Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1

by Ron Carter

  On Tuesday, Kathleen walked with the children to school, then continued the two miles to the docks on the Thames River where tall ships from every port of call in the world could be found. She walked to the first one flying the Union Jack and spoke to the officer of the deck, watching the gangplank.

  “I’m inquiring about the fare for passage from here to the colonies in America.”

  A sneer crossed the man’s face. “Sound like a colonial. You ought to know no English vessel uses American ports.”

  “Then where can I find a ship that does?”

  “Take your pick.” He pointed. “There’re eleven miles of docks on up the Thames, clear past London Town.”

  At twelve-thirty p.m. Kathleen stopped before a large, squat, heavy ship and studied the flag—three bars, red, white, and blue—then walked up the gangplank to the officer waiting at the top.

  “I’m inquiring about passage to the American colonies.”

  “Ja. Amerika. You vish to go?”

  “Yes. Do you put in at American ports?”

  “Sometime vi do. Talk vith Captain.” He pointed, and Kathleen walked to a lean, grizzled veteran of forty years on the high seas in tall ships.

  “I’m inquiring about passage to American ports.”

  “Ja.”

  “Do you put into American ports?”

  “Ja.”

  “When will you be going there?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and he shrugged. “Mitt good luck, seven, eight months. Vi go to India now, come back, leave for Amerika. You vait eight months. Vi take you.”

  “What country are you from?”

  “Holland. Dutch.”

  “Do you know anyone leaving for America sooner than eight months?”

  He shook his head. “Bad for ships in Amerika. British, French—fighting. Harbors closed, blockades. Bad.”

  “When do you sail for India?”

  “Vun veek. Da six day of Januar.”

  “If I come back before then, can you mail a letter for me from the first port you visit that will carry it to America? I can bring you money for part payment of passage for myself and two children in eight months.”

  The man considered for a moment. “You bring da letter und ten pounds sterling und vi make arrangements. Ja?”

  “What is the name of your ship?”

  “Van Otten.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Jacob Schaumann.”

  “I will see you before Friday.”

  Kathleen trotted the four miles back to the small school with the white paint peeling, and was still breathing heavy when the bell clanged for dismissal, and the children came out, wrapping scarves and coats and putting on mittens.

  After supper and prayers, she tucked the children into their beds and went back to the small dining table. With inkwell and paper before her and quill in hand, she thoughtfully began to write.

  Tuesday, December 29th, 1778.

  Dear Reverend Olmsted:

  With heavy heart I write to inform you that my mother, Phoebe Thorpe, left us on Christmas Day, Friday, December 25th, 1778, and went to her final resting place in the cemetery at the village of Bexley, England.

  Things are not well with the children, or myself, as long as we remain here. For that reason I write to tell you that I am making preparation to return to Boston in about eight months on a Dutch ship named the “Van Otten.” The captain is Jacob Schaumann. If you have not sold the home which I inherited, would you please not do so pending my return. It is my intention to sell it myself for whatever price I can get, and use the money to begin a new life somewhere in America. I also beg of you, tell no one of this, since there is much time between now and my return, and too much can happen.

  I am unable to find words to thank you for your kindnesses to myself and my family.

  With kindest regards,

  Kathleen Thorpe.

  She went to the corner of the parlor and raised the door into the vegetable pit, and lifted a leather purse from beside a potato sack. She counted out ten pounds sterling, plus ten shillings, and laid them on the table with the letter.

  Eight months—he didn’t say how much passage would be—must get more money—can save it—from food and clothing money—I’ll find a way—find a way.

  She banked the coals in the fireplace, walked to her room, and slipped into her nightshirt. By the yellow light of a lantern, she opened the drawer to her nightstand and lifted out the small carved owl, and she stared at it for a long time, and touched it gently before she replaced it, and then slipped to her knees beside the bed.

  September 1779

  Chapter XXVIII

  * * *

  “Report!”

