Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1

by Ron Carter

  “I told him about Father, and me. He took it well. I like him.”

  Brigitte released her breath. “He’s fine.”

  Matthew leaned forward. “He’s fine, but that makes it worse, not better.”

  “How?” There was alarm in Brigitte’s voice.

  “He’s a fine Englishman and he’ll remain so. So would I, if I were him.”

  “The war will end! Things will get better,” Brigitte exclaimed.

  “The shooting may stop, but when will England and the colonies ever again embrace each other? In our lifetime? I doubt it.”

  Brigitte’s eyes dropped, but she said nothing because she could think of nothing to say.

  Matthew rose and touched her shoulder. “I wish with all my soul I could give this my blessing, but I can’t. I love you, and I could accept Richard as my brother this minute, but that would not change the hard truth. His world and yours may never meet. You will have to follow your own heart, and know that I will support you in whatever you decide.”

  She reached to touch his hand on her shoulder, and she nodded her head but said nothing.

  In his room, Matthew opened the closet door and drew his wallet from his inside coat pocket and removed the small folded paper. In the light of a single lamp, he unwrapped the small watch fob and laid it on his night table and stared at it for a long time, then touched it for a moment and rewrapped it.

  Gone. Not coming back. Where is she tonight? How is she?

  He sighed and replaced the folded paper in his wallet and pushed it back into his coat pocket, then drew out the written orders from Captain Soren Weyland and reread them carefully.

  February seventeenth. The Esther—down to the West Indies—nine of us. What’s going to happen when we try to take munitions from a British fort? Who’s going to live, and who’s going to die?

  He replaced the written orders and dropped to his knees beside his bed and clasped his hands together before his bowed head.

  “Almighty God, I thank thee for the bounties of my life. I humbly beseech thee to watch over and protect Mother and the children while I am gone, and to allow thy bounteous grace to guide and protect Kathleen and her family, and Richard . . .”

  February 1776

  Chapter XXIV

  * * *

  “It’s right there, sir, two days south of us.”

  Matthew leaned over a large chart on the big table in his small quarters and tapped the island of New Providence with the tips of his dividers and nearly shouted to be heard above the whistling gale that was battering the Esther. “And Nassau Town is right there.” He carefully placed one of the points of the dividers on a small dot near the east tip of the island.

  Captain Soren Weyland braced himself against the heavy pitch and roll of the small schooner and wiped with a towel at sea spray that dripped from his beard and oilskins.

  “Can’t see five hundred yards in this storm,” he growled. “Haven’t seen any of the others in our squadron since yesterday morning.” He wiped at his face with the towel and scowled at the map. “I’m a China-India sailor, not familiar with these West Indies waters. We’re supposed to rendezvous at Abaco Bay. Where is it?”

  “There, sir—just about seventy miles due north of New Providence.”

  Weyland studied the large chart with the latitude markings and the depth soundings, and the West Indies islands, with the hundreds of tiny flecks scattered as if by a random and errant wind.

  “Are these all islands?” He gestured with the sweep of his hand.

  “Yes.” Matthew worked with the points of his dividers. “Here’s the North West Providence Channel—the one we take to thread our way through. It runs south through these straits between the mainland and the big island on the east, then due east towards Great Abaco Island, then angles off southeastward around this fishhook chain of islands and then curves back south to New Providence. Hardly any of these small islands have names—too many of them.”

  Weyland shook his head. “Are these depth markings accurate?”

  “Pretty much. The whole West Indies system is just north of the equator. Just south of the equator, the south equatorial and the Canaries and the Guinea currents meet and cross the equator, and pretty much reverse themselves because of the earth’s rotation on its axis, and that creates a big muddle of winds and currents that moves north into these islands and affects those depth soundings from time to time.”

  “Are these island locations correct?”

  “The big ones, but those small islands are just mounds of sand above the surface. Beneath the surface are sandbars and coral reefs, and all of it shifts and moves when the winds and currents come up from the equator. Some small islands and reefs and sandbars on that chart are already gone, and new ones are there that are uncharted. The navigator who leads us through this had better know these waters.”

