The Patriot Surgeon: Victory or Death

By Glenn Haas

During the spring of 1775, tensions and tempers boiled over and armed conflict erupted between the American colonists and the military forces of their mother country, England. As 1776 looms on the horizon, General George Washington, commander of the American forces, finds himself in a stalemate. He has 6,000 British soldiers throttled in the city of Boston and yearns to pick a fight. His plan, along with Congress, is to force the British Parliament to address the complaints and demands of the colonists. The Crown and Parliament would do so, but not in the fashion that he and his fellow patriots expected.

1776 would prove to be a tumultuous and monumental year for the young United States. King George III has now viciously turned against the colonists and solicited the assistance of auxiliary troops from Hesse-Kassel, Hesse-Hanau and other German principalities. Diplomacy has produced no results at reconciliation and a war for independence emerges as their only option. In July, Congress declares the colonies independent and generates a list of grievances for all the world to read. Armed conflict would escalate throughout the summer resulting in a string of battlefield successes for the British. Defeat, disease and desertion would continue to decimate Washington's army, prospects for independence and the spirits of the young nation. As the year nears its end, so too does Washington's army and the revolution for which they are fighting.

Christian Maier, still providing assistance to the British army in Canada, must confront professional and domestic hardships to survive the winter and return to his home in Pennsylvania. Tammany Maier must endure the continuing military and medical hardships in Canada before returning to General Washington to help keep the revolution alive. George Washington must learn from his army's many failures, overcome the lack of support of his trusted compatriots and somehow cobble together a formula that will allow the revolution to continue beyond year's end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665503242

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.

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2020 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 10/20/2020

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0325-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0324-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020919640

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

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.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

CONTENTS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Author’s Note

References & suggested reading

About the Author

Dedication

To the patients, health care workers, business owners, employees

and all families impacted by the COVID-19 virus pandemic.

To the many souls lost to this terrible disease.

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 \ˈpā-trē-ət, -ˌät,: a person who loves and strongly supports or fights for his or her country

ONE

C ome in and have a seat, General George Washington said as he ushered the big man into the second-floor office in the army’s command post. The two men now in the room were two of the largest men in the provincial army. His Excellency stood several inches taller than six feet and was well proportioned in build. Henry Knox, a 25-year-old volunteer captain in the Massachusetts militia, was nearly as tall but far thicker in the middle. He had a full face with full lips. His hair was closely cropped and his clear eyes, set deep above soft cheeks in his round face, tended to dart about as they observed their current surroundings. They took their seats, Knox politely allowing his commander to sit first behind his desk while he sat opposite him in a chair that groaned as he lowered his large bulk. How goes it with your men?

Knox cocked his head ever so slightly and was curious that the generalissimo of the American army was taking the temperature of the troops in such an indirect fashion. Guardedly he responded, Well enough, sir. Boredom and homesickness take a toll. Winter approaches and the men have their concerns. The men persevere, however, and buoy up each other’s spirits.

Homesickness. Washington imperceptibly winced as thoughts drifted to Martha. He too hadn’t been to his own home in Virginia since taking command of the army July last. Home being Boston for most of the men in your artillery unit?

Yes, sir.

And the number of troops in the artillery units?

Something more than 600 fit for duty.

Speaking of Boston, I understand you were present when the shooting occurred on King Street. Washington chose not to use the term ‘massacre’ which had become popular among the folk.

Yes, sir. I was.

And you testified at the inquest and trial of the soldiers?

I did, sir. Washington made no reply, allowing Knox to continue. I testified that tempers were rising to a boil for both the soldiers and the crowd. The situation was degenerating into a mob scene. I testified that I spoke to the squadron’s officer and advised him to leave the area as quickly as possible.

Didn’t heed your advice, did he?

No, sir. Poor Captain Prescott was as scared and shaken as any of his troops, but he refused to give an inch and wanted to stand tall to his men. Following the trial, he retired from the army and returned to his home in Ireland.

Washington made neither comment nor reply. "And you were involved when the tea was dumped into Boston’s harbor?"

"My militia unit was assigned to guard the Dartmouth while she was moored to the docks, but I wouldn’t be the one to suggest or explain how the tea made its way into the harbor."

Nor would anyone else who was there. Washington had been told the participants were sworn to secrecy and the observers would share nothing of what they saw. Washington paused for an awkwardly long moment as his gaze remained upon the big man.

Knox’s darting eyes leered back and then he chuckled to himself. How goes it with your men? General Washington wasn’t gauging the temperature of the troops. It’s me who is being measured.

My general officers and I have come to a decision, Washington announced. A change in command of the artillery unit appears prudent.

Knox felt his pulse quicken but paused before asking, What of Colonel Gridley. The 65-year-old Richard Gridley was both the First Engineer of the army and commander of the artillery unit.

Colonel Gridley’s wounds have been slow to heal. Allowing him to remain as First Engineer of the army will allow us to continue to use his talents and will better facilitate his recovery.

Knox, like so many others, knew there was more to the story. The wounds Gridley sustained at the battle at Bunker’s Hill were far greater than the wound in his thigh caused by a redcoat’s musket ball. The subordinate officers whom he appointed, including two of his sons, performed horribly and were forced to undergo court-martials for cowardice and incompetence. His nepotism became more pronounced because many ably qualified men had been passed over for promotion. Many of the officers and non-commissioned officers in the unit blamed Gridley for the failures of his sons and his appointees. They now were reluctant to follow his lead.

