The Patriot Surgeon: 14Th Colony

By Glenn Haas

Following the Battle of Bunker Hill in early July of 1775, George Washington takes command of the seventeen thousand men who lay siege to the city of Boston, where General Thomas Gage and his four thousand regular army troops valiantly hold out. Parliament and representatives of Great Britain no longer listen to the complaints and requests of the colonials and decline to negotiate the issues. Like his fellow members of Congress, Washington is committed to an early end of the conflict. Washington determines that, by improving the negotiating position of the American colonists, Great Britain will accede to the demands of Congress.

Many in the province of Canada are similarly oppressed and disenfranchised by Parliament. With the approval of Congress, Washington devises a plan to expel the British army from the forts at Montreal and Quebec and align with Canada, making Canada the fourteenth American colony. As the Northern army proceeds up the Hudson Valley to attack Montreal, Washington appoints Colonel Benedict Arnold to lead a secret mission of 1,200 men through the wilderness of Maine to attack the undermanned and vulnerable fortress at Quebec.

Dr. Tamanend Maier, now on General Washingtons administrative staff, works with Benedict Arnold to plan the expedition and will accompany him to Quebec. His brother, Dr. Christian Maier, is now in Boston. He remains loyal to his king and serves as a volunteer surgeon in the beleaguered British army. General Gage is informed of the secret expedition to Quebec and sends Christian to Quebec with the information necessary to save the fortress city.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524639600

Glenn Haas

Dr. Glenn E. Haas is a former trauma surgeon who was born and raised in Philadelphia and practiced in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. While in the U.S. Air Force he was a triage officer and director of emergency services. He authored more than a dozen articles published in medical journals. His "Murder in the Time of Plague" and "12 High Crime Adventures of Dr. Christian Maier" were finalists for Next Generation Indie book awards. "The Patriot Surgeon: Victory or Death" is the fourth in the Patriot Surgeon series. An avid golfer and outdoorsman, he is retired and lives with his wife in Sea Isle City, N. J.

Book preview

THE PATRIOT

SURGEON

14th COLONY

GLENN HAAS

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Phone: [phone]

© 2016 Glenn Haas. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/24/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3961-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3960-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016915191

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Author’s Note

References And Suggested Reading

DEDICATION

Children are a joy and a gift, while at the same time being an obligation and a responsibility.

Grandchildren are a joy and a gift.

To Cole, Jude, Lucy, Greta, Gabriel and Mary.

Other books in print by Glenn Haas

The Patriot Surgeon: Coming of Age

Health Czar

Murder in the Time of Plague

Christian and Tamanend Maier and their extended family members and friends are fictional characters unique to The Patriot Surgeon novels. They represent no individuals living or long since deceased. Nearly every other character in this manuscript did exist and their acts and actions are well described in the annals of history. It was the intent of the author to remain consistent with their chroniclers.

pa·tri·ot noun \'pā-trē-ət, -ˌät, : a person who loves and strongly supports or fights for his or her country

CHAPTER ONE

Tamanend Maier walked through the door of the Hunt Estate and paid little attention to the orderly who sat at the front desk. Well passed him Tammany vaguely recalled his name: Private Richards, no; Private Richardson. The only critical matter on his mind was to pour himself a cup of coffee. He had endured another difficult night and prescribed for himself a cup of strong coffee. He hoped the brown elixir would clear his muddled mind of the demons that had taken control of it last night. The dark and evil thoughts that crept into his brain during these troublesome nights seldom allowed him the luxury of more than an hour or two of restless sleep. Cup in hand he returned to the orderly’s desk and made a sincere effort to be civil. Good morning, Private.

Good morning, Dr. Maier, Richardson replied. Received a transfer in last night. From Dr. Spoffard at Colonel Nixon’s regimental field hospital. Tammany drank from his cup and made no response. He had spent a modest amount of time with the Middlesex company over the past two months and considered Isaac Spoffard a friend. There were several reasons for transfers from the smaller aide stations to a general hospital, which is what the Hunt Estate technically was. The patient was worsening. The patient required surgery. The regimental hospital was short on supplies.

The patient has a chest wound, said Richardson. Took a ball through the lung on Bunkers’ Hill.

And we are seeing him now, 6 days after he was shot? Richardson made no response and handed Tammany the transfer orders. Tammany waved at the papers. Which room?

The green room.

Tammany climbed the stairs to the second floor where the enlisted militiamen were assigned their beds. Bedrooms in the spacious home of one Ebenezer Hunt, whom Tammany had yet to meet, had been converted into wards and the various rooms were identified by the color of the paint on the walls. Mr. Hunt had loaned his home in Cambridge (for an undetermined time and yet to be determined costs) to the colonial army to be used as a military hospital. Tammany turned into the room with the green walls and spied the new face. It was a pale face, albeit a handsome one. He was lying on his left side, awkwardly propped up on a blanket.

Good morning. I’m Dr. Maier. I understand you came to us last night. The man nodded. The orderly tells me you took a musket ball in the chest during the fighting at Charles Town last week. Again the patient nodded.

And Dr. Spoffard has been treating you for the past week? The man made no response. I was at Charles Town. Some nasty fighting.

I know, the man said in a weak voice. I saw you there. You saved me.

Tammany raised his eyebrows and revealed a slight smile. What is your name?

Jack, Jack Devereaux. Despite the soft tone of the man’s voice Tammany suspected he heard an accent that was not of a New Englander. Tammany eyed the man and slowly drank from his cup. Jack’s breathing was shallow and intermittently he struggled to catch his breath. The third charge by the regulars. I was hit, you picked me up and put me in ze wagon.

I’m sorry. I don’t remember. There was a great deal going on at the time.

