Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  “The message says de Grasse ordered you to carry this message to Washington. Why weren’t you taken prisoner with de Grasse?”

  “When de Grasse realized he’d lost everything, he ordered me to get through the British gunboats to warn General Washington that the British navy controls the West Indies. If they decide to come north, there is nothing to stop them. They could blockade every harbor.”

  “How did you get through the British?”

  “Took the fastest schooner we had and made a run.”

  “That’s the vessel you tied up at the dock?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pretty badly mauled.”

  “We went through a massive sea battle to get out.”

  “You know General Washington is not here. He’s up north, on the Hudson.”

  Matthew started in surprise. “I was told he would be in Philadelphia. You’re certain he’s up on the Hudson?”

  “Certain. Why did you stop here?”

  “We had no choice. We lost two arms on the for’ard mast, and were hulled six times. Two crew members dead, three crippled. The schooner would never have made a New England harbor.”

  “You stopped here for repairs?”

  “Not just repairs. It is essential you know the British might come up the Chesapeake to recapture the supplies you have here. And, we need to leave the Henrietta here and take one of your ships. It’s imperative General Washington know as quickly as possible what happened to de Grasse. I think the British have decided to hold Jamaica and the West Indies at all costs, and they’ll probably hold their fleet down in the West Indies. But if I’m wrong—if they do come north—they could hit you here and go on up to cripple the entire Continental Army. Maybe destroy it. General Washington has to know.”

  For five long seconds Edvalsen stared at Matthew, thoughts running. “Will you need replacements for your dead and wounded?”

  “Depends on which ship you can spare. From what I saw in your harbor, I’ll need at least five men.” He gestured toward Caleb and Primus. “I’d like these two and three others. I suggest we use volunteers because it’s possible we could run into British gunboats before we get back down the bay to the Atlantic. If we do, I’ll have to try a run through them. I’ll need a full crew.”

  Edvalsen’s eyebrows arched. “You know these men?”

  “My brother and a friend.”

  Edvalsen paused to gather his thoughts. “I’ll get your volunteers.”

  Matthew raised a hand. “One more thing. We came in ahead of a storm that will hit here in about three hours. Coming up from the West Indies. We were not far from the western edge of it. It was close to a typhoon. I suggest, sir, that you get your ships ready for it.”

  Edvalsen stood, then leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. “I’m a soldier, not a sailor. Can you handle it?”

  Rising himself, Matthew said, “Yes, sir, with your permission.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “First, can you authorize me to leave the Henrietta in exchange for one of your schooners or frigates that’s seaworthy?”

  “Take your pick.”

  “Unless there’s something else, I’d better get down to the docks.”

  “Wait.” Hurriedly Edvalsen scrawled words on a paper, folded it, and handed it to Matthew. “That’s authorization to take one of our ships, and to take command of the men at the docks to get braced for this storm. If anyone asks, show them that.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Matthew folded the paper as he strode from the room out into the gray overcast and started toward the docks, Caleb and Primus following. The slightest stir of a freshening Atlantic salt breeze brushed their faces, and the flag at the top of the forty-foot pole stirred. Matthew stared toward the east. The purple cloud that had been low on the distant horizon since daybreak was now a towering black curtain less than five miles away, blotting out the sun, turning day into dusk, moving steadily toward them across the northern reaches of the Chesapeake. Even at that distance he could see the winds and torrential rains churning the bay to a froth and hear the ominous roar.

  “She’s coming,” Matthew said. “We’ve got to get the ships tied tight to the docks. Those winds will beach them if we don’t, and if they’re tied too loose they’ll batter themselves to pieces against the pilings. Let’s move!”

  The three broke into a sprint for the docks, and thirty yards before they reached the water, Matthew was shouting orders above the mounting howl of the wind and rain, and men were jumping.

