Bunker Hill (10 page)

As
to who is actually in command of the fourteen or fifteen thousand men who have
gathered around Boston, it is almost impossible to say. Nominally, the command
would be in the hands of an elderly gentleman named Artemus War, but he is
quite ill and suffering from stones. A certain Dr. Church, whom I have met and
find most distasteful, bled him for the stones, which I think only worsens the
pain,
and Dr. Warren here agrees with me. Both Dr. Warren
and I concur in grave doubts about the whole process of bleeding for cure, but
I am afraid that our voices will little prevail on the subject.

This
Dr. Warren, whose full name is Joseph Warren, is quite a remarkable man—one of
those men whose plain manner of greeting and response is so gentle and, if I
may use the expression, so noble, that he is virtually adored by everyone
around him. He is a tall, handsome man, with wide shoulders and a shock of
yellow hair, and simply by virtue of personal integrity has become the most
valued and admired of the whole Boston crowd, many of whom I would not give
twopence for. His reputation has become known in Philadelphia, and this
incredible Continental Congress of yours—or should I say of mine as well—has
responded by making him a major general and thereby adding to the current
confusion. For not only is Joseph Warren the last person on earth to command an
army, but he is ill with what I suspect to be milk fever, and since he asked me
to examine him, I prescribed a week in bed with emetic salts—but with no hope
that he will follow my advice.

Thus,
we have two men in command of the same army, which is no army at all, but only
a mob of men and boys gathered around Boston, without uniforms or more than a
few rounds of ammunition or a few days’ supply of food, and neither men have
even the vaguest notion of what to do or when to do it. If anyone is in command
of this motley lot, it is Israel Putnam, a wild old man whose contempt for the
British will surely lead us into some kind of disaster. He and an engineer
named Gridley have some idea of fortifying a hill outside of Charlestown and
thereby gaining the upper hand over the British. They talk of doing this
tomorrow night or the night after, but perhaps they will think better of it,
since Charlestown, as you may remember, is almost an island and to fortify it
in face of the British fleet is to be cut off and destroyed.

As
to what the British may be thinking or doing in the face of all this, I cannot
image. We hear that they have almost four thousand men, among them some of the
best regiments in the army, and it would appear to me that they have only to
march onto the mainland and there would be nothing to oppose them. I think they
hesitate to make a war. It is not yet a war, and perhaps if things go well,
there will be no war, and please believe that I hope for this as much as you
do. How many times have you heard me say that of all the obsessions of mankind,
war is the most stupid and the most beastly? To think that intelligent men can
find no other way of settling disputes is to lose heart and hope in man.

It is well past midnight now, and I have written much
of the conditions here and the men I have met but little of myself. Why is it
so easy to communicate when we are far apart—and so hard to find proper words
to speak to each other when we are together? Of course you were right in
charging me that I was not what you like to think of as a patriot, and that it
was no great surge of emotional indignation that took me away from you and
brought me here. I think that as a physician I know better than most how
complex people are and how difficult it is for them to know why they do what
they do, much less to explain coherently to others.

I
wonder how many of the thousands of men around Boston could explain the truth
of what brought them here. I know that I cannot. But you were wrong, my dear,
to say that I fled from you. Better have it that I fled from myself and, like
all men who engage in doing so, found that the flight was quite futile.

What
will be of my coming here and what will ensue over the next few days, I cannot
imagine. But let me say that I am filled with unease, for there is something
morose and heartbreaking in the making here. I would not say this and leave you
in uncertainty if I intended to send this letter off now. But rather than do
that, I shall hold it for a few days so that perhaps I may have a more cheerful
postscript—or indeed find that there is no immediate need for me here and that
I can make my way back to Connecticut…

Then
Feversham sat pen in hand for a while, brooding over what he had written. His
eyes were heavy, and he put the pen into the ink bottle, pushed it away, and
thought that he would rest his head on his arms for just a moment and doze.
When he opened his eyes, dawn was creeping through the many-paned windows. He
spread his cramped arms and yawned, and a voice said, “I bid you good morning,
Dr. Feversham.”

