Our Spirits is in a continual Ferment.
The Lord expounds here upon Variety.
We have builded our Camp anew, & as it saith in Genesis, “I dwell in the Tents of Shem.” Now we wait simply for Engagement, & hear continual Word that Gen. Gage shall march from out the Town and try to whelm us all.
Boston sits upon the Water, & is Unknown; & we await for it to vomit forth its Hordes, which makes a Man uneven in temperament. ’Twould be no little Piece of Foolishness for the Regulars to delay Attack upon us much longer, as we strengthen every Day, with Addition of new Companies, adding Numbers to Zeal.
This Waiting is terrible, & the Men would be most gratified by Word from their Families,
as you have received from your brother,
Ev.
Cambridge
June 12th, 1775
My dear Fruition —
I much appreciate the Lines you sent me.
Here, we simply await Calamity. No Action; simply Preparation. We hear of Foraging Raids on the Islands — Deer Island, Pettick’s Island, a Mansion burned, Cattle conducted to Shore — but no more than that. The Army sits yet in the Town, waiting & biding for we know not what.
We drill & drill & drill. I long ardently for Activity for my Hands is Commissioned to Build & to wet & to warp & to bind. Friend Prince has been requisitioned for a Work Detail of Negroes & Irishmen which is much relied upon to dig Ditches & hoist Abatis. We have, in full Sight of the Parliamentary Army, strengthened our Fortifications at Roxbury with Ditches & Breastworks & other such Devices; & as we scurry like so many Ants, Parliament’s fine Army hath cut through Boston Neck & entrenched there within scant Distance of our Fort at Roxbury. How thrives a City when its Neck is slit?
I see Friend Prince upon occasion, at the Earthworks or sometimes in the Evening, when we conduct him to our Camp to mess; which me or Shem must do with him as he cannot without Difficulties seek out our Fly, some Officers looking with the Eye of Suspicion upon a Negro who wanders the Camp without Orders & Errand. I find his Company delightful, as must your Brother find Anyone who listens to his Sermonizing & Raving without speaking, fleeing, slapping, or feigning Fits. I find I may speak to Prince as I can speak to no Other because he listeneth. Our Converse at these Times is exceeding Diverting; him relating curious Stories of Animals or Roman Iniquity, & me relating Tales of the Village, the Cooperage, & the Mill.
Prince sees more Activity than the Rest of us, his Detail being frequently employed. He is much changed, now that he has Purpose.
The Lord hath given to Each his especial Gift & Work; & I reckon that when that mysterious Work is taken up, we finding it at long last, then do we most fulfill what we Need Be. I have my Volubility, which is enflamed; Others have their Drinking songs or their Sops regarding the Sweet Lisp of their Children or their Spouse; others whisper to their Livestock; or hold Meetings for the Public Roads; or swell as Demagogues. These things Illuminate them.
Prince seemed to Desire Nothing. He sunk from one Sadness into Another.
What then does his Joylessness become, when Active? I have learned: It is Anger.
Now he has this new Anger & he spends his Days fiercely Digging & felling Trees & splicing them as Hazards to Infantry & sluicing Mud off his Hands &, with his Detail, building up the Bulwarks & Glacis.
He builds for Freedom — & this is his grim & unsmiling Joy.
So ’tis that we spend our Days. The City sits in the Bay upon its Piers like a Spider. I observe it from the Rushes but there is no Activity & nothing conduces to Change. Such is being a Soldier.
Your Valiant,
Private Goring
Cambridge
June 15th, 1775
My dear Shun —
Nothing of Note.
There are always Sallies — burning Houses, shooting out the Windows of Taverns. We see the Redcoats crawl on the Mudflats at Low Tide.
At Night, there are Cannonades without Reason. It is not clear that they aim at any Target. There appears no Strategy. Ships pass to & from the Island Town bringing — we know not what — engaged in silent Errands.
We awaken, & there is a Rumor of Redcoats marching, & men scurry to their Arms & Companies — to find, instead, the Blank-Eyed Sentries on the Walls of Boston Neck, & no Sign of Marching anywhere. Farmers leave our Camp at Night to return to their Fields.
