by James Nelson
With that thought on his mind he was not surprised when the first of the fort’s great guns went off with that familiar flat boom, followed a second later by the scream of round shot overhead. It was a sound he knew well, but one that he associated with the deck of a ship, not the dusty, hot road of a Caribbean island.
Up and down the column the sergeants called for silence, steadying the men and keeping them marching into the face of it. Another gun fired, and another, and a moment later the enemy’s troops came pouring out of the fort, marching double-time, muskets glinting in the sun. Nicholas called for the Americans to prepare to form the column into ranks for firing, and the order was still being passed down the line when it became clear that the enemy was not double-timing it to the attack, but rather making a hasty retreat back toward Nassau. They fired no more guns. They did not even bother closing the gate to the fort.
That evening the victorious invaders had enjoyed an excessive dinner of fresh fruit, vegetables, and sides of beef. That fine repast, most welcome after two months of salted meat and dried peas from a cask, was donated by locals who adamantly proclaimed their sympathy with the American cause, and who went to great lengths to explain to Biddlecomb just which houses were theirs and asked might they be spared when the town was sacked?
Biddlecomb reveled in the splendor of the tropical evening. With the warm trade winds blowing over him, and a belly full of food that had never seen the inside of a barrel, and the rich smells of a tropical island, the Charlemagne and Tottenhill and that world of worry seemed far away.
He thought again of the local militia, firing three guns and then marching, practically running, in retreat.
Perhaps, he thought, it is they who are the lizards in this fight, and not us at all.
President of His Majesty’s Council Brown could only shake his head, he could not even manage a smile, so much had his former amusement turned to disgust, when the gate of Fort Nassau swung open and Governor Browne marched in like the triumphant Caesar returning to Rome. At his side and two paces back was the parasitic Babbidge, and behind them the militiamen, far fewer militiamen than had sallied forth.
Nothing about them indicated that they had been in a fight, so their much reduced number, Brown supposed, was a result of desertions. That they were here, and not at Fort Montegu where they were supposed to be, suggested that they had abandoned to the invaders the only decent fort in the islands.
‘Governor, I’m somewhat surprised to see you,’ Brown said, walking across the parade ground as Governor Browne halted his troops. ‘Were you overrun at Montegu?’
‘Quite nearly so, to be sure. A thousand of the rascals if there’s one. Tried to cut us off from the town – and nearly succeeded, I dare say. But we gave them a good cannonading, almost drove them back into the sea before we was forced to abandon our position and fall back. But I reckon they’ll think twice before attacking again.’
‘I should imagine,’ said President Brown. The militia, he could see, now consisted of proportionally fewer of the island’s gentlemen and prosperous citizens than it had that morning. ‘Your numbers seem somewhat depleted. Did you have casualties?’ he asked, confident that the governor would detect no irony in the question.
‘Some light wounds, I think, nothing serious. A few of our number took leave to see to their own affairs.’
The few to which the governor referred amounted to at least half of the militia, as far as Brown could see. He could just picture them, slinking away on the dark road between Fort Montegu and Fort Nassau, racing home to collect their valuables and pack them off, along with wives, children, and slaves, to the interior of the island. ‘And what are your plans, if I may ask?’
‘First thing, we have to get some troops up to the Government House. If those rebels take that high ground, they could enfilade this fort. Enfilade it. Then we need every able man or Negro on the island.
‘Babbidge.’ The governor turned to his aide, who looked as if he were about to fall asleep on his feet, in contrast to Browne’s overwhelming energy. ‘I want you to go and issue a proclamation by beat of drum. Offer a reward of a pistol to every free Negro or any others that will enter the fort armed. And those gentlemen that left us back there, send someone to round them up. I want every citizen of note to meet here at … what time is it? Half past six? Say eight o’clock, here at the fort. Here we shall make our stand.’
The militia, most of whom were now sitting, were something less than stirred by these words. ‘And what of the military supplies?’ President Brown asked.
‘The military supplies we hold on to. If we burn every last ounce of powder defending these stores, so be it, but we will not turn them over to rebels.’