He turned
to see a lovely young woman kneeling by the great hearth and gently breathing
an ember to life. It caught, and as she fed wood shavings to it, she explained
that her name was Betsy Palmer and that she was Mr. Hunt’s married daughter and
that they had met the evening before.

“And I deplore the awakening, sir. Forgive me.” “Let
me help you with the fire,” Feversham hastened to say. “No, no. It’s not
fitting. And see, it’s already alight, and there’s

wood
in plenty. Just rest you, Doctor, and I will have
coffee for you. The coffee is dreadful, but we have heavy cream and sweet
honey, so you will not drink it with too much distaste. Let me pamper you, for
my heart is gladdened by your presence.”

Smiling,
amused by her prim speech, Feversham asked, “But why, my dear?”

“Because
you are a physician,” she replied simply. “I am gifted with sight, and I can
hear them crying as they die.”

M
aj. Gen. Sir William Howe, a tall, dark, heavy-set man
of forty-six years, had two passions in life: whist and women. And since he was
a military man, he often observed that war without both would be intolerable.
Thus, his first inquiry upon his arrival in Boston was whether there was a
club? He was informed that indeed there was, the Anacreon, and there, on any
given night, two or three games of whist would be in progress. He was escorted
there the night after the dinner party at the home of Reverend Hallsbury by his
junior, Henry Clinton, where he was introduced to his partner for the game, a
tall, good-looking, richly endowed woman by the name of Elizabeth Loring.

“I will be
of service to you,” Sir Henry had said to his commander in chief upon Sir
William’s arrival in Boston.

“I expect
no less.”

“There is a lady, name of Elizabeth Loring.”

“Oh?”

“She is a
prime beauty,” Sir Henry said.

“I trust
your judgment. On the other hand, if you are throwing me a bone you picked
dry—”

“Sir
William, believe me, I am otherwise involved.”

“She’s a colonial?”

“Loyal to the Grown.”

“I see.”
The general stared at Sir Henry Clinton thoughtfully.

“This
business that these wretched peasants have thrust upon us is no small game. It
could go on for weeks or months.”

“So it
could. Or we could finish it tomorrow,” Howe said.

“Hardly likely,” Clinton replied.

“This
Elizabeth Loring, is she married?”

“Oh,
yes, to a Mr. Joshua Loring.”

“Also loyal to the Crown?”

“Oh,
yes,” Sir Henry Clinton said.

“And what
is he like, this Joshua Loring?”

“Loathsome.
A wretched, dirty little man.
He wants to be of
service. I let him know that there might be something for him. He’s useful, and
he’s so full of hate for the rebels that it’s like a sickness with him.”

“It doesn’t
speak for the lady’s good taste,” Sir William Howe said.
“Why
the marriage?”

“He had
money. She had none. I speak of the past. He was a ship owner with a warehouse.
They burned him out. I would guess that if the price is right, he would sell
his mother.”

“And this
lady, this Elizabeth Loring, does she play whist?”

“With a passion.”

“I would
not like to think, sir,” the general said, “that you are offering Johnny
Burgoyne’s leavings?”

“Rest
assured, like
myself
, he is otherwise occupied.”

“He, too?
War is a heavy duty for both of you.”

“Boredom
is a heavy duty,” Clinton said.

“And you
wish to lessen mine. I would enjoy a game of whist tonight.”

Boredom,
General Howe decided, might easily be overcome and perhaps laid aside for the
duration of this campaign. He faced a woman whose beauty was on the edge of
being wanton, whose full figure was on the edge of being fat, at least five
feet ten inches tall, her breasts overflowing her bodice, her dark eyes bold
and direct. For all of her physical form, there was nothing soft or easily
pliable. He felt immediately that this was a woman no one owned or dominated.

The large,
generous gaming room of the Anacreon, with a beamed ceiling, green wainscoting,
and lovely hand-blocked wallpaper, boasted a hearth that could take a
five-foot-long log. But the night being warm, no fire
burned,
only half a hundred candles in three chandeliers. And in their unsteady light,
Mrs. Loring was almost unreal. Her eyes welcomed General Howe, and her slight
smile convinced him that Sir Henry Clinton had prepared the ground well. She
held out her hand, and when Sir William took it, the pressure was firm.

