many and then you tell me. Off you go.’

‘And buckets,’ Josiah Flint added hurriedly.

‘And buckets!’ Revere called after the boy. ‘And not leaking buckets either!’ He took the boy’s vacated chair and watched as Josiah Flint bit into a chicken leg. Flint was an enormous man, his belly spilling over his belt, and he seemed intent on becoming even fatter because whenever Revere visited the arsenal he found his friend eating. He had a plate of cornbread, radishes and chicken that he vaguely gestured towards, as if inviting Colonel Revere to share the dish.

‘You haven’t been given orders yet, Colonel?’ Flint asked. His nose had been shattered by a bullet at Saratoga just minutes before a cannonball took away his right leg. He could no longer breathe through his nose and so his breath had to be drawn past the half-masticated food filling his mouth. It made a snuffling sound. ‘They should have given you orders, Colonel.’

‘They don’t know whether they’re pissing or puking, Mister Flint,’ Revere said, ‘but I can’t wait while they make up their minds. The guns have to be ready!’

‘No man better than you, Colonel,’ Josiah Flint said, picking a shred of radish from his front teeth.

‘But I didn’t go to Harvard, did I?’ Revere asked with a forced laugh. ‘If I spoke Latin, Mister Flint, I’d be a general by now.’

‘Hic, haec, hoc,’ Flint said through a mouthful of bread.

‘I expect so,’ Revere said. He pulled a folded copy of the Boston Intelligencer from his pocket and spread it on the table, then took out his reading glasses. He disliked wearing them for he suspected they gave him an unmilitary appearance, but he needed the spectacles to read the account of the British incursion into eastern Massachusetts. ‘Who would have believed it,’ he said, ‘the bastard redcoats back in New England!’

‘Not for long, Colonel.’

‘I hope not,’ Revere said. The Massachusetts government, learning that the British had landed men at Majabigwaduce, had determined to send an expedition to the Penobscot River, to which end a fleet was being gathered, orders being sent to the militia and officers being appointed. ‘Well, well,’ Revere said, peering at the newspaper. ‘It seems the Spanish have declared war on the British now!’

‘Spain as well as France,’ Flint said. ‘The bloodybacks can’t last long now.’

‘Let’s pray they last long enough to give us a chance to fight them at Maja.’ Revere paused, ‘Majabigwaduce,’ he said. ‘I wonder what that name means?’

‘Just some Indian nonsense,’ Flint said. ‘Place Where the Muskrat Pissed Down its Legs, probably.’

‘Probably,’ Revere said distantly. He took off his glasses and stared at a pair of sheerlegs that waited to lift a cannon barrel from a carriage rotted by damp. ‘Have they given you a requisition for cannon, Mister Flint?’

‘Just for five hundred muskets, Colonel, to be rented for a dollar each to the militia.’

‘Rented!’

‘Rented,’ Flint confirmed.

‘If they’re to kill the British,’ Revere said, ‘then money shouldn’t come into it.’

‘Money always comes into it,’ Flint said. ‘There are six new British nine-pounders in Appleby’s yard, but we can’t touch them. They’re to be auctioned.’

‘The Council should buy them,’ Revere said.

‘The Council don’t have the money,’ Flint said, stripping a leg-bone of its flesh, ‘not enough coinage to pay the wages, rent the privateers, purchase supplies and buy cannon. You’ll have to make do with the guns we’ve got.’

‘They’ll do, they’ll do,’ Revere said grudgingly.

‘And I hope the Council has the sense to appoint you to command those guns, Colonel!’

Revere said nothing to that, merely stared at the sheerlegs. He had an engaging smile that warmed men’s hearts, but he was not smiling now. He was seething.

He was seething because the Council had appointed the commanders of the expedition to rout the British from Majabigwaduce, but so far no man had been named to lead the artillery and Revere knew that cannons would be needed. He knew too that he was the best man to command those cannon, he was indeed the commanding officer of the Bay of Massachusetts State Artillery Regiment, yet the Council had pointedly refrained from sending him any orders.

‘They will appoint you, Colonel,’ Flint said loyally, ‘they have to!’

‘Not if Major Todd has his way,’ Revere said bitterly.

