by D P Prouty
H O M E
OFT H E
B RAV E
D P P R O UT Y
Home of the Brave
Copyright © 2016 by DP Prouty. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.
This novel is a work of fiction. However, several names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are based on the lives of real people.
Cover design by Bill Francis Peralta
Published in the United States of America ISBN: 978-0-9989400-1-4
1. Fiction / Sea Stories
2. Fiction / Romance / Action & Adventure 16.11.04
1
Halifax County
Tuesday, September 12, 1854. Standing on a small hill overlooking the bay on a warm afternoon, I observe a wall of dark gray clouds forming out in the distance to the west as the crowd gathered on the grassy field just to the south side of Fort McHenry. The landscape was littered with politicians and military men all dressed up in their uniforms of blue. I was neither, but simply a guest. I felt out of place, an antique of days past. I was invited to attend with my son James and grandson William at a ceremony celebrating the fortieth anniversary of the Battle of Baltimore in 1814. I don’t know that it was really much of a battle as I recall, the British shelled Fort McHenry, but did not want to risk their fleet, so they fired at long range, decreasing their accuracy to the point that they could not inflict significant damage. Realizing they could not reduce Fort McHenry, they changed their plans and did not invade Baltimore from the sea. It was a tense moment for the country, the British had already burned Washington and losing a busy port like Baltimore would have been devastating. A young fellow wrote a poem about the bombardment which turned out to be a very popular tune.
I am a proud father of my son James, one of the senior officers assigned to the USS Constellation now at anchor in the harbor. It is a beautiful ship, the newest ship in the United States Navy. It amazes me how the more things change, the more they remain consistent. The old Constellation was built and launched from Fells Point here in Baltimore. The sudden recollection of that ship sparked old memories from my youth. Captain Sterett had been on the old Constellation during the Quasi-War. That was a name I had not thought of in a long time, stored in my memory of days long ago. A flood of memories danced in my head as I stood there, I was no older than my grandson when I first saw this place. My grandson William Carter stood next to his proud father while the two of them admired the Constellation in the harbor to the north. William, at fifteen, just recently enrolled in the United States Naval Academy. He was granted special permission to attend the ceremony with James and me.
The dark clouds to the west continued to move toward us as the invited guests began to quiet down in anticipation of the ceremony. A man stepped up on the platform and began to address the attendees, welcoming all to the Defenders Day on behalf of President Pierce. He introduced the guest speaker, Mr. Jefferson Davis, the secretary of war, who then stepped up on the platform next to the podium. He seemed a very proper man dressed in formal attire with a long black coat. He stood about six foot tall, sported a handsomely combed thick dark brown hair and a short beard on his chin. He spoke in a soft voice with a familiar southern inflection, “Forty years ago on this very piece of ground, patriots in defense of freedom held their ground in defiance of a British invasion force,” he began. “Defenders of this great nation in her time of need, the men occupying these hallowed walls labored for the advancement of her glory and honor. Fort McHenry will forever be recognized as a symbol of freedom in defiance of tyranny…” I began to wonder if he would be able to finish his speech before the rains began. His words trailed off as I reminisced.
I looked at Fells Point Shipyard and began to chuckle to myself, thinking of the irony of having the secretary of war speak at the ceremony. I was thinking how Fort McHenry was named for the former secretary of war. The shipbuilders at Fells Point are just across the channel to the north of Fort McHenry. I remember watching the construction of Fort McHenry from there years ago. I could still hear James Lawrence, my friend on the Enterprise, saying, “Why in God’s name would they name that new fort after a gentleman who just got fired from his job as secretary of war? Only in America can you get fired and be immortalized in stone walls.” Then the gruff voice of Galen Walsh chimed in, “Mind yourself, young lad”, he’d say in his thick Irish accent. “Why, Mr. McHenry is a fine Irishman and he put his signature on the Constitution of this great nation. Besides, with all the world’s nations at war, what makes you think that anything would last forever?” My thoughts traveled through time to my youth. I was twelve when I first went to sea—not out of a great desire to sail or a love of the sea, but rather an escape from a life I no longer wanted to endure.
My father, William Carter, was a farmer in Halifax County, North Carolina. He was a second-generation colonist and a landowner, making a profitable living working the land. When the American War for Independence engulfed the region, many of the local Scottish clans decided it best to fight for the empire to secure their lands and future commerce. My father was always very proud of his Scottish ancestry, the Carter clan, or clan McCarter as it is known in the old country. My father and my Uncle Martin, joined the loyalist militia and fought a battle at Moore’s Creek, North Carolina, against what my father deemed a gathering of traitors. The loyalists were defeated and my uncle along with my father were captured by the colonials, but were later released on parole on condition that they would no longer bear arms against the colonial militia. My father honored the condition and returned to farm his land. Uncle Martin rejoined the loyalists and was killed later at Kings Mountain in South Carolina, another loyalist defeat.