Washington continued. I have written to Congress recommending you to become the new commander of the artillery unit.

Knox’ first thought was snide in the extreme and he nearly blurted out, What artillery? True enough, the continental army had no more than 10 heavy guns, lacked a foundry to manufacture them and in the past relied upon Great Britain to supply them with cannons. Prospects for improving the inventory were slim. Knox forced a noncommittal, Thank you, sir. I’d be honored, which sounded to his commander as insincere as it was offered.

Washington took note of his reticence and politely cleared his voice before saying, I have a task for you. We here in Cambridge, on this side of the Charles River, have been challenged in a manner that has rarely been annotated in the annals of modern military history. We are laying siege to an army, the greatest army in the world, that is commanded by my old friend Billy Howe. We have Howe’s forces surrounded with more than 15,000 men. By such accounting of said assets, one would presume we have an overwhelming advantage. Unfortunately, there is a debit side to our calculations. We have very little gunpowder and barely a handful of artillery pieces. Although daily drills continue, most all of our men have no battlefield experience. ’Tis a daunting challenge that will be made ever more unnerving six weeks from now, at year’s end, when half the troops will leave as their enlistments expire. He paused, took the quill that was resting near its ink bottle on his desk and stroked the vanes.

As I said, never before has an army been in a situation such as ours. One option to remedy this conundrum is to unleash the troops, allowing them to cross the river and have at it with the regulars.

A frontal attack? Knox offered with ill-conceived skepticism.

The corners of Washington’s mouth rose slightly, closely simulating a rare smile. The same reaction my fellow generals exhibit in their labors to dissuade me from following through with such a plan. Stir into the mix that most of the militia units have no battlefield experience, my staff prophesizes a blood bath of disastrous proportions.

Knox squirmed in his chair, causing it once again to emit a creaking cry of misery. Knox felt compelled to reply but paused and chose his words carefully. The men make strides, was all that he thought he should offer without eliciting either comment or disagreement. When Washington noncommittedly nodded, Knox presumed his response was the most appropriate one.

Washington extended his right hand and raised three fingers. Marginally trained soldiers, minimal gunpowder, scarce artillery. Three most glaring deficiencies as we prosecute this siege by keeping the grandest army in the world cooped up like rabbits in their warren. Three problems, none of which that blasted army across the river can take credit for. I shall endeavor to correct the first deficiency. I shall rely upon you to help resolve the other two dilemmas that will allow us to move on from this stalemate in which we are mired; allow us to move on and dictate the course of this confrontation.

Knox’s eyes widened and then blinked several times. Washington continued. We are aware of a cache of artillery that has, well, that has been dumped into our lap.

Knox, with more confidence in his voice, offered, Fort Ticonderoga?

Washington nodded. Reports available to us suggest many of the artillery pieces are serviceable. Colonel Arnold told me firsthand about the fort’s inventory and General Schuyler confirmed as much. Colonel Arnold, if you recall, was part of the entourage which included those Green Mountain bully boys who captured the fort last spring without firing a shot.

Yes sir. I remember quite well, was Knox’s reply.

Good that you do. It shall be your task, if you accept such a challenge, to travel to Fort Ticonderoga and return to us with as many cannons as you can transport, and as much powder and shot as you may carry. The want of the guns is so great that no trouble or expense must be spared to obtain them, Washington emphasized.

Knox’s heart leapt at the thought, but he steeled his nerves and made no immediate reply. Feeling his pulse quicken again, he took in a deep breath to control his nerves. T’would be my honor, sir, was offered now with genuine sincerity.

The good work you exhibit with your troops has not gone unnoticed. You will gather yourself and set off at your earliest convenience. Your orders and cash for expenses will be available to you on the morrow. Men, laborers and pack animals may be secured once you reach New York. I shall leave the planning of this operation to you to decide as conditions dictate.

Washington set the quill aside and allowed Knox to absorb the import of his order. The success of this siege and the fate of this army will be dependent upon the success of your efforts. ’Tis an arduous task you accept, not one to be accepted lightly.

Washington paused, allowing the import of his message to sink into this small mountain of a man. And by the way, when you return, I suspect you shall be Colonel Knox. I’ve submitted supporting documentation to Congress to make it so.

Knox could no longer restrain his emotions and was helpless as a broad smile crossed his face. Thank you, sir.

That will be all, Washington replied as Knox left the room. He won’t be so quick to thank me, Washington thought, when he’s up to that broad arse of his in snow drifts in the Berkshire Mountains. Although the likelihood for success of the operation was limited, Washington told himself that at the very least he was trying to make use of Fort Ticonderoga and its assets. For six months since its capture May last, the fort had been an ‘item,’ a ‘situation,’ a ‘predicament.’ To many in Congress it was an embarrassment, even for those with strong Whig sentiments. The fighting that erupted at Lexington and Concord was an exhibition against tyranny that had been simmering and worsening for several years. The battle on the Charleston peninsula at Bunker’s Hill was a demonstration of the Continentals’ verve and courage and was a near success for the militia units. Few could deny, however, that Ticonderoga’s capture was a seditious act of insurrectionists against the army of their mother country. In an undeclared war, freebooting colonial militia units attacked and captured a military installation still under the authority and auspices of The Crown. It was hardly a conquest about which congressmen could crow. Because the attack had been bloodless with nary a casualty on either side, congressmen tried to ignore the event with a wink and a nod, hoping that Great Britain wouldn’t concern itself with the back-water army installation. But now that real fighting had broken out, Washington abandoned such puerile thoughts and chose to use the fort for all it was worth.