No matter, but if not for you I would have died there, Jack whispered, followed by a raspy dry cough.

May I look at your wound?

Tammany lifted the homespun blousy shirt that was draped over Jack’s shoulders and saw a dark red patch of skin on the right side of his ribcage. The one inch wound through his breast was charred around the edges. A black crust had formed in the center of the wound. Tammany tilted the man forward and saw no exit wound but instead saw an inflamed area on the skin, lower on his flank, the size of the palm of his large hand. He touched the inflamed skin, confirming it was as hot as it appeared. Tammany pursed his lips as he tried to envision the extent of the injury and how much he would tell the man. The musket ball you took probably shattered the rib on the way into your chest for it did not pass through you. I suspect much of your lung has been injured. The tumor I feel is an abscess which will, at some time, have to be drained. The hope is that your body will build a thick wall around the abscess, trying like the blazes to isolate the tumor, thereby making it easier for us to puncture and drain it.

Abscess like in pus.

Yes, abscess like in pus. If we do not drain the pus and whatever debris that has collected into the abscess, the pus will back up into your blood. The man nodded, accepting Tammany’s assessment.

I’ve a wife, he said in his raspy accented voice. She is here in Cambridge at our camp. She works as a cook and laundress. The man reached awkwardly into his waistband and removed a coin. He pressed the coin into Tammany’s hand.

I know I am in a bad way. Should I die I ask that you will see to my wife. Just as much as I know you tried to save me, I ask that you do what you can for her.

Tammany was unsure what to say in response to such an uncommon request coming from a man whom he hardly knew. Tammany opened his hand and saw that the coin was a guinea. Jack coughed weakly and drew in what breath he could. Strain showed on his face. His eyes bulged and his lips grew taught. His hand embraced Tammany’s much larger hand that held the gold coin, tightening his grip so that his fingers dug in deeply. With his other hand he vainly tried to lift himself off the bed. Give me your oath, Doctor. Give me your oath, Doctor, that you will see to her and do what you can for her. She, more than I, will need your help and good will.

Tammany shifted from one foot to the other, neither wishing to make a hollow promise nor wanting to disappoint the man. Give me your oath, mon ami’, Jack said once more as he squeezed tighter on Tammany’s hand.

Tammany pried the desperate man’s fingers from his hand and stared eerily at the indentations. I will, Jack. I will. I give you my word and I give you my oath. Content at last Jack slouched back onto the bed.

Tammany pocketed the coin and left the patient. He descended the steps and asked Private Richardson, Any word from Dr. Foster?

He is at a meeting, Richardson replied. He asked that you see the patients in the wards today. On his way to refill his coffee cup Tammany removed the gold coin Jack had given him. One pound sterling. He wondered at its worth in the new American dollars. Pocketing the coin he pondered the burden most recently thrust upon him. Why?, he asked himself, had he agreed to such a pledge. He didn’t know the man; hadn’t even been in his company for more than a few minutes. He couldn’t even remember Jack’s last name and never was told the name of the wife.

He retraced his steps, ascended the stairs and considered the ways by which he might be able to negotiate his way out of the predicament he had stumbled into. He turned into the green room and saw Jack lying on his bed. He suspected the man was sleeping and shook him. Jack, Jack, we must talk. Jack did not stir. Tammany shook the man again and again there was no response. Nor would there be.

Tammany walked through the camp of the Middlesex company and searched out where he might find the cook tent or the wash tubs. He found the cook tent first, removed a piece of paper from his pocket and read what Private Richardson had written on it. Jack Devereaux. He spied a woman using a ladle to stir something in a cauldron. She wore a homespun dress and a bland colored bonnet covered her head. Mrs. Devereaux? Mrs. Devereaux?

The figure looked up and Tammany saw a young woman, charcoal ash and dirt smudged on her cheeks, whose weary features were otherwise clear and dark complexioned. Wisps of raven black hair escaped her bonnet. She returned her attention to the cauldron and continued stirring. Oui.

Mrs. Devereaux, I am Dr. Maier. I have some news regarding your husband. I’m afraid it isn’t good news.

She stopped stirring. Slowly her gaze lifted up from the cauldron and she looked Tammany straight in the eye. He’s dead, she said matter of factly.

Mildly startled at her frankness Tammany replied, Yes. I’m afraid so. He passed this morning.

He wanted to die here, with his friends. With me. Tammany noted that she too spoke with an accent. He didn’t want to be transferred away to die with strangers.

They plan to bury him later today. I asked that they wait until you arrived, if you wished to be present for the burial.

Merci.

Tammany reached into his pocket, removed the gold coin and handed it to her. He gave me this to give to you. Again she thanked him. He took a deep breath and sighed, unsure what else he might do. He spied Isaac Spoffard and said to Mrs. Devereaux, Excuse me for a minute.

Tammany walked to his friend, relayed the bad news and added, He has a wife here in camp.

Yes, we’re familiar with her. She does the cooking and the laundry for the men. While her husband was in our hospital she tended to him very well.

Knows her way around a hospital tent, does she? Tammany asked.

She does, Spoffard replied. She says her father is a physician. In the past she has helped him in his office.

Could you do me a favor? I got wrangled into a promise to her husband that I would look after her. I know it’s unusual for unattached women to remain in camp and I presume Mrs. Devereaux is above reproach, but could you help me fulfill my promise to her husband. Is there any way for you to employ her as an orderly or allow her to remain in camp and help with the nursing of the men? At least until she can make decisions concerning her future.

She already is on half pay for the work she does, Spoffard replied. I’ll see what I can do to shift some of her responsibilities.

