The Fort. Bernard Cornwell

we are commanded to keep it holy.’ The man jabbed a finger at the brigadier, stopping just short of striking McLean’s chest. ‘It is God’s commandment!’

      ‘And Christ commanded that you render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,’ McLean retorted, ‘and today Caesar demands you make a rampart. But I will accommodate you, sir, I will accommodate you by not paying you. Work is paid labour, but today you will freely offer me your assistance which, sir, is a Christian act.’

      ‘I will not …’ the man began.

      ‘Lieutenant Moore!’ McLean raised his blackthorn stick to summon the lieutenant, though the gesture looked threatening and the gaunt man took a backwards step. ‘Call back the drummer boys!’ McLean called, ‘I need another man whipped!’ He turned his gaze back to the man. ‘You either assist me, sir,’ he said quietly, ‘or I shall scourge you.’

      The tall man glanced at the empty Saint Andrew’s cross. ‘I shall pray for your destruction,’ he promised, but the fire had gone from his voice. He gave McLean a last defiant look, then turned away.

      The civilians worked. They raised the wall of the fort another foot by laying logs along the low earthen berm. Some men cut down more trees, opening fields of fire for the fort, while others used picks and shovels to sink a well in the fort’s north-eastern bastion. McLean ordered one long spruce trunk to be trimmed and stripped of its bark, then a sailor from the Albany attached a small pulley to the narrow end of the trunk and a long line was rove through the pulley’s block. A deep hole was hacked in the south-western bastion and the spruce trunk was raised as a flagpole. Soldiers packed the hole with stones and, when the pole was reckoned to be stable, McLean ordered the union flag to be hauled into the damp sky. ‘We shall call this place …’ he paused as the wind caught the flag and stretched it into the cloud-shrouded daylight. ‘Fort George,’ McLean said tentatively, as if testing the name. He liked it. ‘Fort George,’ he announced firmly and took off his hat. ‘God save the King!’

      Highlanders of the 74th started on a smaller earthwork, a gun emplacement, which they made close to the shore and facing the harbour mouth. The soil was easier near the beach and they swiftly threw up a crescent of earth that they re inforced with stones and logs. Other logs were split to make platforms for the cannon that would face the harbour mouth. A similar battery was being constructed on Cross Island so that an enemy ship, daring the harbour mouth, would face Captain Mowat’s three broadsides and artillery fire from the bastions on either side of the entrance.

      The rain lifted and fog drifted over the wide river reach. The new flag flew bright above Majabigwaduce, but for how long, McLean wondered, for how long?

      Monday dawned fine in Boston. The wind came from the south west and the sky was clear. ‘The glass rises,’ Commodore Saltonstall announced to General Solomon Lovell on board the Continental frigate Warren. ‘We shall sail, General.’

      ‘And God grant us a fair voyage and a triumphant return,’ Lovell answered.

      ‘Amen,’ Saltonstall said grudgingly, then snapped out orders that signals should be made ordering the fleet to raise anchor and follow the flagship out of the harbour.

      Solomon Lovell, almost fifty years old, towered over the Commodore. Lovell was a farmer, a legislator and a patriot, and it was reckoned in Massachusetts that Solomon Lovell had been well named for he enjoyed a reputation as a wise, judicious and sensible man. His neighbours in Weymouth had elected him to the Assembly in Boston where he was well-liked because, in a fractious legislature, Lovell was a peace-maker. He possessed an unquenchable optimism that fairness and the willingness to see another man’s point of view would bring mutual prosperity, while his height and strong build, the latter earned by years of hard labour on his farm, added to the impression of utter dependability. His face was long and firm-jawed, while his eyes crinkled with easy amusement. His thick dark hair greyed at the temples, giving him a most distinguished appearance, and so it was no wonder that his fellow lawmakers had seen fit to give Solomon Lovell high rank in the Massachusetts Militia. Lovell, they reckoned, could be trusted. A few malcontents grumbled that his military experience was next to nothing, but Lovell’s supporters, and they were many, believed Solomon Lovell was just the man for the task. He got things done. And his lack of experience was offset by his deputy, Peleg Wadsworth, who had fought under General Washington’s command, and by Commodore Saltonstall, the naval commander, who was an even more experienced officer. Lovell would never be short of expert advice to hone his solid judgement.

      The great anchor cable inched on board. The sailors at the capstan were chanting as they tramped round and round. ‘Here’s a rope!’ a bosun shouted.

      ‘To hang the Pope!’ the men responded.

      ‘And a chunk of cheese!’

      ‘To choke him!’

      Lovell smiled approvingly, then strolled to the stern rail where he stared at the fleet, marvelling that Massachusetts had assembled so many ships so quickly. Lying closest to the Warren was a brig, the Diligent, that had been captured from Britain’s Royal Navy, and beyond her was a sloop, the Providence, which had captured her, both vessels with twelve guns and both belonging to the Continental Navy. Anchored behind them, and flying the pine-tree flag of the Massachusetts Navy, were two brigs, the Tyrannicide and Hazard, and a brigantine, the Active. All were armed with fourteen cannon and, like the Warren, were now fully manned because the General Court and the Board of War had given permission for press gangs to take sailors from Boston’s taverns and from merchant vessels in the harbour.

      The Warren, with its eighteen-pounder and twelve-pounder cannon, was the most powerful ship in the fleet, but a further seven ships could all match or outgun any one of the three British sloops that were reported to be waiting at Majabigwaduce. Those seven ships were all privateers. The Hector and the Hunter carried eighteen guns apiece, while Charming Sally, General Putnam, Black Prince, Monmouth and Vengeance carried twenty guns each. There were smaller privateers too, like the Sky Rocket with her sixteen guns. In all, eighteen warships would sail to Majabigwaduce and those vessels mounted more than three hundred cannon, while the twenty-one transport ships would carry the men, the supplies, the guns and the fervent hopes of Massachusetts. Lovell was proud of his state. It had made up the deficiencies in the supplies, and the ships now carried enough food to feed sixteen hundred men for two months. Why, there were six tons of flour alone! Six tons!

      Lovell, thinking of the extraordinary efforts that had been made to provision the expedition, slowly became aware that men were shouting at the Warren from other ships. The anchor was still not raised, but the bosun ordered the seamen to stop their chant and their work. It seemed the fleet would not leave after all. Commodore Saltonstall, who had been standing by the frigate’s wheel, turned and paced back to Lovell. ‘It appears,’ the commodore said sourly, ‘that the commander of your artillery is not aboard his ship.’

      ‘He must be,’ Lovell said.

      ‘Must?’

      ‘The orders were plain. Officers were to be aboard last night.’

      ‘The Samuel reports that Colonel Revere is not on board. So what shall we do, General?’

      Lovell was startled by the question. He had thought he was being given information, not being asked to make a decision. He stared across the sun-sparkling water as though the distant Samuel, a brig that was carrying the expedition’s cannon, might suggest an answer.

      ‘Well?’ Saltonstall pressed, ‘do we sail without him and his officers?’

      ‘His officers?’ Lovell asked.

      ‘It transpires,’ Saltonstall appeared to relish delivering the bad news, ‘that Colonel Revere allowed his officers to spend a last night ashore.’

      ‘Ashore?’ Lovell asked, astonished, then stared again at the distant brig. ‘We need Colonel Revere,’ he said.

      ‘We do?’ Saltonstall asked sarcastically.

      ‘Oh, a good officer!’ Lovell said enthusiastically. ‘He was one of the men who rode to warn Concord and Lexington. Doctor