Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

Mary came to stand beside him. She was dressed in an ankle-length, sturdy, gray cotton dress. She wore leather shoes, and her hair was pulled back by a gray bandanna. Never had Billy seen such joy in two faces.

  The nurses crowded around Mary to sniffle again, hug her one last time, and wish her well. Billy moved close to hold her for a moment, then embraced Eli. Turlock stepped up, embarrassed, gave Mary a peck on the cheek, clutched Eli’s hand, then stepped back, relieved. Major Waldo made his way to the newlyweds and handed Mary a small, sealed document.

  “A record of the marriage. Might want to keep it in your family Bible.”

  Mary reached to hug the portly man, then handed the paper to Eli, who slipped it inside his shirt. He caught her by the hand, turned northwest, and led her into their journey together through life. Those left behind waved, and stood for a time in silence, each lost in their own thoughts as they watched the two follow the trail through the reds and yellows of the wildflowers and disappear into the deep emerald green of the forest.

  Caleb and O’Malley shook hands with Billy and Turlock, turned, and started south toward the campsite of their New York regiment, while the others said their farewells and scattered, each their own way. Billy took one last look into the woods where the newlyweds had disappeared, then turned west toward the Massachusetts camp, Turlock beside him. They walked in silence for a time, feeling the heat of the day coming on, each lost in his own thoughts, his own memories.

  In his mind Billy was seeing Eli and Mary as they joined hands and walked away side by side, faces glowing with what they had found in each other, and then suddenly he was seeing Brigitte Dunson’s blue eyes and brown hair. His breathing quickened as he recalled the magic in the moment she had thrown her arms about him and held him close, the day he had left Boston to join the fight for liberty. Hers was not the embrace of passionate love, rather it was the embrace of a beloved friend saying good-bye to one who had been entwined in her life from earliest memory. Was it two years ago? Three? He could not remember. So many battles, so many miles, so many lives lost. He could only remember that in the instant she had held him, he had realized for the first time that the younger sister of Matthew, the boy with whom he had grown up, the man who was the brother he never had, was no longer a tagalong girl. She was a beautiful, grown woman, and he loved her, not only as a friend. In his bunk, wrapped in oilskins, were the thirteen letters he had written to her, pouring out his heart and soul, knowing he would never send them to her. Not him. Plain, homely, shy, husky, with the strength of three men, he could never send such letters to her. Never. He could write them to ease the need in his heart, but he could never send them.

  He started at the sound of Turlock’s voice.

  “You thinkin’ about that girl? The one you keep writin’ to and not sendin’ the letters?”

  “How’d you know?”

  Turlock ignored it. “You send them letters. Hear?”

  Billy shook his head wistfully. “Maybe. Some day.”

  Turlock shook his head in disgust and changed the subject. “Heard yesterday some French ships been sighted down on the Delaware Bay.”

  Billy glanced at him. “Who said?”

  “Colonel Reynolds. The French promised, and now it looks like they done it. Might change things considerable if it’s true.”

  “How many?”

  “Didn’t say. Plenty.”

  “What’re they doing down on the Delaware if Clinton’s in New York? That’s where he took the British army after we beat ’em at Monmouth, and last I heard, Admiral Howe took his fleet up there to protect the army. If the French sent ships all the way over here to fight the British, they ought to go to New York.”

  “Don’t know what the French got in mind. Or the British. But it figgers that one of these days those ships’ll pick a place and go at it.”

  Turlock turned to look north, in the direction of New York, eyes narrowed as though he were seeing the harbor and the British fleet at anchor.

  “Yes, sir,” he repeated. “One of these days. Bound to happen. Hope I’m there to see it.”

  * * * * *

  One hundred twenty-six miles southwest, at sea, under a clear sky with an easterly breeze snapping the canvas, Captain Joseph Stoneman stood at the starboard rail of the British frigate Horne. Unremarkable in appearance, feet spread to absorb the undulating sea swells rolling in from the Atlantic toward the New Jersey capes, he watched intently for any craft that might appear on the vacant sea. All sails were furled, lashed to the yards, save two on the mainmast, billowing in the breeze to maintain control of the ship.

