"Want me to shoot him, sir?" McClure asked.

"No, Sergeant, I merely wish you to admire his plumage. A thrush is wearing his majesty's red coat, would you not consider that an omen of good-fortune?"

"Oh, aye, sir, I would."

"I detect in you, Sergeant, a lack of zeal." The eighteen-year-old lieutenant smiled to show he was not serious. He was a tall lad, a full head above the stocky sergeant, and had a round, eager, and mobile face, a smile quick as lightning, and shrewdly observant eyes. His coat was cut from expensive scarlet cloth, faced with black and bright with b.u.t.tons that were rumored to be made of the finest gold. Lieutenant John Moore was not wealthy, he was a doctor's son, but everyone knew he was a friend of the young duke's, and the duke was said to be richer than the next ten richest men in all Scotland, and a rich friend, as everyone also knew, was the next best thing to being wealthy oneself. The Duke of Hamilton was so rich that he had paid all the expenses of raising the 82nd Regiment of Foot, buying them uniforms, muskets, and bayonets, and rumor said his grace could probably afford to raise another ten such regiments without even noticing the expense. "Onwards," Moore said, "onwards, ever onwards!"

The six privates, all from the Lowlands of Scotland, did not move. They just gazed at Lieutenant Moore as though he were a strange species from some far-off heathen country.

"Onwards!" Moore called again, striding fast once more through the trees. The fog m.u.f.fled the harsh sound of the axes coming from where Brigadier McLean's men were clearing the ridge so that their planned fort would have open fields of fire. The 82nd's picquet, meanwhile, was climbing a gentle slope which leveled onto a wide plateau of thick undergrowth and dark firs. Moore trampled through the brush, then again stopped abruptly. "There," he said, pointing, "Thala.s.sa, Thala.s.sa."

"The la.s.sie?" McClure asked.

"You have not read Xenophon's Anabasis Anabasis, Sergeant?" Moore asked in mock horror.

"Is that the one after Leviticus, sir?"

Moore smiled. "Thala.s.sa, Sergeant, Thala.s.sa Thala.s.sa," he said in mock reproof, "was the cry of the ten thousand when at last, after their long march, and after their dark ordeals, they came to the sea. That's what it means! The sea! The sea! And they shouted for joy because they saw their safety in the gentle heaves of its bosom."

"Its bosom, sir," McClure echoed, peering down a sudden steep bluff, thick with trees, to glimpse the cold sea through the foliage and beneath the drifting fog. "It's not very bosomy, sir."

"And it is across that water, Sergeant, from their lair in the black lands of Boston, that the enemy will come. They will arrive in their hundreds and in their thousands, they will prowl like the dark hordes of Midian, they will descend upon us like the a.s.syrian!"

"Not if this fog lasts, sir," McClure said. "The b.u.g.g.e.rs will get lost, sir."

Moore, for once, said nothing. He was gazing down the bluff. It was not quite a cliff, but no man could climb it easily. An attacker would need to drag himself up the two hundred feet by pulling on the straggly saplings, and a man using his hands to keep his footing could not use his musket. The beach, just visible, was brief and stony.

"But are the b.u.g.g.e.rs coming, sir?" McClure asked.

"We cannot say," Moore said distractedly.

"But the brigadier thinks so, sir?" McClure asked anxiously. The privates listened, glancing nervously from the short sergeant to the tall officer.

"We must a.s.sume, Sergeant," Moore said airily, "that the wretched creatures will resent our presence. We make life difficult for them. By establishing ourselves in this land of soured milk and bitter honey we deny their privateers the harbors they require for their foul depredations. We are a thorn in their side, we are inconvenient, we are a challenge to their quietude."

McClure frowned and scratched his forehead. "So you're saying the b.u.g.g.e.rs will come, sir?"

"I b.l.o.o.d.y hope so," Moore said with sudden vehemence.

"Not here, sir," McClure said confidently. "Too steep."

"They'll want to land somewhere in range of their ships' cannons," Moore said.

"Cannons, sir?"

"Big metal tubes which expel b.a.l.l.s, Sergeant."

"Oh, thank you, sir. I was wondering, sir," McClure said with a smile.

Moore tried and failed to suppress a smile. "We shall be plied with shot, Sergeant, have no doubt of that. And I've no doubt ships could spatter this slope with cannon-fire, but how would men climb it into our musket-fire? Yet even so, let's hope they land here. No troops could climb this slope if we're waiting at the top, eh? By G.o.d, Sergeant, we'll make a fine cull of the rebellious b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!"

"And so we will, sir," McClure said loyally, though in his sixteen years of service he had become used to brash young officers whose confidence exceeded their experience. Lieutenant John Moore, the sergeant decided, was another such, yet McClure liked him. The paymaster possessed an easy authority, rare in a man so young, and he was reckoned to be a fair officer who cared about his troops. Even so, McClure thought, John Moore would have to learn some sense or else die young.

"We shall slaughter them," Moore said enthusiastically, then held out his hand. "Your musket, Sergeant."