My Spirits are low . . . I am so hypp’d & full of Fear. . . .
Your humble & affectionate
Ev
Cambridge
June 17th, 1775
My dearest Fruition—
& my dearest Mother —
I will not hesitate: Our Commands came last Evening, when they were least expected.
There was no word of Destination or Purpose. There was a great Motion in the Camp & we all fell out & our Company was placed beside a line of Wagons.
The Wagons had in them empty Barrels; occasioning my Thought, that it would be a Paltry Thing, to die for empty Barrels, both for the Futility of the Prize, & the sobering Likeness, for the Dead are always empty Barrels, the Casks being unbunged & the Soul released.
We were led along Roads in the wake of Troops that marched with Shovels on their Shoulders. We came to Cobble Hill & proceeded down to the Charlestown Mill Pond, where we filled the Barrels with Fresh Water, & brought it to the Hill above the Town.
The Moon was near Full, & by its Light, I could see Figures laboring all around us on the Crest of Breed’s Hill. There was a Huffing & the Chip of Blades on Dirt & also the Smell of wet Soil afreshening the Night. Men were heaving at their Work & I could see their Faces caught against the Moon-Track on the Bay.
We were fortifying the Hill in one Night.
It was a Labor like those old Pagan Gods used to delight in, throwing up a Palace out of Dew, but performed here with Spades & Logs & the Stones of old Walls. Men were laboring with Mattocks & Axes & Picks & rustic Grubbing Hoes — & together they digged out & built up the Breastworks & Redoubts at the Eminence of the Hill. This all was executed with utmost Silence; orders being given in a Rasp; even Grunts muffled.
There, at the Base of the Hill, was Charlestown, & the Channel beyond that was crowded with Parliament’s Ships of the Line, a-bristling with Cannon & still a-slumber; & across the Channel was Boston, & the Common lined with sleeping Soldiers who would soon be roused from their Hives — and hence our Silence.
My Company carried Water from the Mill-Pond to the Work Details. Some had Canteens, but most had not thought of those Useful Objects, & drank from their Hands.
Once, in the Midst of it, I saw Prince; he was engaged in digging. I did not call to him because the Silence was so great. He and his Brethren labored at the Command of a white Man in dark Duck who pointed with a Cane.
All Night, Men built their Works on the Hill.
In the early Morning, armed Regiments began to take up Muskets & move about the Fortification; & many who had labored all Night now prepared to defend their Works all Day. We brought them Water, too; sensible that soon, they would be engaged in Mortal Battle, & would greatly desire even one Drop of what now flowed in Profusion. The Men were but half finished with the Entrenchments when the first Light trembled upon the Horizon — and they paused — their Shovels in their Hands. . . . Men leaning above the Trenches were sensible of Visibility spreading across their Backs. . . . They stood, uncertain. . . .
And then, the DAWN, Fruition — the miraculous Dawn — when the Sun rose above the Eastern Sea, & our Fortifications were REVEALED.
Below us in the Bay, the Waters were still & yellow; & in the Channel, Parliament’s Warships rode at Anchor, their Masts all calm in the rising Light: the Somerset, the Falcon, the Lively, the dreadful Symmetry: all stupefied with Sleep. Beyond them stood the Town of Boston, emerging out of the Gloom, with the Smoke of the first Cook-Fires pulling away from the Alleys & Steeples.
As the Sun rose above the Harbor, we could see figures onboard the Ships — a desperate Call — the Watch first
scrying us upon Bunker Hill.
For there they saw us — a Fortification where None had been the Eve before — and now, Rank upon Rank, Company upon Company, standing in our Trenches, we faced them. We did not speak in the morning Wind which rose with the Sun. Staring down upon them, our hard Faces — silent — Shovels & Firelocks resting upon Shoulders — as the Seagulls cried above us — Tinkers, Cordwainers, Shopkeepers, Doctors, Farmhands, Coopers, Gooseboys, Innkeeps, Sawyers, Cobblers, Freemen & Slaves — we faced them — ranged about our native Hill, our Eyes clear in the Morning — looking down upon their Antics on the Bay, as if to say: This is our Homeland. We shall die, but you shall not take it from us.
And the King’s Cannons began to fire upon us.
