"The MacDonald ran away," Campbell said dismissively. "What do you expect of a MacDonald?"

"The yon b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" a private said angrily and Campbell turned to see the bloodied heads of the Royal Marine corpses, their scalps cut and torn away. "b.l.o.o.d.y heathen savage G.o.d-d.a.m.ned b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," the man growled.

"Take Lieutenant Dennis to the surgeons," Campbell ordered, "and the prisoner to the fort." He found a rag in a corner of the battery and wiped his broadsword's long blade clean. It was almost full light now. Rain began to fall, heavy rain that splashed on the battery's wreckage and diluted the blood.

The Half Moon Battery was back in British hands, and on the high ground Peleg Wadsworth despaired.

"They're patriots!" General Lovell complained. "They must fight for their liberty!"

"They're farmers," Wadsworth said wearily, "and carpenters and laborers and they're the men who didn't volunteer for the Continental Army, and half of them didn't want to fight anyway. They were forced to fight by press gangs."

"The Ma.s.sachusetts Militia," Lovell said in a hurt voice. He was standing beneath the cover of a sail that had been strung and pegged between two trees to make a headquarter's tent. The rain pattered on the canvas and hissed in the camp-fire just outside the tent.

"They're not the same militia who fought at Lexington," Wadsworth said, "or who stormed Breed's Hill. Those men are all gone into the army," or their graves, he thought, "and we have the leavings."

"Another eighteen deserted last night," Lovell said despairingly. He had set a picquet on the neck, but that post did little to stop men sneaking away in the darkness. Some, he supposed, deserted to the British, but most went north into the wild woods and hoped to find their way home. Those who were caught were condemned to the Horse, a brutal punishment whereby a man was sat astride a narrow beam with muskets tied to his legs, but the punishment was evidently not brutal enough, because still the militiamen deserted. "I am ashamed," Lovell said.

"We still have enough men to a.s.sult the fort," Wadsworth said, not sure he believed the words.

Lovell ignored them anyway. "What can we do?" he asked helplessly.

Wadsworth wanted to kick the man. You can lead us, he thought, you can take command, but in fairness, and Peleg Wadsworth was a man given to honesty about himself, he did not think he was showing great leadership either. He sighed. The dawn's fog had cleared to reveal that the British had abandoned the recaptured Half Moon Battery, leaving the earthwork empty, and there was something insulting in that abandonment. They seemed to be saying that they could retake the battery whenever they wished, though Lovell showed no desire to accept the challenge. "We can't hold the battery," the general said despairingly.

"Of course we can, sir," Wadsworth insisted.

"You saw what happened! They ran! The rascals ran! You want me to attack the fort with such men?"

"I think we must, sir," Wadsworth said, but Lovell said nothing in return. The rain was coming down harder, forcing Wadsworth to raise his voice. "And, sir," he continued, "at least we've rid ourselves of the enemy battery. The commodore might sail into the harbor."

"He might," Lovell said in a tone that suggested pigs might take wings and circle the heights of Majabigwaduce singing hallelujahs. "But I fear ..." he began, and stopped.

"Fear, sir?"

"We need disciplined troops, Wadsworth. We need General Washington's men."

Praise the Lord, Wadsworth thought, but did not betray his reaction. He knew how hard it had been for Lovell to make that admission. Lovell wanted the glory of this expedition to shine on Ma.s.sachusetts, but the general must now share that renown with the other rebellious states by calling in troops from the Continental Army. That army had real soldiers, disciplined men, trained men.

"A single regiment would be enough," Lovell said.

"Let me convey the request to Boston," the Reverened Jonathan Murray suggested.

"Would you?" Lovell asked eagerly. He had become more than slightly tired of the Reverend Murray's pious con- fidence. G.o.d might indeed wish the Americans to conquer here, but even the Almighty had so far failed to move the commodore's ships past Dyce's Head. The clergyman was no military man, but he possessed persuasive powers and Boston would surely listen to his pleas. "What will you tell them?"

"That the enemy is too powerful," Murray said, "and that our men, though filled with zeal and imbued with a love of liberty, nevertheless lack the discipline to bring down the walls of Jericho."

"And ask for mortars," Wadsworth said.

"Mortars?" Lovell asked.

"We don't have trumpets," Wadsworth said, "but we can rain fire and brimstone on their heads."

"Yes, mortars," Lovell said. A mortar was even more deadly for siege work than an howitzer and, anyway, Lovell possessed only one howitzer. The mortars would fire their sh.e.l.ls high in the sky so that they fell vertically into the fort and, as the fort's walls grew higher, so those walls would contain the explosions and spread death among the redcoats. "I shall write the letter," Lovell said heavily.

Because the rebels needed reinforcements.

Next day Peleg Wadsworth tied a large piece of white cloth to a long stick and walked towards the enemy fort. Colonel Revere's guns had already fallen silent and, soon after, the British guns went quiet too.

Wadsworth went alone. He had asked James Fletcher to accompany him, but Fletcher had begged off. "They know me, sir."

