by Ron Carter
“Get aboard,” Caleb shouted, and the men leaped into the first four longboats, onto the seats, slammed the oarlocks home, and shoved the oars down. In seconds they were turning the boats, and Caleb shouted to the two men standing among the British longboats.
“Blow them!”
The men shielded their tinderboxes, lit their fuses, and leaped from the boats, to pound along the beach sixty feet to Caleb’s waiting longboat and dive inside while the men with the oars strained to turn the boat and head out into the black, choppy, storm-tossed harbor. They had only gone fifteen feet when the first musket ball came whining over their heads from the shore, and they flinched and ducked, then continued their strokes. Four more musket balls came whistling before the gunpowder in the two longboats blasted, and for one brief moment the entire storm-ridden harbor was lit in vivid detail before it was plunged back into blackness and howling wind. Of the fourteen British longboats, six were blasted to bits, four were sinking with shattered hulls, and the last four were adrift in the storm.
Caleb turned toward the mouth of the harbor, straining to see the Zephyr, and the two British gunboats guarding the entrance. Within three minutes the blur of lights appeared on the deck of the nearest gunboat, and at the same moment, on the deck of the Zephyr, twisting in the wind, fighting her own anchor chain. Caleb wiped at the rain running from his hair down his face and eyes and into his beard to judge speed and distance and murmured, “It’s going to be close!”
The longboats turned to come alongside the Zephyr, banged into her hull, and all the men leaped to the net strung over the railing. Within two minutes all were aboard, and Caleb shouted to Young, pointing, “Hoist the anchor and unfurl the mainsail. Take a heading straight for that gunboat!”
Men hit the rope ladders up to the spars, walked out on the swinging hawsers, and jerked the knots that freed the sails. The canvas dropped, then caught in the wind, and the men on the lower spars grabbed them flapping and tied them down while men threw their weight into hoisting the anchor from the harbor floor. Instantly the little schooner leaped forward, running with the wind and tide, and the helmsman spun the wheel to bring her around on a course that would bring her into a collision dead center amidships on the nearest British gunboat.
“Man the cannon!” Caleb shouted, and men jerked the lids from the budge barrels, filled the ladles, and rammed gunpowder down the muzzles of the cannon, set on the ships railing, angled sharply upward. They shoved the wadding down, then dropped the cannonballs rattling down the barrels, and lighted the linstocks to hold them smoking beneath the cannon barrels away from the whipping rain. Caleb ran to the bow of the ship and peered forward at the three bare masts of the gunboat, thrust upward into the blackness, and the deck, twelve feet above that of the Zephyr. He turned to shout at the helmsman.
“Steady as she goes. When I say hard to port, turn as sharp as you can.”
“Aye, sir.”
He called to the four cannon crews on the starboard side of the racing schooner. “On my command, fire all guns.”
“Aye, sir.”
Running nearly due west with the wind, with her cargo hold almost empty, the little schooner was rolling, bucking, plowing through twelve foot waves, skimming on top of lesser ones. With the howling wind at his back, drenched, wind blowing wild, Caleb watched the bigger ship looming up black and he was aware that Young and Adam were beside him, wide-eyed, making their own calculations of speed and distance. At the last moment Caleb spun and shouted, “Hard port!”
The words were not out of his mouth when the helmsman spun the wheel and the little schooner leaned to starboard as she swung to port, deck slanted close to thirty degrees, with the crew clinging to hatches and ropes to keep their balance, waiting for the grinding shudder when the bowsprit of the Zephyr would hit the bigger ship and shatter, and then the much smaller schooner would plow into the side of the gunboat.
The swinging bowsprit missed the hull of the British warship by inches, and the starboard railing was less than a foot from the oak hull of the gunboat when the little schooner straightened and continued her swing to port. On board the gunboat, the gunnery commander was shouting orders to his men, and suddenly realized that his cannon were too high to come to bear on the smaller schooner. He could not depress the muzzles to fire downward. His only chance was to hope his cannonballs would hit the masts close enough to their center to blast them in two.