Thank you, Tammany replied, relieved that a heavy load had been lifted off him. He returned to where Mrs. Devereaux was now sitting at the cook tent. I have spoken to Dr. Spoffard and he assures me you may remain here in camp, working in part for him, until you get matters settled.

She solemnly nodded her thanks. Once again, you have my sympathies. Jack died a hero’s death. He left her, telling himself that his obligation to the departed Jack Devereaux was now satisfied.

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The evening air was still as the heat of the day lingered. Low hanging clouds passed overhead through the night sky, intermittently occluding what was left of a hazy moon and the winking stars that surrounded it. The resulting quiet in the night air demanded that Tammany remain cautious in the extreme, as the most innocent of squeaks or rattles he might produce would be magnified and prove disastrous. Softly, with his moccasined right foot, he brushed aside broken twigs and dead leaves that remained from last winter’s detritus and crouched behind the wide trunk of an oak tree. From this point in hiding he had a clear view of the lights of the guardhouse and battlements at the Boston Neck. The Neck was the only point of land to connect the city of Boston with the Massachusetts mainland. He knew the Neck well. He had passed over it several times each week during the past four years while he attended classes at Harvard College here in Cambridge. It had been a busy four years. When he wasn’t in the classroom or enmeshed in his school books, he spent most of his waking hours training under Dr. Joseph Warren in his office on Hanover Street in North Boston as a physician’s apprentice. Within the past month he had been rewarded for his hard work. He received a diploma from Harvard and a certificate from Dr. Warren to confirm he had graduated from each program. On the same day that Joseph Warren had given Tammany his apprentice certificate he also granted him an officer’s commission as a lieutenant in the Massachusetts militia. As he sat in hiding on the north bank of the Charles River, those four years seemed like a lifetime ago.

In friendlier times and on happier days travelers who crossed the Neck offered and received greetings. Godspeed routinely was extended for a safe return. Not so anymore. Not since General Thomas Gage and the British army bottled up the city. Not since thousands of patriot militiamen had been forced out of Boston to the surrounding countryside.

General Gage was the commander of all British troops stationed in North America. During the past year, as governor of the Massachusetts province, he grew increasingly more insecure with his military state of readiness. He was overly concerned with civilian insurrection and obsessed with the possible storming of Boston by the rebellious riff-raff from outside the city. Consequently he recalled more than 4,000 regular army troops to Boston, which quickly became an anathema to her 15,000 residents. To improve the security of the city he ordered a guardhouse to be erected on the Boston Neck. The guardhouse, manned by a squadron of regular soldiers, served to monitor the flow of traffic into and out of Boston.

It was not uncommon for Gage’s anxieties to overwhelm him. Reacting to the reports his network of spies provided him, Gage ordered troops to scour the adjoining villages in search of hoarded weapons and ammunition. One such excursion April last precipitated incendiary and cataclysmic results. On that day of fighting at Lexington, Concord and Menotomy, more than one hundred of his troops were killed or wounded. Subsequently several fieldpieces were moved to the Neck and the guardhouse was reinforced with ramparts, battlements and a full company of soldiers.

What small measure of security General Gage might have enjoyed was stretched to its limits following the recent clash of colonial militia units with the regular army troops on the heights of Charles Town on Bunker’s Hill. Nearly half of his troops that marched up the hill were killed or maimed. Although General Howe and the army assumed control of the peninsula, it proved to be a costly and confidence shattering victory. With his troop strength decimated Gage’s immediate response was to isolate, as much as possible, the city of Boston from the surrounding insurgent infested countryside.

The width of the Neck varied greatly as it was subject to the daily ebb and flow of the tides of both the Charles River and the back bay of Boston. Traffic into and out of the city was severely restricted by the army troops and became subject and vulnerable to Nature’s whims. During a pelting rain storm the entire causeway might be reduced to an impassable quagmire. At the full moon or during a flood tide, much of the Neck would disappear from view entirely.

Tonight, after sundown, Tammany did what he had been doing for the past two weeks. He returned to the banks of the Charles River to pester the troops who stood on the opposite bank of the river. He changed his locations nightly and positioned himself at a safe distance from the British regular troops who patrolled their side of the river. He remained out of the effective range of their musket fire and hidden from their best efforts of detection and observation. He utilized any number of natural blinds, either by insinuating himself within tree falls or finding shelter beneath the outcropping of rock ledges. Once situated he would wait and watch for targets to appear. He was reminded of the days of his youth when he hunted deer, turkeys and wild fowl. Silently, with stealth and patience, he would blend into the environs of the animals, wait in ambush for game to appear and strike with a final, deadly force.

His current night-time hunting activities were in no way a game or sport. When he was successful men died. If he were careless or unlucky, it would be he who would die. Consequently he approached each night with obsessive determination and took extreme measures to ensure all advantages were his and his alone. In every instance he chose lairs for his night-time sniping that afforded easy and rapid escape in the event a hasty exit might become necessary. He never compromised, he never allowed his enemy a fair chance and he remained committed to wreak as much damage and havoc as possible on the hated redcoat bastards.

The night hunting was good and his efforts usually proved successful. Targets that appeared took the form of red jacketed sentries who walked along the banks of the river and atop the piers where the river boats were moored and secured at anchor. Men moved into and out of the guardhouses, standing or walking along the ramparts of the earthen packed fascine battlements. Perversely the soldiers in their handsome uniforms became easy marks as they meandered leisurely and absentmindedly; answering a call to nature or chatting up a comrade. Even easier to dispatch were the dupes who stopped to light their pipes, foolishly illuminating their own profiles and making Tammany’s task that much simpler. He enjoyed great satisfaction in this enterprise he referred to as his evening obligation. At night, on the riverbank, he was free of his demons.

