Bunker Hill Read Free Page B

their land, to the village of Concord,
to take away from them the gunpowder and the shot they had so carefully stored.
    They were playing a game, a
game filled with words of freedom and independence and the right to do as they
damn pleased, and then Gage joined their game, and the world went mad. You
don’t send generals to do a man’s job; you send the generals to kill.
    “Let’s
have a toast.” John Burgoyne lifted his glass. “His Majesty,
gentlemen.” He was grinning.
    The
bastard was thinking of Margaret Gage’s tits. This afternoon, perhaps, they
would decide the fate of the world, and Burgoyne was sitting there trying to
decide whether it was worth his while to seduce Margaret Gage. Well, how far
was that from his own thoughts? Howe wondered.
    The
servants brought cake and hard-boiled eggs and bread and sliced ham. Gage and
Howe ate hungrily. They had finished lunch an hour ago, and here they were
stuffing themselves again. Burgoyne sat with his smile and his thoughts.
Clinton poured himself more wine.
    “What do
you mean, not necessarily?” Clinton asked Howe.
    “Do
nothing. They’ll cool off and go home. They’re not soldiers. No one is paying
them or feeding them. They’ll be bloody well disenchanted in a week or two, if
they’re not already. Ask Thomas here,” Howe said, nodding at Gage.
    “I am
offended,” said Burgoyne.
    “He’s
right, you know,” Gage said. “They’re breaking up already. They’re in a much
more impossible situation than we are.”
    “I said I
was offended,” Burgoyne repeated.
    “Oh,
Christ, Johnny,” Clinton said, “what in hell are you offended about? Why don’t
you take your bleeding honor and shove it up your ass.”
    “How dare
you!” Burgoyne exploded.
    “Come on,
chaps,” Howe said. “We’re a lot of paunchy middle-aged men, not children.
You’ve been bitching all day, Henry.”
    “I’m
sorry.”
    “The hell you are!” Burgoyne snapped. “Talk to me like
that again, Clinton, and so help me God I’ll put you on a field of honor. So
help me, I will!”
    “Oh, yes,
yes, indeed,” Howe said, and Clinton reflected that he was nowhere such a fool
as he appeared. “They send the three best iron-assed generals they have over
here, and Henry Clinton and John Burgoyne work out the problem on a field of
honor. Score one for lunacy. Eat something, Henry. I can’t tolerate a man who
sneers at food.”
    “Johnny,
please end this right here,” Gage said worriedly.
    Burgoyne shrugged. “Ended.”
    “I’m
sorry,” said Clinton with cold formality. “That is an apology.”
    “Now about
the Yankees,’’ Howe continued. “Tell us, Thomas. What does it add up to? Have
they been going home? You have people like this wretched Dr. Church. What do
they say?”
    “It’s a
matter of hay—feed for their stock.”
    “You mean
for their horses here?”
    “No,
no—you know, most of them are farmers, what we call yeomen farmers back at
home, but they have land. Good God, that’s the crux of this place, all the land
in the world and no end to it as you move west. Well, they put pastures of it
to grass, and the grass is ready for the cutting between the middle of May and
the middle of June. That’s how they raise their stock—so much grass to feed so
many animals. They cut the grass now, and they cut it again in six or seven
weeks. It’s not fine grain, but it serves for feed. Well, today is the twelfth
of June, and it’s on to the end of the time for them. If they don’t cut the
grass, they will have to kill the animals.”
    “Then
they’ll go home?” Clinton asked with sudden interest.
    “Come on,
come on, you don’t win wars that way,” Burgoyne said.
    “Not
proper wars, but damn it all, this is no proper war, Johnny. They have no army,
no uniforms, no tactics. Heavens, they don’t even have
a table of organization, and the men from—well, say Connecticut—they won’t even
tolerate officers. They’re damn sodden with the leveler business,