Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  “No. Take them with us.”

  Pettigrew’s mouth fell open, and he clacked it shut. “Kidnapping?”

  “Not exactly. When we’ve delivered the tobacco in New York, we pay them for their services and send them back.”

  Pettigrew half rose from his chair. “Take ten Virginia militiamen prisoner? You think the State of Virginia is going to stand for that? They’ll have gunboats after us by morning.”

  “Do you think they’ll fire on us when they see five of their own militia standing at each rail?”

  “What? Human shields?”

  Caleb’s voice had not risen. “No. Observers. There’s one other thing. Once on the high seas, do they have the right to fire on us?”

  For a moment Pettigrew stared at the tabletop while he probed his memory of maritime law, written and unwritten. “Not without a warrant.”

  “How long to get a warrant?”

  “Tomorrow morning, earliest. Maybe noon.”

  “The tides are with us until about midnight, but by tomorrow morning they’ll be running against anyone who tries to sail east. That will cost them another six or eight hours. True?”

  “Yes.”

  “By tomorrow afternoon we’ll be at least twenty-four hours ahead of them. They might catch us, but we’ll be a long way out of southern waters when they do, and I doubt they’ll start shooting at a Massachusetts ship in northern waters and risk a war between the two states. If they follow us into New York harbor, we’ll unload, get our money, pay those ten men for their services, and pay their passage on whatever ship is going back to Virginia. And we’ll send that three percent tariff payment back with them.”

  Pettigrew was incredulous. “Where did you get this . . . wild . . . scheme?”

  Caleb shrugged. “When I was a little boy back in December of ’73. We had a tea party in Boston, remember? The question then was just like the one we have here. Do we pay the tax, or don’t we? Only difference is, those were British taxes, and these are Virginia taxes. We didn’t pay then and it helped start a war, and if we don’t pay now it looks like we might start another one.” He picked up his spoon. “And that’s where we are. Any better idea?”

  For five long seconds Pettigrew sat in startled silence. “No.”

  Caleb looked up and down both sides of the table. “You men have any better notion? If this goes wrong, we’re the ones that go to jail, and there are so many ways for this to go wrong I’d speak against it if there was a better plan. But I can’t find one. Can any of you?” He scooped stew into his mouth and chewed while he listened.

  A voice called, “If we get back to Boston, can they come after us?”

  Caleb looked at Pettigrew, who answered. “They have to file their grievance in Boston’s maritime court and have a hearing. If Boston decides in our favor, that’s where it stops.”

  Caleb interrupted. “Any idea how the Boston court might see this?”

  Pettigrew responded. “None. I don’t recall it ever came up before just like this.”

  “How many Virginia ships use Boston harbor?”

  Pettigrew paused to collect his thoughts. “Many. Enough to make Virginia think hard before they start a quarrel.”

  Open talk broke out, then subsided as the next question was called out.

  “Wait a minute, here. Sounds to me like this might wake up a few people so this kind of thing doesn’t happen again.”

  Caleb looked directly at Pettigrew, and Pettigrew locked eyes with him. In that moment, both realized that the fog that had been clouding the thinking of the seaboard states had suddenly lifted to leave the frightening truth exposed where none could avoid it. Either the states become unified and stand as one, or they widen their differences and destroy each other.

  Pettigrew leaned forward on his elbows and all talk quieted. His eyes narrowed and none had heard such earnestness in his voice as he answered. “It might. If it did—if it could help the states see the need to come together—it might be worth it.”

  McKinrow’s voice cut through. “Seein’ that we might all wind up in prison, I say we got a right to vote on this.”

  Pettigrew fell silent for several seconds before he answered. “That’s fair. All in favor of a voice vote say ‘aye’.”

  The vote was unanimous.

  “All in favor of a secret vote?”

  Silence held.

  “All right, then. All who favor the plan of sailing the Rebecca out of this port tonight to complete our duty say ‘aye’.”

  The voices came strong and unanimous.

  “Any opposed?”

  There were none.

  Pettigrew nodded toward Caleb. “The idea was yours. Take charge.”

