by James Nelson
Ten minutes later the great front gate of the fort was opened for him, the lookout on the wall having apparently seen him coming. He swung his horse off Bay Street and charged past the surprised sentry and toward the fire in the center of the parade ground, its flames less bright now in the gathering daylight. He pulled the horse to a stop in a great spray of dust and fairly leapt from the saddle to the ground, gasping for breath.
‘Brown, Brown, what on earth?’ the governor said, lifting his great bulk off the stool on which it was planted and rushing over to him. He put his arm solicitously around Brown’s shoulder, saying, ‘My God, what has happened to you? You’re wounded, man! Did the rebels do this?’ as Brown, doubled over and gasping for breath thought, ‘As far as you know.’
At last Brown straightened, and his labored breathing, half of it the result of hard riding, the other half playacting, subsided enough for him to speak. ‘The rebels are a mile or so up the road, Governor, coming on the quick march. I doubt there’s above six hundred of them, though in the dark it was hard to see.’
‘They shot you? Did you try to speak with them? What do they …?’ The governor’s words trailed off as he stared at the president’s bloody wound.
‘I tried to speak with them, but they’d have none of it. They called me a bloody rascal and shot me. It’s just a scratch, thank God. They’re quite enraged, I’ve never seen the like.’
The sixty men who remained to defend the fort were gathered around him now. They listened with eyes wide and growing wider as he gasped out his tale. It needed no art to know what every man was thinking.
‘What about Frazer?’ one of the citizen soldiers asked. ‘What happened to Frazer?’
Brown shook his head. ‘Frazer didn’t make it. The rebels captured him. I think they may have … I don’t know what they did to him.’
This last bit of intelligence was enough to send a wave of panicked speculation through the crowd of militia. Brown saw heads shaking and arms waving and fingers pointing at the crumbling walls of Fort Nassau and the heavy gun still lying on its side at the north end of the parade ground.
‘Well, damn those rebels to hell, I say,’ the governor said in a loud and commanding voice. ‘We’ll hold fast here, and when they come, then we’ll send them right to hell, help the Lord in his work. We’d best see to manning the great guns.’
The militiamen, far from manning the great guns, began to collect their muskets, haversacks, cartridge boxes, and free pistols.
‘Beg your pardon, Governor,’ said the company’s sergeant as he slung his cartridge box over his shoulder, ‘but President Brown said there was six hundred men at least, and they shot him on no provocation. And last night they sent that broadside around, promising no harm if they got what they came for. I don’t see the sense in risking the destruction of the town for a few unserviceable cannon and what stores we have left.’
That statement was followed with a general murmur of agreement as the militiamen turned and headed for the gate, which, since Brown’s return, had remained open. The crowd split up on hitting Bay Street, each man heading off for his own home, and soon they were lost from sight. Brown pulled his watch discreetly out of his pocket and tilted the face toward the fire. Half past five.
‘Well, as for me,’ said Governor Browne, ostentatiously pulling his pistol from his belt and checking the priming, ‘I shall not leave this fort while any one man will stand by me.’
And there was, President Brown noted with some dismay, even more than one man still standing by him. Besides himself, five members of the council and two lieutenants of militia, as well as Babbidge, still remained. A total of ten men, not one of whom was a professional soldier, to fight off the invading rebels. And it seemed as if the governor still intended to mount some defense. It was absurd. And Brown had less than an hour to get them out of there.
‘Governor,’ said Councilman John Gambier, ‘I think perhaps we should revisit this defense of the fort,’ and his words were greeted up by various ‘Yes’s’ and ‘Indeed’s’ among the councilmen and officers gathered around. ‘As noble as your effort has been, I think perhaps it is time to abandon the fort to the rebels.’
Ah, good old Gambier, ever the voice of reason, Brown thought.
The governor looked at the men around him and was greeted on all quarters by nodding heads. ‘Babbidge, you’re the regular military man here, what say you?’
‘I don’t think we can hope to defend the fort with ten men,’ Babbidge said wearily, ‘and if we try, there’s nothing to stop the rebels from just ignoring us and sacking the town.’