  Weyland wiped at his wet beard. “How do we get through them?”

  “Whoever’s in the crow’s nest better know what to look for.”

  “Which is what?”

  “White sand in blue water, in good weather. You can see the sandbars and reefs and islands from up there.”

  “What about in a storm like this?”

  Matthew shook his head. “Sailing blind. The sea’s the same color as the sky—gray—and you can’t pick them out.”

  Weyland raised serious eyes to Matthew. “Can you get us into Abaco Bay?”

  Matthew rounded his lips and blew air. “Yes, sir, I think I can. Two days.”

  Night gathers early in a sea storm and day breaks slowly. That day and the next, Matthew spent every daylight hour fifty-two feet up the violently pitching mainmast on the small circular deck of the crow’s nest, dressed in his oilskins in the driving rain, lashed to the mast and the railing. His eyes seldom left his glass as he kept an unending vigil for landfall or sails. He gave hand signals to the helmsman on deck from time to time as they worked their way southward, then angled eastward, and finally due east toward Abaco Bay. At noon the second day the winds began to dwindle, and by four o’clock the first shafts of sunlight pierced the purple-gray overhead, and by five o’clock the Esther was riding in partial sunshine, steady on her course due east in little more than a stiff breeze.

  At five-thirty Matthew’s arm suddenly rose and he pointed and shouted, “Landfall! The Great Abaco Island, dead ahead. We’ll be inside the bay in twenty minutes.”

  By dusk, visibility was three miles and they had sighted the masts and sails of two tall ships in the great bay, but they were too distant to recognize. Captain Weyland ordered anchor dropped, and the crew settled in for the night with double shifts on watch, straining to see the lights of ships, moving or at anchor. In the gray of dawn Matthew was again in the crow’s nest, studying the anchored ships. While he watched, one hoisted anchor and spread canvas and swung around, taking a westward heading straight towards them in the bright early-morning sun. Matthew held his glass steady, breathing light, hoping, and suddenly he pointed and shouted down to Weyland.

  “She’s flying colonial colors, sir. She has to be one of ours.” Fifteen minutes later he shouted, “She’s the Alfred, sir. She’s coming alongside. I think Commodore Hopkins is aboard.”

  Ten minutes later the Alfred slowed and furled her sails and stopped alongside the Esther, and Captain Dudley Saltonstall came to the rail with his horn.

  “Hello, Esther. Are you sound?”

  “We are sound,” Weyland answered.

  “The Cabot is anchored east of us. We have not seen the others since the storm set in. Have you seen them?”

  “No. Only yourself and the Cabot.”

  Saltonstall handed the horn to Commodore Esek Hopkins. “Commodore Hopkins speaking. We three will take up positions across the mouth of the bay at regular intervals so we see everything entering or leaving, and can be seen. The Esther will take the west position, the Alfred the middle, the Cabot to the east. We will wait until tomorrow, four o’clock p.m., for the others and then mak
e a plan accordingly. Confirm the order.”

  Weyland repeated the order, Hopkins approved it, the crews unfurled their canvas, and the ships moved to their positions at the mouth of Abaco Bay.

  Shortly past noon the Providence hove into view and stopped alongside the Alfred for orders, then proceeded to take up a position halfway to the Esther. With the sun below the horizon, the Columbus came in from the west with her topsails shot golden by a sun already set and received her orders, to take up a position halfway to the Cabot. At dawn the Andrew Doria came in, the top twenty feet of her mizzenmast spliced and repaired. She stopped for her orders and dropped anchor one hundred yards from the Alfred. At noon the Wasp came in from the west riding deep in the calm waters of the bay, and Matthew and Weyland studied her sluggish movements.

  “She’s taking on water,” Weyland said quietly. “She got hurt in the storm.”

  The slender schooner slowed and stopped beside the Alfred, while the others waited for the signals that were certain to follow, and twenty minutes later the many colored and shaped flags crept up the line fastened to the Alfred’s mainmast, while every eye in the squadron studied their message.

