by James Nelson
‘Sergeant,’ said Babbidge, returning the messenger’s salute. As the day had progressed, he noticed, the militia seemed to grow increasingly formal, in the military line. ‘What brings you?’
‘Message from Governor Browne, sir, who’s just got back to Fort Nassau. He request you send a force of men to reconnoiter and, if possible, prevent the rebels’ landing, sir.’
After a period of silence, Babbidge said, ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s it, sir.’
‘Oh.’ Babbidge glanced around. All sixty or so pairs of eyes were on him. The governor, his commanding officer, was ordering him to leave the good stout fort and reconnoiter the enemy, attack if possible. But, no, he had not ordered him, Babbidge, to do it, just to send some of his men.
‘Lieutenant Judkin,’ he began, and even as the words left his mouth, he knew that, terrified as he was, he could not be so craven as to cower in the fort while Judkin marched toward the enemy. He was struck with self-loathing for what he had almost done. ‘Pick thirty men. You and I will lead them south to see about these rebels.’
It took another fifty minutes to pick the men and get them drawn up, with weapons and equipment, into two fairly regular columns on the parade ground outside the fort’s gate. ‘It’s like trying to herd cats, like bloody trying to herd cats,’ Lieutenant Judkin said, several times, as his exasperation got the better of him.
Babbidge was only vaguely aware of the lack of organization or military efficiency that pervaded the militia. He was thinking rather about the upcoming encounter with the large, well-armed, and no doubt cutthroat band of attacking rebels. Should he attack them first? Did he have the men to do that, and if so, did he and his men have the courage for it?
It was useless, he concluded, to speculate until he knew what he was up against. He might find the Americans were a large and disciplined army, against whom it would be suicidal to move. And again he might find them all dead drunk on the beach. You could never tell with the rebellious type. He would have to wait and see.
‘Ready, sir,’ Judkin reported.
‘Right, then.’ Babbidge turned and looked at the twin lines of men. They did not look any happier than he to be sallying forth to meet the enemy. Some, in fact, looked angry and even frightened, and that gave Babbidge’s courage a boost. ‘All right, you men,’ he called. ‘Follow me!’ And with that he headed off down the road, and behind him thirty pairs of less than enthusiastic feet followed in ragged order.
Over half of the American invasion force, one hundred and sixty men, were on the beach, with the boats pulling back for the rest, when Biddlecomb saw the militia. He had walked back down the beach, was standing, in fact, with his feet in the surf and looking northwest along the curved shoreline when he saw the marching soldiers over half a mile away. They seemed of no great force, not above fifty men certainly, but they were still enemy troops, marching toward his own.
‘Captain Nicholas, Captain Nicholas, sir, a word with you,’ Biddlecomb called out, splashing toward the marine captain and leading him out of earshot of the others. ‘I perceive there are enemy troops on the road there, and making for us.’
‘You’re right, Biddlecomb, by damn,’ Nicholas said, sighting along Biddlecomb’s pointed finger. Nicholas was a solid-built man in his midforties. Three months before, prior to beginning his career in the marine corps, he had owned a tavern in Philadelphia, a popular place whose clientele had provided the bulk of his troops come recruiting time. The qualities that made him a good tavern owner – brusque efficiency, frugality, and a willingness to suffer no nonsense – had thus far made him a good captain of marines as well. Of course he had never, until this moment, been faced with an armed enemy.
‘Stupid bastards,’ the marine muttered, loud enough for Biddlecomb to hear. ‘If they’d attacked half an hour ago, when most of our troops was still on the transports, they might have done for us. Robertson, Faircloth, Michaels,’ he shouted to three of the lieutenants of marines, ‘get your companies together and set up some defense there to cover the rest of the landing. Set your companies in a semicircle, First Company there’ – he pointed toward the road – ‘and Fourth there and Sixth over there.’
The three lieutenants began shouting orders, though the men in their companies, having heard the captain’s instructions as clearly as the officers had, were already snatching up muskets and cartridge boxes and hurrying off to take up their defensive positions.