McClure handed the officer his musket and watched as Moore laid a guinea on the ground. "The soldier who can fire faster than me will be rewarded with the guinea," Moore said. "Your mark is that half-rotted tree canted on the slope, you see it?"

"Aim at the dead bent tree," McClure explained to the privates. "Sir?"

"Sergeant?"

"Won't the sound of muskets alarm the camp, sir?"

"I warned the brigadier we'd be shooting. Sergeant, your cartridge box, if you please."

"Be quick, lads," McClure encouraged his men. "Let's take the officer's money!"

"You may load and prime," Moore said. "I propose to fire five shots. If any of you manage five before me, then you will take the guinea. Imagine, gentlemen, that a horde of malodorous rebels are climbing the bluff, then do the king's work and send the wretches to h.e.l.l."

The muskets were loaded; the powder, wadding, and shot were rammed down the barrels, the locks were primed and the frizzens closed. The clicks of the flints being c.o.c.ked seemed oddly loud in the fog-shrouded morning.

"Gentlemen of the 82nd," Moore demanded grandly, "are you ready?"

"The b.u.g.g.e.rs are ready, sir," McClure said.

"Present!" Moore ordered. "Fire!"

Seven muskets coughed, blasting evil-smelling powder smoke that was far thicker than the swirling fog. The smoke lingered as birds fled through the thick trees and gulls called from the water. Through the echo of the shots McClure heard the b.a.l.l.s ripping through leaves and clattering on the stones of the small beach. The men were tearing open their next cartridges with their teeth, but Lieutenant Moore was already ahead. He had primed the musket, closed the frizzen, and now dropped the heavy stock to the ground and poured in the powder. He pushed the cartridge paper and ball into the muzzle, whipped the ramrod up, slid it down hard, pulled it free with the ringing sound of metal on metal, then jammed the ramrod into the turf, tossed the gun up to his shoulder, c.o.c.ked, and fired.

No one had yet beaten Lieutenant John Moore. Major Dunlop had timed Moore once and, with disbelief, had announced that the lieutenant had fired five shots inside sixty seconds. Most men could manage three shots a minute with a clean musket, a few could shoot four rounds, but the doctor's son, friend of a duke, could fire five. Moore had been trained in musketry by a Prussian, and as a boy he had practiced and practiced, perfecting the essential soldier's skill, and so certain was he of his ability that, as he loaded the last two shots, he did not even bother to look at his borrowed weapon, but instead smiled wryly at Sergeant McClure. "Five!" Moore announced, his ears ringing with the explosions. "Did any man defeat me, Sergeant?"

"No, sir. Private Neill managed three shots, sir, the rest did two."

"Then my guinea is safe," Moore said, scooping it up.

"But are we?" McClure muttered.

"You spoke, Sergeant?"

McClure stared down the bluff. The smoke was clearing and he could see that the canted tree, just thirty paces away, was unscarred by any musket-ball. "There's precious few of us, sir," he said, "and we're all alone here and there's a lot of rebels."

"All the more to kill," Moore said. "We shall take post here till the fog lifts, Sergeant, then look for a better vantage point."

"Aye, sir."

The picquet was posted; their task to watch for the coming of an enemy. That enemy, the brigadier had a.s.sured his officers, would come. Of that McLean was sure. So he cut down trees and plotted where the fort must be.

To defend the king's land from the king's enemies.

Excerpt of letter from the Ma.s.sachusetts Council, to the Continental Navy Board in Boston, June 30th, 1779: Gentlemen: The General a.s.sembly of this State have determined on an Expedition to Pen.o.bscot 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 Pen.o.bscot; the Continental Frigate now in this Harbor, and the other armed Continental vessells here.

Excerpts from the Warrant of Impressment issued to Ma.s.schusetts sheriffs, July 3rd, 1779: You are hereby authorized and Commanded taking with you such a.s.sistance 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 Pen.o.bscot. ... 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 Ma.s.sachusetts, 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.

Chapter 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 cutla.s.s 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 a.r.s.enal 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 cannon ball 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 p.i.s.sing 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 Boston Intelligencer from his pocket and spread it on the table, then took out his reading gla.s.ses. 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 Ma.s.sachusetts. "Who would have believed it," he said, "the b.a.s.t.a.r.d redcoats back in New England!" from his pocket and spread it on the table, then took out his reading gla.s.ses. 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 Ma.s.sachusetts. "Who would have believed it," he said, "the b.a.s.t.a.r.d redcoats back in New England!"

"Not for long, Colonel."

"I hope not," Revere said. The Ma.s.sachusetts government, learning that the British had landed men at Majabigwaduce, had determined to send an expedition to the Pen.o.bscot 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 b.l.o.o.d.ybacks 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 p.i.s.sed Down Its Legs, probably."

"Probably," Revere said distantly. He took off his gla.s.ses and stared at a pair of sheer-legs 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 sheer-legs. 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 Ma.s.sachusetts 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 countinghouse! 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.