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Now in the first week of December, 1775, Henry Knox was feeling good about himself and his situation. It had been less than three weeks since he had been given £1000 from General Washington, along with orders to proceed to Fort Ticonderoga. With his younger brother William at his side, Knox was engrossed inspecting the fort’s armaments. He determined that nearly sixty should be candidates for transport. As he walked the parapets for the third time, Henry could feel the excitement brewing inside him. William saw matters differently and sneered, Most of these carriages and limbers aren’t worth a tinker’s damn. The wood’s rotted and useless and hardly good enough for the fireplace.

That much less we have to transport, Henry countered. New limbers and caissons and stanchions can be made once the guns reach Boston.

You saw the General’s marks on the cannons he thought proper for transport, Sergeant Goodman offered. Goodman and the other members of his New York militia unit served as garrison troops for the fort, now that the troops from Connecticut and the Green Mountains had returned home.

I did. It would appear that General Schuyler and I are singing out of the same hymnal, for I agree with his selections. Knox struggled to suppress the grin that had become a near permanent fixture on his face upon arriving at the fort. Like the little boy in the candy shoppe, he was pleased by nearly everything he spied. The fort itself had a strange footprint on the land that jutted south into Lake Champlain and Henry silently offered kudos to the fort’s designer. Basically square in configuration, it sported two extra projections on the northern and western face of the fort to protect it from land assaults. The fort’s irregular perimeter created additional fields of fire for the cannons, maximizing their ability to bring enfilade and raking fire on approaching troops. On the southern exposure, 100 feet beyond the fort’s walls, a battery of two dozen cannons peered out onto the lake, waiting to wreak havoc on passing enemy watercraft or deny an assault from the water.

Henry Knox’s treasure trove of artillery ranged from 3 pounder cannons to a massive 24 pounder brass cannon that weighed no less than 5,000 pounds. Several howitzers and mortars would also be making the trip. The immediate objective was to transport the artillery to the northern point landing of Lake George. Next would be a 35-mile trip south on the lake to the abandoned Fort George. From there it would be on to Albany and points east through the Berkshire Mountains. Knox was counting on a heavy snowfall to make the overland trek a breeze.

Once all the pieces were identified and inventoried Henry said, First things first; the landing at Lake George.

Sergeant Goodman offered, It’s four miles from here to the landing as the crow flies.

Would that we had a bird big enough …, Henry mumbled to himself.

Thank the heavens that the southern end of Lake Champlain here is juxtaposed to the northern end of Lake George, William offered. Almost a straight route.

Straight but not direct, Goodman added. There is a river what connects the two lakes; more a creek than a river. Problem is, it’s not passable by boat, broken up as it is with falls and rocks and is mostly uphill.

Knox blew into his hands to warm them from the chill in the December air. His breath gave off a strange low, piercing sound as it whistled through his deformed left hand. The locals tell me there are two routes to the northern point by boat. We can loop around from the east and north and get access to a trail cut in the woods. Or, we can cross the estuary to the southwest of the fort, access a well-used road and haul, drag and push the beasts to the landing. We’ll use both routes to start and continue with the route that affords us the most rapid transit.

Both Goodman and William nodded their understanding. Goodman pointed toward the lake and said, We’ll be using them bateaux down yonder. We have plenty of them. The 25-foot long bateaux were broad beamed, shallow draft vessels pointed on either end designed to carry heavy cargo.

On their travels from Boston, Henry and William first went to New York City to secure rope and wagons and other hauling equipment. They also made arrangements with farmers and mechanics to be available when they reached Fort George and Albany. Sergeant, if you would, please make available troops to assist my teamsters with the guns. Goodman nodded in agreement. Henry turned up the collar of his coat and sighed. Alright Billy, these babies aren’t going to move themselves. Get the men to work, referring to the soldiers from the fort and nearly 300 men who had been hired from the local villages to help them.

The hired men sprang into action. Some were inspired by patriotic fervor and others were motivated by the promise of hard cash for their efforts. Bateaux moved the artillery pieces by both water routes as planned and encountered minimal difficulties. Once on land, the smaller pieces were hoisted onto wagons and carried to the landing at Lake George. The mammoth pieces were wrestled onto sledges and several yokes of oxen were employed to move them along the trails. Two full days were required to move all the pieces and none were damaged in the process.

Although the calendar read that it was the second week in December, Lake George had not yet frozen over. The artillery would have to float the 35 miles down the lake to Fort George. Not a problem, Ezra Dunker announced as he stuffed cut tobacco into the side of his mouth. Dunker was a farmer whose land was adjacent to the landing. Henry Knox had hired Dunker to facilitate the passage through an intermediary party. You’ll use what I use to move my crops.

He waved in the direction of a large craft that was nearly 100 feet from bow to stern. It was no less than 20 feet wide and had one mast at midships with furled sails. Looks like a scow but we call her a gundalow, Dunker said as he spit out a sluice of tobacco juice. Ain’t got much draft and she’ll carry the better part of what you want to move. Got a handful of 25-foot bat-toes for the smaller pieces. Knox had little options other than to nod his head in agreement and watch as the men loaded his weapons. He secured a smaller pirogue for himself and set off ahead of his cargo. He left his brother to command the gundalow and its convoy. Henry encountered little difficulty traversing the lake and arrived at Fort George with one chilly overnight. To his bewilderment and chagrin, it would be another week before he would see all of his artillery arrive.

