Bunker Hill (16 page)

“I am well
aware of my duty as
a
officer of the Crown,” he
finally said, “so I cannot in all honesty weigh the one against the other. I
have no desire to alter or contradict the charge that has been read against me.
I admit that the details of the charge are accurate. I will only plead that in
the heat of battle, a surgeon’s decisions must be made quickly. I saw a
Frenchman gushing blood from a severed artery. It is quite true that a British
trooper lay nearby,
yes,
close enough for me to see
his wound, a ball in his thigh, at the juncture of the gluteus. He was not
bleeding to speak of, which meant that no major artery had been severed. His
condition was not worsened or endangered because I chose to put a tourniquet on
the Frenchman’s arm.” Even as he spoke, Feversham was thinking with a part of
his mind that the encounter could have and should have been avoided.

“You still
have not answered my question,” Colonel Woodbury said.

“Only as I can answer it.”

He was
found guilty of disobeying the order of a superior officer, but the charge of
“giving aid and comfort to the enemy” was dismissed, the court holding that a
tourniquet could not be defined in either a political or a military sense and
could be held as a medical action, apart from the rules of war, thereby freeing
Feversham from either death by hanging or years in prison. His commission was
taken away; he was given a dishonorable discharge and was publicly cashiered. A
few months later, he sailed for America and the port of Philadelphia. He was
alone in the world, a widower whose wife and child had died in a botched
childbirth while he was in France.

In the
Pennsylvania
Gazette
, he read an advertisement asking for a doctor to settle himself in
Ridgefield, Connecticut. The advertisement offered “twenty acres of land,
suitable for small cultivation and sheep grazing, as a gift of the township,
and all help in the raising of house and barn.” After he bought a horse and
saddle, Feversham had three hundred pounds remaining to him. Since there
appeared to be sufficient doctors, surgeons, barbers, and leeches already
practicing in Philadelphia, the advertisement for Ridgefield, he felt, was
worth looking into, and the journey there would acquaint him with the nature of
America. It was in Ridgefield that he met and married Alice Cunningham.

And now,
five years later, sitting his horse on the road to Charlestown Neck, listening
to the thunder of guns from the bay and the shouting and questions from people
on the road to Charlestown, he tried at once to comprehend himself as being
here and guess where this day would end and what the meaning of the cannon fire
might be. Since Cobble Hill separated them from the sight of the bay, they
could only guess. “I would say at least two ships,” Prescott ventured.

An officer
on horseback, sighting Prescott, called out, “Colonel, who’s guns are they?”

The
militiamen on the road pressed around to hear Prescott’s answer, and Feversham
leaned over to speak in his ear.
“Five ships.
They
signal firing time, so that makes the roll continuous.”

“Nothing to fear!”
Prescott shouted.
“Nothing to fear!
Now clear the
road, and if you’re bound for Charlestown, get along.”

The
officer who had spoken before said to Prescott, “There’s a young fellow over
there,” pointing to where a young man of about seventeen with blue eyes and
flaxen hair sat on his horse, apparently undecided which way to turn. “He wants
to find General Ward.”

“That’s
Johnny Lovell,” Warren said.

“Bring him
here!” Prescott shouted, and when the boy made as to turn his horse away,
Prescott spurred through the crowd and grabbed his reins. “Hold on, young man!”

The boy
was frightened. Warren and Feversham pushed their horses through to where
Prescott, Lovell, and the officer—he identified himself as Lieutenant
Jones—were pressed together against the hedgerow that lined the road.

“Where are
you for?” Prescott asked Jones.

“Bunker Hill.
I’m with General Putnam, sir.”

“Then
get the devil up there.”

“Yes, sir, Colonel Prescott.”

“You’re
Prescott?” the boy asked as Jones rode off.

“Well?”

“I must
find General Ward. It’s very important. Please,” he pleaded, almost shaking
with excitement.

“Listen
now,” Warren said. “I’m Dr. Warren. This is Dr. Feversham, and this is Colonel
Prescott. We don’t know where General Ward is, but if what you have can’t wait,
tell us.”

“I can’t.”

“Look
here, Johnny,” Dr. Warren said. “Ward—” He dropped his voice. “General Ward
entrusted us with your secret. I know you, I know your father. I gave you a
mustard poultice when you were a lad of six. You screamed like the very devil.”