‘There.’ Nicholas turned to Biddlecomb and smiled, for the first time in Biddlecomb’s memory. ‘That should make them militia bastards think twice about attacking regular troops.’
Biddlecomb smiled as well, not so much in delight at the pending action but at Nicholas’s reference to his marines as ‘regular troops,’ as differentiated from, and superior to civilian militia. ‘Let us hope, Captain,’ Biddlecomb said.
While it was unlikely that Lieutenant Babbidge would have considered himself a ‘militia bastard,’ he was indeed having second thoughts about attacking regular troops.
They had marched for two miles thus far under a hot sun. He could feel the grit from the road working its way under his clothing – an excessively heavy broadcloth coat, linen waistcoat, and silk shirt and breeches – and sticking fast to the film of sweat that coated his body. The strap of his musket was digging painfully into his shoulder, even after that short time, and every time he looked at the troops behind him, he was convinced that so far at least half a dozen had slipped away, heading back to the comfort and safety of their homes.
The Americans had been in view for the past mile. Indeed, it would have been hard to miss them, so great were their number as they plied between the ships and the shore and swarmed over the beach. This was not some trifling annoyance, it was a full-scale invasion, and Lieutenant Babbidge, vacillating between his fear of combat and his fear of humiliating cowardice, and entirely uncertain of what he should do, just kept marching.
The occasional murmurs from the men still following him grew louder and bolder as they too saw the invulnerability of the attackers. They were just over half a mile from the enemy, and still marching, when a group of rebels broke off from the cluster on the beach and ran up toward the road and, to Babbidge’s unhappy surprise, quickly formed into an organized and credible line of defense, aiming at the Bahamians twice the number of muskets that the Bahamians could aim back.
‘Halt!’ Babbidge shouted, holding up a hand and stopping short.
The murmuring among his troops had turned to loud speculation, and more than a few men offered their opinions of the most prudent course of action. Lieutenant Judkin shouted, ‘Silence!’ and the noise dropped by half.
‘What do you think, Lieutenant Judkin?’ Babbidge asked.
‘There’s a bloody lot of them, sir, more than I reckoned on.’
‘Yes, indeed. Would you agree that an attack is out of the question?’
‘Good Lord, yes. We can’t attack them, and them already formed up in defense.’
‘Very well,’ said Babbidge, greatly relieved that he was not the only officer unwilling to attack. Judkin’s reaction was to him a clear affirmation that his decision was based on sound military reasoning and not cowardice at all.
But once again he had to make a decision, and once again he was torn between what he wished to do, which was retreat back to the fort, and what he knew he should do, which was to see what the rebels’ intentions were.
Damn it all to hell, he thought. He had never wished to be an army officer in the first place, the whole thing had been his father’s idea. And the old man didn’t even have enough money to maintain his commission, so here he was on half-pay, neither fish nor fowl. How did it happen that he had to make these decisions?
‘Very well,’ he said, more a sigh than a statement. ‘We were ordered to reconnoiter. Find me something that will serve as a white flag.’
‘What do you intend, sir?’ Judkin asked.
‘I intend to go ask those bloody rebels w
hat they want with us.’
CHAPTER 20
Fort Montegu
‘Yes, you are right, Captain,’ Biddlecomb said, staring at the distant militia through his glass. He and Nicholas were standing just behind the line of defense flung across the beach. ‘The fellow has a white flag.’
‘Flag of truce! No one fire on it!’ Nicholas roared to the men of the three companies, who were all training their muskets with great care on the man with the flag. ‘And all your damned muskets had best be at the damned half-cock! What do you think he wants, Biddlecomb?’
‘I couldn’t say. I should think he wants to negotiate, work out some kind of agreement.’
‘Humph,’ was all that Nicholas said, then he fell silent as they watched the distant militiaman. They could see, as he drew closer, that his flag of truce was in fact a white shirt tied to a musket. This he was waving wildly, in great sweeping arcs, as he approached, as if he thought the entire American army were half-blind and likely at any moment to shoot him down by mistake.