The governor’s voice had a determination that Brown rarely heard, a determination that generally meant that the governor would soon be changing his mind. The one opportunity to stop the Americans, hitting them while they were landing their troops, was gone. Not only were the rebels now ashore, but they already had possession of half of the island’s defenses.
‘Very good.’ Brown said, and at the same moment he came to a decision. Conquest by the rebels was inevitable now. If that conquest was to be orchestrated properly, by which he meant orchestrated to his benefit, then he had better start doing it himself.
Biddlecomb came to the far end of the wall, paused, then turned and walked back toward the steps leading down to the ramparts below. It was somewhere around ten o’clock at night. Thirteen hours since they had been driven out of Nassau harbor. Six hours since they had taken Fort Montegu. It had been a hell of a day. It was time to go to bed.
He was halfway there when he heard the sound of oars grinding in tholes and blades dipping in the water. He peered out over the rocky shoreline, and slowly a boat appeared, resolving out of the dark, and in the stern sheets sat Mr Midshipman Weatherspoon, returning from the flagship, to which he had been dispatched with reports of the day’s activities. Biddlecomb sighed. Sleep would now have to wait until he heard what the commodore had to say.
Three minutes later Weatherspoon stood before him, saluting, a sheaf of papers under his arm. ‘Commodore’s compliments to you and Captain Nicholas, sir, and he’s more than pleased about taking the fort and without losing a man, sir. He begs you take care to preserve the military supplies. And he sent these along, to be distributed to the natives here.’
The midshipman handed the papers to Biddlecomb, who called for a lantern. Each sheet contained the same words, each written in a different hand. Biddlecomb could picture the commodore collecting together every man on the flagship who could write and setting them to it. It must have looked like a seagoing scrivener’s shop. He angled the top sheet toward the light and read:
To the Gentlemen, Freemen and Inhabitants of the Island of New Providence:
The reasons of my landing an armed force on the Island is in Order to take Possession of the Powder and Warlike Stores belonging to the Crown, and if I am not Opposed in putting my design in Execution the persons and Property of the Inhabitants Shall be Safe, neither shall they be Suffered to be hurt in Case they make no Resistance.
Given under my hand on board the Ship Alfred March 3rd. 1776.
E. H. Cr. In Chief.
Biddlecomb nodded his head as he read the manifesto. ‘Excellent, excellent, I think the people of the island will be most disposed to help us. In any event they don’t seem overly disposed to fight.
‘Lieutenant Faircloth,’ he called to the lieutenant of marines, who happened to be in command of the sentries for that watch. ‘Pray get together a company of your men and distribute these to some of those gentlemen that were here tonight, the ones with homes nearby. Tell them to see these are spread all over the island. Tell them it’s their best hope for saving their homes from the torch.’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Faircloth, reading the manifesto even as he called for Sergent Dawes to assemble the men.
Biddlecomb thanked Weatherspoon for his service and dismissed him, then head
ed for his own bed, suddenly aware of how tired he was. He was halfway along the wall, halfway to the steps, when the sentry on the west wall, facing the town of Nassau, sang out.
‘Halt! Who are you, then?’ he shouted, his voice loud in the still night. Biddlecomb froze and looked toward the west wall, as did everyone else who was awake. Sleeping men stirred and sat up. A muffled response came from the ground below.
‘Sir.’ The sentry nearly collided with Biddlecomb as Biddlecomb made his way to the west wall and the sentry made his way to the east to find him. ‘Fellow down there, looks like a gentleman, says he’s here to talk to the commanding officer. Do you want to talk to him, sir, or should I get Captain Nicholas?’
‘I’m here,’ Nicholas growled as he stepped up onto the wall, dressed only in breeches and a linen shirt, the long, untucked tails of which hung down in front and behind. As he walked, he buckled his sword belt over the whole thing. ‘Now who in the hell is this, and what does he want at this hour of the night? If it’s some son of a whore pleading with us not to sack his house, I swear I’ll burn it down myself just to spite him.’
‘He won’t say what he wants, sir, except to let on he’s some important cove.’