Although not so frequent as earlier in the spring, the cruel demons that visited Tammany were pitiless. When they arrived during the day they appeared to him as bright sudden flashes when his mind was otherwise occupied. The images were vivid and startling and caused a pain deep into his gut and a sickly chill to run up his spine. When asleep, nightmares awakened him in sweat soaked fury and brought back haunting visions that continued to torture him. The images and visions never changed. Always he saw the same cold, stony face. It was the face of his dear Colleen McManning, shot dead by a redcoated soldier in Menotomy on April 19th last. There was little he could do to chase away the black thoughts. Heavy drink did no more than create a mean drunk. Enforced solitude made him more glum. Laudanum made his nightmares more vivid and evil. Ironically he found comfort only during his evening obligation. Only by inflicting discomfort on those he condemned as being the source of his misery, the soldiers in the army that now occupied his adopted home of Boston, could he chase away his torturous demons.

In softer, more quiet times he would remember Colleen’s red hair and her milk white complexion. The wafting of a rare scent in the air would trigger a coveted memory of her and a smile would slowly spread across his face. When he brushed against a soft fabric, his mind would race to a time when he held her hands in his or when he stroked the side of her face with affection and tenderness. Every so often he thought he heard her giggle, softly and merrily, always seeing the good side to any person, deed or story. Uncontrollably his thoughts would darken and in his mind’s eye he could not erase the image of his beloved sweetheart, lying dead in his arms in her blood soaked blue shawl. Time spent on the riverbank helped him avoid the fiendish dreams and evil thoughts that took control of his mind when he lay down his head at night. Time spent during his evening obligation served to ease his pain and soothe his soul. Time spent killing the bloody lobster-backs produced the nearly audible ‘click’ that would free his mind and allow him to sleep the deep sleep of the contented.

Every evening musket shots were fired across the river from either battle line and the reports shattered the quiet of the night. Most of the firing came from the patriots’ side of The Charles because the British troops were sufficiently trained not to waste their powder and shot. Most of the complaining, however, came from the Boston side of the river which condemned this fiendish form of combat as cowardly and ungentlemanly, more befitting the acts of savage, blood-thirsty Indians in the wilderness. No one was certain how successful the long range shots from the muskets might have been. The distant range limited the effectiveness of the inaccurate muskets, but their true value was the annoyance generated in the minds and on the nerves of the soldiers who believed they were under constant attack, continuously subjected to the ‘devilish works of the rebellious scum.’

The rifled musket Lt. Tamanend Jacob Maier carried was a weapon different from those carried by other soldiers and patriots. It was a firelock he helped to make when he was a gunsmith’s apprentice to his Uncle Will, while growing up on their farm in Pennsylvania. The common musket’s barrel had a smooth inner bore and fired a large sluggish ball, three quarters of an inch in diameter. The effective range for a common musket seldom exceeded 80 yards. The ball for the rifle was smaller, less than half an inch in size. When loaded it was wrapped in silk or greased cloth and fit snuggly into the barrel. The rifle’s barrel was long and narrow with grooves bored down its center. The grooves caused the fired ball to spiral toward its target rather than tumble out the muzzle. The rifling of the barrel allowed the weapon to be effective at a range of more than 250 paces. Hidden behind a breakfront, Tammany effortlessly and from relative safety could aim and fire at targets as far as the eye could see.

The ‘pop’ of his slender rifle was uniquely different from the louder ‘bang’ of the muskets. Most often the bangs could be tolerated by the soldiers, for rarely did any physical harm ensue. Not so for the pop. Once the pop was heard a guard would double over, or a body part would explode and a soldier would cry out in morbid agony. Each time after he fired Tammany moved to his next hiding spot, cautious never to allow his muzzle flash or the smoke from the spent gunpowder to betray his position and entrap him. The British guards came to recognize the distinctive pop of this invisible marksman as they suffered from the sting of his weapon. Tammany had learned from the small talk of the enlisted soldiers that the British troops now referred to this nocturnal tormenter as that blasted Hornet. Only last evening, on the hills adjacent to the Charles Town peninsula, he fired three shots and saw three soldiers disappear. After the third shot Tammany clearly heard the ‘click’ in the back of his mind and the Hornet retired to his quarters for a restful night’s sleep.

Sniping activities were never ordered. Only tacitly were they tolerated by the officer staff and publicly they were condemned by the general staff. In reality, a successful night’s outing was roundly applauded by all of the militiamen in arms. No official declaration of war had been announced by either the patriot units currently in ‘rebellion,’ or by His Majesty’s forces confined inside the city of Boston. Clear rules of engagement had yet to be established for acceptable behavior between the sparring parties. To most of the militiamen assigned to the camps laying siege, the absence of such an announcement was an unimportant technicality. Emotions still ran high among the militia units and many men continued to believe they had a score to settle with the retched lobster-backs. It was a rare Boston man who did not lose wealth, a friend, a neighbor or a loved one in the recent fighting which so dominated the spring season of 1775. For Tammany it was all of the above.

Tammany used burnt cork to darken his facial features and reduce the reflection. One again he wore his deerskin leather hunting shirt that was tattered and stained with sweat and old blood. He wore thick leather leggings over his cloth breeches. The belt that he wore around his waist to cinch in the shirt also secured a throwing hatchet on his right hip and a heavy carving knife in its sheath at his left hip. His powder horn from a beef-steer hung low, draped over his left shoulder by the tied ends of rawhide leather strips. He carried it on his right side to better facilitate loading his rifled musket. The rawhide was more durable than rope in the harsh weather and quieter when traipsing through the thick briars and underbrush. Ten balls of shot, molded from melted lead this very afternoon, were in a cartouche that also was secured to his belt, readily accessible for use. Each ball was wrapped in a patch of silken cloth and lightly impregnated with grease. Nothing jangled, rubbed or bounced as he moved across the uneven ground, away from the well worn wagon roads. He crouched low and moved slowly and methodically behind clumps of shrubbery, into and out of the shadows made by the many stands of trees. Neatly settling into a hiding spot of thick brambles with an overhanging rock ledge was no easy task for this brute of a man. His shoulders were broader than most and his thick arms were the legacy of many boyhood years spent working on a farm in rural Pennsylvania.