  For a moment Caleb glanced at each man in turn on both sides of the table. They were bearded, wearing worn and tattered clothing, weary, edgy, needing a bath. They were also battle-hardened veterans who had learned to live with cold and hunger and death. Most had faced superior numbers of British so many times that the art of deception and silently infiltrating enemy lines at night and the deadly use of knives in the dark was second nature to them.

  Caleb nodded to Pettigrew, then spoke to the crew. “All right. Let me lay it out the way I see it. Stop me when I’m wrong. This has to be our plan, not mine.”

  It was half past three o’clock when they rose from the empty pitchers and pewter plates and mugs and cold stew kettles and walked out of the Blue Dolphin into the afternoon wind. They separated in singles and twos, walking slowly in different directions, unnoticed by the sparse waterfront traffic. The sun had set and evening dusk was gathering when McKinrow and Caleb met in an abandoned weed patch one hundred yards past the west end of the tiny seaport village, and two hundred yards north of the James River. McKinrow held a five-pound wooden keg of gunpowder beneath his coat; Caleb had a one gallon jug of whale oil beneath his. They dropped to their haunches in the weeds and peered about in the gathering gloom to be certain they were alone before they set the tiny powder keg and jug in the weeds and walked back into town unnoticed.

  At six o’clock the curtained windows in the hamlet began glowing with lamplight. At half past six the crew came to the spot in ones and twos, dragging driftwood and broken and abandoned shipping crates to heap them high. At seven o’clock the waterfront was quiet and all but abandoned; only night watchmen remained, huddled inside shipping company offices, walking out into the cold night wind every half hour to quickly make their rounds with a lantern, then return to the warmth of the fire inside.

  At ten minutes past seven o’clock the crew gathered back at the Blue Dolphin in twos and threes, walked past the four men drinking hot buttered rum at one table, and gathered in the small room at the rear of the building. Pettigrew ordered hot cider and a baked leg of lamb and boiled potatoes for their suppers, and at eight o’clock they pushed back from the table, full and warm, and turned toward their captain.

  Pettigrew looked at Caleb and McKinrow. He spoke quietly. “The gunpowder and oil. Is it there?”

  Caleb nodded.

  Pettigrew turned to the big man with the bushy beard. “The militiamen?”

  “Changed their guard at six o’clock. Still ten of them down there. Armed.”

  He spoke to the crew. “Did we get enough wood down by the gunpowder?”

  They nodded.

  “From here on, move in twos. Never alone. Watch each other’s back. If one gets hurt, the other brings him to the ship. Stay out of the light. If anyone doesn’t know their part in this, speak now.”

  For three full seconds the men looked up and down the table in silence. Pettigrew turned back to Caleb.

  “Got the tinderbox?”

  Caleb nodded and laid a small iron box on the table. Fifteen seconds later he laid the flint and steel down and raised the box to blow gently on the spark that was glowing in the shredded linen. It caught, the tiny flame held, Caleb waited a few seconds while it spread, then snapped the lid back on the box. “Ready.”

  Pettigrew d
rew a great breath, rounded his lips, and slowly let it out.

  “Let’s go.”

  They left the room in pairs, timed half a minute apart. Once outside they glanced at the nearly abandoned waterfront, then drifted in different directions away from the docks to disappear in the dark dirt streets and work their way north beyond the last street of the hamlet, then turn east, silent and unseen. Caleb and McKinrow walked out into the wind and turned west to stand still, peering down the waterfront, watching for anyone who might be wondering about fourteen men coming from the Blue Dolphin to scatter on a night when the waterfront was all but abandoned. There was no movement, and the only ones visible were about their own business. None seemed to notice or care who was on the wharves.

  Without a word the two turned west and walked into the wind with their heads down, hands deep in their coat pockets, shoulders hunched. As they walked, Caleb spoke.

  “Don’t I remember you had a brother? Lon?”

  For a moment McKinrow looked down, then raised his head. “Yes.”

  “He’s home?”

  “No. He died. Head started to swell and he died.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Pay it no mind. He’s not suffering any more.”