"And you like some of them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then stay here," Wadsworth had said, and now he walked down the ridge's gentle slope, between the shattered tree stumps, and he saw two red-coated officers leave the fort and come towards him. He thought that they would not want him to get too close in case he saw the state of the fort's walls, but he was evidently wrong because the two men waited for him inside the abatis. It seemed they did not care if he had a good view of the ramparts. Those ramparts were under constant bombardment from Revere's guns, yet to Wadsworth's eyes, they looked remarkably undamaged. Maybe that was why the British officers did not mind him seeing the walls. They were mocking him.

It had rained again that morning. The rain had stopped, but the wind felt damp and the clouds were still low and threatening. The wet weather had soaked the men encamped on the heights, it had drenched the stored cartridges and increased the militia's misery. Some men had hissed at Lovell as the general accompanied Wadsworth to the tree line and Lovell had pretended not to hear the sound.

The abatis had been knocked about by gunfire and it was not difficult to find a way through the tangled branches. Wadsworth felt foolish holding the flag of truce above his head so he lowered it as he approached the two enemy officers. One of them, the shortest, had gray hair beneath his c.o.c.ked hat. He leaned on a stick and smiled as Wadsworth approached. "Good morning," he called genially.

"Good morning," Wadsworth responded.

"Not really a good morning, though, is it?" the man said. His right arm was held unnaturally. "It's a chill and wet morning. It's raw! I am Brigadier-General McLean, and you are?"

"Brigadier-General Wadsworth," Wadsworth said, and felt entirely fraudulent in claiming the rank.

"Allow me to name Lieutenant Moore to you, General," McLean said, indicating the good-looking young man who accompanied him.

"Sir," Moore greeted Wadsworth by standing briefly to attention and bowing his head.

"Lieutenant," Wadsworth acknowledged the politeness.

"Lieutenant Moore insisted on keeping me company in case you planned to kill me," McLean said.

"Under a flag of truce?" Wadsworth asked sternly.

"Forgive me, General," McLean said, "I jest. I would not think you capable of such perfidy. Might I ask what brings you to see us?"

"There was a young man," Wadsworth said, "a marine officer called Dennis. I have a connection with his family," he paused, "I taught him his letters. I believe he is your prisoner?"

"I believe he is," McLean said gently.

"And I hear he was wounded yesterday. I was hoping ..." Wadsworth paused because he had been about to call McLean "sir," but managed to check that foolish impulse just in time, "I was hoping you could rea.s.sure me of his condition."

"Of course," McLean said and turned to Moore. "Lieutenant, be a good fellow and run to the hospital, would you?"

Moore left and McLean gestured at two tree stumps. "We might as well be comfortable while we wait," he said. "I trust you'll forgive me if I don't invite you inside the fort?"

"I wouldn't expect it," Wadsworth said.

"Then please sit," McLean said, and sat himself. "Tell me about young Dennis."

Wadsworth perched on the adjacent stump. He talked awkwardly at first, merely saying how he had known the Dennis family, but his voice became warmer as he spoke of William Dennis's cheerful and honest character. "He was always a fine boy," Wadsworth said, "and he's become a fine man. A good young man," he stressed the "good," "and he hopes to be a lawyer when this is all over."

"I've heard there are honest lawyers," McLean said with a smile.

"He will be an honest lawyer," Wadsworth said firmly.

"Then he will do much good in the world," McLean said. "And yourself, General? I surmise you were a schoolteacher?"

"Yes."

"Then you have done much good in the world," McLean said. "As for me? I went to be a soldier forty years ago and twenty battles later here I still am."

"Not doing good for the world?" Wadsworth could not resist inquiring.

McLean took no offense. "I commanded troops for the King of Portugal," he said, smiling, "and every year there was a great procession on All Saint's Day. It was magnificent! Camels and horses! Well, two camels, and they were poor mangy beasts," he paused, remembering, "and afterwards there was always dung on the square the king needed to cross to reach the cathedral, so a group of men and women were detailed to clean it up with brooms and shovels. They swept up the dung. That's the soldier's job, General, to sweep up the dung the politicians make."

"Is that what you're doing here?"

"Of course it is," McLean said. He had taken a clay pipe from a pocket of his coat and put it between his teeth. He held a tinderbox awkwardly in his maimed right hand and struck the steel with his left. The linen flared up and McLean lit the pipe, then snapped the box closed to extinguish the flame. "You people," he said when the pipe was drawing, "had a disagreement with my people, and you or I, General, might well have talked our way to an accord, but our lords and masters failed to agree so now you and I must decide their arguments a different way."

"No," Wadsworth said. "To my mind, General, you're the camel, not the sweeper."

McLean laughed at that. "I'm mangy enough, G.o.d knows. No, General, I didn't cause this dung, but I am loyal to my king and this is his land, and he wants me to keep it for him."

"The king might have kept it for himself," Wadsworth said, "if he had chosen any rule except tyranny."

"Oh, he's such a tyrant!" McLean said, still amused. "Your leaders are wealthy men, I believe? Landowners, are they not? And merchants? And lawyers? This is a rebellion led by the wealthy. Strange how such men prospered so under tyranny."