“General
Sir William Howe,” Clinton said, “and this, sir, is Mistress Elizabeth Loring.”

Sir
William bowed and lifted her hand to his lips. All eyes in the room observed
them, the big man in his glittering red-and-gold coat, his gold-embroidered
waistcoat, his white trousers and silk stockings, and facing him, this
extraordinary woman, her black hair piled on top of her head, her handsome face
framed in tight curls.

“I am
delighted, madam,” Howe said.

“And I am
honored. I have heard a great deal about you, Sir William.”

“Things to
the good, I hope.”

She bowed her head.

“I am told you favor the game of whist.”

“Times I have played a hand.
Yes,
indeed, sir.”

“Then shall we be partners this evening?”

“I would
like nothing better, sir.”

They
joined Clinton at a table where a pretty woman sat, her head bent demurely. She
smiled at Sir William. “Mistress Prudence Hallsbury,” Clinton said.

“We met at
General Gage’s home, Sir William.”

Earlier,
Clinton had whispered to Howe a few words of explanation. “Temper your language
if you would, sir. Not that her heart’s cold. There’s fire there, believe me,
but she’s the wife of a priest.”

“No! You
don’t mean—”

“Just as sure as hell.
The
same Prudence Hallsbury, and she’s the wife of the Very Reverend Hallsbury, who
is High Church and most loyal.”

“Then what
in hell is she doing in a gambling club?” Howe demanded. “Of course, I
remember. She hides her face.”

“I put her
down last night. She is a darling thing.”

“Does her husband know?”

Clinton shrugged. “I really don’t give a damn.”

“Is that
wise?” Sir William wondered.

“You mean
we might disturb his loyalty? But where would he go with his stinking loyalty?
He’s very rich, more sterling on his dinner than you’ll find in Westminister.
The rebels would tear him to pieces.”

“Still and
all—”

“Oh,
believe me, Sir William,” Clinton assured him, “if he had serviced her
properly, he might have cause to howl.”

“And you
tell me she plays whist?”

“So she
says. After all, the reverend’s not a Presbyterian. He plays himself.”

When the
four of them were seated at the table, Howe partner to Elizabeth Loring and
Clinton partner to Prudence Hallsbury, each with a glass of bright red wine,
Sir Henry offered a toast.

“To you,
Sir William, my commander in chief, and to these lovely and gracious ladies,
and to the fortunes of war, may they be neither brief nor demanding!”

Mrs.
Loring shuffled the pack and dealt the cards. General Howe was impressed by her
dexterity, her long, strong fingers sending the cards to each of the four
players with never a moment of hesitation, until finally she dealt the last
card face up, the king of hearts.

“How so!”
Clinton snorted.
“I don’t believe it.”

“For you, sir,” Mrs. Loring said to her partner.
“Hearts are trump.”

“As
always,” Howe replied gallantly.

She smiled
at him, and her smile defined the relationship. Howe arranged his cards. He had
seven hearts—ace, jack, nine, eight, six, five, and two. Mrs. Loring folded the
king and played hearts to Prudence Hallsbury; a bold move to force the trump
and challenge the enemy. Howe recognized it and nodded slightly. Prudence
played the queen, a forced or a stupid move. Since she had not hesitated when
she cast the card, Howe decided that she had only a single trump, and he
covered her queen with his ace. They finished the game with twelve tricks, and
Howe raised his glass to salute his partner.

“You play
well, my dear Betsy,” he said.

“Too
bloody damn well,” Clinton observed.

“Ah, now,”
Mrs. Hallsbury said soothingly, “the evening has only begun, Sir Henry. Shall
we double the stakes?”

“Is your
hand that deep in your husband’s purse?”

“For shame?”
Howe snorted.

“For
shame, indeed,” Prudence said. “The purse is mine, Sir Henry.”