He had raised his arm to give the command to fire when Caleb, directly alongside, shouted to his six guns on the starboard side, “FIRE!” The smoking linstocks hit the touchholes, the powder caught, and the six guns blasted upward in the darkness. They caught the hull of the larger ship just below the gunports on the second deck, shattered the wood, and continued upward.
No one on either ship expected what happened next.
One smoking cannonball knocked a British gunner backward, sprawling, sliding, and he lost the smoking linstock clutched in his hand. It slid across the deck to the budge barrel of the next gun crew, where grains of black gunpowder were scattered, and a few caught, then more, and then the budge barrel exploded. The blast knocked the budge barrel of the next gun crew rolling, powder spilling in piles on the deck, and it caught and exploded. Burning gunpowder sprayed thirty feet in every direction. Within five seconds, half a dozen open budge barrels exploded to blow most of the cannon of the second deck through the gunports into the sea. The upper deck was raised nearly a foot, and flames shot upward through the cracks. Fire swept through the second deck, then up to the first, and suddenly the entire harbor was a kaleidoscope of light and shadow as the ship burned in the wind and rain.
For three seconds the crew of the Zephyr stood stock-still on the deck of their little schooner, bucking in the storm, drenched, staring in wide-eyed disbelief at the holocaust on the big ship, and then Caleb shouted, “Man your stations! Unfurl all sail! We’re not clear yet.”
With all their canvas out, drenched, and stretched to its limits by the howling storm, the little ship was flying. With Caleb and Adam at the bow shouting directions, the helmsman picked their way through the ships and barges and longboats at anchor, rising and falling on the tides, pitching in the wind and rain, while the two brothers in the bow of the ship strained to see the two lighthouses that marked the entrance to the harbor.
Adam’s arm shot up, pointing. “There! Starboard! One hundred yards.”
All heads turned to see the glimmer of light to their right, then turned to peer left, searching for the lighthouse at the far extreme of the harbor entrance, but in the rain there was nothing. Caleb turned to Tunstall.
“Where’s the channel?”
Tunstall shouted, “Port. Over one hundred yards,” and the helmsman corrected to port and held the little ship quartering before the wind, roaring in from the east.
“Steady as she goes!”
The lighthouse to their right faded and disappeared as they moved to their left, and Caleb looked at Tunstall, concerned, inquiring.
Tunstall shook his head and Caleb heard the determination in his voice. “We’ll make it.”
Tunstall counted slowly to sixty, then shouted, “Starboard, thirty degrees.” The ship leaned to port for the correction, and then steadied, running once again with the wind. One minute became five, and Tunstall nodded to Caleb. “We’re clear of the harbor. Deep water. We made it. Any wounded? Lost?”
“None.”
“What course do you want to go home?”
“What choices do we have?”
Three minutes later Caleb, Tunstall, Adam, and Young were crowded around the table in Tunstall’s cramped quarters, wiping at the water in their hair and beards and clothes as Tunstall unrolled a chart. The room was rolling, pitching, creaking, as Tunstall dropped his finger to the parchment, yellow in the undulating light of the swinging lantern.
“We can go back the way we came in, here, at the Windward Channel. To do that we move west about 150 miles, then correct to due east to hit the channel.
We’ll be sailing directly into the wind.” He moved his finger back to where he started and continued. “Or, we can run west from where we are for about 200 miles, then north nor’west about four hundred miles through the Yucatan Channel here, then turn back east nor’east around Cuba, through the Straits of Florida, here, back north about 150 miles past the Bahamas, then correct east by nor’east about fifty miles, and straight north home.”
Caleb reflected for a moment. “Which do you recommend?”
Tunstall did not hesitate. “The second route. The wind is with us the first 300 miles, and there isn’t a ship in that harbor that can catch us. The storm will pass, and the winds will be favorable most of the rest of the way. We’ve got enough provisions to see us clear through.”