  East of the Horne, reaching into the open Atlantic were five other British frigates all spaced twenty miles apart. The six of them formed a line east to west, over one hundred miles in length. Days earlier, Admiral Lord Richard Howe’s orders had been typically clear, brief, and brutally blunt before they sailed south from New York harbor.

  “The French are getting into the war on the side of the rebels. Weeks ago Comte Jean-Baptiste d’Estaing left the French port of Toulon with a fleet of warships. They took a heading west, across the Atlantic. Reports say they’ve made landfall somewhere near Delaware Bay. Take a squadron of six frigates down there and form a line a hundred miles long, east to west, just north of the bay, and watch. Report back the instant you sight them. If they get past you unseen, there will be a considerable number of court-martial proceedings. Maybe some hangings. Am I clear?”

  He was clear.

  The officers and crews had endured squalls, heavy seas, fog, sweltering heat, and were running short of water, but they had stayed to their duty, pacing the decks, straining to see everything that moved until their eyes ached and they craved sleep.

  Stoneman tipped his head to look upward sixty-eight feet where a barefooted, pigtailed, sweating seaman stood duty in the small crow’s nest on the mainmast. Stoneman cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Any sighting?” as he had done thirty times since the gray of dawn.

  “No, sir. Nothing.”

  “Carry on. Keep a sharp watch.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Stoneman removed his tricorn, wiped at sweat on his forehead, then wiped the leather hatband before he jammed it back onto his head. He set his jaw and paced the deck, days of tense frustration turning to compelling anger. Suddenly he turned on his heel and strode to his first mate, Nathan Keyes, small, wiry, intense.

  “Enough of this. Our orders were to form a line on the open sea and wait for a sighting of the French. We did, and there is no sign of them. If they’re here, they’re somewhere inside the bay. We’re going in.”

  Keyes mouth dropped open for a moment, and he clacked it shut. “Sir, once we’re in, two of their ships coming in behind us could cut off any chance of getting out. Our orders did not include going into the bay.”

  “I’ve considered that and weighed it against our need to know where they are. We’ve got to know! Give the orders. We’re going in.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Keyes pivoted, shouting to the crew. “Unfurl all canvas. Helmsman, take a heading south by sou’west. When she clears landfall far enough, take a heading due west. We’re going into the bay.”

  For one second every seaman on the Horne stood still in question before they broke into action. Barefooted sailors leaped to the ladders and scrambled up to the riggings where they walked the ropes slung to the yards, jerking the lashings from the furled sails. The helmsman spun the heavy, six-foot wheel, and the sails popped full and billowed in the hot easterly breeze. The Horne lunged forward, the bow cutting a twelve-foot curl in the green-black Atlantic waters as she swung hard to starboard and leaned far to port. The helmsman waited until the bow lined south by southwest, spun the wheel back, and straightened the ship on course. She was running light and fast, leaving a white trail one hundred yards long in the dark water, angling toward a point one mile south of the end of the finger of New Jersey that jutted south to form the top and east side of Delaware Bay. Twenty minutes
later, with the New Jersey coastline over a mile to starboard, the helmsman corrected his heading to due west, and the ship was flying with the wind, straight into the mouth of the bay.

  Every seaman, every officer, was standing at their post, tense, silent, watching everything on the shoreline, searching the coves and inlets for a mast or the fluttering, hated white French flag with the golden fleur-de-lis. The helmsman gripped the wheel until his knuckles were white, ready to turn the Horne in an instant. Every soul on the ship knew that if the French trapped them inside the bay, not one of them, nor their ship, would come out.

  They had not covered five hundred yards when a shrill, excited shout came from the crow’s nest.

  “There, sir!” The sailor had his telescope jammed against his eye, right arm extended, pointing. “Against the north shore! Masts! Maybe twenty ships at anchor.”

  Stoneman’s voice rang. “French? Can you see a flag?”

  “Yes, sir, but I can’t tell if. . . . wait . . . the sun . . . French, sir. That French flower. Gold. Sun caught it. They’re French, sir.”