Seated two hundred paces from the guardhouse, Tammany spied movement on the battlement. With little wasted motion he raised his powder horn and tapped out a small amount of gunpowder into the pan of his firelock. He pulled back the hammer to full cock, sighted down the barrel and focused on a soldier who stood by a lighted post. Tammany identified the point where the two white belts crossed on the soldier’s chest, raised the barrel that rested on a tree branch ever so slightly and sighted down it. Lightly and delicately his finger pulled on the trigger. The rifle popped and the soldier doubled over.

Tammany scrambled out of his lair fifty paces to his left, leaving behind the smoke of spent gunpowder that hung in the dead air. He ignored the shouting and activity on the battlements and poured gunpowder from his powderhorn down the rifle barrel to the count of one-two-three. He reached into his leather cartouche box at his hip for a silk wrapped ball and continued trotting toward a pile of shale that was waist high. He slowed only long enough to drop the ball down the barrel. It was an agonizingly slow process when all hell was breaking loose but it was imperative that he perform the task in a methodical fashion. He ducked behind the shale pile as gunfire erupted at the guardhouse. Regular troops charged out from the ramparts approaching the quagmire that was the Neck. Tammany calmly used his ramrod to tamp down the powder and lead ball into the barrel of his rifle as sentries fired and guards threw incendiary bombs toward his former location. The bombs, well short of their target, lit up the patriots’ side of the riverbank. He tapped powder from his powderhorn into the pan and pulled back on the hammer. A few sentries ran onto the muddy causeway but found the avenue impassable. Tammany aimed at a soldier with a sash around his waist and a cockaded hat atop his head. He took the man to be an officer. Tammany sighted just above the shimmering buttons on the man’s chest. He squeezed the trigger, his rifle barked and the man’s head exploded in a red mist. As the body lay quivering on the ground the hat toppled onto the mud below the rampart and cart-wheeled into the murky waters of the Charles River.

Tammany ran another forty paces to hide behind a stand of birch trees. He allowed his breathing to slow as he reloaded his weapon. Intermittent fire continued from the ramparts. Orders were shouted and men continued to run about aimlessly. He waited a full minute; watching, waiting, observing. Time was on his side and patience was a must; a wrong guess might prove deadly. Now absent an officer to drive the soldiers onward, Tammany presumed the sentries would be hesitant to venture too far from their ramparts. Within the minute Tammany’s caution was rewarded. The soldiers, who now thought they were being attacked by an advancing patrol of invisible marksmen, retreated to the cover of the guardhouse and the safety of the battlements. All but one. Tammany spied a small mountain of a man with the high bearskin covered helmet that made tall men look gargantuan. A grenadier; one of the many men chosen to throw the deadly fire bombs because of their great size and strength and rabid dispositions. He was mired in the muck holding a smoking grenade in each hand. He was hesitant to drop either bomb to pull his leg out of the mud and nary a comrade chose to help free him from his trap. Tammany bent down on one knee, pressed the side of his rifle barrel against a tree trunk for stability and took aim at the tall furry helmet. Tammany fired. The helmet flew off the soldier’s head as he was thrown backward into the mud and landed with a loud Thwack!

The grenadier’s arms waved and wagged franticly while his legs remained fixed in the mud. The bombs that he was carrying hissed impotently in the wet sludge. The grenadier roared, shouting and crying out for help, but his pleas fell on the deaf ears of comrades who feared for their lives and cowered from the man all would later agree was ‘the Hornet.’ After nearly a minute he keeled over and fell face first into the mud.

Tammany chuckled out loud and muttered, Bastards. As he sat watching the spectacle the Click inside his head sounded. He quickly left his sniping den to return to his barracks, certain of a good night’s sleep.

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Tammany drank the last of the coffee from the cup. He glanced out the window and presumed it would be another hot July morning. He had before him the returns of the sick lists for the militiamen now recuperating in the general hospital where he was assigned. Ostensibly Dr. Isaac Foster was the senior physician in charge of the facility and Tammany’s rank was that of surgeon’s mate. Because Dr. Foster had many obligations and was a member of so many committees, the responsibilities for the daily operations of the hospital fell to Tammany. It was a situation with which he was quite familiar, perfected to an art form during his apprenticeship to Dr. Joseph Warren who was the busiest man in the Massachusetts province. Included among Warren’s titles were: President of the Massachusetts Provincial Council, President of the Committee of Safety for the province, principal contributor for the Committee for Correspondence, Grand Master of the Freemasons, titular director for all hospital and medical services for the provincial army and Major General of same.

Such exuberance was contagious and rubbed off on Tammany. During his four year apprenticeship with Dr. Warren, Tammany not only attended classes at Harvard College but was a scribe to Samuel Adams and the Committee for Correspondence. During that period he also became an dedicated member of the Sons of Liberty.

Dr. Warren’s unbridled joi de vivre had tragic consequences when he mounted the rampart at Breed’s Hill on the Charles Town peninsula a fortnight ago; not as a commanding Major General but as a volunteer citizen. Forsaking wisdom for hubris, he stood shoulder to shoulder with his beloved militiamen during the third and finally successful charge of the British regular troops. Warren was caught up in the maelstrom of dust, death and destruction and never emerged from the fortification. Images returned to Tammany regularly of bidding farewell to his Dr. Warren, minutes before the men at the fortification on Breed’s Hill were overrun by the redcoats.