“Set your course.”
Caleb turned to Adam. “How many men in your crew were in that prison?”
“Nine, including me.”
“The others? Captain Rittenhouse?”
Adam shook his head. “Gone. Cannon and musket fire.”
“The other seven? What ship?”
“The Primrose. American. Taken by pirates, like us.”
“Will you get a list of all their names, and the home port of the Primrose? We’ll need to notify the owner.”
“Yes.”
Later, after steaming bowls of hot beef soup had settled the crew and their rescued cargo, Adam rapped on the door of Caleb’s quarters.
“Enter.”
Adam pushed through the door into the small room and stood facing his brother in the yellow light of the lantern, swinging with the pitch of the ship. He laid a piece of paper on the tiny table.
“That’s the list you asked for.”
Caleb picked it up to scan it. “The Primrose is out of Charleston?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see the owner gets notice.”
Adam said, “The men asked me to tell you. They didn’t have much hope of ever seeing home again. They’re grateful. They wanted you to know.”
Caleb nodded but said nothing.
“I’m grateful.”
Caleb dropped his eyes for a moment. “It had to be done.”
“Not many shipping companies would have tried it. Not what you did.”
Caleb shrugged and a hint of a smile flickered. “It wasn’t Dunson & Weems that sent me.”
Adam’s eyes widened. “Who did?”
Caleb held a straight face. “Mother. She said I was to get down here and bring you home. No nonsense about it.”
For a moment Adam gaped, and then he chuckled, and then both brothers laughed. The levity held and then faded, and Adam looked his brother in the eyes. For a moment they were seeing into each other’s heart, and Adam knew, and he said nothing as he turned and walked back into the narrow, low gangway leading back to the hold where his shipmates were spreading their blankets.
Notes
For the detail of the location, history, and the conditions of Port Royal, Jamaica, as they appear in this chapter, see Pawson and Buisseret, Port Royal, Jamaica, chapters 1–5.
British Admiral Sir George Rodney was appointed by England to command the West Indies in the 1779–1780 time frame. See Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783, pp. 320–21.
Philadelphia
June 20, 1787
CHAPTER XX
* * *
Nathaniel Gorham drew back the window curtain of his room on the second floor of the boardinghouse on Ninth Street just south of Spruce, unlatched the window, and swung it outward, hoping against hope for a breeze from the Delaware River, less than one mile to the east. None came in the dead, hot, humid, eight o’clock morning air that gripped Philadelphia.
For a time he stared down at the morning traffic moving north toward Market Street, gathering himself for the strain of serving another day on the dais in the insufferably hot East Room of the Statehouse. Another day that would become a blur with those that had come before and would come after, of intense concentration to hold the delegates within the parliamentary procedures without which they would become deadlocked in verbal wars over factional quarrels. His forehead was drawn down, eyes narrowed, as he watched the buggies and carriages and the pedestrians hurrying to and from homes and boardinghouses and offices, caught up in their midweek business. He let his thoughts run.
The fight between the big and the little states is fomenting—coming back again for the third time—soon—the vote yesterday didn’t kill it—it could wreck the convention—I wonder what will come of it—how they’ll handle it.
He sighed and walked to the small table in the corner to look once more at the morning’s newspapers. He sat to smooth the morning Herald, and read:
“Whatever measure may be recommended by the Federal Convention, whether an addition to the old Constitution or the adoption of a new, it will in effect be a revolution in Government, accomplished by reasoning and deliberation; an event that has never occurred since the formation of society and which will be strongly characteristic of the philosophic and tolerant spirit of the age.”
A wry smile flickered. It will be a revolution in government, that’s certain enough, but it’s not quite so certain that it will be accomplished by reasoning and deliberation.
He set the Herald aside and picked up the Gazette.