‘I expect he went to Harvard,’ Flint said, ‘hic, haec, hoc.’

‘Harvard or Yale, probably,’ Revere agreed, ‘and he wanted to run the artillery like a counting-house! Lists and regulations! I told him, make the men gunners first, then kill the British, and after that make the lists, but he didn’t listen. He was forever saying I was disorganized, but I know my guns, Mister Flint, I know my guns. There’s a skill in gunnery, an art, and not everyone has the touch. It doesn’t come from book-learning, not artillery. It’s an art.’

‘That’s very true,’ Flint wheezed through a full mouth.

‘But I’ll ready their cannon,’ Revere said, ‘so whoever commands them has things done properly. There may not be enough lists, Mister Flint,’ he chuckled at that, ‘but they’ll have good and ready guns. Eighteen-pounders and more! Bloodyback-killers! Guns to slaughter the English, they will have guns. I’ll see to that.’

Flint paused to release a belch, then frowned. ‘Are you sure you want to go to Maja, whatever it is?’

‘Of course I’m sure!’

Flint patted his belly, then put two radishes into his mouth. ‘It ain’t comfortable, Colonel.’

‘What does that mean, Josiah?’

‘Down east?’ Flint asked. ‘You’ll get nothing but mosquitoes, rain and sleeping under a tree down east.’ He feared that his friend would not be given command of the expedition’s artillery and, in his clumsy way, was trying to provide some consolation. ‘And you’re not as young as you were, Colonel!’

‘Forty-five’s not old!’ Revere protested.

‘Old enough to know sense,’ Flint said, ‘and to appreciate a proper bed with a woman inside it.’

‘A proper bed, Mister Flint, is beside my guns. Beside my guns that point towards the English! That’s all I ask, a chance to serve my country.’ Revere had tried to join the fighting ever since the rebellion had begun, but his applications to the Continental Army had been refused for reasons that Revere could only suspect and never confirm. General Washington, it was said, wanted men of birth and honour, and that rumour had only made Revere more resentful. The Massachusetts Militia was not so particular, yet Revere’s service so far had been uneventful. True, he had gone to Newport to help evict the British, but that campaign had ended in failure before Revere and his guns arrived, and so he had been forced to command the garrison on Castle Island and his prayers that a British fleet would come to be battered by his cannon had gone unanswered. Paul Revere, who hated the British with a passion that could shake his body with its pure vehemence, had yet to kill a single redcoat.

‘You’ve heard the trumpet call, Colonel,’ Flint said respectfully.

‘I’ve heard the trumpet call,’ Revere agreed.

A sentry opened the armory gate and a man in the faded blue uniform of the Continental Army entered the yard from the street. He was tall, good-looking and some years younger than Revere who stood in wary greeting. ‘Colonel Revere?’ the newcomer asked.

‘At your service, General.’

‘I am Peleg Wadsworth.’

‘I know who you are, General,’ Revere said, smiling and taking the offered hand. He noted that Wadsworth did not return the smile. ‘I hope you bring me good news from the Council, General?’

‘I would like a word, Colonel,’ Wadsworth said, ‘a brief word.’ The brigadier glanced at the monstrous Josiah Flint in his padded chair. ‘A word in private,’ he added grimly.

So the trumpet call would have to wait.

Captain Henry Mowat stood on Majabigwaduce’s beach. He was a stocky man with a ruddy face now shadowed by the long peak of his cocked hat. His naval coat was dark blue with lighter blue facings, all stained white by salt. He was in his forties, a lifelong sailor, and he stood with his feet planted apart as though balancing on a quarterdeck. His dark hair was powdered and a slight trail of the powder had sifted down the spine of his uniform coat. He was glaring at the longboats that lay alongside his ship, the Albany. ‘What the devil takes all this time?’ he growled.

His companion, Doctor John Calef, had no idea what was causing the delay on board the Albany and so offered no answer. ‘You’ve received no intelligence from Boston?’ he asked Mowat instead.

‘We don’t need intelligence,’ Mowat said brusquely. He was the senior naval officer at Majabigwaduce and, like Brigadier McLean, a Scotsman, but where the brigadier was emollient and soft-spoken, Mowat was famed for his bluntness. He fidgeted with the cord-bound hilt of his sword. ‘The bastards will come, Doctor, mark my word, the bastards will come. Like flies to dung, Doctor, they’ll come.’