‘Well, if he thinks we’re going to just open the gate, he’s some stupid cove. You men there, wrestle out that ladder and let it over the side. If they want to storm this fort, they’ll have to do it up the ladder one at a time.’ Then as the men slid the long ladder over the edge to let the nocturnal emissary climb up onto the wall, Nicholas muttered to Biddlecomb in a voice much less gruff and demanding, ‘Here, you talk to this bastard, like you done the other.’
The bastard, if such he was, to whom Nicholas referred made his way to the top of the ladder and stepped awkwardly around and onto the wall. He was dressed in a cotton shirt and breeches. His stockings were silk, not wool, and the buckles on his shoes glinted in the moonlight. The waistcoat that perfectly enveloped his midriff was silk as well, elaborately embroidered. White, ruffled cuffs seemed to explode out of the ends of his coat sleeves.
The man turned to Biddlecomb and Nicholas, seeming to know instinctively who was in command. ‘Gentlemen, I am President of His Majesty’s Council John Brown. I come as an official representative of His Majesty’s government.’
‘Humph,’ said Nicholas.
‘Good evening, sir. I am Capt. Isaac Biddlecomb of the Continental brig-of-war Charlemage. This is Capt. Samuel Nicholas, in command of the Continental Marines. We are here as representatives of the Continental Congress.’
‘An honor, sir,’ Brown said, bowing at the waist.
‘Now see here,’ said Nicholas. ‘If you got me out of bed just to ask we don’t burn your house down …’
‘Oh, never, sir. Never in life. I am as much concerned with the welfare of you and your men as ever I am with my own property. I am … a great supporter of your republican ideals.’
‘Indeed,’ said Biddlecomb, now fully convinced that this emissary was here primarily on a mission of self-interest. He had seen it before, many times.
‘Yes, Captain. I have followed what has been taking place in the American colonies with great interest. In the name of liberty I welcome you to New Providence.’
‘And in the name of liberty I thank you. Now what can we do for you? Or, more to the point, what can you do for us?’
‘Perhaps a great deal. But I must know, sir, what are your intentions here?’
‘The entire subjugation of the island. The routing of His Majesty’s government, the establishment of an American naval base here, the liberation of all of the island’s possessions, and the raising of an army to help in the further subjugation of the Bahamian Islands.’
‘Oh,’ was all that Brown was able to say.
‘However, we are at liberty to modify those plans to some degree. For example, the extent to which we must rout the present government will depend, of course, on the extent of cooperation that we receive.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Brown said, having recovered his wits. ‘That is precisely my point. The thing of it is, I am much disposed to help you, indeed in the name of liberty I would very much like to assist in the Continental Congress’s endeavors. The problem is the governor, Montfort Browne.’
‘Brown?’ Nicholas interjected. ‘Is everyone here named Brown? Some relation of yours?’
‘He is Browne with an e, sir, I am Brown without. I think if his removal were to be the goal of the invasion force, I could quite well guarantee the cooperation of the locals. If it is military stores that you need, you shall have them. I have gone to great lengths to see that no damage has come to them, and that none have been removed from the island.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Nicholas interrupted again. ‘Well, you spiked these damned guns before we got to them. Do you know how much of a problem it’s going to be repairing them damned touchholes?’
‘That was Governor Browne who did that, not I, which is very much to my point. Sir …’ he continued, turning to Biddlecomb, but Biddlecomb’s attention was elsewhere. Indeed he had been distracted for the past several minutes by glimpses of something, he could not tell what, bobbing in the surf and nudging against the sandy beach. It looked like wreckage, but not quite, glowing dull in the moonlight fifty yards away on the harbor side of the point. Whatever it was, it was out of place, and he was feeling increasingly uneasy about it.
‘I was saying, sir,’ Brown tried again, but Biddlecomb held up his hand.
‘A moment, sir. Weatherspoon’ – he turned to the midshipman, who had just appeared on the rampart – ‘get five of our men together, pistols and cutlasses, and fetch a lantern along. Captain Nicholas, I am going to see what that is out there in the surf. You, sir’ – he turned to Brown – ‘will accompany me.’