  Stoneman’s voice cracked with intensity. “Certain?”

  “Certain.”

  “How many?”

  “Eight or ten frigates. Ten or twelve deepwater warships.”

  “Cannon? Can you see?”

  Twenty seconds passed with only the sound of the creaking of the ship and the wind in the rigging and the soft hiss of her bow cutting the water before the lookout answered.

  “Yes, sir. All of them. Some with two decks, others with three decks of cannon.”

  Stoneman pivoted, shouting to the crew. “Helmsman, hard to port. Take her about to a heading due east.” He cupped his hands about his mouth to call up to the men in the rigging. “Tack into the wind. We’ve got to get out of the bay before they move.”

  The helmsman spun the wheel left with all his strength and the ship creaked with the strain as she swung to port. Overhead, the sailors in the rigging loosened the ropes holding the left edge of the sails and tightened those on the right to capture the wind in the complicated and cumbersome tacking maneuver. The ship slowed, then laboriously followed a zig-zag route, moving back toward the mouth of the bay.

  Every eye onboard was locked onto the French ships, waiting for the first boom of a cannon, or the first blossoming of a sail in pursuit, but there was none. The Horne cleared the mouth of the bay, and the helmsman spun the wheel left. The ship corrected to a north by northeast heading, the sailors changed the set of the sails to catch the wind, and the ship moved steadily up the coast with the New Jersey capes two miles off the port side. Captain Stoneman stood at the stern railing with his feet spread, telescope clamped against his eye, watching the mouth of the bay until it was out of sight. No ships appeared.

  He heaved a sigh, and his shoulders slumped as he turned to the first mate. “Steady as she goes.” He raised weary eyes. “I believe we succeeded.”

  The Horne held a steady course through the muggy heat of the day. Sunset turned her sails glowing yellow, and still she plowed on. A quarter-moon had risen when the shout, “Sandy Hook lighthouse ahead, to port,” came down from the crow’s nest. It was well past midnight when the Horne slowly threaded its way through the narrow, tricky channel separating Sandy Hook, Staten Island, and Long Island, scarcely moving between the lighthouses while seasoned seamen threw the lead balls on ropes into the black water, taking depth soundings to avoid the great sandbar on which too many ships had run aground.

  The moon had set, and the eastern horizon was showing the separation of earth from sky when the frigate dropped anchor in New York Harbor. It was breaking dawn when Captain Stoneman climbed the rope ladder and set foot on the deck of Admiral Richard Howe’s flagship. The deck officer of the day led him to the stern and rapped on the carved door. The deep voice of Admiral Lord Richard Howe came from within.

  “Enter.”

  The officer pushed through the door followed by Stoneman, who came to attention, tricorn locked under his left arm. Admiral Howe was dressed in breeches, a white shirt open at the throat, and slippers. His hair had not been combed, nor had he shaved. A silver tray with a pot of steaming coffee was on the table in the center of the room, with two kinds of bread and a bowl of chokecherry jelly. The rich aroma from the coffee filled the Admiral’s quarters.

  Stoneman snapped a salute and spoke. “Captain Joseph Stoneman, sir, of the Horne. Returned from watch duty off the New Jersey capes. I have information about the French fleet.”

  Tall, laconic, regular features, unimpressed with protocol or politics, interested only in results, Howe’s eyes narrowed with intensity for a moment.

  “What information?”

  “Sighted French gunboats yesterday forenoon. Inside Delaware Bay, on the north shore, at anchor. About twenty of them, sir.”

  “Cannon?”

  “All of them, sir.”

  Howe stood stock-still for five full seconds with his mind racing.

  “Confirmed? Any other ships in your squadron see them?”

  “I doubt it, sir. The others in the squadron were further out at sea. We remained inside the harbor only long enough to make a count, then proceeded directly here.”

  “Frigates? Schooners? Sloops? Deepwater warships? What were they?”

  “About eight or ten frigates, perhaps ten or twelve deepwater warships. No sloops we could see.”

  “French flag? Not American?”