Tammany now was permanently assigned to Dr. Foster’s hospital. Four of the patients in the hospital were recovering from wounds received from the battle on the Charles Town peninsula. Tammany allowed that all four were sufficiently healed and could leave the hospital. He awaited the signing of final orders from Dr. Foster for them to return to their farms and homes to continue their convalescence in more comforting and serene surroundings. As far as Tammany was concerned, the sooner they could leave, the better. He feared that if they tarried much longer they would contract some additional or more crippling malady common to this hospital. Among the other patients in the Hunt Estate, three in the wards had dysentery and four had fevers with patterns difficult to decipher. Yesterday Tammany transferred out one man to the hospital at Fresh Pond with symptoms suggestive for the early stages of the smallpox. All soldiers with similarly infectious symptoms and findings were now being segregated away from all troops: healthy or otherwise. The rolls also identified two men with chancres sores and ulcers on their genitals, consistent with symptoms of Venus’ disease. Dr. Foster’s hospital was no place for healthy men.

Although Mondays normally were busy days following the Sabbath’s collective inactivity, today appeared to be busier than most. Tammany sensed a heightened pace of activity on the main street and an increased tension in the air. A company of militiamen gathered near the front lawn of the Hunt Estate. Tammany wandered toward where they lingered and listened to their conversations to learn who or what was the party responsible for the activities in the streets.

New General’s taking over. Someone from Virginya.

Rode all the way from Philadelphia.

Is Philadelphia in Virginya?

"What’s to be done with our General, Artemus Ward?’

Guess they’ll be showing ol’ fuss ’n stuff the way out?

Guess they’ll have to wake him up to tell him so.

So who’s the new general?

Brought along with him a couple of more generals from Virginya.

Just what we need, more generals.

From Philadelphia or Virginya?

Yeah. Both.

Haven’t we got enough generals? What we need is better cooks

So who’s the new general?

Which one?

Head general.

Washington.

Washington’s our new cook?

No, dumbhead. Washington’s our new general.

From Philadelphia?

Washington is from Virginya.

Since when did Virginya stick her nose in our business?

Didn’t know Virginya had a dog in this fight.

They picked a Virginyan to please all of the colonies.

What other colonies? All’s I see are men from New England.

How does someone from Virginya please someone from Massachusetts?

Don’t please me none. Hells bells, I’m not partial to taking orders from a Massachusetts man. Why in the hell should I like taking orders from someone from Virginya?

When the boys come up from Philadelphia and Virginya, make sure they bring along some new cooks.

He was an officer during the war with the French. Served with the regular army, they say.

Nah. Virginya militia.

Weren’t they the same back then?

Hear tell he served with Braddock.

Braddock what got himself killed before the war started.

Braddock getting killed just about started the war.

So this General Washington helped Braddock start the war with the French.

Big strapping man, this Washington.

Don’t need ’em.

Don’t need him or we don’t need Virginya?

"We don’t need Washington to start this war. We seem to have done quite nicely starting a war by ourselves.

We might or might not need the men from Virginya, so long as they keep to themselves.

What we really need is better cooks.

Hear them slaveholders from Virginya sleep with their slaves. Have their way with their slave-women.

What I need is for a woman to have her way with me.

Are we gonna have slaves in our army?

Several of our companies have slaves.

We have freed coloreds in our regiment, but Yankee slaves are different from southern slaves.

Hear this Washington brought his slaves with him.

He brought his slaves and he brought his generals. He must be planning to stay for a while.

He must be planning to stay one helluva lot longer than I plan to stay.

Wisht the damn regulars over in Boston would decide they didn’t want to stay no longer.

"Hear he don’t talk much. Didn’t talk much when he came into town and didn’t have much to say to the men.

You ever meet someone from Virginya? How do you know they talk the same way we do?

Didn’t smile much either.

Boys at headquarters say he’s a stickler for detail. Ain’t afraid to kick someone in the arse.

His staff looks like they’re sticklers also. They from Virginya too?

"Yes and no. Some from Virginya and some from Philadelphia.

There are a gaggle of other men no one seems to recognize.

From Virginya most likely.

Did Washington bring his own cook? We surely need new cooks.

Why don’t you go and ask the new general. I’m sure your stomach needs are near the top of his list of concerns.

I might do that. I’ll ask him about a furlough also.

Tammany presumed the arrival of new generals was sufficient cause for the commotion in the streets. He returned to the ward to complete his reports.

The orderly arrived at the hospital shortly after Tammany finished visiting with the patients in the ward. Tammany found him waiting outside the front door of the Hunt Estate. The horse he had ridden was tied to a post at the street. The orderly stood ill at ease on the porch, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The young man with soft fuzzy cheeks was no older than fourteen years. Slightly built, he had a full mop of straight black hair that fell below his ears, evenly cut as if trimmed by using a sugar bowl. He wore spectacles and although the glass lenses were small compared to his large round face and head, the thickness of the lens created a distortion that enlarged the size and shape of his eyes. Tammany recognized the terror in his cherubic face and the fearful look in his eyes blinking behind the spectacles. The boy, too frightened to enter a hospice for the sick and dying, no doubt feared he might contract every disease known to man or conjured by the devil himself. Awkwardly he tapped his forehead with his right hand in the abbreviated fashion of a salute that had become common among the troops. He thrust forward a folded letter. Tammany took the paper, noting the wax dollop used to seal the letter.

His Excellency requests your presence this afternoon, Lieutenant, sir.

His Excellency? Tammany queried.

General Washington, sir. Our new commander, the boy replied.