  Notes

  As described in chapter 1 of this volume, in the closing months of 1781 and the first months of 1782, the British concluded that their greatest interest in the Americas was their valuable possessions and trade in the West Indies, with Jamaica their greatest prize. Accordingly they ordered thirty-six of their warships under Admirals Rodney and Hood to protect Jamaica from capture by the French. The French ordered Admiral de Grasse, who in early April 1782, had thirty-three warships together with a large number of troops in the waters of the West Indies, to invade and seize Jamaica. On April 9, 1782, the two opposing navies collided and for days engaged in a running battle, de Grasse attempting to reach and seize Jamaica, and Hood and Rodney attempting to stop him. De Grasse suffered embarrassing losses when two of his ships, the Jason and the Zele, collided in the night, disabling the Jason. Later, during the night, the Zele again collided with another ship and lost her foremast, totally disabling her. Additionally, the Caton was damaged by cannon fire in a skirmish and had to withdraw, as did two other ships that could not keep up with the fleet. With his command thus reduced, de Grasse chose to engage the British, who now had substantially superior numbers of able warships. A fierce battle ensued in which de Grasse’s flagship was captured with four other French vessels. De Grasse was imprisoned by Rodney, and the British won a major victory. Had they chosen, the British could then have sailed north, blockaded most American ports, and badly crippled the American army. However, consistent with the decision of King George and Parliament, the British chose to remain in the West Indies to protect their possessions there, including Jamaica (Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783, pp. 456–59). For a listing of the ship count, see page 457 of Mackesy.

  Head of Elk, Maryland

  April 1782

  CHAPTER IV

  * * *

  By midmorning, there was no sun. By noon there was no daylight. The world was in deep twilight, blurred by rain so heavy men struggled to breathe. It came horizontal, driven by screaming easterly winds that bent trees to the west and tore some from the earth. Great limbs, ripped and shattered, were scattered, rolling. Lesser branches and the leaves of spring were stripped away to come whistling, gathering in heaps where wagons, or buildings, or the long rows of crated supplies stopped them. Half the tents sheltering the French soldiers snapped their tie ropes or jerked the pegs from the ground to go tumbling, snagging, flapping furiously in the tumult. Most of the simple lean-tos of the Americans were swept away. Horses and oxen in the great pens turned their rumps to the wind and stifling rain and stood dumbly, heads down, enduring the storm. Men sought places where a wagon, or a building, or a cannon, or a crate, offered protection, and they sat on the ground, leaned forward, backs to the rain, hands clasped over their heads to wait out the spring storm.

  In midafternoon the howl of the wind climaxed and then began to diminish, and the torrential rain slowed. It was past five o’clock when men could rise and stand in the wind and stare into the steady downpour, awed, cowed by the terrible power of the storm. For a time they walked slowly through the destruction, humbled in their souls by a sense of their own smallness.

  Their hair and beards and clothing dripping, Matthew and Caleb and their small crew worked their way from the crated supplies through the mud and wreckage to the docks, standing quiet as they peered at the ships. The Henrietta rode deep in the water, slowly settling. Two of the other ships had splintered railings where the heaving water had thrown them against the dock and th
e pilings. One ship looked like a crippled bird, with the main and forward masts snapped and dangling. Matthew set his teeth at the sight of the battered ships, and he and his crew quietly walked to examine the eight frigates and schooners that appeared to have ridden out the storm undamaged. A little after six o’clock, with the heavy overcast thinning and the rain and wind tailing off, Matthew turned to Caleb.

  “I’m going to see Edvalsen. Can you take these men to evening mess with your company?”

  Caleb left with the crew while Matthew turned to pick his way through the badly mauled camp to Edvalsen’s quarters. The picket at the door, soaked and dripping, disappeared inside for a moment, then gave Matthew entrance. Edvalsen stood behind his desk in the yellow light cast by a single lantern on his table. His uniform was soaked, and the smell of wet wool hung sharp in the air. Matthew came to attention, Edvalsen gestured to a chair, and the two sat down facing each other.

  Edvalsen cleared his throat to speak. “I never saw a camp in such a mess. What’s your report on the ships?”

  “Three with damage. Two with railings gone, one with two masts gone.”

  Edvalsen heaved a sign of resignation. “Can the masts be repaired?”