The governor took one last look around, and Brown could see him, actually see him, come to a decision. ‘Yes, yes, indeed, we’ll let those rebels march right in! And won’t they be surprised to find the powder gone and we’ve outfoxed them again! They won’t know if those twenty-five barrels left are all the powder there was, or if we sent it away under their damned noses, and all the time we’re in our homes, ready to defend them. Yes, gentlemen, we shall further confound these damned rebels. Let us go now, to the defense of our homes!’ At that the governor picked up his musket, handed his stool to Babbidge, and led the last of the defenders out of Fort Nassau.
President Brown, following behind the general exodus, pulled his watch from his pocket one more time. A quarter to six. He had engineered the entire capitulation of the island with forty-five minutes to spare.
CHAPTER 25
The Better Part of Valor
Though the sun had yet to appear above the eastern horizon, there was sufficient light for Biddlecomb to see all of Nassau harbor and Hog Island beyond. He looked impatiently at his watch. He had left ordinary seaman Fletcher behind at Fort Montegu to see if the Charlemagne was still at anchor. He was to catch up with the invading force and report the moment the sun was high enough for him to see the fleet.
Nicholas had ordered a rest, and now the road was strewn with weary marines and sailors. In ten minutes they would march again, and as yet Biddlecomb had no word from Fletcher.
‘Damn that fool’s eyes, damn them to hell,’ he muttered to himself as he walked awkwardly over the sand toward the water’s edge. Fletcher was far from the brightest of men, but Biddlecomb had to imagine he could handle so simple a task as the one assigned.
He stopped where the soft, dry sand turned firm and wet and peered off toward the east in hopes of seeing the fleet at anchor. The effort was no more productive than was cursing the unhappy Fletcher, but like cursing Fletcher it eased his discomfort a bit.
The fleet of course was not visible; the eastern end of Hog Island obstructed his view of Hanover Sound, as he knew it would. As he cursed again and began trudging back toward the troops, Fletcher, breathing hard and lathered in sweat like a draft animal, came running up.
‘Sir, sir,’ he called, and Biddlecomb silently retracted all of the curses he had heaped on the man’s head.
‘Fletcher, good man. Here, catch your breath. Okay, now, tell me what’s acting?’
‘First light, sir, I looked out over the fleet, like you said.’
‘And …?’
‘Fleet’s still there, sir, anchored in Hanover Sound.’
‘And the Charlemagne? Is the Charlemagne still at anchor?’
‘Charlemagne, sir?’
‘Yes, the Charlemagne,’ Biddlecomb said, mentally adding, you bloody idiot. ‘You know, the brig I command? That you serve aboard?’
‘Oh, bless you, sir, I know what the Charlemagne is’ – Fletcher grinned – ‘but I don’t know if she’s still at anchor or not.’
‘Well, what in hell were you looking at?’
‘I was looking to see if the fleet was still there, sir, which it is.’
‘You idiot,’ Biddlecomb said out loud. ‘I don’t give a damn about the fleet, I want to know if the Charlemagne’s still there. Now get back to the fort and see if she’s there and come back and tell me.’
‘Aye, sir, tell you if the Charlemagne’s ther
e,’ Fletcher said, saluting and heading back up the beach.
‘Oh, and Fletcher?’ Biddlecomb called.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Run.’
With that prompting Fletcher stumbled off over the sand in an awkward gallop. Biddlecomb, watching him retreat, wondered how long it would take him to realize that he could just as easily run on the road rather than the soft sand beach.
Biddlecomb shook his head as he walked back up to the front of the column. Perhaps he should have sent someone a bit brighter this time. No, even Fletcher couldn’t twice make a hash of so simple an order.
‘Time for us to move, Biddlecomb,’ Nicholas said. The captain of marines was already standing at the head of the column; indeed, he alone had not sat down for the entire time that the column had halted on the road. ‘First Sergeant, get the men up. We’re marching.’