Tammany, towering tall above the elfin lad, offered a stern nod to the boy as he said, Yes, I know General Washington is our new commander, but I was unaware he had been promoted to royalty.

’Tis an affection the officers from Philadelphia who traveled with the General have offered him. The other officers at staff headquarters seem to have adopted it also, he wanly tried to explain.

You know the General wants to see me because he told you so, Tammany replied, or because you read the letter?

I wrote the letter, sir, the boy replied guardedly.

Tammany unfolded the paper and read:

Lieutenant Tamanend J. Maier

Your presence is requested at 3 o’clock this instant

General Headquarters

G. Washington

Tammany returned his gaze to the orderly. My compliments to General Washington. I shall present myself as he wishes.

Thank you, sir. The boy paused for a few seconds and then stammered, P-Pardon. He looked up at and around the tall dark man with the chiseled facial features and dark, deep set eyes. Tentatively he tried to peer into the house.

Tammany smiled at the boy’s curiosity. Would you like to come in, perhaps share a cup of coffee?

No sir, he replied. Lieutenant, sick people are in there, isn’t that so?

Yes, there are. We are a hospital.

Are there any dead people in there? the orderly asked sheepishly.

Tammany smiled at the fearful lad. No son; only the sick and injured. No one has died today, but, Tammany reached into the pocket of his vest and removed his watch, holding it in his huge hand. Theatrically he opened it and pondered, But it is still early in the day and perhaps if you will assist me, I could gather up a dead body for your inspection.

The boy stepped back and replied hurriedly, No sir, that’s quite alright.

Then three o’clock it is, Tammany said and the young man turned from the door and walked toward his horse. A wagon stood at the street. Its driver stepped down and walked up the path toward the house while a woman waited on the front seat of the wagon.

Have here a requisition from Colonel Nixon, the man said as he thrust forward several papers toward Tammany. Dr. Spoffard is low on medical supplies and bandages.

Who isn’t? Tammany replied. It wasn’t uncommon for the regimental units to run short on medicines and supplies and there existed no process to ensure all the units received equal shares when new provisions arrived. Many of the sites designated as regimental hospitals were loathe to part with the few supplies they might receive from their home villages and provinces. Friendships and favors solved many a problem for more than one army officer. Tammany waved the papers away and said, Sergeant inside will help you.

Tammany glanced again at the woman who waited in the wagon. She was plainly dressed in a tawny, homespun dress and wore a dark gray bonnet on her head with ties that were joined in a bow beneath her chin. Despite her drab apparel, something about her caught Tammany’s eye. She sat tall on the seat, nearly bolt upright. Her face was full and suggested she was no stranger to the outdoors. Her complexion was clear and healthy and pleasing to the eye. The hair that escaped from the bonnet was coal black in color and floated across her face in the morning breeze. Although most New England women did their best to be insipidly bland and indiscriminate, to Tammany’s eye she was different; exotically different. Tammany walked to her and offered, Are you here for supplies also or are you just out for a morning ride?

I came along to protect Private Miller from ze highway bandits that might think to steal away our medicines and precious supplies, she replied with a wry smile, in an accent that wasn’t typical for Boston. An accent he recognized.

I know you, don’t I? he asked.

Oui.

Like a punch in the stomach it came to him where they had met before. You’re the wife of the soldier with the chest wound, Tammany offered.

The widow of the soldier with the chest wound, she corrected him.

Yes, right, he said sheepishly. Recovering, he said, Mrs. Devereaux, right.

Oui.

And are you working along with Dr. Spoffard?

Oui.

Tammany nodded and smiled politely. Good. An oath and promise satisfied. Protecting Private Miller. Then I see Private Miller is in very safe hands. May I offer you coffee or maybe a glass of water.

Merci, but it won’t be necessary, she said as she brushed aside the hairs that straggled across her face. Perhaps another time.

Tammany took note that her eyes were as dark as her hair and reflected the morning sunlight. When she smiled she was more striking and vibrant than Tammany remembered. And I presume matters are going well working with Dr. Spoffard?

Oui, the hospital work keeps me busy. I still help with the cooking chores. There is always something to do in camp, to keep one busy.

Tammany nodded. Unsure what more to say he self consciously stood taller and looked to the wagon and the horse and…

I am no longer in mourning, Dr. Maier, if that is what you are wondering, she said matter of factly. Being busy at the camp, with the sick men at Dr. Spoffard’s hospital, does not allow me to dwell too long in despair. I loved Jacques, but he is gone. I must go on.

Tammany offered. Good. I’m glad you’ve found something to help you move on. Private Miller exited the Hunt house, his arms filled with supplies. He loaded them into the back of the wagon and stepped up into his seat. My regards to Dr. Spoffard.

If you come by our camp, Dr. Maier, she said as Miller flicked the reins and the wagon pulled away, I promise to fix you a tonic. Tammany waved them good-bye.

Classes at Harvard College had been suspended earlier in the spring and its buildings now served as the center for military activities of the nascent army. Headquarters was located in the Vassall House, a private home a short distance from Cambridge Common. General Artemus Ward no longer was the commanding general. He and his staff had relocated closer to Roxbury and Dorchester. General Ward had come under heavy criticism for his actions, or rather inactions, on the day of battle on June 17th last. Reinforcements were dispersed piecemeal, late and with no clear direction. Minimal quantities of food, water and other provisions were sent to the men who worked throughout the night of June 16th and all the next day to prepare the hills for the British army’s onslaught. Ammunition resupply occurred not at all. Most importantly, no senior officer was appointed or authorized to take overall command of the engagement. Consequently placement of the battle lines was faulty, company actions lacked coordination, and fatigue and dehydration took its toll on the beleaguered militiamen.

