Bunker Hill by Howard Fast Page B

and forever. That’s
plain, straightforward king’s English. What do you fail to understand?”
    “Forgive me, do you intend to marry her?”
    “That’s a stupid question to a married man.”
    “Yes,”
Clinton admitted.
    “She is to
be my mistress, do you understand? Mrs. Loring will be with me through this
campaign. She will share my quarters. She is to be treated and addressed as in
every way a lady of quality. Any insult offered her—and hear this clearly—will
call for a response on a field of honor. She will be the hostess wherever and
whenever I propose a social occasion. I want this to be known around.”
    Clinton
nodded.
    “I would like an audible reply!” Howe snapped.
    “Yes, Sir William. I understand.”
    “Good.”
    Very
tentatively, Clinton responded, “May I simply say, that as you propose this, it
cannot be sub rosa.”
    “I don’t
give a bloody fuck,” Howe said flatly. “And damn it to hell, will you sit down
and stop standing there like some bleeding schoolmaster.”
    Sir Henry
seated himself. “It will be an incredible scandal.”
    “I suppose it will.”
    “Not only here but in England and in Europe.”
    “Yes, but
I don’t choose to discuss that, Sir Henry. I wish to discuss the lady’s
husband, Mr. Joshua Loring. Have you met him?”
    “Oh yes.
He’s been ass licking around for a commission.”
    “I gather
he’s queer.”
    “He makes
no secret of it,” Clinton said. “He married her to give himself some probity in
the Tory crowd.”
    “What is
he like?”
    “Despicable.”
    “I want
you to talk to him. Be open. Tell him exactly what I have told you. His wife
will live with me. He is not to open his mouth concerning that, and if I hear a
tittle of gossip or complaint, I will cut his balls off, that
is , considering he has any.”
    “What do
we give him?” Clinton wondered.
    “He wants
to be a captain in the grenadiers.”
    “Oh, does
he? And how long would the officers in the grenadiers put up with him?”
    “Not very long, sir.” Howe
began to chuckle, and Clinton waited patiently to share his humor.
    “How many
rebel prisoners do we have, Sir Henry?”
    “I don’t have an exact count. Not many.”
    “And what do we do with them?” Howe asked.
    “Do with them? Well, damned if I know what to do with
them!”
    “Where are they?”
    “We put them in Boston jail. Where
else?”
    “Who’s in charge?”
    “No one. Just a few guards.”
    “Well, by
God, we’ll soon have many more. Give our friend, Mr. Joshua Loring, the
commission he wants so badly. Make him Captain Joshua Loring, and give him a
command over the rebel prisoners. Find a dozen louts that you want to rid of
and make them his brigade.”
    Clinton
hesitated before replying, and then he shook his head uneasily. “These are
prisoners of war, Sir William. They should be in the charge of a gentleman.”
    “These are
stinking rebels, and they are no more prisoners of war than any footpad or
highwayman at home. Captain Joshua Loring, in charge of His
Majesty’s prisoners. Does he hate the rebels?”
    “Oh, that
he does, and with a vengeance. They stripped him clean.”
    “Good,” General Howe said.
“I know his kind. Give him a little power over another and he’ll be a happy man.”
     
    Evan
Feversham was troubled that Dr. Benjamin Church had absented himself from the
gathering of doctors and leeches. When he raised the matter with Dr. Warren,
Warren was disposed to shake it off. “He’s an odd lot, Dr. Benjamin Church,” he
said, not willing to go into details and explain to Feversham that when he,
Warren, had raised the matter of the impending battle with Church, the little
man had fumed with anger and denounced Feversham as a damned papist and
Englishman, with whom he desired no further intercourse. Warren had heard the
tale of the misdiagnosed smallpox incident and of Feversham’s rescue of Church
from the angry crowd, and he thought it best to let the business rest.
    “Still