The boy’s
face broke into a smile. He wiped his brow on his sleeve and nodded. “Yes, sir,
I remember.”

“General Ward confided in us. You must confide in us.”

“Yes, Doctor. They just made their decision.”

“Who?”

“The
British, General Howe. I had it from a girl who cleans in the house he took for
himself. They’re going to attack today.”

“You’re sure?” Prescott demanded.

“I think
I’m sure. I was shot at twice. I rode four miles, sir. I rode as if the very
devils of hell were after me.”

“What time will they attack?”

“Two o’clock, three o’clock.”

“Johnny,”
Warren asked him, “are you sure it’s today, not tomorrow?”

“Today.”

I
t had been arranged for the motley group of doctors or
surgeons or leeches to meet with Warren and Feversham at the redoubt, but by
nine o’clock, only Bones and Gonzales were there. Bones was born of a poor
Welsh peasant family that scratched a living out of a stony hillside, as
Feversham learned. He had walked to London, working for food along the way, and
had found a job as a cleaning man at the St. Swithen Alms House. He was
self-educated, and since St. Swithen was a sort of hospital, he picked up the
beginning of his training as an all-around helper. Then he was apprenticed to a
surgeon and eventually spent six years at a hospital in Glasgow. Bones—his full
name was Gwynn Lewis Bones—had served for two years on a British man-of-war,
deserting, finally, in New York City and opting for a life in the colonies. He
was a short, hard-muscled man in his forties.

Both Bones
and Gonzales, the Jew from Rhode Island, were at the redoubt when Feversham and
Warren got there, engaged in a heated argument on the subject of amputation.
Bones’s point of view was that amputation was painful and useless. “I have done
at least three dozen amputations and witnessed as many more, and not one of
them survived. Not one of them, mind you.”

“But if
the tibia is blown away, if the knee is gone, if the foot is gone, what is the
alternative?”

“To bind
it up and let the poor devil die. He will die, anyway.”

“I have seen men with a leg gone,” Gonzales argued.

“One in a thousand.
Have you ever done one?”

“Three times, yes.”

“And did they survive, Dr. Gonzales. Tell me that.”

Gonzales
shook his head. “No, but we have to learn.”

Feversham
listened in amazement. The thunder of the British naval guns was almost
unbroken as broadside after broadside was launched at the redoubt and at the
entrenchment that was being dug along the ridge. It astonished him that the two
men could stand on the firing step, leaning against the wall of the redoubt,
absorbed in their discussion.

“Damn it,
get down from there!” Warren shouted.

Bones and
Gonzales stepped down. “No danger, Doctor,” Bones said. “They’ve been at it all
morning. They shoot off their stupid cannon, they hit nothing. This is a fine
piece of work, this redoubt.”

There were
at least forty men packed into the redoubt, half of them struggling with the
cannon that had been emplaced there. The rest squatted against the walls.

“Where are
the others?” Feversham asked Bones.

Gridley,
with the men around the cannon, saw Warren and came to join them. He had been
up all night, his face unshaven,
his
eyes bloodshot.

“Ah, they
got shit in their blood,” Bones said. “Carter has a call to duty in Roxbury. He
showed me orders. The bastard wrote them himself.” Carter was one of the absent
doctors.

“Why
aren’t we shooting back?” Warren asked Gridley, pointing to the cannon.

“Because the balls don’t fit.
These are ten-pound guns. The balls they brought up here are sixteen pounds.
God knows whether we could hit anything if we had the balls. We can load with
grape if we can find the proper angle.”

“You know
they’re attacking today?” Warren asked.

“We got
word. Look down there.” He mounted the firing step, followed by Warren and
Feversham, who tried to control his reflexes as the crash of guns sounded and
the balls thudded into the redoubt and the hillside. Below them and to the
right were the rooftops of Charlestown village, and directly beneath them,
marked off with stone or wooden fences, were sheep pens and fields of wheat and
ryegrass stretching north along the shore and over the gentle slope to the
mouth of the Mystic River. A fleet of small barges and ships’ boats was
embarking British troops from the Boston docks and ferrying them across the
half-mile-wide Charles River and onto the meadows, where they had just begun to
disembark.