"Liberty is not the freedom to prosper," Wadsworth said, "but the freedom to make choices that affect our own destiny."

"But would a tyranny allow you to prosper?"

"You have restricted our trade and levied taxes without our consent," Wadsworth said, wishing he did not sound so pedagogic.

"Ah! So our tyranny lies in not allowing you to become wealthier still?"

"Not all of us are wealthy men," Wadsworth said heatedly, "and as you well know, General, tyranny is the denial of liberty."

"And how many slaves do you keep?" McLean asked.

Wadsworth was tempted to retort that the question was a cheap jibe, except it had stung him. "None," he said stiffly. "The keeping of Negroes is not common in Ma.s.sachusetts." He felt acutely uncomfortable. He knew he had not argued well, but he had been surprised by his enemy. He had antic.i.p.ated a pompous, supercilious British officer, and instead found a courteous man, old enough to be his father, who seemed very relaxed in this unnatural encounter.

"Well, here the two of us are," McLean said happily, "a tyrant and his downtrodden victim, talking together." He pointed his pipe stem towards the fort where John Moore had gone on his way to the hospital. "Young Moore reads his history. He's a fine young man too. He likes history, and here he is, here we both are, writing a new chapter. I sometimes wish I could peer into the future and read the chapter we write."

"You might not like it," Wadsworth said.

"I think it certain that one of us will not," McLean said.

The conversation faltered. McLean drew on his pipe and Wadsworth gazed at the nearby ramparts. He could see the timber spikes in the ditch and, above them, the earth and log wall that was now higher than a man's head. No one could leap the ramparts now, the wall would need to be climbed and fought for. It would be hard and b.l.o.o.d.y work and he wondered if even Continental Army troops could manage it. They could if the wall were breached and Wadsworth looked for evidence that Colonel Revere's guns were having any effect, but other than the mangled roof of the storehouse inside the fort there was little sign of the cannonade. There were places where the wall had been battered by round shot, but those places had all been repaired. Mortars, he thought, mortars. We need to turn the interior of the fort into a cauldron of shrieking metal and searing flame. The curtain wall between the protruding corner bastions was lined with redcoats who gazed back at Wadsworth, intrigued by the proximity of a rebel. Wadsworth tried to count the men, but there were too many.

"I'm keeping most of my men hidden," McLean said.

Wadsworth felt guilty, which was ridiculous because it was his duty to examine the enemy. Indeed, General Lovell had only agreed to this inquiry about Lieutenant Dennis's fate because it offered Wadsworth an opportunity to examine the enemy's defenses. "We're keeping most of ours hidden too," Wadsworth said.

"Which is sensible of you," McLean said. "I see from your uniform you served in Mister Washington's army?"

"I was an aide to the general, yes," Wadsworth said, offended by the British habit of referring to George Washington as "mister."

"A formidable man," McLean said. "I'm sorry young Moore is taking so long." Wadsworth made no answer and the Scotsman smiled wryly. "You very nearly killed him."

"Lieutenant Moore?"

"He insisted on fighting the war single-handed, which I suppose is a good fault in a young officer, but I'm profoundly grateful he survived. He had great promise."

"As a soldier?"

"As a man and as a soldier. Like your Lieutenant Dennis, he is a good young man. If I had a son, General, I should wish him to be like Moore. Do you have children?"

"Two sons and a daughter, and another child coming very soon."

McLean heard the warmth in Wadsworth's voice. "You're a fortunate man, General."

"I think so."

McLean drew on the pipe, then blew a stream of smoke into the damp air. "If you will allow an enemy's prayers, General, then let me pray you will be reunited with your family."

"Thank you."

"Of course," McLean said blandly, "you could effect that reconciliation by withdrawing now?"

"But we have orders to capture you first," Wadsworth said with some amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice.

"I shall not pray for that," McLean said.

"I think, perhaps, we should have attempted it a week ago," Wadsworth said ruefully, and immediately wished he had left the words unspoken. McLean said nothing, merely inclined his head, which small gesture might have been interpreted as agreement. "But we shall attempt it again," Wadsworth finished.

"You must do your duty, General, of course you must," McLean said, then turned because Wadsworth had looked towards the fort's southwestern corner. John Moore had appeared there and now walked towards them with a scabbarded sword held in one hand. The lieutenant glanced at Wadsworth, then bent and whispered in McLean's ear and the general winced and closed his eyes momentarily. "I am sorry, General Wadsworth," he said, "but Lieutenant Dennis died this morning. You may be a.s.sured that he received the best treatment we could offer, but, alas, the ministrations were not sufficient." McLean stood.

Wadsworth stood too. He looked at McLean's grave face and then, to his shame, tears rolled down his cheeks. He turned away abruptly.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of," McLean said.

"He was a fine man," Wadsworth said, and he knew he was not crying because of Dennis's death, but because of the waste and indecision of this campaign. He sniffed, composed himself, and turned back to McLean. "Please thank your doctor for whatever he attempted."

"I will," McLean said, "and please be a.s.sured we shall give Lieutenant Dennis a Christian burial."

"Bury him in his uniform, please."