First night on the water the winds turned against us, William explained upon finally reuniting with his brother.

Same down here, said Henry. I was unable to backtrack to meet up with you.

Third day out the tub banged on a rock and started to sink, William continued. Swamped we were, damn near up to the gunnels. Fortunately, we were close to shore. The men got her patched and we bailed her out and got her floating again. When the winds were against us the men had to row for all they were worth to keep from floating backwards. Had to row damn near every day for hours on end. Did I mention how cold it was? Well, it got a helluva lot colder at night. One morning ice locked in the boats and we had to hack our way out.

Henry picked his way from one craft to the next, counting as he went. To his delight all of the artillery pieces had weathered the journey.

By all observations, Fort George was a sorry sight. Pummeled during the war with the French and abandoned before the war ended, she sat in dire need of repair. There were gaping holes in the palisades and the roof on the barracks whistled continuously in response to even the lightest of breezes. Despite their complaints, the hired laborers preferred the disheveled conditions to the brisk open air.

The basics of the plan were simple; load the weapons onto sleighs and sleds and pull them across the snow-covered fields and frozen Hudson River. Somewhere south of Albany, turn east and it would be downhill the rest of the way to Boston. Knox boasted as much in a letter he sent to his wife. We shall cut no small figure in going through the Country with our Cannon, Mortars, etc., drawn by eighty yoke of oxen. To his commander he wrote:

Fort George [N.Y.]

Decr 17. 1775.

May it please your Excellency

I returned from Ticonderoga to this place on the 15th instant and brought with me the Cannon etc. It having taken nearly the time I conjectured it would to transport them here. It is not easy to conceive the difficulties we have had in getting them over the lake owing to the advanced Season of the Year and contrary winds, three days ago it was very uncertain whether we could have gotten them over until next Spring, but now please God they shall go. I have made forty-two exceeding strong sleds and have provided eighty yoke of Oxen to drag them as far as Springfield where I shall get fresh Cattle to carry them to Camp…

At present the sledding is tolerable to Saratoga about 26 Miles; beyond that there is none. I … expect to begin to move them to Saratoga on Wednesday or Thursday next, trusting that between this and that period we shall have a fine fall of Snow which will enable us to proceed further and make the Carriage easy; if that should be the case I hope in 16 or 17 days to be able to present to your Excellency a Noble train of Artillery, the Inventory of which I’ve inclosed…

I am with the utmost Respect Your Excellency’s Most Obdt Humble Servant

Henry Knox

Like any plan, the devil was in the details. One significant detail to cause Henry Knox extreme discomfort was the snow – or lack thereof. A not so welcome thaw enveloped the region. The closest the weather came to snow was the occasional overnight frost. It would not snow for another seven days.

TWO

T he tall, broad shouldered man wearing the blue military coat with buff facings on the lapels stood before the window on the second floor of the Vassall House that towered high on Brattle Street in Cambridge. The home was the former residence of the loyalist Major John Vassall, Jr. He and his family had fled to the confines of Boston proper and the protection of His Majesty’s army this past spring. On several occasions during the past six months, General George Washington had been reminded of the irony that the commander of the American forces, now in opposition to His Majesty’s forces, had established his headquarters in the very same building that previously housed the brother-in-law of Thomas Oliver, the despised Lieutenant Governor of Massachusetts.

Washington no longer gave the issue a second thought. What did presently occupy his mind was the spectacle unfolding along the banks of the Charles River below his window. Small boats and barges had crossed the river to land on the Cambridge side and were offloading civilians. They were dressed in rags and tatters with nary a one wearing a hat to stave of the bitter cold. Winter weather had arrived in Boston and was making its bitter presence known. It was the second such landing in as many weeks. The 300 previous émigrés had been a sorry lot. All were nearly starved and many were afflicted with varying degrees of dysentery and lung inflammations. Dr. John Morgan, Director General of the hospitals for the army, evaluated them and reported to His Excellency that several arrived with symptoms suggestive for the smallpox. Upon his arrival from Philadelphia one month ago, one of Morgan’s first priorities was to establish a hospital, separate and apart from all the others, dedicated solely to the care of patients with active or supposed smallpox. Such an act was having a positive impact on the health of the army.

The transport of so many diseased wretches caused an uproar that was instantaneous. His fellow generals and members of the Massachusetts Provincial Congress blasted accusations that General William Howe was now engaging in a dastardly and deceitful form of infectious and epidemic warfare. Howe denied all charges of course and pleaded he was acting in the most humanitarian manner possible. He chose to doubly exhibit his good intentions by allowing a second batch of forlorn to return to their friends and family. The gruff General Israel Putnam from Connecticut termed the act a ‘second volley.’

As the General studied the proceedings down below, he was heartened when he saw the person of Dr. Morgan come upon the scene. Morgan had assured him that if any subsequent landings were to arrive, he would sequester all of them for examination. Those healthy enough to meet his satisfaction would be released, those in dire need of medical treatment would be admitted to a hospital and those suspected of carrying the smallpox would be quarantined in houses where those currently afflicted were confined.