  The Wasp needs repairs. The Hornet and the Fly have not been seen. Come to the Alfred immediately, and all captains, first mates, and navigators come on board. Urgent.

  “Let’s go,” Weyland called to Riggins, and five minutes later four seamen had capstan bars in place and were winding in the anchor, while the mainsails on both the mainmast and the mizzenmast were unfurled. The bow of the Esther rose slightly as she knifed into the slow, glassy swells of the bay like something alive. Fifteen minutes later she spilled her sails and coasted to stop two hundred yards from the Alfred, while the other ships did the same. Twenty minutes later Weyland, Riggins, and Matthew were crowded into the quarters of Captain Saltonstall with eighteen other men and Commodore Esek Hopkins.

  Hopkins stood and the room became silent.

  “Thank you all for your presence. It is urgent I come directly to the point. The Wasp has a repairable crack in her hull but needs four pumps and one day to seal it. Do any of you have extra pumps?”

  Six hands went up.

  “Good. Captain Hallock will make arrangements to get them on board the Wasp immediately after I am finished.”

  He pursed his mouth for a moment. “The Hornet and the Fly have not been seen in nearly five days. I must presume they either sank in the storm or turned back. Either way, they are lost to us on this mission.”

  He paused while all the men in the room stared with flat eyes at the walls or their hands or the floor, and then raised their faces back to Hopkins.

  “I had intended using the navigator on the Fly to lead us in, since he has been in these waters before and I thought him competent to get us to New Providence Island and then back home. So I must ask, have any of you navigators been in these waters before?”

  Matthew and one other navigator raised their hands.

  Hopkins looked at them both carefully. “Your name and your ship?”

  The young blonde man came to attention and faced Hopkins. “Bernard Ambrose, of the Andrew Doria, sir.”

  “On how many occasions have you navigated these waters?”

  “Once, sir. Three years ago. Assistant navigator.”

  He turned to Matthew, already at attention. “Your name?”

  “Matthew Dunson, currently assigned to the Esther. I’ve navigated these waters twice before, sir. Chief navigator.”

  “Mr. Dunson, do you think you can lead this squadron through the West Indies to New Providence and back out?”

  Matthew didn’t flinch. “I think so, sir.”

  Hopkins faced Weyland. “Sir, may I borrow your navigator until this mission is completed?”

  Weyland glanced at Matthew, then back at Hopkins. “Yes, sir, provided you return him in good repair.”

  Hopkins cracked a chuckle and every man in the room guffawed.

  Hopkins spoke. “With the good graces of the Almighty, I intend doing that, sir.” He sobered. “You who had the extra pumps, arrange with Captain Hallock now to get them onto his ship.” He turned to Hallock. “Will your repairs be finished by three o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  “Good. All of you return here tomorrow by four p.m. and we’ll work out a plan and start at dawn the next morning. In the meantime, return to your positions across the bay.”

  As the day wore on, the seas became as glass, and long, slow swells came rolling. The sand and dirt and grit raised from the bottom by the storm settled, and the waters became clear and blue as the heavens. With the sun reaching for the clean line where ocean and sky meet, the air became heavy, steamy, oppressive. The seamen stood to their duties but with eyes that impatiently searched the western horizon for the first sign of a speck that might be the masts and sails of the missing ships, but none appeared. They volunteered for the crow’s nest and sat on the platform straddling an iron post with their legs dangling while they worked the glass slowly across the horizon, then back again. Dusk settled and passed, and the black velvet dome of night closed over them, and they lighted their running lamps and continued peering to the west for lights that were not there.