Calef thought that likening the British presence at Majabigwaduce to dung was an unfortunate choice, but he made no comment on that. ‘In force?’ he asked.

‘They may be damned rebels, but they’re not damned fools. Of course they’ll come in force.’ Mowat still gazed at the anchored ship, then cupped his hands. ‘Mister Farraby,’ he bellowed across the water, ‘what the devil is happening?’

‘Roving a new sling, sir!’ the call came back.

‘How many guns will you bring ashore?’ the doctor enquired.

‘As many as McLean wants,’ Mowat said. His three sloops of war were anchored fore and aft to make a line across the harbour’s mouth, their starboard broadsides facing the entrance to greet any rebel ship that dared intrude. Those broadsides were puny. HMS North, which lay closest to Majabigwaduce’s beach, carried twenty guns, ten on each side, while the Albany, at the centre, and the Nautilus, each carried nine cannons in their broadsides. An enemy ship would thus be greeted by twenty-eight guns, none throwing a ball larger than nine pounds, and the last intelligence Mowat had received from Boston indicated that a rebel frigate was in that harbour, a frigate that mounted thirty-two guns, most of which would be much larger than his small cannon. And the rebel frigate Warren would be supported by the privateers of Massachusetts, most of whose craft were just as heavily gunned as his own sloops of war. ‘It’ll be a fight,’ he said sourly, ‘a rare good fight.’

The new sling had evidently been roved because a nine-pounder gun barrel was being hoisted from the Albany’s deck and gently lowered into one of the waiting longboats. Over a ton of metal hung from the yardarm, poised above the heads of the pigtailed sailors waiting in the small boat below. Mowat was bringing his port broadsides ashore so the guns could protect the fort McLean was building on Majabigwaduce’s crest. ‘If you abandon your portside guns,’ Calef enquired in a puzzled tone, ‘what happens if the enemy passes you?’

‘Then, sir, we are dead men,’ Mowat said curtly. He watched the longboat settle precariously low in the choppy water as it took the weight of the cannon’s barrel. The carriage would be brought ashore in another boat and, like the barrel, be hauled uphill to the site of the fort by one of the two teams of oxen that had been commandeered from the Hutchings farm. ‘Dead men!’ Mowat said, almost cheerfully, ‘but to kill us, Doctor, they must first pass us, and I do not intend to be passed.’

Calef felt relief at Mowat’s belligerence. The Scottish naval captain was famous in Massachusetts, or perhaps infamous was a better word, but to all loyalists, like Calef, Mowat was a hero who inspired confidence. He had been captured by rebel civilians, the self-styled Sons of Liberty, while walking ashore in Falmouth. His release had been negotiated by the leading citizens of that proud harbour town, and the condition of Mowat’s release had been that he surrender himself next day so that the legality of his arrest could be established by lawyers, but instead Mowat had returned with a flotilla that had bombarded the town from dawn to dusk and, when most of the houses lay shattered, he had sent shore parties to set fire to the wreckage. Two thirds of Falmouth had been destroyed to send the message that Captain Mowat was not a man to be trifled with.

Calef frowned slightly as Brigadier McLean and two junior officers strolled along the stony beach towards Mowat. Calef still had doubts about the Scottish brigadier, fearing that he was too gentle in his demeanour, but Captain Mowat evidently had no such misgivings because he smiled broadly as McLean approached. ‘You’ve not come to pester me, McLean,’ he said with mock severity, ‘your precious guns are coming!’

‘I never doubted it, Mowat, never doubted it,’ McLean said, ‘not for a moment.’ He touched his hat to Doctor Calef, then turned back to Mowat. ‘And how are your fine fellows this morning, Mowat?’

‘Working, McLean, working!’

McLean gestured at his two companions. ‘Doctor, allow me to present Lieutenant Campbell of the 74th,’ McLean paused to allow the dark-kilted Campbell to offer the doctor a small bow, ‘and Paymaster Moore of the 82nd.’ John Moore offered a more elegant bow, Calef raised his hat in response and McLean turned to gaze at the three sloops with the longboats nuzzling their flanks. ‘Your longboats are all busy, Mowat?’