Washington returned to his desk where neat piles of letters and reports covered the left side of it, spilling onto the nearby desk of Colonel Joseph Reed. Last month Reed, his aide-de-camp, returned to Philadelphia to tend to business, legal and family matters. Washington missed Reed in many ways. His missed his administrative thoroughness. He missed having a sounding board for his complaints and lamentations. He missed Reed’s patience and honest rapport. Since Reed’s departure, Washington and Reed had fallen into the habit of exchanging letters. The correspondence afforded The General an opportunity to vent his frustrations with his current state of affairs and to solicit suggestions that might ease his miseries.

As he sat at his desk, he set aside the letter he was writing to Reed and re-read the missive he had received from his Philadelphia friend. A smile crossed his face when he came to the passage that described how warmly his wife Martha and their son Jacky, with wife, had been treated when they passed through the city on their trip from Mount Vernon to join Washington in Cambridge. Crowds gathered, church bells sang out and an escort of militia-associators shepherded them as far as Trenton.

The other piles of papers and letters on his desk were a mixed bag of misery. The notice of the October burning of Falmouth in the Maine territory by the British Navy was heart rendering. From the accounts he received from members of the Massachusetts Provincial Congress, a full day’s worth of cannonading from the ships was followed by roving teams of sailors and marines who set fire to buildings unscathed from the bombardment. More than 400 homes, churches, warehouses and stores had been destroyed. Thousands were now homeless, made worse with the advent of winter and the loss of food reserves. Money was being raised and shelters were being erected as quickly as possible, but the militaristic attack upon a civilian population not only was unprecedent in their current struggle, it stoked the anger of a population which repeatedly considered itself oppressed.

Beside it rested a broadside Washington had read several times. The official title was A Proclamation for Suppressing Rebellion and Sedition, and was King George III’s response to the news Westminster had received of the accounts of the battle at Bunker’s Hill. To Washington, it was full and unquestioned recognition that he and his troops that surrounded the King’s embattled army in Boston had done more than tweak the nose of the mighty lion. Words and terms such as ‘traitor’ and ‘rebellion’ appeared repeatedly, highlighted by accusations that he and his compatriots were traitorously preparing, ordering and levying war against the mother country of England.

Not so, Washington seethed as he re-read the pamphlet once more. He wasn’t so naïve as to believe that he and his fellow Americans were only treading on the wrong side of routine civil disobedience. What he and his fellow members of congress mostly wanted was to be heard. They wanted to be recognized. They wanted to have their concerns and complaints addressed. What so enraged and infuriated so many was the shabby treatment and punitive edicts thrust upon them by Parliament. Thus, the fighting at Lexington and Concord and the slaughter on the Charlestown peninsula. Such a proclamation also emboldened those who raised their voices for separation from Great Britain and full independence.

My Dear Joseph, he scratched on the paper and went on to tell of the scarcity of firewood due to rising prices, causing many of the men to eat their dinners cold. Such a shortage has resulted in the extinction of fence railings, posts and unsuspecting outbuildings, in the surrounding countryside. He eyed a report from Nathaniel Greene and wrote that The shortage of gunpowder is so severe that 30 men in each company are being trained with spears.

He glanced at the sheet of paper sticking out from beneath another report. His lips thinned as he unconsciously ground his teeth, for he was reminded of what the letter said and of the large X he had scratched upon it in response. It was the written demands of the troops from Connecticut whose enlistments were set to expire within the week. Improved rations. Improved accommodations. Bounties. Bounties! he spit out once again. Many of the remaining troops hadn’t been paid in months and these poltroons were demanding bounties. Several of the Connecticut troops, not waiting for their enlistments to expire, jumped the gun and started for home this past week. Washington found it necessary to dispatch Massachusetts troops to corral them and return them to camp.

True enough, recruitment was going slowly with no more than a few thousand willing to join the ranks. Re-enlistments among the current troops was progressing even worse. In the face of such a predicament he had written to the provincial councils of Massachusetts and New Hampshire requesting 3,000 and 2,000 militia troops respectively. Our situation is truly alarming, and of this General Howe is well apprised. No doubt when he is reinforced, he will avail himself of the information. He shared his ever-lessening patience for the New Englanders by complaining to Reed that, I have never seen such a dearth of public spirit and want of virtue among these people. A dirty, mercenary spirit pervades the lot.

A knock on the door of his office produced the familiar face of his servant Billy Lee. Billy had traveled with Washington from Virginia and was a warm reminder of home and a faithful provider of so many of his needs. Sir, Dr. Maier.

Send him in, Washington commanded.

An elderly wretch filled the doorway; waistcoat ripped and torn, blouse a soiled rag, stockings fallen to his ankles, missing one shoe. Atop his head was an unruly, greasy mop of gray hair, absent a hat, that extended down below his ears. His face had red blotches with crusts that appeared to be weeping. A wispy gray beard dangled from his dirty chin and provided a Methuselean quality to his being. His hands were covered with soot and trembled from being near frost-bitten. My apologies, sir, for not making myself more presentable. Dr. Morgan passed on your request that I see you immediately upon landing, so I hurried here as soon as the British sailors casted off. The voice was that of a young man, belying the apparent age of its owner.

Never mind, Dr. Maier, his commander replied as Billy returned to the office with a wet towel. No trouble I presume with your passage?

Maier wasn’t his name but it was the name his general had given him when he first dispatched the young man on secret missions in disguise. Jacob Breithaupt was his given name and true enough he was a physician, an apothecary by training. Twenty-year-old Breithaupt was nearly as tall as his general but his frame was still thin and had not yet filled out. He was cousin to Dr. Tamanend Maier, with whom Washington was much more familiar, and from whom he gained his nom de guerre. Jacob also was cousin to Tamanend’s brother, Dr. Christian Maier, who served as a volunteer physician with the British army.