“It is agreed, says a correspondent, that our Convention are framing a wise and free Government for us. This Government will be opposed only by our civil officers who are afraid of new arrangements taking place, which will jostle them out of office. . . . In the meantime, the people are desired to beware of all essays and paragraphs that are opposed to a reform in our Government, for they all must and will come from civil officers or persons connected with them.”
He dropped the newspaper back on the table, shaking his head. A wise and free government? We don’t even know what it will look like when we finish—If we finish. And as for being opposed only by our civil officers, right now half the committee opposes the other half!
A knock at the door brought him around.
“Yes, come in,” he called. The door opened, and the sparse, gray-haired owner of the boardinghouse stood in the doorway with a folded document in his outstretched hand.
“A letter for you. Just delivered.”
“Thank you.” Gorham accepted the folded document and broke the seal as the man left and closed the door. Gorham stood in the middle of the room and looked first at the signature of the letter. Nathan Dane, serving as a representative in the federal Confederation Congress convened in New York City. Gorham puzzled for a moment at why his friend and colleague, with whom he had served in Congress, would be writing him from New York.
My Dear Friend:
I wish the officers of Congress and members not engaged in the Convention would return to New York. I do not know how it may be in the Southern States, but, I assume, the present state of Congress has a very disagreeable effect in the Eastern States. The people hear of a Convention in Philadelphia, and that Congress is done sitting, etc. Many of them are told, it seems, that Congress will never meet again. Dr Samuel Holten says he saw several sober men who had got an idea that the people were to be called on to take arms to carry into effect immediately the report of the Convention, etc. I see no help for men’s being so absurd and distracted; but those things have a pernicious effect on the industry, peace, and habits of the people.
Are not the printers imprudent to publish so many contradictory pieces about the proceedings of your body, which must be mere conjecture? You know many people believe all they see in the newspapers, without the least examination . . .
Gorham sat on the edge of his bed to read the letter once again, then raised his head in startled amazement. Congress is in trouble because of this convention? People up in the eastern states think Congress will never convene again?—that we intend sending in the army or the militia to force a new government on them by musket and bayonet? Ridiculous! Who’s responsible for this?
He rose, angry, shaking his
head. Newspapers and gossipmongers that print such lies ought to be held accountable on charges of treason! They know that people tend to believe things that are in writing—the power of the press—and they use it to get gain at the price of dividing and damaging the country!
He laid the letter on his desk, drew out his watch to check the time, and let his temper cool while he reached for his cravat and finished dressing. He preferred to walk the four blocks to the Statehouse, partly to gather himself for what the day would bring in the East Room, and partly to admire the pride and care that was so manifest in the orderliness of the streets of Philadelphia.
He made his way through the loose dirt maintained in the streets surrounding the Statehouse, into the hall leading to the East Room, nodding his greetings to other delegates who were now familiar to him, for better or worse. He stood in the small line of those gathered at the door and waited his turn for Joseph Fry to admit him, entered the East Room, and took his place at his desk. At ten o’clock George Washington took the dais, and the assembly quieted as he called them to order and referred to his ledger.
“Gentlemen, it is proposed that today we not resolve into the Committee of the Whole. Rather, as a convention we will consider and have a report on those resolutions already established by the committee.”
Gorham drew a breath of relief and let it out slowly and relaxed at his desk as Washington continued.
“We shall now address the first resolution.”
The words were still echoing in the hall when Oliver Ellsworth of Connecticut was on his feet.
“I move the first resolution be amended to read as follows, namely, ‘that the Government of the United States ought to consist of a supreme legislative, executive, and judiciary.’ This slight alteration would drop the word national and retain the proper title, ‘The United States.’” He cleared his throat, then said, “It would be highly dangerous not to consider the Confederation as still subsisting. I also wish the plan of the Convention to go forth as an amendment to the Articles of Confederation, since under this idea the authority of the legislatures could ratify it. If they are unwilling, the people will be unwilling too.” Again he paused, and for a moment stared down at his desk, pondering his next words. “I do not like these conventions. They are better fitted to pull down than to build up constitutions.”