Bunker Hill Read Free Page A

preceded him, and since he lived with a
dream of politics as seduction, he was almost always disappointed.
    In reply
to Clinton’s question, Margaret Gage told her husband that Dr. Benjamin Church
had been there.
    “We’ll
have tea, my dear, if it’s no trouble. With a bottle of
sherry or Madeira. I think the Madeira would be better.”
    “I don’t
want him in my house again!” Mrs. Gage said.
    “Really, my dear.”
    “Please
understand me, Thomas. He is a disgusting man, and he disgusts me.”
    “But why suddenly? You know how useful
he is to me.”
    “You want to know why? In front of
these gentlemen?”
    “I have no secrets from them.”
    “Very well. He made
advances.”
    “Dr.
Church?” Gage exclaimed in amazement. “That fat, foolish
little man! Oh, no, my dear. You must be mistaken. What advances?”
    “He
fondled my tits, if you must, sir!” she cried out in a rage, then turned on her
heel and left the room.
    Burgoyne
stifled his grin, and they all looked at Gage, who whispered, “Well, I’ll be
damned!”
    “None of
our business,” Clinton said.
    “Talk for
yourself, son,” said Howe. “I’m dying of curiosity, and devil
take the niceties! Who is this bastard? The man wants a whipping.”
    “Dr.
Benjamin Church.” Gage sighed. “Oh, no. No indeed. You don’t want to whip him, Sir William. He’s a
fat little man, half your size, and he’s a sort of nasty treasure to me. I
always think of him as a toad. You see, he’s a very important muckamuck among
the rebels. Great patriot. Member of
the Committee of Safety. Sits in on all their
important meetings. Absolutely invaluable. And
I bought him. Offer and purchase—fifty pounds for the dirty little swine. But I
can’t treat him like a gentleman. He’s much too important to me. You can see
what a wretched mess this whole thing is.” And with that, he followed his wife
out of the room.
    “I’ll be
damned!” said Howe.
    Burgoyne
wandered around the room, studying the hand-blocked wallpaper, the paintings,
the beautifully wrought Queen Anne side chairs. Good taste. It astonished him
how well they managed to live here at the edge of the wilderness. Clinton
watched him. Burgoyne was a playwright, a rotten one, as Clinton appraised him,
but still a playwright. If I ever write anything, it’ll be better than his,
Clinton thought. Books. We’re here to destroy, not to
write books. Still, he
    gets his silly plays produced.
    Howe was muttering, “Fondled
her tits, did he.”
    “Henry,”
Burgoyne said to Clinton, “this is a damn strange place, this America of yours.
How do you feel about it? I mean, how do you see yourself? One
of them or one of us?”
    “That’s an
odd question.”
    “You grew
up in the colonies. Where? In New York?”
    The
servants were setting up the tea, and Howe poured the Madeira. Gage rejoined
them.
    “Terribly
sorry,” Burgoyne said to him.
    “She’s in
a pet. I don’t blame her,” Gage said. “She loves this place, you know. And she
blames us. We’re going to make a war and destroy it.”
    “Not
necessarily,” Howe said.
    The
servants put the chairs to the table, and Gage motioned for them to sit down.
    “Not
necessarily,” Howe said again.
    Sir
William Howe had a reputation to uphold. All the Howes were friends of America,
a great, powerful family, a general, an admiral, a foot in the court. They sat
down with the king and talked to him face-to-face.
    We can
deal with our enemies, Clinton thought. God save us from our friends. Us, he
repeated to himself. Who is us and who the devil
am I? He had grown up here in this place, ten years of his youth in New York
City, where his father was governor. The whole thing made no damn sense
whatsoever—a British army pinned down in the little town of Boston by fifteen
thousand boys and grown men and old men who were filled with a senseless rage
generated by a senseless act. The act was Thomas Gage’s fault and Gage’s
stupidity. Gage had sent the army into