‘They’re busy, and so they damn well should be. Idleness encourages the devil.’

‘So it does,’ Calef agreed.

‘And there was I seeking an idle moment,’ McLean said happily.

‘You need a boat?’ Mowat asked.

‘I’d not take your matelots from their duties,’ the brigadier said, then looked past Mowat to where a young man and woman were hauling a heavy wooden rowboat down to the incoming tide. ‘Isn’t that the young fellow who piloted us into the harbour?’

Doctor Calef turned. ‘James Fletcher,’ he said grimly.

‘Is he loyal?’ McLean asked.

‘He’s a damned light-headed fool,’ Calef said, and then, grudgingly, ‘but his father was a loyal man.’

‘Then like father, like son, I trust,’ McLean said and turned to Moore. ‘John? Ask Mister Fletcher if he can spare us an hour?’ It was evident that Fletcher and his sister were planning to row to their fishing boat, the Felicity, which lay in deeper water. ‘Tell him I wish to see Majabigwaduce from the river and will pay for his time.’

Moore went on his errand and McLean watched as another cannon barrel was hoisted aloft from the Albany’s deck. Smaller boats were ferrying other supplies ashore; cartridges and salt beef, rum barrels and cannonballs, wadding and rammers, the paraphernalia of war, all of which was being hauled or carried to where his fort was still little more than a scratched square in the thin turf of the ridge’s top. John Nutting, a Loyalist American and an engineer who had travelled to Britain to urge the occupation of Majabigwaduce, was laying out the design of the stronghold in the cleared land. The fort would be simple enough, just a square of earthen ramparts with diamond-shaped bastions at its four corners. Each of the walls would be two hundred and fifty paces in length and would be fronted by a steep-sided ditch, but even such a simple fort required firesteps and embrasures, and needed masonry magazines that would keep the ammunition dry, and a well deep enough to provide plentiful water. Tents housed the soldiers for the moment, but McLean wanted those vulnerable encampments protected by the fort. He wanted high walls, thick walls, walls manned by men and studded by guns, because he knew that the south-west wind would bring more than the smell of salt and shellfish. It would bring rebels, a swarm of them, and the air would stink of powder-smoke, of turds and of blood.

‘Phoebe Perkins’s child contracted a fever last night,’ Calef said brutally.

‘I trust she will live?’ McLean said.

‘God’s will be done,’ Calef said in a tone that suggested God might not care very much. ‘They’ve named her Temperance.’

‘Temperance! Oh dear, poor girl, poor girl. I shall pray for her,’ McLean said, and pray for ourselves too, he thought, but did not say.

Because the rebels were coming.

Peleg Wadsworth felt awkward as he led Lieutenant-Colonel Revere into the shadowed vastness of one of the armory’s stores where sparrows bickered in the high beams above boxes of muskets and bales of cloth and stacks of iron-hooped barrels. It was true that Wadsworth outranked Revere, but he was almost fifteen years younger than the colonel and he felt a vague inadequacy in the presence of a man of such obvious competence. Revere had a reputation as an engraver, as a silversmith and as a metal-worker, and it showed in his hands that were strong and fire-scarred, the hands of a man who could make and mend, the hands of a practical man. Peleg Wadsworth had been a teacher, and a good one, but he had known the scorn of his pupils’ parents who reckoned their children’s futures lay not with grammar or in fractions, but in the command of tools and the working of metal, wood or stone. Wadsworth could construe Latin and Greek, he was intimate with the works of Shakespeare and Montaigne, but faced with a broken chair he felt helpless. Revere, he knew, was the opposite. Give Revere a broken chair and he would mend it competently so that, like the man himself, it was strong, sturdy and dependable.

Or was he dependable? That was the question that had brought Wadsworth to this armory, and he wished that the errand had never been given him. He felt tongue-tied when Revere stopped and turned to him at the storeroom’s centre, but then a scuffling sound from behind a pile of broken muskets gave Wadsworth a welcome distraction. ‘We’re not alone?’ he asked.

‘Those are rats, General,’ Revere said with amusement, ‘rats. They do like the grease on cartridges, they do.’