  “Not repaired. Replaced, but it takes time. A mast reaches completely through all decks of a ship, to a notch in the keel. The decks will have to be removed where the mast passes through, and the damaged mast lifted out. A new one will need to be lowered into place and set with huge bolts and braces. It will take good carpenters and sailors who know how. Do you have them?”

  Edvalsen tossed one hand up and let it drop. “We’ll manage. The other two, with the railings damaged?”

  “Two carpenters can fix those in one day.”

  “Is there a ship fit to carry you north?”

  “The Carrie. She’s light and sound, I judge around eighty tons. Should make good time. I’ll have to cut two gun ports in her bow and get the cannon from the Henrietta. That can be finished by midnight. Any objection to my taking her?”

  “None. Can the Henrietta be salvaged?”

  “Yes. In the battle down in the West Indies she was hulled by cannonballs six times, and she lost two arms. But the masts were untouched, and she’s sound. If your men will get her pumps working tonight they can raise her high enough to make repairs within two days.”

  “When do you plan to leave?”

  “Daybreak.”

  Edvalsen’s eyes opened in surprise. “What about the storm? Isn’t the wind wrong?”

  “Storm should be about blown out. We can tack our way into the wind. It’s British ships that concern me. If they have the Chesapeake bottled up, they could be trouble for all of us. If we run into them I’ll turn and come back to warn you. If I haven’t returned within two days, it means the Bay is open. Understood?”

  “Understood. Do you need provisions?”

  “Some. I have your written order.”

  “Show it to the commissary officer. He’ll get you what you need.”

  The two men stood and Matthew leaned to shake Edvalsen’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good luck.”

  In a steady wind and cold rain, four carpenters walked up the gangplank onto the dark deck of the Carrie. They set lanterns hissing in the rain and in the yellow light began with crosscut saws. By nine o’clock they had finished cutting the gun ports in the railing on both sides of the bowsprit, and by ten o’clock the two, twenty-four-pound cannon were on her deck. By midnight the recoil ropes holding them in position were bolted to both sides of the gun ports and strung around the butts of the guns; the ramrods, budge barrels, and cannonballs were all in place. By five o’clock, with the rain easing and the wind dying, there were enough provisions in the hold of the little ship to sustain twelve men for twenty days. At six o’clock, with the unrisen sun turning the eastern clouds a dull purple, Matthew held a lantern high at the bow and gave the order.

  “Cast off!”

  Bearded men on the dock worked the heavy, dripping hawsers from the brackets and threw them over the undulating rail of the ship, where strong hands caught and coiled them. The little schooner slowly separated from its mooring, and Matthew gave the next order.

  “Unfurl the top sail on the mainmast!”

  Barefooted sailors sixty feet above the deck hooked their feet over the ropes in the rigging to jerk the knots of the ropes lashing the sails to the yardarms, and the soggy canvas dropped into place. Beneath them, strong hands seized the ropes dangling from the sails and lashed them to the lower yard. The sound of the sails popping full rose above the whisper of rain on the bay, and instantly the Carrie took on a life of her own. Shafts of golden light from the rising sun came gleaming through gaps in the ragged clouds as Matthew gave the orders, and the little vessel began the slow process of tacking south, back and forth, port then starboard, on a wind coming in from the southeast. By seven o’clock the wind had shifted and was coming in directly from the east. Matthew then unfurled all the canvas and set the sails to catch the steady breeze, and the little schooner leaped south, trailing a wake more than one hundred yards long. Matthew took his position in the bow, feet spread and set, searching the dark water for logs and trees torn from the mainland and driven into the bay, large enough to crack the keel of a ship at full speed. Without looking back he gave hand signals to the helmsman, who spun the five-foot wheel port or starboard, as Matthew pointed.

  At nine o’clock, with every man in the crew watching and waiting, Matthew sent the first man into the crow’s nest, seventy feet up the mainmast, telescope in hand, under orders to watch for anything flying the British Union Jack. Ten minutes later the shout came from above, “No sails in sight.” At noon his relief man took the telescope and settled into the tiny, round, waist-deep bucket. At three o’clock the third relief man took up the position to repeat the call, “No sails in sight.”