Shun, there shall never be another Dawn like this one in all the History of the World — never another Morn like this.
The Adjutant commanded those of us who labored provisioning to pull back to Cambridge. As we passed along the Road, we heard the Battle commence in Earnest, the Field-Pieces answering Parliament’s Cannon.
On the Road, I passed Prince in his Detachment. He spied me & held out his Hands to me. They were blistered & red with his Blood; & for the first Time, Shun, he smiled full upon me; for he has finally found his Cause & his Work.
I held out my Hand, that we might Clasp, & he reached for me, but his Corporal ordered him back in Line.
I am back now in Camp, & it is well past Noon. We hear confused Word of the Battle. The Redcoats have landed in Charlestown, & we hear they attempt to storm the Hill.
No more, Shunny. Soon this all shall be decided.
O LORD — THE WORK OF OUR HANDS — ESTABLISH THOU IT.
FOLLOWING DAY —
Fruition —
The Camp is full of them — the Dying. We are driven out by the King’s Army — they took our Fortification — though the Word is, there are heavy Losses upon their Side. But we stood firm — my God, Shun, I shall weep — we stood firm.
But now — the Companies falling to their Knees with Thirst & the Wheelbarrows filled with red, screaming Boys & the Stretchers dumped on the Grass & Flowers of a Garden — & Men hobbling between their Friends — I have never seen the Like.
& by the Surgeon’s Tent, where the Shrieking is continual — we all saw a Basket with Twelve Feet in it — the Soles still covered in Mud, where Minutes before they carried the Weight of Men.
& I am still,
Wholly,
Your Ev.
THAT EVENING —
My Spirits being much depressed by this Spectacle, so soon as I had Discharged my Duties, I sought out Prince’s Work Detail, that we might Sup together. I returned with him to our Camp, bidding him to bring his Violin, for we had need of Cheer.
That Night, we all desponded, a Melancholy Crew, all overtaken with a Vision of what it would mean for the Camp to be over-run, did the Army sally forth from the Town, say, at Dawn the next Morning, & we had to confront their Pitiless Ranks, who are the foremost Men for dispensing Death in all the World.
It is their Inevitability that most we fear: the Scream, terrific in the highest Degree, & the Unstoppable Ranks of them, the Blare of their Uniforms, & the Bristle of their Muskets, offering their Bayonets, & the Slow Approach, first in Ferocity, when they reach our Ranks, & begin to stab & to stab & to stab.
Our Company were low, much hypp’d by the Bloodshed of the Day. We sat by the Fire.
Mr. Symes raised his Voice & bid us remember Worcester at the Close of last Summer, he being there, in those glad Ranks, when the Men came down out of the Hills to see that there should be Fair Play in the Courts; & the King’s Lackeys were made to march from out the Court-House; the Judges & Sheriff & Gentlemen of the Bar parading before the joyous Crowds, their Hats in their Hands, their Pates hung low for their Crimes & Preferment; & amongst that Clamor, it was determined that WHEN JUSTICE IS ADMINISTERED, IT SHALL BE ADMINISTERED BY OUR COUNTRYMEN, SELECTED FOR SERVICE, & NOT BY THE TOYS OF MINISTERS & DISTANT DUKE.
I rose then, on an Inspiration; & I spake of what we fought for — Our Homeland — and the Beauty of my New England, of the Hills & Forests; & the Broad Fields cleared for Bounty & the Vales with Pools where Boys kick at each other’s Shins to force a Slip
& the Rock of the Coasts
& the Summer
& the Winter
& my Cooperage in the Morning, when the Work is sharp & neat
& Clabber-Girls with their Skirts tucked into their Waists for Work
& Threshers catching breath against Stone Walls
& the Orchards where the Apples sour
& the Affability of our Insects
& Birds walking up Spires
& Our Devil-haunted Woods
& our Lakes
& our Coves
& our Barns
& our Groves
& I invented a Thousand Idiocies, speaking faster & faster, laughing, as if it were all Delightful, but almost in Tears, until finally I burst out, “Sirs — Prince — Does New England SNOW not make you hungry? Pray tell me if I am alone: Does it not look most delectable to eat?”