Despite the devilish activity on the Charles Town peninsula that day, Ward remained convinced the landing of two thousand British regular army forces was a diversion and the main attack would be forthcoming on the Heights of Dorchester or through the Boston Neck. He harbored his resources in what later was determined to be an imprudent manner. Although General Ward had at his disposal more than 15,000 militiamen, hardly one thousand were assigned to defend Bunker’s and Breed’s Hills on that horrific day. What might have been a glorious victory for freedom and liberty and the rights of the common man resulted in a rout by the British regulars who gained command of the battlefield.

Tammany, along with many of the other officers, was unsure if General Ward was the best man to command the motley conglomeration of volunteers presently laying siege to Boston. As Dr. Warren was want to say, coordinating the activities of 15,000 militiamen from four different provinces was akin to herding cats. There was no doubting their courage. Their continued presence in the countryside that surrounded Boston, with their muskets at the ready, was a conspicuous reminder they were more than ready to throw off the yoke of British oppression and assume the benefits of independence. Unfortunately their obsession, passion and zeal for personal independence was proving to be a hindrance. Their philosophical commitment to the concept that ‘all men are created equal’ mitigated against the martial principles that some men had to be the superior officers who give orders, and some men had to be subordinates who must blindly and without protest, execute said orders.

Most New Englanders believed protest, at any time and for any reason, was their one, true inalienable right. Throughout the spring season General Ward and his staff struggled to transform this gaggle of militiamen into an army of subordinate soldiers of the line. When given orders to act, their efforts frequently were disjointed and clumsy. Not uncommonly the entire company would hold a vote to determine whether they should obey the orders; officers and private soldiers alike. Efforts to coordinate the activities of more than one company or squadron proved to be a challenge of Herculean proportions.

The Continental Congress in Philadelphia was unaware of General Ward’s actions or inactions, or any of the above noted shortcomings. Several days before the battle on the Charles Town peninsula George Washington was offered the position of Commander in Chief of all the colonies’ military forces. He accepted the offer. Washington was a congressional delegate from Virginia and a member of Congress’ military affairs committee. His appointment had significant political overtones. As the men in Congress navigated through regional prejudices and weighed the benefits of involving all thirteen colonies, they appointed a southern man to reinforce the concept that the fighting in Massachusetts was not solely the problem of New Englanders. Tammany’s reservation about the man was that new was not always better.

He was encouraged, however, when he arrived at headquarters and was met by sentries who stood alertly at attention. Once inside the Vassall House Tammany noted that all the men busily attended to their duties. It was a far cry from the headquarters of General Ward. Following the noontime dinner General Ward was known to settle into his afternoon nap and his staff felt obligated to adjust accordingly to such inactivity.

Tammany vaguely remembered this house on Brattle Street from the days following the British troops’ attack on the militia units at Lexington and Concord. On that day the house stood empty and was commandeered into a hospital for the wounded men who lived too far from Cambridge to journey to their homes. Most recently he recalled seeing tents pitched on the grounds, occupied by the Marblehead men in Colonel Glover’s company. Now that the new boss was in town, Glover’s men were elsewhere, the front lawns had been repaired and the house itself was clean as a whistle. Tammany was greeted by the bespectacled orderly who delivered the summons. This way, Lieutenant. Tammany was led into a parlor and shown a chair. His Excellency will call for you shortly.

As he sat waiting he was surprised at the activity that surrounded him. No idle chatter, no men leaning against walls or doorways; everyone was occupied at one task or another. After a few minutes a man in business attire entered the waiting room and announced, I am Major Mifflin. His Excellency will see you now.

Tammany rose and followed the man into a large room. A desk was in the center of the room. Off to the side was a table piled high with stacks of papers and the man in business attire seated himself into the chair adjacent to the table. Tammany approached the desk, stopped and stood at attention. Lieutenant Maier, sir, as requested.

Behind the desk sat a man in a military uniform that was dark blue in color and brushed clean. The uniform coat was complete with light tan facings on the lapels, brass buttons along the sides of the breast panels, epaulets on both shoulders with gold braided ropelike streamers woven throughout. Beneath the coat he wore a waistcoat, buff white in color, unbuttoned only at the lower end to facilitate sitting. The man himself was physically imposing. He was broad across the shoulders, perhaps nearly as large as Tammany, and had a full shock of hair which he kept shorn tight to his head. It was mostly brown in color and in the glow of the late afternoon sunshine there were hints of grey sprinkle. As the man slowly raised his head to address his visitor, his strong facial features caught one’s attention. The face was broad and lacked all emotion. His forehead was full and his nose was thick. The sun cast shadows on his face, highlighting several deep pock marks. His features looked as if they had been chiseled in stone.

Momentarily catching himself off guard, Tammany paused before bowing his head to his superior officer. Not a long bow as if in audience with royalty, it was deep enough to demonstrate appropriate subservience. Tammany resumed standing at attention.

The General remained seated and said, Lieutenant Maier, thank you for joining me. Washington handed a sealed and folded letter to Tammany and said, Here is a letter for your brother, Dr. Christian Maier. I was instructed to deliver this to him by a lovely and energetic young lady from Philadelphia. A young lady with whom, I believe, you are well acquainted. Miss Margaret Shippen.

Tammany’s cheeks flushed and his face became warm. He stepped forward to receive the letter and replied, Thank you, sir. He was mortified. The commanding general of the entire continental army had been reduced to a postal delivery boy by Peggy Shippen. Peggy, subtlety is not your strong suit.

I do not believe your brother is in camp any longer, Washington said. Perhaps you will be able to forward the missive to him.

Yes sir. Thank you, sir, Tammany replied almost