"We shall do that, of course," McLean promised. He took the scabbarded sword from Moore. "I presume you brought this because it belonged to the lieutenant?" he asked Moore.

"Yes, sir."

McLean handed the sword to Wadsworth. "You might wish to return that to his family, General, and you may tell them from his enemy that their son died fighting heroically. They can be proud of him."

"I shall," Wadsworth said and took the sword. "Thank you for indulging my inquiry," he said to McLean.

"I enjoyed most of our conversation," McLean said and held a hand towards the abatis as though he were a host conducting an honored guest towards his front door. "I am truly sorry about your Lieutenant Dennis," he said, walking westwards beside the much taller American. "Maybe one day, General, you and I can sit in peace and talk about these things."

"I'd like that."

"As would I," McLean said, stopping just short of the abatis. He smiled mischievously. "And do please give my regards to young James Fletcher."

"Fletcher," Wadsworth said as if the name was new to him.

"We have telescopes, General," McLean said, amused. "I regret he chose the allegiance he did. I regret that very much, but do tell him his sister is well, and that the tyrants give her and her mother rations." He held out his hand. "We won't resume our cannon practice till you're back among the trees," he said.

Wadsworth hesitated, then shook the offered hand. "Thank you, General," he said, then began the long, lonely walk back up the ridge's spine.

McLean stayed at the abatis, watching Wadsworth's solitary walk. "He's rather a good man, I think," he said when the American was well out of earshot.

"He's a rebel," Moore said disapprovingly.

"And if you or I had been born here," McLean said, "then like as not we would be rebels too."

"Sir!" John Moore sounded shocked.

McLean laughed. "But we were born across the sea, and it's not so many years since we had our own rebels in Scotland. And I did like him." He still watched Wadsworth. "He's a man who wears his honesty like a badge, but luckily for you and me he's no soldier. He's a schoolmaster and that makes us fortunate in our enemies. Now let's get back inside before they start shooting at us again."

At dusk, that same day, Lieutenant Dennis was buried in his green uniform. Four highlanders shot a volley into the fading light, then a wooden cross was hammered into the soil. The name Dennis was scratched on the cross with charcoal, but two days later a corporal took the cross for kindling.

And the siege went on.

The three redcoats slipped out of the tented encampment at mid-afternoon on the day that the enemy officer had come to the fort under a flag of truce. They had no idea why the rebel had come, nor did they care. They cared about the sentries placed to stop men sneaking out of the camp and into the woods, but that picquet was easy enough to avoid, and the three men vanished into the trees and then turned west towards the enemy.

Two were brothers called Campbell, the third was a Mackenzie. They all wore the dark kilt of Argyle and carried their muskets. Off to their left the cannons were firing, the sound sporadic, sudden, percussive and now a part of their daily lives. "Down there," Jamie Campbell said, pointing, and the three followed a vague track which led downhill through the trees. All three were grinning, excited. The day was gray and a light rain spat from the southwest.

The track led to the marshy isthmus that connected Majabigwaduce's peninsula to the mainland. Jamie, the oldest of the brothers and the acknowledged leader of the three men, did not want to reach the isthmus, rather he was hoping to work his way along the wooded slope just above the marsh. The rebels patrolled that ground. He had seen them there. Sometimes Captain Caffrae's company went to the same land and ambushed a rebel patrol, or else mocked the Americans with fife music and jeers. This afternoon, though, the wood above the marsh seemed empty. The three crouched in the brush and gazed west towards the enemy lines. To their right the trees were thinner, while ahead was a small clearing in which a spring bubbled. "Not a b.l.o.o.d.y soul here," Mackenzie grumbled.

"They come here," Jamie said. He was nineteen, with dark eyes, black hair, and a hunter's watchful face. "Watch up the slope," he told his brother, "we don't want b.l.o.o.d.y Caffrae finding us."

They waited. Birds, now as accustomed to the cannon-fire as the troops, sang harshly in the trees. A small animal, strangely striped, flitted across the clearing. Jamie Campbell stroked the stock of his musket. He loved his musket. He treated the stock with oil and boot-blacking so that the wood was smooth like silk, and the caress of the weapon's dark curves put him in mind of the sergeant's widow in Halifax. He smiled.

"There!" his brother Robbie hissed.

Four rebels had appeared at the clearing's far side. They were in dull brown coats, trews and hats, and festooned with belts, pouches, and bayonet scabbards. Three of the men carried two pails apiece, the fourth had a musket in his hands. They shambled to the spring where they stooped to fill their buckets.

"Now!" Jamie said, and the three muskets flamed loud. One of the men at the spring was thrown sideways, his blood a flicker of red in the gray rain. The fourth rebel shot back at the smoke among the trees, but Mackenzie and the Campbell brothers were already running away, whooping and laughing.

It was sport. The general had forbidden it, and had threatened a dire punishment to any man who left the lines to take a shot at the enemy without permission, but the young Scotsmen loved the risk. If the rebels would not come to them then they would go to the rebels, whatever the general wanted. Now all they needed to do was get back safe to the tents without being found.