‘We can see your sodding flag, ya stupid bastard,’ Nicholas muttered to himself, and then in a somewhat embarrassed and confessional tone said to Biddlecomb, ‘Look here, Captain … ah … I reckon I’m not much of a talking cove, if you follow me. I mean, this kind of negotiating, this ain’t exactly in my line, and you, well, you have something of a reputation as … I mean no offense, of course …’
‘Would you like me to talk to this fellow?’
‘If you would be so kind. I’ll be right there with you, of course.’
‘I would be happy to, Captain.’
‘But don’t go promising anything, without we talk to the admiral.’
‘No, certainly not.’
‘And don’t let on how many men we got. Let ’em think we’ve got this many again still on the ships.’
‘Good thought.’
‘And mind you don’t tell him—’
‘Captain Nicholas …’
‘Very well, I was only saying …’ The marine’s words trailed off into a mutter, and he looked with renewed interest at the approaching, flag-waving militiaman.
At last the Nassauvian reached the American lines, and the marines, who were staring at him the way a mean dog will stare at a stranger in its yard, parted and let him through. He had apparently used his own shirt for the truce flag, for he was bare-chested under his broadcloth coat and linen waistcoat.
‘I am looking for the officer in charge,’ he asked of the assembly in general.
‘We are the officers in charge,’ Biddlecomb said, stepping forward. ‘I am Capt. Isaac Biddlecomb of the United Colonies brig-of-war Charlemagne, and this is Captain Nicholas, Captain of Marines of the United Colonies.’ Even as he said it, he was impressed by the stately, martial sound of those titles.
‘Good day, sirs. I am Lt James Babbidge, assistant to Gov. Montfort Browne, and officer of the New Providence militia.’
The lieutenant, seemingly on the verge of panic, had barely enough wind in his lungs to get that statement out.
After an awkward silence, stretching over a quarter of a minute, Biddlecomb asked, ‘What may we do for you, Lieutenant?’
‘I’ve … ah … come to see … who, in fact, you are and what are your intentions.’
Biddlecomb smiled, struck with the directness and naïveté of the question. An enemy force lands on your beach and you march up and ask them who they are and what they want? Well, why not? ‘We are the naval and marine forces of the United Colonies of America.’
‘So, you are American rebe—’ The lieutenant seemed to suffer a burst of courage, but it quickly dissipated and he fell silent again.
Biddlecomb considered the nervous, shirtless lieutenant, and it dawned on him that, given the right amount of bluster on the Americans’ part and backwardness on the part of the Bahamians, this invasion might be carried off without bloodshed after all. ‘We have been sent by the Congress of the United Colonies in order to possess ourselves of the powder and stores on this island belonging to His Majesty.’
‘Oh,’ said Babbidge, and though Biddlecomb waited for him to say more, nothing came.
‘Was there anything else, Lieutenant? Would you, for instance, care to negotiate a surrender?’
‘I must certainly would not!’ This suggestion, apparently, was sufficiently outrageous for Babbidge to forget his discomfort, for the moment at least. ‘No one short of the governor could do such a thing, and I believe you will find, sir, that he is not disposed to so pacific a course.’ Then, realizing that he may have gone too far, he added, ‘You understand, I have no doubt.’
‘Yes, very well, Lieutenant.’ Babbidge clearly did not have the authority or the courage to make any sort of decision. ‘Forgive me, but if you are not here to surrender, then I’m afraid Captain Nicholas and I have a great deal still to do. Not even half of our troops are landed yet, and there’s the artillery, which is problem enough, but add to that the cavalry divisions and all their damned horses and … well, you can see we are quite occupied.’
‘Yes, all right,’ Babbidge said, making no move to leave. The present circumstance was so unlike any social situation that any of the men had encountered before that no one knew just how to proceed.
‘Perhaps you had best rejoin your troops?’ Biddlecomb prompted.
‘Oh. You’re not going to take me prisoner?’
‘By God, but you’re a stupid bastard!’ Captain Nicholas spoke for the first time.
‘You came under a flag of truce, Lieutenant. You may go.’