Jacob peeled off his beard, saying, John Scollay and the other selectmen retained by General Howe provided cover for me when I was in the town. When the troops started to gather so many of the unfortunate, they allowed me the proper audience to demonstrate my infirmities. He used the wet towel to wipe away the grime and crusts, revealing a face with a smooth complexion, bronze tinted skin and the high cheekbones of his half-Lenape father.

Allow me to confirm the rumors, Jacob continued, that General Howe is sending victims suffering from the smallpox to our shores. He displayed to his general the towel with the red-tinged crusts. Oatmeal mixed in sour port wine. Dr. Morgan has found others who look similar but are in a much worse state.

Billy returned to the office with another wet towel and offered a tankard of steaming liquid to Jacob. Mulled wine, sir, for those cold bones of yours.

Jacob smiled and thanked the man. Washington said expectantly, Sit, Dr. Maier, and give me your report.

It would be a lengthy report he would reduce to writing later in the day, but currently he opened, The town is in worse condition that we are in our camps. Hardly a tree stands, and the Liberty Tree on Essex Street has had its branches sheered. Vacant homes, barns and warehouses are being torn down. There is talk of dismantling the Old North Church. Food is in short supply and talk abounds of supply ships being diverted because of storms at sea and the roving privateers.

Yes, Washington said by way of agreeing with him. The deserters who come across do so more for a solid meal than for love of liberty. With a smile he handed a letter to Jacob who placed his tankard on the floor. "A report recently received, just as you say. The British ordnance brig Nancy was captured by one of our privateers and now is berthed at Cape Ann. I’ve sent wagons to offload her. Thousands of muskets and bayonets. Hundreds of thousands of flints and tons of shot. More than Congress could provide us in six months. Truly a divine favor."

But no gunpowder, Jacob commented.

Perhaps on the next captured ship. What more did you overhear?

Word about troop movements. I masqueraded as a beggar and haunted the provincial house where finely tuned ears might overhear the grumblings of the soldiers. As you know, General Howe received orders to move his command out of Boston to relocate in the region of York City. He received this notice too late and winter arrived too early. Such relocation is now planned for the spring. Also, reinforcements are due to arrive this month with more to follow in the spring. For both General Howe and for the command in Canada.

Was there any talk of a raid or attack in strength against us? Washington asked, giving voice to his most deadly fear; a daily fear.

None that I heard, sir.

What of the current troops, Dr. Maier? The regulars? Washington asked.

Officers of course are faring well. No shortages for them. They have their play-acting and their parties. Talk of General Howe’s mistress is commonplace in the streets, so he’s staying warm at nights. The private soldiers are suffering as badly as the Boston inhabitants, if not worse. Men are being lost to disease or desertions daily. Pilfering is a problem and the sight of men hanging from tree limbs does little to dissuade thieves or reassure those who are the victims. Loyalists are being recruited into army companies. Irishmen are being grouped together as a unit, separate and apart from citizen companies of English blood. There is also a company of deserters from our lines. I suspect they are being kept separate from the regulars so they don’t infect the regulars into thinking they might wander across the lines.

Low spirits. Low on provisions. Troops shortages. What do you hear of their stores of munitions? Gunpowder shortages?

Not much one way or the other. No doubt that captured ordnance brig may present issues long term, but presently there is no grumbling.

Anxious as ever to pounce and take advantage of a favorable situation, Washington posited, How ready are they for a concentrated attack?

An attack on their lines? Jacob asked for clarification and His Excellency nodded. The surprised look on Jacob’s face showed he was ill prepared for the question. Not so much that he was a physician by trade and a neophyte in subterfuge and the gathering of intelligence, but that the army’s commander should ask such a profound question of one so new to the military world. Washington allowed him time to consider the question and its import. Jacob reviewed what he had seen over the past few weeks, gathered himself and replied, They are well entrenched, sir. Nearly every street shows signs of fortification. They are well protected in their rear by their navy’s ships. Their shorelines are well patrolled, which makes a river crossing precarious. A land assault across The Neck, the narrow land bridge connecting Boston to the mainland, would be a frontal attack against a position that is heavily garrisoned and fortified with quite a few heavy cannons. It could be accomplished but the cost might be…

Washington raised a hand causing Jacob to pause. What he was hearing was what he had heard many times in the past six months; from other intelligence gatherers and from his own generals. Possible but at a cost. A deadly and expensive cost. Good work, Dr. Maier. I await your written report. Now go downstairs and get a hot meal.

Any news yet from Quebec? Jacob asked, concerned about Tammany’s wellbeing.

The men are making ready for an attack but no further news yet, Washington answered. Jacob exited, leaving his commander to his own thoughts. Although Washington had heard no confirmation that an invasion from across the river was imminent, he would continue with orders for the troops to improve their fortifications and extend their entrenchments. They would make up for their lack of gunpowder with felled trees that were impregnable and continue to construct abatis with sharpened spears that were deadly. Turnabout should be fair play. If the regulars were to launch an attack across the Charles River against his troops, he would oblige and make such an effort a costly one. A deadly and expensive cost.