  “French, sir. White, with the golden fleur-de-lis. All of them.”

  “Any pursuit?”

  “None, sir. We watched the bay until it was out of sight. None followed.”

  Howe took a deep breath and reached for the coffeepot. He poured a cup, then gestured to Stoneman and the officer of the day standing to one side. Stoneman shook his head. “No, thank you, sir.” The officer of the day reached for the coffee and a cup. Howe gestured, and the three of them sat down facing each other across the table, cluttered with maps, an alidade, calipers, and a telescope.

  For a moment Howe sipped at his coffee, then set the cup on the table. His stare was cold as he continued.

  “What were you doing inside the bay? Did you misunderstand my orders?”

  Stoneman sucked in air, then made his resolute answer. “I understood your orders, sir. We formed the line as you described it and waited for days. I concluded it would be pointless to wait longer. I weighed the dangers of entering the bay against the need to know where the French fleet was and concluded it was worth the risk. I gave the order, sir.”

  Howe sipped at his coffee, stared at Stoneman for a few moments, then changed direction without so much as a nod of his head.

  “So we found d’Estaing, and he wants a fight.” He sipped again. “We’ll see about that.” He raised his cup once more, then wrapped his long fingers around it and for a moment stared at it in deep thought. He raised his eyes to Stoneman’s.

  “You anchored nearby?”

  “In the harbor, sir. A little distance away.”

  “I have a lot to do. Keep yourself available. I will probably need you.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

  Howe knew Stoneman was probing for a reaction to his confessed disobedience to orders—some vindication of his decision to risk his crew and ship to get the critical information Howe had to have. A shadow of a smile passed over Howe’s face, and he shook his head.

  “Just my compliments. Pass them on to your crew.”

  Relief washed over Stoneman. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Howe tossed a hand indifferently. “You’re dismissed.”

  Keyes was waiting at railing’s edge of the Horne when Stoneman climbed the wooden ladder from the rowboat to the deck, watching intently for any hint of his mood after his report to Howe.

  “Things went well, sir?”

  “Yes.” Stoneman paused for a moment. “The Admiral requested that I carry his compliments to the crew. Gather them.”

  The air went out of Keyes
and his eyes closed for a moment. “Aye, sir. Right away.”

  Ten minutes later Stoneman stepped from his tiny quarters at the stern of the ship and faced the crew, assembled and standing at attention. Keyes saluted.

  “The crew is all present, sir.”

  Stoneman’s voice was firm, clear. “I reported to Admiral Lord Howe this morning. The information we brought him was well received. He inquired after the reasons for putting this crew and this ship at risk by entering Delaware Bay. I gave him the explanation.”

  He paused for a moment with the seagulls squawking and the sound of the harbor waters lapping at the hull.

  “He instructed me to convey to you his compliments. All of you.”

  They were standing at rigid British attention, but every man on deck grinned.

  Stoneman dropped his eyes for a moment, then raised them once again.

  “Mr. Keyes, these men have not slept for nearly forty hours. Ask for five volunteers to remain on deck watch for four hours while the remainder go to their bunks for sleep, then alternate. And issue an extra ration of rum for the noon mess, and another after the evening mess. If a message arrives from Admiral Howe, wake me immediately.”

  Keyes saluted. “Aye, sir.”

  Stoneman sought his tiny quarters in the stern of the ship and stretched out on his bunk amid the friendly creaking of his gently rocking ship and the salt sea tang in the air. He dropped his shoes thumping on the floor and within seconds was in a deep, dreamless sleep, still wearing his rumpled uniform.

  The sun was casting long shadows eastward before he awakened. He swung his legs off the small bunk and sat there for a time before he could force coherency to his thoughts and memory. He looked at the small clock on the shelf at the foot of his bed, opened the door, and called for Keyes.

  “You shouldn’t have let me sleep the day away. Has anything occurred that I should know about?”

  “Nothing, sir. A sloop anchored not far from here and sent a messenger to Admiral Howe’s ship. No one has arrived here.”

  “Have you slept?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Give me ten minutes, and I will relieve you. You can go to your quarters for rest.”