“God give
me a gun and a real crew of gunners,” Gridley moaned. “I could blow those
bastards out of the water right there in the river. That shithead bookseller
Knox claims he knows artillery. He read a book on artillery. And he sends up
ammunition that won’t fit the guns. God Almighty, he ought to be skewered and
reamed!”

Awe in his
voice, Warren said, “Colonel, do they mean to attack face on, up the hill?”

“So they
do, Doctor. So they do.” He raised his spyglass and peered through it.

“Why don’t
we have men in those empty houses?” Feversham wondered. “They’re within rifle
shot.”

“We do,
maybe a dozen. We just don’t have enough riflemen. Look there.” He offered his
glass to Warren, who pushed it aside. “I see it.” What he saw
was
two men in the British ranks who suddenly collapsed.
“Marines,” Gridley said.

The
marines responded with a blast of fire into the empty houses.

“They’ll
burn them now. You were right, Feversham.”

“What
about the other doctors?” Feversham asked Bones. “God help us if it comes down
to you and me, with our men spread out from here to Bunker Hill.”

“Forget
about them,” Bones said.

Prescott
appeared, riding his horse up to the redoubt, standing in his stirrups.
“Gridley,” he yelled, “
what
in hell are those men
sitting around for?”

“They’re
exhausted. They’ve been at it all night.”

“We’re all
exhausted. The trench has to be dug. All of you!”

Warren
climbed out of the redoubt. “Colonel,” he said to Prescott, “there’s so much a
man can do.”

Prescott,
dismounting, said quietly, “So help me God, Doctor, the way things are now,
we’ll be slaughtered. The only men who are holding their line are Johnny
Stark’s riflemen and two hundred Connecticut men with Knowlton. You see that
stone wall and the stretch of the ridge over to Bunker Hill? I had a thousand
men there last night, and now I have a handful.”

Gridley
and Feversham joined them. “Where are the others?” Gridley asked.

“They ran away,”
Prescott said disgustedly. “We have over twelve thousand men in Roxbury and
Dorchester, and less than a thousand up here on the hills. I pleaded with Ward.
He has two thousand good Massachusetts men sitting on their butts over by
Cobble Hill. The old man has no guts.”

“He’s
sick,” Warren said. “He’s in too much pain. I’ll ride down and talk to him. I
give you my word, Prescott. I’ll bring the men back with me. They’re good men.
They won’t run away.”

“Ward’s
frightened,” Gridley said. “I spoke to him last night. He can’t believe that
the British will attack the hills. He says it makes no sense, but he’s wrong.
If they wipe us out, they hold the high ground. They can drag their big
eighteen-pounders up here, and that gives them the Charlestown Neck. Did you
tell him what Johnny Lovell said?”

“I told
him. He doesn’t want to believe it, because if he does, he has to give us the
Massachusetts men.”

“I’ll get
you the Massachusetts men,” Warren said. “I’ll have them up on the hills before
noon.”

Feversham
walked with Warren to where Warren’s horse was tethered. “Let me go with you,”
Feversham said. “You’re a sick man, Warren.”

“No, no,
don’t worry about me. Better if I’m alone.” He climbed onto the horse with
difficulty and rode off.

Prescott,
leading his horse, joined Feversham and said, “How sick is he, Doctor?”

“He should
be in bed,” Feversham said shortly. He walked with Prescott along the line of
trenches that were being dug from the redoubt to a stone wall. The men in the
trenches dug slowly and tiredly. “The ground’s all stone,” Prescott said
miserably. He took out his watch and stared at it.
“Half-past
nine.
I’m a miser for minutes. If they attack an hour from now, we’re
finished. There’ll be a slaughter up here that I don’t want to think about.
Those redcoat bastards love their bayonets. They won’t take prisoners. They
have to wipe out what happened on the road back from Concord.”

Staring at
the meadows below, less than a mile away, where the British troops were
landing, Feversham said, “They hardly have more than a corporal’s guard on
shore.
Maybe a hundred marines.
And your rifles got
another one. It’ll be hours before they land the army.”

Prescott
pressed him. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I’ve seen them do it in Europe.”