‘Oh. Certainly. Good day, then, gentlemen,’ Babbidge said, a look of profound relief on his face. He turned and hurried back up the beach.
‘Well, if that’s what we have to contend with,’ Nicholas said, spitting in the sand, ‘I reckon we’ll be having a rum punch in the governor’s house by sundown today.’
No more than twenty minutes later, Lieutenants Babbidge and Judkin, at the head of their company of militia, were admitted back through the arched entryway of Fort Montegu. It had taken them considerably less time to return to the fort than it had to sally forth and meet the enemy, this due to a willingness on the part of all the militiamen to move much more swiftly in the retreat than in the advance.
The lieutenant made his way down the long, dark, cool entryway of the fort, then back into the sunshine at the far end. The door to the barracks was in front of him, and on either side stairs led up to the wide landing just below the ramparts and the guns. He chose the stairs to his right, climbing the fifteen feet up to the fort’s upperworks.
Governor Browne had arrived during his absence, marching at the head of eighty more militiamen. Browne had pushed his large self into a narrow observation platform cut out of the wall in the fort’s southwest corner and was staring intently southward through a telescope. He was in his uniform, his red coat with its epaulets and numerous medals, a wig like a marble sculpture perched on his head.
‘Governor, I’ll report on the situation, if you wish,’ Babbidge said, standing on the first step and looking up at the governor’s back.
‘Just a moment, Lieutenant,’ Browne said, never taking the glass from his eye.
Two minutes later the governor said, ‘A lot of those damned rebels, isn’t there. Damned good thing I brought more troops, enough to stop those sons of whores in their tracks, push ’em right back into the sea.’
‘Yes, sir. By my reckoning there were a thousand rebel troops at least, and more to be landed, as well as …’ Babbidge stopped there. The mention of artillery and cavalry had thoroughly unnerved him on the beach, but now, back in Fort Montegu, he was not entirely certain he believed it.
‘Yes, I can see them,’ Governor Browne continued, ‘they’re on the march already. Damn me, damn me, damn me. They’ll cut us off from the town, lay siege to us, and just march right past, sack Nassau, and us cooped up here like a fox in a tree.’ Along the southern wall of the fort men were standing on the guns and ramparts, peering along the rocky s
horeline at the mass of rebel troops that could now be seen marching toward them. The murmuring of the civilian soldiers grew louder with each passing minute.
‘Very well,’ Browne said, squeezing out of the hole in the wall and descending a step.
‘Sir, I spoke under flag of truce with their officers, and I was informed that they’ve come for the King’s military stores. Powder and whatnot.’
‘Military stores, eh? Oh, we’ll give them military stores. You there.’ The governor pointed toward a group of men peering over the south wall. ‘Clear away three of these guns and load ’em. We’ll teach those treasonous bastards a lesson they won’t soon forget.’
The men began slowly, grudgingly, loading the guns, and the governor turned to Babbidge. ‘Lieutenant, get the men assembled. Once those guns are fired, we’re going to spike them and abandon the fort. Quickstep it back to Nassau. We must get that gunpowder on Chambers’s sloop and off the island, keep it from their hands.’
Babbidge wondered about the governor’s promise, made just a minute before, to push the rebels into the sea, but he knew better than to ask.
Half the sun was still visible, and the other half was gone, dipped below the western horizon, and Biddlecomb, sitting on the wide stone wall of Fort Montegu, his feet dangling in a section cut out of the southeast corner, felt more genuinely content than he had since leaving Philadelphia.
The taking of the fort had been a bloodless affair, simpler than he had dared dream it would be.
As soon as the marines and sailors had landed, they were formed up in columns, Biddlecomb, Nicholas, and Weatherspoon at the head, and marched off north along the road that skirted the crescent-shaped indent in the shoreline called Sandy Bay.
It seemed impossible to Biddlecomb that the Nassauvians would not try to cut them off on that narrow, exposed, and constricted road, with the jungle on their left hand and the ocean on their right. He knew virtually nothing about land fighting, but that seemed to him a reasonable thing to do.