‘I thought cartridges were stored in the Public Magazine?’

‘They keep enough here for proofing, General, and the rats do like them. We call them redcoats on account they’re the enemy.’

‘Cats will surely defeat them?’

‘We have cats, General, but it’s a hard-fought contest. Good American cats and patriot terriers against dirty British rats,’ Revere said. ‘I assume you want reassurance on the artillery train, General?’

‘I’m sure all is in order.’

‘Oh, it is, you can rely on that. As of now, General, we have two eighteen-pounders, three nine-pounders, one howitzer, and four little ones.’

‘Small howitzers?’

‘Four-pounder cannons, General, and I wouldn’t use them to shoot rats. You need something heavier-built like the French four-pounders. And if you have influence, General, which I’m sure you do, ask the Board of War to release more eighteen-pounders.’

Wadsworth nodded. ‘I’ll make a note of that,’ he promised.

‘You have your guns, General, I assure you,’ Revere said, ‘with all their side arms, powder and shot. I’ve hardly seen Castle Island these last few days on account of readying the train.’

‘Yes, indeed, Castle Island,’ Wadsworth said. He towered a head over Revere, which gave him an excuse not to meet the colonel’s eyes, though he was aware that Revere was staring at him intently as if daring Wadsworth to give him bad news. ‘You command at Castle Island?’ Wadsworth asked, not because he needed confirmation, but out of desperation to say anything.

‘You didn’t need to come here to find that out,’ Revere said with amusement, ‘but yes, General, I command the Massachusetts Artillery Regiment and, because most of our guns are mounted on the island, I command there too. And you, General, will command at Majajuce?’

‘Majajuce?’ Wadsworth said, then realised Revere meant Majabigwaduce. ‘I am second in command,’ he went on, ‘to General Lovell.’

‘And there are British rats at Majajuce,’ Revere said.

‘As far as we can determine,’ Wadsworth said, ‘they’ve landed at least a thousand men and possess three sloops-of-war. Not an over-large force, but not risible either.’

‘Risible,’ Revere said, as if amused by the word. ‘But to rid Massachusetts of those rats, General, you’ll need guns.’

‘We will indeed.’

‘And the guns will need an officer in command,’ Revere added pointedly.

‘Indeed they will,’ Wadsworth said. All the senior appointments of the expedition that was being hurriedly prepared to evict the British from Majabigwaduce had been made. Solomon Lovell would command the ground forces, Commander Dudley Saltonstall of the Continental Frigate Warren would be the naval commander, and Wadsworth would be Lovell’s deputy. The troops, drawn from the militias of York, Cumberland and Lincoln counties, had their commanding officers, while the adjutant-general, quartermaster-general, surgeon-general and brigade majors had all received their orders, and now only the commander of the artillery train needed to be appointed.

‘The guns will need an officer in command,’ Revere pressed Wadsworth, ‘and I command the Artillery Regiment.’

Wadsworth gazed at a ginger-coloured cat washing itself on top of a barrel. ‘No one,’ he said carefully, ‘would deny that you are the man best qualified to command the artillery at Majabigwaduce.’

‘So I can expect a letter from the Board of War?’ Revere said.

‘If I am satisfied,’ Wadsworth said, nerving himself to raise the matter that had brought him to the armory.

‘Satisfied about what, General?’ Revere asked, still looking up into Wadsworth’s face.

Peleg Wadsworth made himself look into the steady brown eyes. ‘A complaint was made,’ he said, ‘concerning the Castle Island ration demands, a matter of surplus, Colonel … ’

‘Surplus!’ Revere interrupted, not angrily, but in a tone suggesting he found the word amusing. He smiled, and Wadsworth found himself unexpectedly warming to the man. ‘Tell me, General,’ Revere went on, ‘how many troops you’ll be taking to Majajuce.’

‘We can’t be certain,’ Wadsworth said, ‘but we expect to take an infantry force of at least fifteen hundred men.’

‘And you’ve ordered rations for that many?’

‘Of course.’

‘And if only fourteen hundred men report for duty, General, what will you do with the surplus ration?’

‘It will be accounted for,’ Wadsworth said, ‘of course.’