“Touché!”
Mrs. Loring
cried. “Pru’s father owns half the shipping that sails out of Boston Harbor.”

“Or did
before this stupid war started,” Prudence added. “You haven’t answered me, Sir
Henry. Shall we double the stakes, or does Sir William shy away from a rich
game?”

Mrs.
Loring answered to that. “I think,”
she
said, “that in
games or love or war, Sir William has yet to meet a situation that frightens
him.”

When the
rubbers were over, almost at midnight, General Howe had won sixty guineas for
himself and sixty more for his partner. Sir Henry Clinton and Mrs. Hallsbury
stepped into a carriage that was waiting, offering a ride to the other couple.

“Would you
go with them?” Howe asked Mrs. Loring, and dropping his voice, “They can take
you home. On the other hand, my quarters are only a short walk from here.”

“I should
love to see your quarters, as you call it.”

The
carriage drove off, and Elizabeth Loring took Sir William’s arm with firm,
possessive pressure. It was a cool, moon-washed evening, the wind from the bay
fresh and salty, the docks deserted of any presence except for the grenadiers
standing guard. More than half of the houses were empty, their owners having
taken refuge behind the Continental lines. Sir William and Mrs. Loring walked
slowly, comfortable with each other. There was no need to speak now. The night
of whist had bonded them, and as for who she was and what she was and where her
husband was, all that would come later, after the fire that burned in both of
them had been quenched. Their only conversation now was a question from
Elizabeth Loring. “Do you believe in fate, Sir William?”

“I am a Christian
gentleman, my dear.”

“It is no
accident that brought us together.”

No,
indeed, he thought, but Sir Henry, who, with another station in life, would be
a remarkable pimp.

Aloud, he
said, “Accident or not, you are the most desirable thing I have encountered in
these cursed colonies.”

Howe had
taken over one of the best houses in the town, a fine structure, well furnished
and with Chinese rugs that would have brought a fortune in London. His orderly
had waited up for him, Sergeant Hawkins by name, well trained, with neither a
smile nor a look of surprise at the presence of Mrs. Loring or the lateness of
the hour. He spoke of hot rum toddy or tea or wine, to which General Howe
replied curtly, “Go to bed, Hawkins.”

“The
candles are lit in the bedroom,” Hawkins noted, and with that he disappeared.
In the bedroom, the general and Mrs. Loring stood facing each other, Sir
William thinking that here, in this
candlelight,
she
was both more and less than real.

“Will you
want privacy, Betsy?
To undress?”

“Betsy? Will that be your name for me?”

“What do
you fancy? Elizabeth?”

She
smiled, unloosed her dress, and let it fall, and then her petticoats. “Unhook
me, sir,” she said, “and call me what you will.” She bent to peel down her
stockings while he unhooked and unlaced her corset. Her tall, full body was on
the edge of being fat, her breasts still high and firm. Sir William had never
felt this way before, half crazy with desire as he tore off his uniform.
“Gently, gently, sir,” she cried, laughing. “Such feathers are too fine to
spoil.”

She sprawled
on the bed, and still in his silk stockings, he fairly leaped upon her. “You
will rape me, sir,” she whispered.

And he
replied, “That and more,” and then, pressing his lips to her open mouth, drove
into her.

When they
had finished, both of them were perspiring and exhausted, lying naked side by
side. After a space of spent silence, she said to him, “Well, sir, how do you
find me?”

“I am no
callow youth, my dear Betsy. I am almost forty-seven years old, but as God is
my witness, I have never come this way before. You are mine. Do you understand
me?”

“Only too well, my lord.”

“What
about your husband?” he asked bluntly. “I have not spoken about him before,
this Joshua Loring. Shall I have to challenge him and kill the bastard?”

“Why
should you?”

“Does he
know where you are?”

“My dear,
dear Sir William, my husband does not know, nor does he care, and if he dared
to object, I would break his wretched neck. I do not fuck my husband. I have
never fucked him. He fucks whores, and he is quite happy with them.”

“What are
you telling me?”

“The truth, sir.”

“My God,
woman, how did that happen? You could have had any man in Boston—”