  Commodore John Paul Jones stood ramrod straight on the poop deck of the Bonhomme Richard facing Lieutenant Richard Dale in the late-afternoon September sun. To the west, the coastline of England rose barely visible twelve miles distant to interrupt the straight line where sea met sky. Seamen worked feverishly to clear the main deck of shattered rigging and to bring two fires under control.

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Dale said, “with the men taken prisoner at the engagements at the Shetlands and Orkneys, and the two prizes just taken, we have two hundred six British seamen locked in the third deck. The hold is nearly filled with gunpowder, cannon, medicine, salt beef, salt fish, lime juice, and fresh potatoes. We have some damage to the rigging, but the masts and yards are sound. We have one hole below the waterline that is repairable. The fires will be under control within the hour. We have four wounded, four dead.”

  “The British?”

  “Both ships are sinking, sir. Twenty-eight dead, forty-one wounded and being tended by their ships’ surgeons and ours. We have transferred everything we could to our own hold and to the Alliance and the Pallas. We cannot save either British ship.”

  “What damage to the Alliance and the Pallas?”

  “All masts and hulls are sound. Alliance has two dead, six wounded; Pallas two dead, five wounded. Small fires that will be extinguished momentarily. We took the heaviest damage because we led the attack, sir.”

  “Very good, Mr. Dale, carry on.” Jones turned to Matthew. “May I see you in my quarters?”

  Inside the large, luxurious captain’s quarters of the fourteen-year-old Indiaman, built by the French and given to the American navy to be converted to a man-of-war and renamed, Jones turned to Matthew. “Precisely where are we and how far are we from the nearest friendly port?”

  Matthew stepped to the large Mercator map framed on the wall and traced with his finger. “We’re right here, sir, about twelve miles from the east coast of England, and four miles north of Flamborough Head. The nearest friendly ports right now would be Trexel in Holland or Calais in France.”

  Jones paced as he considered. “How many days sailing time?”

  “Loaded like we are, with good weather and the currents and winds holding, three days.”

  Jones stopped pacing and faced Matthew. “We’ve had good fortune on this voyage. Over one thousand miles within sight of the British Isles—Ireland, Scotland, the Orkneys, Shetlands, fifteen engagements, nineteen prizes so far, and no serious damage and only slight loss of men.”

  Matthew remained silent.

  “We stung them at home and they’re looking for us, so we’ll have to keep moving. We’ll hold here tonight and tomorrow for repairs, and then you can take us to Calais. The French will be impressed—ecstatic—with what we’ve done.”

  “A couple of more things, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “This vessel is fourteen years old, sir—waterlogged, leaking. Some of the ribs and part of the keel and hull are rotten. She needs to be dry-docked and have a lot of her wood replaced and a coat of tar and copper sheathing. She won’t take much pounding in a heavy fight.”

  Jones’s forehead wrinkled in deep concern. “I know. If we could stop the war for six months, we could fit her out like new.” He shrugged. “But we can’t, so she’ll
have to hold together for a while longer. There was something else?”

  “Yes. The crews. By actual count, our crew now includes one hundred thirty-seven French marines, seventy-seven Irishmen, twenty-eight Portuguese, and a fair smattering of other nationalities, including some from India. The fifty-five Americans are mostly officers, and during this last fight some of the crew couldn’t understand their orders. Things got a little confused a time or two. As you know, the Alliance has an American crew with the French captain Landais, and the Pallas crew is all French. They’ve both got the same problem with language.”

  Jones ballooned his cheeks and blew air. “I’m aware of it. When France came into the war this is what happened. I don’t like it but I can’t do anything about it except watch.” He turned serious eyes to Matthew. “If you see things get snarled because of the language problems, take care of it on the spot. You have my full authority.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Matthew turned to leave and Jones spoke once more. “Is Tom Sievers managing all right?”

  “Tom’s fine.” Matthew grinned. “You should have seen the faces of five British seamen who tried to board us in the fight, when Tom met them at the rail with that Huron tomahawk.”

  Jones guffawed. “Good. Go back to your charts. We’ll make sail sometime tomorrow after we’ve completed temporary repairs.”