Then, tomorrow, do it again.

Samuel Adams reached Major-General Horatio Gates's headquarters at Providence in Rhode Island late in the afternoon. Swollen clouds were heaping, and off to the west the thunder already grumbled. It was hot and humid and Adams was shown into a small parlor where, despite the open windows, no hint of wind brought relief. He wiped his face with a big spotted handkerchief. "Would you like tea, sir?" a pale lieutenant in Continental Army uniform asked.

"Ale," Samuel Adams said firmly.

"Ale, sir?"

"Ale," Samuel Adams said even more firmly.

"General Gates will be with you directly, sir," the lieutenant said distantly and, Adams suspected, inaccurately, then vanished into the nether regions of the house.

The ale was brought. It was sour, but drinkable. Thunder sounded louder, though no rain fell and still no wind blew through the open sash windows. Adams wondered if he was hearing the sound of the siege guns pounding the British in Newport, but all reports said the attempts to evict that garrison had proven hopeless, and a moment later a distant flash of lightning confirmed that it was indeed thunder. A dog howled and a woman's voice was raised in anger. Samuel Adams closed his eyes and dozed.

He was woken by the sound of nailed boots on the wooden floor of the hallway. He sat upright just as Major-General Horatio Gates came into the parlor. "You rode from Boston, Mister Adams?" the general boomed in greeting.

"Indeed I did."

Despite the heat Gates had been wearing a greatcoat which he now threw to the lieutenant. "Tea," he said, "tea, tea, tea."

"Very good, your honor," the lieutenant said.

"And tea for Mister Adams!"

"Ale!" Adams called in correction, but the lieutenant was already gone.

Gates unstrapped the scabbarded sword he wore over his Continental Army uniform and slammed it onto a table heaped with paperwork. "How are matters in Boston, Adams?"

"We do the Lord's work," Adams said gently, though Gates entirely missed the irony. The general was a tall man a few years younger than Samuel Adams, who, after his long ride down the Boston Post Road, was feeling every one of his fifty-seven years. Gates glared at the papers resting under his sword. He was, Adams thought, an officer much given to glaring. The general was heavy-jowled with a powdered wig that was not quite large enough to hide his gray hairs. Sweat trickled from under the wig. "And how do you fare in this fair island?" Adams asked.

"Island?" Gates asked, looking suspiciously at his visitor. "Ah, Rhode Island. d.a.m.n silly name. It's all the fault of the French, Adams, the French. If the d.a.m.ned French had kept their word we'd have evicted the enemy from Newport. But the French, d.a.m.n their eyes, won't bring their ships. d.a.m.ned fart-catchers, every last one of them."

"Yet they are our valued allies."

"So are the d.a.m.ned Spanish," Gates said disparagingly.

"As are the d.a.m.ned Spanish," Adams agreed.

"Fart-catchers and papists," Gates said, "what kind of allies are those, eh?" He sat opposite Adams, long booted legs sprawling on a faded rug. Mud and horse dung were caked on the soles of his boots. He steepled his fingers and stared at his visitor. "What brings you to Providence?" he asked. "No, don't tell me yet. On the table. Serve us." The last five words were addressed to the pale lieutenant who placed a tray on the table and then, in an awkward silence, poured two cups of tea. "You can go now," Gates said to the hapless lieutenant. "A man cannot live without tea," he declared to Adams.

"A blessing of the British empire?" Adams suggested mischievously.

"Thunder," Gates said, remarking on a clap that sounded loud and close, "but it won't get here. It'll die with the day." He sipped his tea noisily. "You hear much from Philadelphia?"

"Little you cannot read in the newsprints."

"We're dillydallying," Gates said, "dillydallying, shilly-shallying, and lollygagging. We need a great deal more energy, Adams."

"I am sure your honor is right," Adams said, taking his cue for the honorific from the lieutenant's mode of address. Gates was nicknamed "Granny," though Adams thought that too kind for a man so touchy and sensible of his dignity. Granny had been born and raised in England and had served in the British Army for many years before a lack of money, slow promotion, and an ambitious wife had driven him to settle in Virginia. His undoubted competence as an administrator had brought him high rank in the Continental Army, but it was no secret that Horatio Gates thought his rank should be higher still. He openly despised General Washington, believing that victory would only come when Major-General Horatio Gates was given command of the patriot armies. "And how would your honor suggest we campaign?" Adams asked.

"Well, it's no d.a.m.ned good sitting on your fat backside staring at the enemy in New York," Gates said energetically, "no d.a.m.ned good at all!"

Adams gave a flutter of his hands that might have been construed as agreement. When he rested his hands on his lap again he saw the slight tremor in his fingers. It would not go away. Age, he supposed, and sighed inwardly.

"The Congress must come to its senses," Gates declared.