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Washington refused to attend what General Charles Lee described to as a ‘procession,’ despite Lee’s reassurances that the Connecticut troops had earned such derision. Although he had never witnessed such a spectacle, he had no stomach for it this morning. The enlistments for the Connecticut soldiers expired and only a very few had chosen to re-enlist for twelve additional months. The remainder were hell bent on abandoning the army and its struggles, instead planning to return to their homes and farms. Lee’s plan was to march the departing troops past the assembled men of the other provinces’ divisions. His hope was the catcalling and hooting and hollering from men who had endured similar hardships would somehow cause a change of heart, or a change of conscience in the Connecticut soldiers, to result in an avalanche of re-enlistments. General Washington held no such opinion. He had listened to his officers and chaplains pleading with the troops not to abandon what was now being referred to as our glorious cause. He himself had addressed the troops, as he had addressed the troops from the other New England provinces whose enlistments also were in their waning days. He observed little or no success. Following the procession, he was certain Lee would pour into them with a blistering tirade, valiantly hoping to draw out that last ounce of commitment.

Washington chose not to become a party to it. No, not today. He was in no mood for such melodrama. His mind was consumed with the dispatch he had received last evening. In it was a copy of the Pennsylvania Journal and Weekly Advertiser published on December 6th, along with a letter from John Hancock. He didn’t require Hancock’s letter to explain what he read in the newspaper, nor did he require the hyperbole offered by the newspaper’s editor. What John Murray, currently the Earl of Dunmore and governor of Virginia, had written was quite clear. He had declared martial law throughout all of Virginia. He required every man to take up arms in defense of the Crown in order to avoid being branded a traitor. He also threatened to confiscate lands and enact summary executions upon those who chose to decline. Most galling of all, Murray freed all indentured servants and Negroes ‘appertaining to Rebels’ if they would join and bear arms for the King’s troops.

He had known John Murray since his early days in Virginia some five years ago. During that time they had dined together and played whist together. They even had spoken of buying land together in the Ohio territory. Over the ensuing years their cordial friendship cooled and drifted from distant to remote. Such was typical for the deterioration in relationships Lord Dunmore experienced with many of the landed gentry in the commonwealth. Dunmore stopped listening to his constituents who continued to speak louder and more often. He infuriated members of The House of Burgesses when he disbanded the legislative assembly, the oldest in the colonies. He ran afoul of the militia when he confiscated Williamsburg’s stores of ammunition. Matters degenerated so severely that in the spring he was forced from the Governor’s Mansion and took up residence on the HMS Fowey in the York River, along with his family. From there he exhibited his venomous cruelty by ordering raids and attacks on Virginia’s coastal towns.

From a distance Washington was not sheltered from such wanton acts. He had received more than a few letters from friends who remained behind, informing him that Dunmore had designs on Mount Vernon. More than a few letters suggested Dunmore had plans to take Washington’s wife Martha into custody. There was only so much he could do about Mount Vernon, other than to send advice and encouragement to his cousin Lund Washington who was business manager of the estate and plantation. He was, however, disturbed by the threats to Martha and took them seriously. In October he set in motion plans for her to spend the winter with him.

Martial law, although unnecessary, would be poorly enforceable and sneered at by the Virginia population. Rousting the citizenry to support the governor and the king were to be expected, although the draconian manner by which it was being presented was laughable. But the issue with the servants and Negroes… John Murray was doing the unthinkable. He was facilitating what southerners had feared and avoided for the past 150 years. He was confiscating the property of the men of Virginia. More significantly he was freeing slaves and providing them with arms. He was fomenting a state whereby liberated slaves might turn against all whites. Such uprisings in the south and in the Caribbean were common enough to justify the fear. Negroes in Virginia alone outnumbered whites by a margin of two or three to one.

There was another tangent to this edict that was obvious. The exodus of slaves that Dunmore encouraged would provide the manpower to replenish and support his limited troops. Such a tactic very well might be duplicated by the remaining royal governors of the other southern provinces. Washington closed his eyes and allowed his imagination to conjure regiments of Ethiopian troops, dressed in red jackets, marching in an endless procession across the crop fields of his plantation at Mount Vernon.

Dunmore’s army wasn’t the only army in need of more soldiers. Washington was reminded of the many men of color he had seen standing in the ranks and working side by side with the white soldiers in his army. He also was aware of several Indians among the troops. He involuntarily blinked several times as the name ‘Dr. Tamanend Maier’ crossed his mind. To date few had served more courageously and with more dedication to their cause than Maier. During the war with the French, Washington never had good experiences with the Indian tribes. No doubt Maier was the exception as to how Indian troops performed, reasoning the Indian blood that flowed in the Major Maier’s veins was watered down.

Colored troops. He and the other generals reviewed the matter in the October council of war. Discussion swirled as to where the right or responsibility might lie regarding the enlistment of men of color; with the individual provinces or with the emerging nation. Where or how should Congress come into the conversation? At the time, it was decided unanimously that no slaves would be admitted to the army, colored or otherwise. By a majority vote it was decided that no negroes would be recruited into the army. At that time. That time was not now. Then, the army had more soldiers than it knew what to do with them. Now, the army was in want of soldiers, experienced or otherwise.

Experienced. What of the Negro soldiers now in the army, those standing shoulder to shoulder with the white soldiers? Certainly, all were volunteers. He presumed nearly all were free men. He speculated that nearly all of them came to the army surrounding Boston for the same reasons their white counterparts came to Boston. He knew that many Negroes were serving aboard the many privateers and was led to understand all served their ship captains well. Otherwise they would have been removed from the crews. He cringed when he envisioned a colored soldier standing next to a southern soldier. How would the Northern soldiers react to the disdain, real or perceived, that the southern soldier might show to their colored counterparts? He would have to give the matter more thought.