  Morning mess was somber, quiet, in the sweltering, oppressive air. Matthew stood at the bow with his glass, sweating, watching the crew of the Wasp in their tense battle with time to complete repairs. Twenty men were stripped to their drawers, taking turns diving into the clear waters, working twelve feet below the waterline to replace the cracked siding, reset the wooden pegs and eighteen-inch lag screws that bound it to the oaken ribs, and caulk every joint closed. With all her own pumps working, and six extras, the schooner began to rise in the water, and by two o’clock in the afternoon her waterline was visible. The crew cleared their makeshift diving platform from the side of the ship, pulled in all their safety lines, and scrambled barefoot and dripping onto the deck. Half an hour later Captain Hallock ran signal flags up the line.

  Repairs completed. We’re sound.

  At four o’clock the captains, navigators, and first mates were again crowded in the quarters of Captain Saltonstall, quiet, intense, waiting. Commodore Hopkins stood with a wooden stick next to a large map he had nailed to one wall, and pointed with the stick as he spoke.

  “Gentlemen, the munitions and powder we’re after are located in two forts. Fort Nassau in the town and Fort Montague nearby outside town. The island of New Providence is inhabited largely by natives indigenous to the West Indies, and it is my guess they will have no stomach for a fight that concerns only British war supplies.” He dropped his arm and looked at them. “I believe we can go ashore and get those supplies without firing a shot.”

  Dead silence gripped the room for a moment, and then buzzing broke out.

  He raised his hands and the room quieted. “Here’s the plan.”

  For more than an hour they listened, asked questions, gave, took, argued, and slowly hammered out the shape of their mission. At five-thirty p.m. Hopkins laid his stick on the table.

  “Are we agreed? Do you all know your duty?”

  They did.

  “Good. At five o’clock a.m. this ship will leave. You all know your position in the column, and your interval.” He turned to Matthew. “Will you get from the Esther whatever you consider necessary to your duties and return and remain on this ship until the mission is complete?” He turned to Weyland. “My navigator has agreed to replace Mr. Dunson on your ship, sir, if that is agreeable. Mr. David Pulliam.”

  Weyland nodded.

  In deep dusk Matthew answered the knock on the door of his new quarters aboard the Alfred.

  The man facing him was of average height, thin lipped, long, aquiline nose, penetrating, piercing eyes, dressed in navy uniform, epaulets of a lieutenant, older than Matthew. “Did you request to see Commodore Hopkins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come with me.”

  The man rapped on Hopkin
s’s door and opened it on command, and Matthew followed him inside.

  Commodore Hopkins rose. “You wanted to see me?”

  Matthew squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir. With your permission I would like to volunteer to go ashore with the landing party tomorrow when we reach New Providence.”

  Hopkins’s eyebrows arched and he studied Matthew for a moment. “What’s your reason?”

  “Personal, sir.”

  “There could be fighting.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “Have you ever engaged in land combat?”

  “I was at Concord.”

  Hopkins settled back onto his chair. “If I lost you, who would get us out of these islands?”

  “Getting back won’t be too difficult, sir. I can show someone what to watch for going in, and they can retrace our route.”

  “What happened at Concord?”

  Matthew considered for a moment. “I lost my father.”

  Hopkins’s eyes dropped. “I’m sorry.”

  “It isn’t just that, sir.”

  “Then what?”

  “Things are happening—I just have a feeling I should be going ashore to help get those munitions.”

  Hopkins eased back in his chair and interlaced his fingers on the table. His eyes locked with Matthew’s and bored in. “Tell me about that feeling.”

  “I can’t, sir. It’s just something—there’s something more happening than just breaking away from England. I sense it, but I don’t care to try to explain it to someone else.”

  Hopkins leaned forward in the yellow light of the lamps. His eyes were like glowing embers, and he spoke softly. “Like the Almighty is moving to free this land? Like he has a plan far beyond ours?”

  Matthew felt the hair on his neck stand up and the flesh on his arms crawl. He swallowed. “Yes, sir. That’s what I mean.”

  “Permission granted.” Hopkins stood and gestured to the lieutenant. “I’m not sure you’ve met Captain Saltonstall’s first lieutenant.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Mr. Dunson, this is Lieutenant Jones. John Paul Jones. He’s not familiar with these islands. Could you acquaint him with your charts and the route?”