General Howe agreed with him. A battle must be fought, and the sooner the better. Every moment saw the fortifications growing stronger. But what would be the outcome of a battle? Could he embark his army in boats, land at the foot of the hill, climb the steep ascent, and drive the rebels with the bayonet? At Bunker Hill there was only a rabble,—regiments without a commander; but now Mr. Washington was in command; his troops were in a measure disciplined. That he was energetic, far-seeing, and calculating, he could not doubt. Had he not transported heavy cannon across the country from Lake Champlain to bombard the town? Evidently Mr. Washington was a man who could bide his time. Such men were not likely to leave anything at haphazard. One third of those assaulting Bunker Hill had been cut down by the fire of the rebels. Could he hope for any less a sacrifice of his army in attacking a more formidable position, with the rebels more securely intrenched? It was not pleasant to contemplate the possible result, but an assault must be made.
From the housetop, Berinthia saw boats from the vessels in the harbor, gathering at Long Wharf. Drums were beating, troops marching. Abraham Duncan came with the information that four or five thousand men were to assault the works and drive the provincials pell-mell across the marshes to Roxbury. At any rate, that was the plan. He was sure it would be a bloody battle. Possibly, while General Howe was engaged at Dorchester Heights, Mr. Washington might be doing something else.
Neither General Howe nor any one within the British lines knew just what the provincial commander had planned,—that the moment the redcoats began the attack, General Israel Putnam, on Cobble Hill, between Charlestown and Cambridge, with four thousand men, would leap into boats, cross the Charles, and land on the Common; that General Nathanael Greene with a large force would advance from Roxbury, and together they would grind the British to powder, like corn in a mill.
It was mid-forenoon when Major Walden escorted General Washington across the marsh land and along the path to Dorchester Heights. The troops swung their hats and gave a cheer when they saw their commander ascending the hill. He lifted his hat, and thanked them for having constructed such strong intrenchments in so short a time.
“It is the fifth of March,” he said, “and I am sure you will remember it is the anniversary of the massacre of the Sons of Liberty.”
In Boston drums were beating, regiments marching; but suddenly the wind, which had blown from the west, changed to the east; and the sea waves were rolling up the bay, making it impossible for the Somerset, Scarborough, Boyne, and the other ships, to spread their sails and take position to bombard the works of the rebels; neither could General Howe embark the troops upon the dancing boats. The clouds were hanging low, and rain falling. Not till the wind changed and the sea calmed could there be a battle; General Howe must wait.
Night came; the rain was still pouring. The provincials wrapped their overcoats closely around them, kindled fires, ate their bread and beef, told stories, sang songs, and kept ward and watch through the dreary hours.
Morning dawned; the wind was still east, and the waves rolling in from the sea. With gloom upon his brow, General Howe with his telescope examined the fortifications. Could he hope to capture them? Doubtful. Exasperating, humiliating, the reflection that Mr. Washington was in a position to compel him to evacuate the town. Only a few days before, he had written Lord Dartmouth he was in no danger from the rebels; he only wished Mr. Washington would have the audacity to make a movement against him; but now he must pack up and be off, give up what he had held so long, and confess defeat. What would the king say? What the people of England? He did not like to think of what had come. But he must save the army. What of the citizens who had maintained their loyalty to the king? Should he leave them to the tender mercies of the exasperated provincials whose homes had been burned? He could not do that. If Theodore Newville, Nathaniel Coffin, or any of the thousand or more wealthy citizens were willing to remain loyal, if they were ready to become aliens and fugitives and exiles, he must do what he could for them.
“What is it, husband?” Mrs. Newville asked as Mr. Newville entered his house, and she beheld his countenance, white, haggard, and woe-begone.