"The Congress, of course, pays close heed to the sentiments of Ma.s.sachusetts," Adams said, dangling a great fat carrot in front of Gates's greedy mouth. The general wanted Ma.s.sachusetts to demand George Washington's dismissal and the appointment of Horatio Gates as commander of the Continental Army.

"And you agree with me?" Gates asked.

"How could I possibly disagree with a man of your military experience, General?"

Gates heard what he wanted to hear in that answer. He stood and poured himself more tea. "So the State of Ma.s.sachusetts wants my help?" he asked.

"And I had not even stated my purpose," Adams said with feigned admiration.

"Not difficult to grasp, is it? You've sent your pillow-biters off to Pen.o.bscot Bay and they can't get the job done." He turned a scornful face on Adams. "Sam Savage wrote to tell me the British had surrendered. Not true, eh?"

"Alas, not true," Adams said with a sigh. "The garrison appears to be a more difficult nut to crack than we had supposed."

"McLean, right? A competent man. Not brilliant, but competent. You wish for more tea?"

"This is as sufficient as it is delicious," Adams said, touching a finger to the untasted cup.

"You sent your militia. How many?"

"General Lovell commands around a thousand men."

"What does he want?"

"Regular troops."

"Ah ha! He wants real soldiers, does he?" Gates drank his second cup of tea, poured a third, then sat again. "Who pays for this?"

"Ma.s.sachusetts," Adams said. G.o.d knew Ma.s.sachusetts had already spent a fortune on the expedition, but it seemed another fortune must now be expended and he prayed that Brigadier-General McLean had a vast chest of treasure hidden in his toy fort or else the State's debt would be crippling.

"Rations, transport," Gates insisted, "both must be paid for!"

"Of course."

"And how do you convey my troops to the Pen.o.bscot River?"

"There is shipping in Boston," Adams said.

"You should have asked me a month ago," Gates said.

"Indeed we should."

"But I suppose Ma.s.sachusetts wanted the battle honor for itself, eh?"

Adams gently inclined his head to indicate a.s.sent and tried to imagine this irascible, touchy, resentful Englishman in charge of the Continental Army and was profoundly grateful for George Washington.

"Lieutenant!" Gates barked.

The pale lieutenant appeared at the door. "Your honor?"

"My compliments to Colonel Jackson. His men are to march for Boston at daybreak. They march with arms, ammunition, and a day's rations. Full orders will follow tonight. Tell the colonel he is to keep a detailed, mark that, detailed, list of all expenditures. Go."

The lieutenant went.

"No good shilly-shallying," Gates said to Adams. "Henry Jackson's a good man and his regiment is as fine as any I've seen. They'll finish McLean's nonsense."

"You are very kind, General," Adams said.

"Not kind at all, efficient. We have a war to win! No good sending fart-catchers and pillow-biters to do a soldier's job. You'll do me the honor of dining with me?"

Samuel Adams sighed inwardly at that prospect, but liberty had its price. "It would be a distinct privilege, your honor," he said.

Because, at last, a regiment of trained American soldiers was going to Pen.o.bscot Bay.

Letter from Brigadier-General Lovell to Commodore Saltonstall, August 5th, 1779: I have proceded as far as I Can on the present plan and find it inafectual for the purpose of disloging or destroying the Shiping. I must therefore request an ansure from you wether you will venter your Shiping up the River in order to demolish them or not that I may conduct my Self accordingly.

From the Minutes of Brigadier-General Lovell's Council of War, Majabigwaduce, August 11th, 1779: Great want of Discipline and Subordination many of the Officers being so exceedingly slack in their Duty, the Soldiers so averse to the Service and the wood in which we encamped so very thick that on an alarm or any special occasion nearly one fourth part of the Army are skulked out of the way and conceal'd.

From the Journal of Sergeant Lawrence, Royal Artillery. Fort George, Majabigwaduce, August 5th and August 12th, 1779: The General was very much surprised to see so many Men leave the Fort today to take shots at the Enemy without leave. He a.s.sures them that any who may be Guilty of this again shall be most severely punished for disobedience of orders.

Chapter Eleven

Wednesday, August 11th, started with a thick fog and still airs. Small waves slapped wearily on the harbor sh.o.r.e where a lone gull cried. Peleg Wadsworth, standing on Dyce's Head, could see neither the enemy fort nor their ships. Fog blanketed the world. No cannon fired because the whiteness concealed targets from rebel and king's men alike.

Colonel Samuel McCobb had brought two hundred men from his Lincoln County militia to the meadow just beneath Dyce's Head. These were the same men who had fled from the Half Moon Battery and now they waited for General Lovell, who had decided to send them back to the battery. "If you fall off a horse," Lovell had asked Peleg Wadsworth the previous night, "what do you do?"

"Climb back into the saddle?"

"My sentiments, my sentiments," Lovell had declared. The general, who had been in despair just a couple of days before, had apparently climbed back into his own saddle of confidence. "You dust yourself down," Lovell had said, "and scramble back up! Our fellows need to be shown they can beat the enemy."