Orders were shouted down the line, and three minutes later the invading army was on the move again, as if it had never stopped. The sun had by then made its appearance, and the island and the harbor were illuminated with the orange light of dawn. Before the marching men, long shadows led the way down the dirt road, and the thick vegetation of the island, wet with dew, was once again alive with twittering and buzzing and shrieking. Lizards still groggy from the morning cool sat on rocks along the road, gathering up the sun on their green and brown backs.
Twenty minutes later the dirt road yielded to cobblestones and the town of Nassau hove into sight. It was as lovely as Biddlecomb remembered: pastel brick houses, battened down with brightly colored shutters, spread over a low hill overlooking the western entrance to the harbor.
They marched on, and the road became Bay Street, lined on the inland side with stores of various descriptions, as well as taverns and less affluent homes. The sergeants no longer called for silence, having themselves joined in the animated discussions among the troops.
‘There.’ Nicholas pointed toward the most imposing and prominent building, perched at the crest of the hill around which the town was built. ‘That ain’t Fort Nassau, is it?’
‘No, no,’ said Biddlecomb. ‘That’s Government House, the governor’s residence. Fort Nassau’s just up this road a piece, about half a mile.’
‘Fort’s just up this road? So whoever has that house there has the high ground. A couple of guns up there could play well on the fort, it seems. What say you?’
‘Well, I suppose you’re right. Government House overlooks the whole town, Fort Nassau included.’
‘Very well, First Sergeant, halt the men,’ Nicholas instructed his sergeant, who was, at that moment, turned half around and craning his neck to see through the partially open window of a purveyor of wine and spirits.
‘Company – halt!’ the first sergeant called, to his credit missing not a beat despite yielding to curiosity.
‘Flank company!’ Nicholas called out. ‘You’ll be taking the big house yonder, on the hill. Drive out any of them rascals that might be there. If the governor is home, then once we have possession of Fort Nassau, I’d be obliged if he would pay me a visit.’
‘Captain,’ said Biddlecomb, ‘it seems we have yet another visitor.’
‘Oh, son of a bitch, don’t these people ever get tired of parlaying?’ Nicholas said in undiluted disgust as he watched the figure whom Biddlecomb had indicated approach. He was three blocks away, stepping quickly and waving a white flag. ‘Hold up a minute, Lieutenant,’ he said to the officer of the flank company, ‘we’ll see what this whore’s son wants.’
It was Lieutenant Babbidge. He continued to wave the white flag until he was within a dozen yards of the head of the column, then stopped, came to attention, saluted, and called out, ‘Lieutenant Babbidge, New Providence Militia, requesting permission to approach. Peaceably.’
‘What in hell has got into him?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Yes, Lieutenant, please approach,’ Biddlecomb called, and Babbidge marched up to the officers and saluted again.
‘Captain Nicholas, Captain Biddlecomb, I come from the governor to bring you these.’ Babbidge held out a big brass ring from which hung three large keys. His face was pale and he seemed even more frightened than he had been before. The keys tinkled like little bells in his trembling hand. ‘These are the keys to Fort Nassau, sir. You will find it deserted and awaiting your arrival, sir.’
‘Humph,’ said Nicholas, snatching the keys from Babbidge’s hand.
‘Much obliged, Lieutenant,’ Biddlecomb said.
‘And, sir, may I enquire after … after … Lieutenant Frazer? Sir?’
‘Who?’ Biddlecomb asked.
‘Lieutenant Frazer, sir? The man you captured? The fellow in the scouting party?’
‘I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about,’ said Nicholas. ‘Now look here, what about the Government House, eh? You have artillery up there, ready to fire on us once we take the fort?’
‘Oh, no, sir, never in life,’ Babbidge protested.
‘Then you won’t mind my sending up the flank company to take possession?’
‘Oh, no, sir. I’ll show them the way, if you like.’
‘Sweet son of a whore!’ Nicholas roared, finally giving full vent to his disappointment. ‘If we’d have known you were just going to roll over like this, we’d have written ahead to tell you we were coming, save us the trouble of pretending to invade the island. God above, don’t you people believe in defending yourselves?’