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Martha arrived with much fanfare. Church bells rang and the regimental bands played as she was welcomed by all of the companies before whom she passed. The General decreed the day a holiday, allowing the troops to vacate their routine chores, except for those on guard. Everywhere she went moods were lightened and spirits uplifted. The Vassall House took on the atmosphere more of a home than a military headquarters. The General also allowed himself time to spend with his adoptive son Jacky and his bride of 18 months, Nelly. In Washington’s mind, Christmas had come early to Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Billy Lee knocked on the open door of his office. Private Poor, as you requested.

Enter, was the command. Billy walked through the doorway and behind him followed a Negro man in the dress of his Massachusetts company: brown homespun shirt, woolen breeches cinched with a rope around the waist, heavy work boots and a blanket draped over his shoulders. He held his round, broad-brimmed hat in his hands. He took three steps into the room and stood to attention.

Private Salem Poor, reporting as requested.

Washington silently looked him over. Poor was much darker than Billy, consistent with Billy being a mulatto. Poor stood tall, erect, like a soldier. At ease, Private. I have a report here from your commander, Captain Ames. The report is also signed by Colonel Prescott and a dozen other officers who observed your actions during the fighting in Charlestown June last. Words like ‘gallant’ and ‘brave’ were used to describe your acts.

Poor had no response at first. After a short pause the only thing he could think to say was, Doin’ my duty, sir.

Washington exhibited his thin-lipped smile where only the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. His reply to Poor was the same he offered to other soldiers who had received similar commendations. You certainly did, and if I had 5,000 more soldiers like you, this battle would be… He stopped, unsure if he had caught himself too late. It was a standard and routine response he had spoken many times before, but never had he spoken such to a man of color. If I had 5,000 more soldiers like you. He had known in advance that Salem Poor was a Negro. It said so in the report where he read, ‘We Would Only beg leave to say in the Person of this Negro Centers a Brave & gallant Soldier.’ Washington re-organized his thoughts and said, By way of rumor I understand you took down a colonel during that day of fighting.

Possible sir. There were a great many people running wild that day. Some officers might have run into one of my shots.

You bring honor to the other men in your company and to your province of Massachusetts.

Thank you, sir.

Washington ignored his inclination to query the man regarding the expiration of his enlistment. He saw no need to muddy any waters this morning or take anything away from the soldier’s accomplishments. Instead he did something out of character for him. I shall forward this report to the General Court of Massachusetts. They have been known, at time, to pay cash prizes or bonuses for the gallantry of their soldiers. Your story is certainly one worth considering.

Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, was Poor’s reply.

That’s all. You’re dismissed. The soldier left with a smile from one ear to the other. He also left Washington pondering the need to retain experienced soldiers and the quandary of whether to offer re-enlistments to the Negro troops.

THREE

T he man wearing the frayed woolen pea jacket stood at the quay among the others who meandered alongside him. He may have been taller than the others but by all appearances the years had not been kind to him. Those who stood behind him noted the bend in his spine, tilting forward and to the right, that robbed him of the height he no doubt enjoyed in his younger years. His watch cap was pulled down over his ears but strands of gray hair escaped it and curled up and around it. A dark colored bandana crossed his forehead on a slant and covered his right eye, suggesting that it hid either an infirmity or a vacant socket. His pantaloons, streaked with caked-on tar, ended abruptly below his knees and were tucked into woolen stockings that were secured by cords formerly used as ship’s caulking. His shoes were plain and dilapidated. He wore remnants of gloves with most of the fingers missing. He did not appear to be all that much different from the other seasoned mates who loitered at the wharf. Even those who were inclined to study him would be left unsure whether he had been an ordinary jack tar, a rated seaman or even a petty officer.

Those on the dock were onlookers and gogglers. Their attention was fixed on the HMS Herbert, a naval transport ship now berthed at Griffin’s Wharf. No doubt several of the old salts thought it ironic that the Herbert should be tied up in the near exact same waters where all those chests of tea had been dumped two years past. But the old man was not at the docks to reminisce. He had other chores more important.

Soldiers in their crimson red uniforms had been offloading for the past half hour and forming up further down the pier. Their actions amused the old timer. After being at sea on board ship for the past seven or eight weeks, wide grins were the norm as they stomped their feet and lifted up on their toes to test the dock and confirm they were firmly planted, no longer subject to the roiling of the seas.

The old man lit up his pipe and hobbled to where the soldiers stood with their kits. Welcome, welcome, he croaked in a hoarse voice similar in pitch to the grinding of a whetstone. Who needs a fill? he asked and opened his tobacco pouch. Pipes appeared and the tobacco was shared.

Where you got the wimmen stashed?

Just make sure all them grog shops is open.

You’d think you people would’ve had this whole mess sewed up tight before we got here.

The old man grunted and replied, Don’t worry none. They’s enough of them traitorous bastids out there to go ’round for all of ye. Your commanders will point you in the right direction.

You signing up too, Grandpa? asked a young soldier whose face was blotched with pimples.

The old man emitted a deep, gravelly cough and replied, "Served me time I did. Sailed with Admiral Hawke in ’59 on the Royal George. Whilst you was still sucking on a sugar teat we trapped the frogs in Quiberon Bay. What we didn’t sink we