‘This is war!’ Revere said energetically. ‘War and blood, fire and iron, death and damage, and a man can’t account for everything in war! I’ll make as many lists as you like when the war is over.’

Wadsworth frowned. Doubtless it was war, yet the Castle Island garrison, like Lieutenant-Colonel Revere himself, had yet to fire a shot at the enemy. ‘It is alleged, Colonel,’ Wadsworth said firmly, ‘that your garrison was comprised of a fixed number of men, yet the ration demands consistently cited thirty non-existent gunners.’

Revere gave a tolerant smile, suggesting he had heard all this before. ‘Consistently,’ he said derisively, ‘consistently, eh? Long words don’t kill the enemy, General.’

‘Another long word,’ Wadsworth said, ‘is peculation.’

The accusation was now open. The word hung in the dusty air. It was alleged that Revere had ordered extra rations that he had then sold for personal gain, though Wadsworth did not articulate that full accusation. He did not need to. Colonel Revere looked up into Wadsworth’s face, then shook his head sadly. He turned and walked slowly to a nine-pounder cannon that stood at the back of the storehouse. The gun had been captured at Saratoga and Revere now stroked its long barrel with a capable, broad-fingered hand. ‘For years, General,’ he spoke quietly, ‘I have pursued and promoted the cause of liberty.’ He was staring down at the royal cipher on the gun’s breech. ‘When you were learning books, General, I was riding to Philadelphia and New York to spread the idea of liberty. I risked capture and imprisonment for liberty. I threw tea into Boston Harbour and I rode to warn Lexington when the British started this war. That’s when we first met, General, at Lexington.’

‘I remember it …’ Wadsworth began.

‘And I risked the well-being of my dear wife,’ Revere interrupted hotly, ‘and the welfare of my children to serve a cause I love, General.’ He turned and looked at Wadsworth who stood in the buttress of sunlight cast through the wide-open door. ‘I have been a patriot, General, and I have proved my patriotism …’

‘No one is suggesting …’

‘Yes, they are, General!’ Revere said with a sudden passion. ‘They are suggesting I am a dishonest man! That I would steal from the cause to which I have devoted my life! It’s Major Todd, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not at liberty to reveal …’

‘You don’t need to,’ Revere said scathingly. ‘It’s Major Todd. He doesn’t like me, General, and I regret that, and I regret that the Major doesn’t know the first thing he’s talking about! I was told, General, that thirty men of the Barnstable County Militia were being posted to me for artillery training and I ordered rations accordingly, and then Major Fellows, for his own reasons, General, for his own good reasons held the men back, and I explained all that, but Major Todd isn’t a man to listen to reason, General.’

‘Major Todd is a man of diligence,’ Wadsworth said sternly, ‘and I am not saying he advanced the complaint, merely that he is a most efficient and honorable officer.’

‘A Harvard man, is he?’ Revere asked sharply.

Wadsworth frowned. ‘I cannot think that relevant, Colonel.’

‘I’ve no doubt you don’t, but Major Todd still misunderstood the situation, General,’ Revere said. He paused, and for a moment it seemed his indignation would burst out with the violence of thunder, but instead he smiled. ‘It is not peculation, General,’ he said, ‘and I don’t doubt I was remiss in not checking the books, but mistakes are made. I concentrated on making the guns efficient, General, efficient!’ He walked towards Wadsworth, his voice low. ‘All I have ever asked, General, is for a chance to fight for my country. To fight for the cause I love. To fight for my dear children’s future. Do you have children, General?’

‘I do.’

‘As do I. Dear children. And you think I would risk my family name, their reputation, and the cause I love for thirty loaves of bread? Or for thirty pieces of silver?’

Wadsworth had learned as a schoolmaster to judge his pupils by their demeanour. Boys, he had discovered, rarely looked authority in the eye when they lied. Girls were far more difficult to read, but boys, when they lied, almost always looked uncomfortable. Their gaze would shift, but Revere’s gaze was steady, his face was earnest, and Wadsworth felt a great surge of relief. He put a hand inside his uniform coat and brought out a paper, folded and sealed. ‘I had hoped you would satisfy me, Colonel, upon my soul, I had hoped that. And you have.’ He smiled and held the paper towards Revere.