“Mr. Goring,” says Prince; & his Voice was kind. “You bid me always to speak; yet there are times when Sorrow is best spoken through Silence.”
Bless you, my Friend — for he knew exactly why I run antic — and I ceased. And in the End of Speech, we found Companionship at last.
He picked up his Violin & began to fiddle upon it; one of his Sonatas; & those resting around the Fire come closer to listen; & as he then played country Tunes, I joined in Song, & we played the music of my Meadows and the City’s Alleys; & from other Fires, Men came — the Men of my Homeland, Shun — & we sang together as Prince played. When he did not know a Tune requested, he quickly conned it, & we all begun singing together; & so, singing of Village Maids & of Men on Drays & Nags headed into Battle, we felt the whole of the Nation beneath us — the Birches of the North — the quiet Lakes — the Rivers that lead to the Sea and the Roads that wind to the Mountains — the Villages — the Smoke — the Air.
Is this not worth dying for?
So thinks
thy Timid & affectionate Brother,
Evidence Goring
Cambridge
June 19th, 1775
My dear Fruition —
I have done my Good Work for today & shall set it down.
In the Morning, I heard that a Visitor sought me out, & ’twas an envoy from the Cambridge Committee of Safety. The Gentleman said that he had heard reported by several men of the militia that I had a Negro friend played excellently upon the Violin, who had given strong Proof of his Skill the Night Previous. I, being jealous of Prince’s Safety, gave the Man no Straight Reply. He pressed, & eventually discovered his Commission, thus:
Strong Report alleges that within the City Walls, the Officers of the Parliamentary Army have raised a Band of Music to play at their Dramatical Orgies — Overtures & Symphonies & such Stuff — Music to swell their Breasts & Vanity. In this same Band of Music, only the Winds are Regular Soldiers, the Rest being common Citizens, many of them Negro Fiddlers. One of the Fiddlers has sickened & will retire from the field, & so our Committee of Safety believes that could we slip a Negro Musician within the Gates (& they say such is not so impossible a Work of Subtlety) he should be placed in a most Excellent Position to spend some Hours of each Day with the Officer Class, with their Confederation of the Damnable — and report their Doings back to us outside the Walls.
Me having heard this Commission, “Sir,” said I, “indeed I know such a Fiddler — a Negro Boy who I reckon fiddles like the Seraphim. Yea I know of such a One; & I assure you that none could be more firmly attached to the Cause of Liberty & to the toppling of Slavery from her Basalt Throne.”
My Zeal seemed somewhat to cool his Zeal. He hung back & requested Proofs of the Boy’s Dedication to our Cause. I told him at some Length what I had witnessed of Prince’s Heroism; & I added that they could find none more suited to this Commission, a
s the Boy was quick in his Wits — as examples — with Pride — telling him of Prince’s Latin — his History — his Knowledge of the Entrails. This quieted the Man’s doubts, & he asked me to accompany him to speak to his Superior; to which Request I assented. We proceeding to a Tory House that had been confiscated as an Headquarters, he took me into a Parlor now hung with Maps over some few gawky Portraits of Shrivel-Pizzled Loyalists, and asked me to repeat the Tale for one Mr. Turner.
Mr. Turner listened to my Account with all due Gravity & having heard the Story, confirmed that Prince sounded the very Boy he sought. He was most Grateful to me for bringing the Youth to his Attention, as the Militia who had heard the Divine Fiddling around the Campfire last Night had been unable to recall Prince’s Name, owning however that he was a Friend of Private Goring, of Kedron, which indeed, I had confirmed in all Particulars most satisfactory. Having said this, Mr. Turner bid me fetch Prince at his Work Detail posthaste so he might be offered this interesting Opportunity & ushered within the Walls of Boston momently, personating a Drover or a Gooseboy or some such Trade.
At this, the Gentleman turned to the Side — throughout the Discourse, he turned always from one Side to the Other — an unsettling Habit which made me almost giddy, he being named Mr. Turner — and addressing the Wall, he dictated Orders for an Escort of Four Soldiers for us, & asked me to accompany them & aid them in identifying my dear Friend, & to recall that there was need for (a) Utmost Secrecy and (b) Celerity.