  Sail makers and carpenters worked in shifts through the night, while the deck watch was doubled, peering into the night for the running lights of British men-of-war they knew would be combing the English coast looking for them. Morning found the three ships riding gentle swells at anchor, still making repairs in bright September sunlight while Jones and Dale and Matthew paced the deck nervously, eyes constantly on the horizon, waiting, watching. Noon mess was served, and the repairs continued. Matthew went to his quarters and once again checked latitudes, gulf current, winds, distances, channels, harbors. He opened the door and glanced back at the clock. Four-forty p.m., Thursday, September 23, 1779. The sun was dropping towards the low outline of the English mainland to the west when Matthew approached Jones.

  “Sir, are repairs about completed?”

  “We make sail in five minutes,” Jones replied, “as soon as the crew over the side is back on deck.”

  Matthew watched the barefooted seamen, clad only in their drawers, water streaming, clamber onto the deck and pull up their rope ladder. The bosun’s mate turned to Jones. “Sir, we’re finished.”

  “Hoist anchor,” Jones ordered, and eager hands shoved the capstan bars into their sockets, and the anchor chain rattled.

  “Signal the Alliance and the Pallas.”

  Colored flags were run up the rope to the top of the mainmast.

  “Unfurl all canvas.”

  Seamen already standing in the rigging with feet curled over the ropes jerked knots loose, and the great sails dropped from the yards flapping in the wind. Anxious hands tied them off at the bottom, and they popped and billowed, and the bow of the big ship rose slightly in the water as she came alive. Matthew looked, and the Alliance and the Pallas were moving, sails bulging, bows cutting a curl, sterns leaving a wake.

  He exhaled and felt the tension begin to drain.

  “Mr. Dunson, a heading, please.”

  “Due southeast until midnight.”

  “Southeast it is,” the helmsman replied, and turned the wheel three-quarters of a turn and the bow swung to port.

  The distant English coastline turned the sun red as it set, and then it was half gone, and the last arc was disappearing when the watchman in the crow’s nest sang out, “Sails to the port side, stern,” and raised an excited arm, pointing.

  Matthew felt the knot in his stomach and raced to the stern and grasped the rail with both hands, looking. The last rays of the setting sun caught sails on the horizon and set them glowing red, and Matthew’s mouth became a straight line as he counted in disbelief. He darted to his quarters and snatched his glass and sprinted back to the rail and counted once more.

  Forty-three sails!

  He took control of his racing thoughts, and in the early dusk studied the incoming ships and their shape and their flags, and felt relief flood. He turned to Jones. “I think they’re a fleet of merchantmen coming in from the Baltic, sir. I make out forty-one merchantmen with two men-of-war for escort. One big, one fair sized.”

  “Correct,” Jones said crisply. He turned to Dale. “Signal the Alliance and the Pallas to form line for mutual support and follow us.”

  The signals went up immediately, and Matthew watched the ships behind maneuver, and suddenly his head thrust forward in disbelief. The Alliance was falling back, and the Pallas was turning to port.

  Matthew turned to Jones. “They don’t understand the signal, sir.”

  Jones watched for a moment, mouth clamped, then barked his next order. “Hold a course dead on the larger vessel,” he called, and the helmsman corrected slightly to starboard.

  Jones spoke to Dale and Matthew. “Count her guns as soon as you can.”

  Three minutes later Matthew called, “Fifty. Heavy.”

  “How many functional guns do we have?”

  Dale answered, “Forty-two.”

  “Very good,” Jones answered calmly. “Steady as she goes.”

  Matthew watched the distance between the ships dwindle, and glanced quickly to starboard, to see the Pallas setting a course to engage the other British man-of-war. The Alliance was behind at a safe distance.

  Jones’s eyes narrowed as he calculated distance, and at two hundred yards he gave his next shouted command. “Hard to port and starboard guns prepare to fire.”

  The bow of the Richard swung left, and instantly the bow of the oncoming man-of-war swung the other direction. Within seconds the two ships were broadside to each other at just under two hundred yards.

