The Fort. Bernard Cornwell

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 hell.’

      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 cocked seemed oddly loud in the fog-shrouded morning.

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

      ‘The buggers 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 balls 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, cocked, 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 practised and practised, 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 assured 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 Massachusetts Council, to the Continental Navy Board in Boston, June 30th, 1779:

      Gentlemen: The General Assembly of this State have determined on an Expedition to Penobscot 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 Penobscot; the Continental Frigate now in this Harbour, and the other armed Continental vessells here.

      Excerpts from the Warrant of Impressment issued to Masschusetts Sheriffs, July 3rd, 1779:

      You are hereby authorized and Commanded taking with you such Assistance 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 Penobscot … 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 Massachusetts, 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.

      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 cutlass 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 arsenal 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 cannonball 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