  Every man on the tiny ship let out held breath. They took their evening meal in the confinement of the little mess hall, and while three took up their positions for first watch, the others went below decks to their gently swinging hammocks to rest before their four-hour duty. In full darkness Matthew gave orders to furl all sails except the top mainsail; running afoul at full speed of a massive tree floating in the black of night could crack the keel, and a cracked keel could not be repaired in the water.

  A little after nine o’clock a rising wind from the northeast swept the dark heavens clear. Unending points of light sprinkled the black velvet, and then the Big Dipper hove into view above the northeastern horizon, pointing to the North Star. Matthew took his bearings, called to the helmsman, and the little ship sped steadily south, directly down the center of Chesapeake Bay.

  When the two o’clock watch changed, Matthew went to his small, confined quarters, stretched out on a bunk that was two inches shorter than he, slipped off his shoes, and slept the deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion. The clanging of the bell calling for the six o’clock watch change brought him back on deck, to stand at the bow. He called the order, “Unfurl all canvas!”

  Three minutes later the sails popped full and the Carrie was flying. The morning mess was finished when Caleb and Primus came to stand beside Matthew. Caleb was scratching his beard, hair awry, clothing still damp.

  “You expecting British ships at the mouth of the Bay?”

  Matthew’s forehead furrowed. “Maybe.”

  “How far ahead?”

  “We’re right where the bay narrows.” He pointed west. “Over there is the York River. Yorktown. Gloucester.” His hand shifted to point south. “Down there is Lynnhaven Bay. Before we reach Lynnhaven,”—he shifted his point to the east—“we come to Cape Charles, over there, and south of Cape Charles is Cape Henry. Between them is the entrance into the bay. If the British mean to seal up the Chesapeake, that’s where they’ll be.”

  “How soon?”

  “We’ll be there in less than half an hour.”

  “If they’re waiting?”

  “We g
o back to warn Edvalsen.”

  Caleb could not suppress a grin as he pointed to the two cannon in the bow of the tiny ship. “Sure you don’t want to fight it out?”

  Matthew shook his head, grinning back at Caleb. “I’m sure those two guns would terrify any British naval officer.”

  A hint of a smile crossed Primus’s face. “If we have to shoot those guns at those big British warships, I hope we movin’ awful fast.”

  Matthew chuckled. “So do I.” He sobered and turned to call out, “Take your posts. We’re coming to the mouth of the bay.” He cupped his hands to shout up to the man in the crow’s nest. “Watch sharp to the east. That’s where they’re most likely to be.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The men stood rooted, staring south and east until their eyes watered, searching, waiting for the dreaded shout from the crow’s nest, “Sails ho!”

  Matthew watched as the lighthouse at Cape Charles came into view, and they were past it half a mile before he turned to the helmsman. “Hard to port. Take a due east heading.”

  “Aye, sir.” The man spun the wheel and watched the compass before him until the needle pointed directly to his left. The ship leaned to starboard as she heeled to port, coming around directly into the wind. The men in the rigging began the tricky, arduous work of handling the sails to tack into the wind, while those on the deck and the lookout in the crow’s nest strained their eyes for the first sign of sails with the colors of the British Union Jack fluttering from the top of the mainmast. Matthew watched to the south, then the north, dividing the distance between Cape Charles and Cape Henry as the little craft entered the Atlantic. She held her course out into open water for two miles, running free and clear. All eyes turned up to the man in the crow’s nest, and then the shout came down.

  “No sails in sight.”

  A spontaneous cheer arose from the Carrie, and Matthew called his next order.

  “Take a course due north.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Again the little craft leaned to starboard as she heeled to port, coming around to a due north heading. The crew set the sails to catch the east wind, and the little vessel leaped forward. Caleb looked at Matthew, standing in the bow with the salt wind in his face and hair, feet spread, a rapture on his face that Caleb had never seen, and it came to him. Men who venture the sea on sailing ships know. A trim schooner flying with her canvas tight, and a deck rolling with the seaswells in open water, is a wondrous, free, living thing. Matthew was where he belonged, master of his world.