Free Guns for General Washington by Seymour Reit

And now it looks like the British have ’most as many fighting men as Gen’l Washington.”
    The strollers, one young and vigorous, the other old and hobbling, went past John Hancock’s mansion on the slope of Beacon Hill. Hancock, a rebel leader wanted by the British, was safe in Philadelphia. But one of Howe’s aides, General Henry Clinton, was using the Hancock home as a headquarters, so it had been spared destruction.
    The drizzle finally ended and the walkers turned into Cornhill Street, where Henry Knox once had his bookshop. Near the Old State House they leaned against a mossy wall and the boatman lit his pipe. He looked up and down carefully, then leaned over to his young friend. “Look you, Master Paul, Washington’s had another dispatch from Colonel Knox. Your friend Will and his cannons have got as far as Claverack. I’d say that’s nigh on halfway. Now they must come east over the mountains.”
    Paul was excited at the news. “I keep hoping and praying they’ll reach Cambridge soon,” he sighed. “Do
you
think they’ll make it?”
    The old-timer squinted up at the clouded sky. “Can’t rightly say. But if they don’t, Boston’s done for.”
    The city was gloomy and half-deserted. A few people in drab clothing hurried by, their faces thin and pale. Paul tried to shift to a cheerier note. “Toby, I had a mind to ask you—what does the new flag look like?”
    The boatman’s old face crinkled into a smile. “The ‘Grand Union’ flag? She’s mortal fine, lad. I was right there when Gen’l Washington raised ’er for the first time. She’s got red and white stripes—thirteen of ’em, one for each colony. And in the upper corner—the canton, they calls it—there’s a small Union Jack, for ol’ time’s sake.” The veteran shook his head with wonder. “I tell you, son, it’s powerful good to see our own flag flying in the breeze over Cambridge.”
    Paul looked around at the sad, gray city. “You think,” he asked wistfully, “we’ll ever see it flying here over Boston?”
    Toby trudged along, chewing moodily on his pipe, and gave no answer.

19
The Runaway
    â€œHeave away-ho! Heave away-ho!”
    The men bent their backs to the job while Will called the tempo. When the gun was halfway up the slope he signaled a pause. Holding the taut rope with one hand, he used the other to dash sweat from his eyes. He was dripping wet in spite of the cold. His back ached and his shoulders burned with pain.
    After a short rest, Will grabbed the rope with both hands and started his crew working again.
    â€œHeave away-ho! Heave away-ho!”
    The teamsters had been at it all day, struggling through an area called Greenwoods—a twelve-mile stretch thick with evergreen trees. There were no marked routes here, only a vague Indian footpath snaking across hill and dale.
    â€œThere’s no way around all of this,” Henry had said to Will. “No possible detour. We have to imitate the Indians—go straight up and over.”
    First the men cut down the smaller trees and chopped away the underbrush, creating a wide path up the steep incline. Then, one by one, with extra men on each side to help, the lighter loads were pulled up the slope by the animals. It was slow going, but finally the small guns were all at the top.
    A different plan was needed for the heavy cannons. The horses and oxen were unhitched and led up the slope. Then the big weapons were rigged with long ropes. These were carried up the hill, looped around stout trees, and brought back down to the work parties. Finally each gun was hauled up pulley-style, inch by inch.
    Will and his crew had been hoisting a thirteen-pounder, and they were relieved when the gun finally reached the summit. Nearby a second party was at work, raising a giant brass siege mortar, and they chanted