  They walked on in silence, each with his own thoughts. Five minutes later they stopped at the great pile of driftwood and abandoned, broken wooden shipping crates, and reached for the whale oil and gunpowder. They cleared a small place near the center of the heap, shielded from the wind, and set a slab of flat wood on the ground. McKinrow knocked the bung out of the keg of gunpowder and jammed one end of a two-foot section of rope into it, and set it in the center of the wooden slab while Caleb jerked the cork out of the gallon jug. McKinrow stepped back while Caleb poured whale oil on the rope, then the board. He heaped more driftwood on the keg and sprinkled the pile with the remainder of the oil.

  In the light of a quarter moon just clearing the eastern horizon, Caleb turned to McKinrow and silently asked the question. McKinrow nodded, Caleb drew the hot tinderbox from his pocket, removed the lid, and blew on the smoldering linen inside. Three seconds later tiny blue and yellow flames caught, and Caleb turned the box upside down on the near edge of the puddled whale oil. For a moment the flames disappeared, and then the whale oil caught, and the blue flames slowly worked their way outward.

  Caleb and McKinrow stood, waited for three seconds to be certain of the fire, then turned due east and sprinted along the back edge of the town. They had covered less than one hundred yards before the great bell in the church steeple set up an incessant clanging that echoed for miles. Within seconds doors in most of the homes were thrown open. Men in shirtsleeves ran out into the yards and streets, turning their heads all directions before they saw the glow of the fire past the west end of town, away from the river. They stood for a few seconds, unable to remember anything there that could burn, then realized that whatever it was mattered less than the fact that the wind was carrying the sparks east, over the town and the waterfront. They charged back into their homes only long enough to grab coats and tricorns, and then they were back outside, running hard toward the fire.

  In the darkness just beyond the back street of the town, near the east end, Caleb and McKinrow dropped to their haunches and waited, heads down, listening, hoping, and then it came. In the still of the night, the single blast seemed horrendous. For several seconds the entire west end of the town was lighted by the burning wood that was blown seventy feet into the air, and an umbrella of sparks was blasted in all directions. For a moment, awestruck men slowed to stare, then ran on.

  At the Rebecca, the ten militiamen stopped all movement and stood like statues, the glow reflecting off the flat planes of their faces as they stared west, stunned. Without realizing it, they moved a few paces, then stopped, wind in their faces, gripping their muskets with both hands while the town came alive with lanterns and men running west, away from them, and the incessant clanging of the church bell sounding in their ears.

  The militiamen flinched at the voice that boomed from behind them.

  “Move and you’re dead men!”

  For a moment they stood transfixed, unable to understand what was happening, and then twelve men were among them, seizing their muskets, pushing them together, surrounding them under the muzzles of their own muskets and bayonets.

  Pettigrew motioned. “Up the gangplank,” he barked. “Move! Now!”

  The corporal in command opened his mouth to protest, and instantly two bayonets were at his chest. He swallowed hard, turned, and led his column of ten thumping up the gangplank, followed by twelve shadowy men. On board, the militiamen were quickly divided, and half were taken to the railings on each side of the ship, where rough hands tied their wrists and ankles together, sat them down on the deck, lashed them to the railing, and backed up two steps to stand with the muskets and bayonets centered on the chests of the speechless militiamen.

  Back at the gangplank, Pettigrew waited, listening, and then Caleb’s voice came from the shadows below, on the dock.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready,” Pettigrew answered.

  Caleb trotted to one end of the Rebecca, while McKinrow trotted to the other. Without a word, both men swung axes hard. It took three strokes to cut the two-inch hawsers, and the two men trotted to the ropes on either side of the gangplank and swung three more times. When the lines parted, the loaded ship seemed to take on a life of her own. She was free, unfettered, and she began to move away from the dock as though responding to a need to be running with the wind toward the open seas.

  Pettigrew called, “Move!” and Caleb and McKinrow sprinted thumping up the gangplank onto the deck one second before the lower end broke free from the dock and slammed dangling into the side of the ship.

