The Fort. Bernard Cornwell

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.

      Revere’s eyes glistened as he took the warrant. He broke the seal and opened the paper to discover a letter written by John Avery, deputy-secretary of the Council of State, and countersigned by General Solomon Lovell. The letter appointed Lieutenant-Colonel Paul Revere as the commander of the artillery train that was to accompany the expedition to Majabigwaduce, where he was ordered to do all in his power to ‘captivate, kill or destroy the whole force of the enemy’. Revere read the warrant a second time, then wiped his cheek. ‘General,’ he said, and his voice had a catch in it, ‘this is all I desire.’

      ‘I am pleased, Colonel,’ Wadsworth said warmly. ‘You will receive orders later today, but I can tell you their gist now. Your guns should be taken to the Long Wharf ready for embarkation, and you should withdraw from the public magazine whatever gunpowder you require.’

      ‘Shubael Hewes has to authorize that,’ Revere said distractedly, still reading the warrant.

      ‘Shubael Hewes?’

      ‘The Deputy Sheriff, General, but don’t you worry, I know Shubael.’ Revere folded the warrant carefully, then cuffed at his eyes and sniffed. ‘We are going to captivate, kill and destroy them, General. We are going to make those red-coated bastards wish they had never sailed from England.’

      ‘We shall certainly dislodge them,’ Wadsworth said with a smile.

      ‘More than dislodge the monsters,’ Revere said vengefully, ‘we shall slaughter them! And those we don’t kill, General, we’ll march through town and back just to give folk a chance to let them know how welcome they are in Massachusetts.’

      Wadsworth held out his hand. ‘I look forward to serving with you, Colonel.’

      ‘I look forward to sharing victory with you, General,’ Revere said, shaking the offered hand.

      Revere watched Wadsworth leave, then, still holding the warrant as though it were the holy grail, went back to the courtyard where Josiah Flint was stirring butter into a dish of mashed turnips. ‘I’m going to war, Josiah,’ Revere said reverently.

      ‘I did that,’ Flint said, ‘and I was never so hungry in all my born days.’

      ‘I’ve waited for this,’ Revere said.

      ‘There’ll be no Nantucket turnips where you’re going,’ Flint said. ‘I don’t know why they taste better, but upon my soul you can’t trump a turnip from Nantucket. You think it’s the salt air?’

      ‘Commanding the state’s artillery!’

      ‘You ever travelled down east? It ain’t a Christian place, Colonel. Fog and flies is all it is, fog and flies, and the fog chills you and the flies bite like the very devil.’

      ‘I’m going to war. It’s all I ever asked! A chance, Josiah!’ Revere’s face was radiant. He turned a full triumphant circle, then slammed his fist onto the table. ‘I am going to war!’

      Lieutenant-Colonel Paul Revere had heard the trumpet and he was going to war.

      James Fletcher’s boat buffeted against the outgoing tide, pushed by a convenient south-west wind that drove the Felicity upriver past Majabigwaduce’s high bluff. The Felicity was a small boat, just twenty-four feet long, with a stubby mast from which a faded red sail hung from a high gaff. The sun sparkled prettily on the small waves of Penobscot Bay, but behind the Felicity a bank of thick fog shrouded the view towards the distant ocean. Brigadier McLean, enthroned on a tarry heap of nets in the boat’s belly, wanted to see Majabigwaduce just as the enemy would first see it, from the water. He wanted to put himself in his enemy’s shoes and decide how he would attack the peninsula if he were a rebel. He stared fixedly at the shore, and again remarked how the scenery put him in mind of Scotland’s west coast. ‘Don’t you agree, Mister Moore?’ he asked Lieutenant John Moore who was one of two junior officers who had been ordered to accompany the brigadier.

      ‘Not dissimilar, sir,’ Moore said, though abstractedly, as if he merely essayed a courtesy rather than a thoughtful response.

      ‘More trees here, of course,’ the brigadier said.

      ‘Indeed, sir, indeed,’ Moore said, still not paying proper attention to his commanding officer’s remarks. Instead he was gazing at James Fletcher’s sister, Bethany, who had the tiller of the Felicity in her right hand.

      McLean sighed. He liked Moore very much, considering the young man to have great promise, but he understood too that any young man would rather gaze at Bethany Fletcher than make polite conversation to a senior officer. She was a rare beauty to find in this distant place. Her hair was pale gold, framing a sun-darkened face given strength by a long nose. Her blue eyes were trusting and friendly, but the feature that made her beautiful, that could have lit the darkest night, was her smile. It was an extraordinary smile, wide and generous, that had dazzled John Moore and his companion, Lieutenant Campbell, who also gaped at Bethany as though he had never seen a young woman before. He kept plucking at his dark kilt as the wind lifted it from his thighs.

      ‘And the sea monsters here are extraordinary,’ McLean went on, ‘like dragons, wouldn’t you say, John? Pink dragons with green spots?’

      ‘Indeed, sir,’ Moore said, then gave a start as he belatedly realized the brigadier was teasing him. He had the grace to look abashed. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

      James Fletcher laughed. ‘No dragons here, General.’

      McLean smiled. He looked at the distant fog. ‘You have much fog here, Mister Fletcher?’

      ‘We gets fog in the spring, General, and fog in the summer, and then comes the fog in the fall and after that the snow, which we usually can’t see because it’s hidden by fog,’ Fletcher said with a smile as wide as his sister’s, ‘fog and more fog.’

      ‘Yet you like living here?’ McLean asked gently.

      ‘God’s own country, General,’ Fletcher answered enthusiastically, ‘and God hides it from the heathen by wrapping it in fog.’

      ‘And you, Miss Fletcher?’