‘Sir,’ said Babbidge, drawing himself up and mustering his not entirely quashed dignity and courage, ‘I think you’ll find that there are many on this island – and mind you I am not one of them, not at all – who are disloyal to their king and sympathetic with your cause.’
‘So we’ve heard,’ said Biddlecomb. ‘Now, Captain Nicholas, I think we should go take us a fort.’
The keys, as it happened, were superfluous. The front gate of Fort Nassau was not locked, it was not even closed, and the combined forces of the Continental Marines and the navy of the United Colonies marched right through the wooden palisade and on through the tall, castlelike entrance of the fort itself. Over the front entrance a large and tattered Union Jack undulated in the soft breeze.
‘Ferguson, you have the flag?’ Biddlecomb called out, and the sailor ran up to him, patting the haversack slung over his shoulder. ‘Good, come with me.’
Biddlecomb led the way up a precarious ladder to the base of the flagpole. It was the highest point of the fort’s wall and afforded him an unobstructed view of the harbor. ‘Haul that down and run our flag up,’ he said, nodding to the Union Jack over their heads. Ferguson cast off the halyard and pulled the British flag down.
Biddlecomb pulled a small glass from his coat pocket and scanned the harbor. Nothing was moving on the water, save for one boat tacking back and forth over the western bar under a single lugsail and jib.
The squealing of the flag halyard’s sheave ceased and Ferguson announced, ‘There she is, sir, and ain’t she a fine sight?’ At the top of the flagpole the American flag, the Grand Union flag with a union jack in the canton and alternating red, white, and blue stripes, waved gently in the trade winds.
Biddlecomb nodded. It was a fine sight, he had to admit. It marked the successful conclusion of the first American fleet action: the conquest of New Providence Island. And save for the somnambulant marine who had fallen off the wall of Fort Montegu while relieving himself and broken his wrist, it had been done with not one casualty.
Then he recalled the Charlemagne, and his warm feeling was gone. He could not enjoy this triumph until he knew that his ship was safe, and that the military stores had not left the island. He scanned the harbor with his telescope once again.
The boat that had been tacking back and forth over the bar had settled on a course making directly for the fort, confirming in Biddlecomb’s mind what he had suspected: she was the Alfred’s boat, waiting for some sign that the fort had been taken. The change of colors was her cue to approach. No doubt the fleet was
under way, probably lying to just the other side of Hog Island.
In the fort below he watched the marines spread out and search the various storehouses, exploring all the corners of the captured structure. At least they seemed to be enjoying themselves. He looked again at the boat, moving with intolerable slowness. He felt his anxiety and impatience mount with each passing minute.
‘That looks like Alfred’s longboat, sir,’ Ferguson offered.
‘I believe you’re right. You stay here and let me know if the fleet shows up beyond the point, yonder. I’m going down to see what the people in the boat have to say.’
The boat would not reach the fort for another fifteen minutes, but he felt that he would explode if he just stood around waiting with his vague and baseless anxiety growing more acute by the minute. He climbed back down the ladder. Ten yards away Captain Nicholas and three of his lieutenants were in animated discussion.
‘How goes it, Captain?’ Biddlecomb asked, stepping up to the knot of men.
‘Not too well, Captain, damn my eyes,’ Nicholas said, turning and spitting on the hard-packed dirt.
‘We’ve found a prodigious amount of stores,’ one of the lieutenants said, turning to Biddlecomb. ‘The great guns you can see, and there’s some mortars, as well as round shot and canister and small arms and such. There’s a big magzine as well.’
‘A big magazine? That’s a good thing,’ Biddlecomb said, feeling the first glow of hope that he had been wrong about the lumber.
‘There ain’t but twenty or so barrels in it, however,’ Nicholas added. ‘Twenty barrels of powder for all these guns? You were right, Biddlecomb. I didn’t think so last night, thought you were stretching it a bit, but you smoked it. They took our damned powder and made off with it. Son of a bitch!’ he added, directed at no one in particular, and stamped his foot on the ground.
There was still hope, of course. The spark in Biddlecomb’s breast was dying, but it was not dead. It was still possible that Tottenhill had carried out his orders, had intercepted the escaping ships and recovered the powder.