  “Fire!” shouted Jones, and in that instant all cannon on the starboard side of both ships blasted, and Matthew felt the shudder and saw the main deck near the bow erupt upwards for fifty feet, shattered, railing and decking splinters flying. Then through the swirling gun smoke he saw the gaping thirty-foot hole in the main deck and the fire beneath.

  It took him three seconds to understand. Two of their three heaviest cannon on the second deck had exploded and blown a great hole in the side of the ship and a crater in the main deck. The crews were dead. Someone had misunderstood the powder measurement, or loaded two of the wrong-sized cannonballs. The Richard had but one more big gun. Matthew spun to hear Jones’s order.

  “Abandon that last big gun!” Jones shouted. “Do not fire it. It’s unsafe!”

  Matthew turned back to estimate the damage of the first broadside, while both ships frantically reloaded. Deck railings were shattered, sails punctured, rigging dangling, and he knew they had taken hits at the waterline.

  The cannon roared again and the gun smoke billowed from both ships, but with the three big guns on the Richard out of action the exchange was pitifully lopsided. The heavy cannonballs from the British ship ripped into the second and third decks and silenced four more cannon and their crews, and Matthew felt the vibration as the Richard took nine more holes below her waterline. Fires began on the main and second decks, casting shadows on the tattered sails in the deep gloom of late dusk.

  In fading light Jones gave his next command, “Hard starboard,” and the helmsman spun the wheel. The Richard swung to her right, coming across the bow of the British man-of-war. Matthew gauged speeds and distance and realized they were not going to get past the bow of the oncoming ship in time to make their turn to rake her with their cannon. He turned to watch Jones, who stood with feet planted apart, eyes narrowed as he gauged the distance, and Matthew made his own calculations and knew the oncoming man-of-war was going to ram them close to their stern. With the bowsprit of the oncoming man-of-war a scant fifty feet away, Matthew could read her name. The Serapis.

  They lacked twenty feet of clearing the bowsprit when the Serapis plowed into the Richard wi
th a shuddering, grinding whump, and the stern of the lighter Richard was knocked ten feet to starboard. Seamen on deck staggered to keep their footing.

  Matthew could hardly believe the next command from Jones. “Tie us to their railing,” he shouted, and stunned seamen obeyed without thought.

  The British captain, Pearson, gaped when he saw the two-inch hawsers lashing the railings of the two ships together, and he recoiled, groping for the reason, understanding only that he needed distance for his cannon to take effect.

  “Drop anchor,” Pearson ordered. Startled British seamen jerked the locks from the chains, and they rattled as the anchor dropped into the black waters.

  It flashed in Matthew’s mind: He thinks the tides will tear the ships apart—maybe they will—maybe.

  And then Jones’s strategy clarified into Matthew’s mind. His crippled ship could not outgun the big man-of-war, but with one hundred thirty-seven French marines on board, maybe they could storm the bigger ship and take her crew captive.

  Riding the tide, the bow of the Richard slowly swung to port and she gathered speed, and while Captain Pearson of the Serapis gaped, the two ships slammed into each other, side by side, bows pointed in opposite directions. The cannon on both ships rammed into the hull of the other, the muzzles jammed tight. Overhead the yards and the rigging and the sails on both ships collided and meshed and tangled so badly they could not be separated.

  It was five minutes past eight o’clock. The moon was not yet risen. The officers and crews of both ships suddenly understood that in the annals of naval warfare, never had two men-of-war found themselves sealed irrevocably to each other, hull to hull, locked in a deadly fight to the death, in total blackness.

  Matthew looked desperately to starboard, probing for the Pallas in the darkness, and in the far distance saw gun flashes. He looked for the Alliance, and could not find her.

  The heavy guns on the Serapis fired again, and the balls tore into the Richard, throwing the shattered, rotted timbers and planking in all directions. With one-fourth of her guns already silenced, the Richard returned fire, and wood from the hull and railing and decks of the Serapis flew.