“It looks
like they got every boat in the fleet in the water.”

“They got
three thousand men and better to take across the river,” Feversham said. “Up
north in the bay, Colonel, they’re disembarking from the ships. They couldn’t
quarter the whole army in Boston. I’d guess they have half of them aboard the
ships. If what Johnny Lovell told you is fact, they’re putting their whole army
down there in the meadows, and you will talk about stupidity. They take lessons
in stupidity. If you had a mind to, you could take Boston with a thousand men,
and we got better than five thousand in Roxbury and Dorchester. I can’t believe
what they’re doing. Can you mount an attack on Boston?”

Prescott
sighed and shook his head. “No, God help us, it’s too late. We’re not a real
army, Feversham. Every damn militia commander has his own ideas, and I told you
what I think of Artemus Ward. The man’s terrified. If I had three or four days
to plead and threaten, then Putnam and I could put together a force to take
Boston. Aside from Gridley here, and Johnny Stark and Tom Knowlton and old
Putnam, we have no one who could lead and command and force Ward to fall in
line. No, no, we have to defend the hills. So the question is
,
how much time do I have before they attack?”

Feversham
replied, “There is no way on earth that they could be in a position to attack
before one o’clock. On that I will stake my life. But if you want a reasonable
guess, I would say closer to three o’clock in the afternoon.
Maybe
an hour later, maybe an hour earlier, but no way before one o’clock.
That gives us three—maybe four, maybe even five—hours.”

“Three
hours and we can do it.” He mounted his horse and spurred away.

“He’ll do it,” Gridley said.

It was Sir
William Howe, coming newly from Britain to the scene at Boston, who in a sense
knighted Henry Clinton, dubbing him Sir Henry. Clinton’s first reaction was
displeasure. “I resent that, Sir William. It puts me down. It’s a bad joke.”

“It is no
jape,” Howe said earnestly. “My brother, Earl Richard, assured me that you were
on the list and that the king would ennoble you any day. In fact, with all my
heart, I believe it already done. Let me take the liberty. It helps us.”

“How does
it help me?”

“I want you to stand with me against Gage. The man’s a
fool.”

Clinton had his own ideas about who was the fool. Born
in Newfoundland, he could, better than any of his companion generals, put
himself in the minds of the Continentals. He was well aware of the fact that
they were not disciplined or trained. It took the positive threat of death, if
he paused or retreated or turned his back, to make a British soldier walk to
his positive extinction. Such an action was neither normal nor sensible, and if
the Americans had no other virtue, they were eminently sensible. When the odds
were overwhelmingly against them, they
would turn
around and run; nor would they stupidly walk to their deaths. They were neither
enlisted nor paid, and their guns were their own; they would accept a command
if it made sense, and they would disobey it if it made no sense whatsoever.

But put
them behind a stone wall or a redoubt or in a trench and they became a deadly
opponent. He had seen that when the British regulars retreated from Concord to
Boston. The farmers never stood against them, not even once, but from behind
every stone wall along the way they maintained a withering, deadly fire that
filled every bed the British had in the hospital they set up in Boston. When
the redcoats turned to charge, the farmers ran like the very devil to take
another position. It was a tactic they had learned from the woods Indians they
had fought over the past hundred years.

He had
tried to explain this behavior to Sir William, but Howe was too old to learn
and was obsessed with the notion that he could wipe out the rebellion in one
fell swoop and make for himself a place like Ireland, where he and Mrs. Loring
could preside over a satrapy of their own. Indeed, Clinton in all his
experience had never witnessed anything like this passion of a middle-aged man,
a married man with a wife and children of his own, an honored member of the
British peerage, ready to cast it all aside for a woman—a slattern, by
Clinton’s definition—with whom he had fallen madly in love. As Clinton had put
it to General Gage, a man who understood the American
mind
:
“I’m no saint, but this passes understanding.”

It more
than passed understanding as he stood with Sir William Howe on the shore facing
Breed’s Hill at eleven o’clock on the morning of the seventeenth. Clinton
pointed to the slope that stretched up to the redoubt and the earthworks
stretching away to the right. They could plainly see men digging, apparently
undisturbed by the cannonballs that arched up from the warships and crashed
into the redoubt.