  “Get the gangplank up,” Pettigrew ordered, and while Caleb and McKinrow threw their backs into dragging it aboard, Pettigrew pivoted, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted to the crew, “Unfurl all canvas on the mainmast!”

  Six of the twelve ran to the rope netting and in the darkness scrambled upward to the top spar, then out onto the ropes, jerking free the knots holding the furled sails. The canvas dropped, flapping in the wind, and experienced hands anchored the lower end. The sailors descended to the great spar beneath them and once again risked their lives on the ropes as they released the sail and tied down the lower end. The great sheets popped loud as they caught the wind and billowed, and the ship picked up speed.

  Pettigrew sprinted to the wheel, threw aside the ropes locking it, grasped the handles, and spun it to starboard with all his strength. The bow of the ship swung to the right, and every man on board held his breath as she bore down on a collision course with the stern of the ship tied to the docks east of her. With the wind sighing in the rigging and sails, and the mainmast creaking, the bow of the Rebecca cleared the stern of the ship ahead by less than six feet, and as she broke into the open harbor Pettigrew shouted, “Unfurl all canvas. Bow and stern masts.”

  Once more the sailors scrambled upward in the nets to free and tie the sails, and the ship surged forward. Instantly Caleb was at the bow of the ship, searching out the dim, black silhouettes of the deepwater ships anchored in the river.

  “Hard port,” he shouted, and Pettigrew swung the wheel to watch a sloop slide past the starboard railing, and Caleb’s voice came ringing again, “Hard starboard.” The Rebecca swung violently to the right and brushed a second ship. “Easy to the port,” Caleb shouted, and the ship swung back to the left, and then came his shout, “Correct to due east and steady as she goes.” The ship swung slightly to the right, then straightened and cleared the last anchored sloop by ten yards.

  Then came Caleb’s shout, “She’s clear!” and the Rebecca was running free with the wind, cutting a twenty-foot curl, leaving a white wake one hundred yards long in the night as she plowed east down the ever-widening James River channel. The head of every man in the crew swiveled to peer west, wide-eye
d, scarcely breathing as they searched the river and the Jamestown waterfront for any sign of a ship in pursuit, but there was none. Those up in the rigging held their positions as they sped east, and half of those on deck ran to the bow of the ship to stand beside Caleb, gripping the rail, straining to see both banks of the river and anything in the water that could damage the Rebecca. Running with the Atlantic tides and the strong westerly wind, the loaded ship was fairly flying.

  At the wheel, their captain was watching both banks like a hawk, and depending on the men in the bow to warn of anything in the water that could crack the ship’s hull. To his left he saw a scattering of lights in the small hamlet of Williamsburg, three hundred yards from the river. He waited one full minute before he moved the wheel, and the ship made a swing to starboard, rounding the curve of the river to the southeast. Again he straightened the wheel, dividing the distance between the dim river banks, and held his course for the thirty-mile run to the next bend in the river. It came sooner than he calculated, and he spun the wheel hard to port and felt the tilt of the ship as she leaned east while she turned back to the north, and he shouted to the men at the railing in the bow.

  “There’s a light at Old Point Comfort coming up on the port side. It marks the narrows into Lynnhaven Bay. We’ve got to hit that Point Comfort channel dead center. Sing out when she comes into view.”

  Three minutes later half a dozen arms raised to point, and voices shouted, “There it is! On the port side!”

  Pettigrew took his bearings, spun the wheel, and the ship creaked and leaned as she swung to port. With the judgment that comes only with years of experience, the captain made his calculations of distance and set a course that would bring the Rebecca past the distant light at a range of three hundred yards. He held his position to watch the light come past on the port side, and the ship was out in the deep water of Lynnhaven Bay, at the south end of the Chesapeake. Pettigrew turned the wheel once more to bring her on a course due east, and again called to the men at the bow.

  “In about forty minutes you’ll see a lighthouse at Cape Charles to the north and another one to the south. That’s Cape Henry. Both will be about five miles away. Look sharp! When we pass between those two lighthouses, we’re out of the Chesapeake and into the Atlantic.”