Four minutes later Isaac stepped from the ladder onto the hard ground surrounding the fort. He led his little troop toward the water, Weatherspoon on his right side, Brown on his left. The hard-packed dirt yielded to soft sand as they made their way toward the edge of the harbor. The water lapped gently at the beach, surging over the sand and retreating again, and into this water he walked, the better part of a lifetime at sea making him quite immune to the discomfort of wet shoes and stockings.
‘Bring that lantern up here,’ he said, never taking his eyes from the flotsam, and a sailor stepped up to his side, holding the lantern over his head.
It was lumber. A great quantity of lumber floating in the harbor and pushing up against the sand of the beach. Long pieces of fresh-cut wood, shining in the lantern light the color of bleached bone.
‘Fetch one of those boards out,’ he ordered. ‘There, the long one.’ Two sailors splashed out into the warm Caribbean water, lifted the fresh-cut piece of wood, and brought it ashore.
‘Okay, now break it in two. Put it across that rock there.’ The men placed it like a seesaw over a rock. Three stood on one end and three climbed up on the other, and with a great rending crack – a sound that invariably set Biddlecomb’s teeth on edge as it so often signaled disaster on shipboard – it broke.
He stepped up to the jagged, broken edge, motioning for the lantern to be brought closer. The men crowded around, peering over his shoulder, though to the best of his knowledge they had not a clue as to what he was looking for.
‘It’s dry inside.’ Biddlecomb turned to President Brown. ‘It’s not been floating long. What do you make of this?’
Brown shrugged and shook his head, clearly hoping to look innocent and failing. ‘I do not know.’
Biddlecomb looked down at the broken plank and then out at the dozens and dozens of others floating in the water. Such perfectly good lumber, drifting away. It put him in mind of those few times he had been forced to jettison valuable stores to lighten his vessel to aid in escape.
He stood up quickly. Jettisoned cargo. It had to be jettisoned cargo, what else could it be? What else would explain so much lumber floating in the harbor? A board or two might be dropped in the water by acciden
t, but not this many, and these were only the ones that he could see.
They were floating down harbor, bound for sea, so they came no doubt from a vessel anchored within. Why would a ship at anchor in a safe harbor jettison a valuable cargo?
‘Oh, damn me to hell,’ Biddlecomb whispered as a possible answer came to him. ‘Weatherspoon’ – he turned to the midshipman—’ and you men, take the jolly boat and get out to the flagship. If Hopkins is asleep, wake him, and … no, belay that. There’s no time.’ The commodore might well ask for more proof before getting under way, and in the interim lose the stores. But he could order the Charlemagne under way with no questions asked.
‘Go straight for the Charlemagne. Tell Tottenhill I suspect that the island’s military stores are being loaded onto a ship with the intention of taking them off the island.’ The only reason that he could think of for a ship at anchor to jettison a cargo was to quickly make room for another.
He turned and looked at the wood drifting out of the harbor. The tide was ebbing and the breeze was easterly, as usual. ‘They’ll make for the western end of the harbor.’ He considered going himself, taking command of the Charlemagne, but his place was here, where Hopkins had ordered him. As it was, he was taking great liberties sending the Charlemagne off without the commodore’s permission.
‘Tell Tottenhill to just slip the cable and go, try to cut them off. Then tell Hopkins what I suspect. Tell him we must seal off the harbor, stop them from taking the military stores off the island. That is,’ he added, turning to Brown, ‘what you are intending to do, is it not?’
‘Believe me, sir, I am as betrayed by this as you. I tried to warn you about the governor. He is a treacherous man. Had you arrested him today, you would not have this problem now.’
‘Well, sir, for your sake, and the sake of this island, let us hope that my men are able to intercept those stores before they leave the harbor.’ Biddlecomb’s hand reached automatically for the hilt of his sword, and he alternately clenched and unclenched the brass-bound handle. He was at once furious and consumed with anxiety. Their entire raison d’être was to fetch military stores, and now those stores were being whisked away.