The family farm was passed down from my grandfather who died when I was very young. Most of our relatives moved to Canada after the war except for Uncle Daniel. I often wondered why my father had not moved when the British offered to provide lands to loyalists in Canada after the war was over. As it was, he fell in love with my mother and stayed to work on the farm. As a boy, I remember other children saying that we were not American and should leave. I did not understand and asked my father about what others said. He told me that he had fought for the empire, which at the time ruled this country. He explained that he believed the honor and integrity of the clan more important than any government. The war was over and as long as the government did not intrude on his family, so be it. I should ignore any such talk of the past.
My mother was a very gentle soul. I don’t remember her ever raising her voice or ever speaking ill of anyone. She loved gardening, I remember how she would plant flowers and the smell would permeate her cloths. Father thought it a waste of time, but she loved it just the same. My parents were educated and believed reading and writing was important. Mother would teach me reading and writing several hours a day and I would read aloud at night to practice after the evening meal, normally reading Scripture under the watchful eye of Father who would correct my pronunciations as he sat and smoked his pipe. Father would teach me arithmetic and although I could do basic math, I hated numbers. The years my mother was alive were very good as I recall. She loved to sing songs in the evening and she even played marbles with me once or twice. We went to church regularly, although sitting in church through two services on Sunday was especially difficult for me. Father told me that I should endure, sit, and be quiet because the Lord was teaching me patience and that I must learn to be respectful of others during prayer and worship. I think I could have been just as respectful if I had left them alone a
nd went fishing.
Those were happy times. I don’t recall ever being sad or unhappy until Simon died. Simon was our workhorse. He was a gentle but massive beast at sixteen hands and about seventy-two stones. I cut up apples for him and Father would allow me to ride him. I rode him everywhere and came to love him more than anything. I don’t know how old Simon was; he was always with us as far back as I could remember. During the winter of 1793, Simon appeared to be sick and didn’t come out of his stall. He was dead within a week and I lost my best friend. Simon was buried on a patch near a large tree overlooking a pasture where we often rode. I was distraught for many months following his death. Then Mother and Father surprised me with a gift. It was a triquetra, or Celtic trinity knot as others called it. Father had taken a piece of bone from Simon and delivered it to a schrimpschonger, who carved the bone into a beautiful triquetra. He said, “Wear this around your neck and Simon will always be near your heart. He watches over you.” At that moment I loved my parents more than any son could. Mother had a trinity knot she wore as a necklace and told me that some folks believed the three knots represented the mind, body, and spirit, and to others it represented the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. I asked her what it meant to her and she said, “It represents you, me, and your father.”
I was eight when Mother passed in childbirth. Father did not talk of it and did not show any heartache, but I felt as though my world had ended. Everything that she had touched reminded me of happier times and then I felt the dull constant pain of losing her. It took a long time before the aching stopped and only memories replaced that emptiness. My sister Eliza was a very delightful girl and looked very much like Mother, my heart bore a void knowing she would never know Mother—she most certainly would have been her favorite. Eliza, Father, and I still attended church regularly and he worked the farm with Uncle Daniel and his family. Uncle Daniel was the youngest son and did not fight in the war for independence as his two elder brothers had done. He married Aunt Sarah and they had five children, all were younger than I. Eliza went to Aunt Sarah’s home during the day, which was about a mile away. Father had me tend to the livestock and practice reading and writing after sunset.
When Eliza was four, she started losing her health and became bedridden. A doctor conducted an examination and revealed she had a blood disease, she only held out for a few months after becoming ill. The Baggett’s, a family owning a large plantation nearby, began to circulate the idea that we were cursed for what my father and Uncle Martin did during the war. The whispering and stares from the townspeople greatly irritated Father. Following Eliza’s death, he became very bitter and began to drink a lot. We stopped going to church services as my Father told me that God had deserted us. He became consumed with grief and seemed to release his anger upon me at every turn. I often became the object of unprovoked physical attacks and they became more frequent until I could no longer endure them. The whole circumstance became untenable, nothing appealed to me.
One day I came back to the house after feeding the pigs, lit a fire, and began to boil up some maple bark for ink since I was almost out. My father burst into the house and said, “Boy, I told you to herd them turkeys in that tobacco field to eat them hornworms! Damn it, boy, those blasted worms are eating the bloody crop!” Then he hit me with the back of his hand and split my lip open as I fell over a chair and burned my hand on the pot boiling the bark. I got up, shaking with a rage inside me; I could feel the sting on my face. I didn’t deserve this, he wasn’t even drunk! I shouted, “No piece of dirt is worth this blood!” He grabbed me by the collar, lifted me up, and slammed me against the wall, then he growled, “All land is paid in blood, boy. Get out of my sight! You run those turkeys through first thing in the morning!” I went outside and said out loud, but not loud enough for him to hear, “It’s not worth my blood!”
That night, after Father went to sleep, I gathered what bread and corn I could, along with a canteen of water and a blanket, and then set out from the farm on foot. I did not want to take a horse or the mule as I thought Father would surely pursue me if I took one of the animals needed to work the farm. I didn’t think he would miss me much. So I began walking, I had no plan, no money, only a little food, and the only clothing I had was what I was wearing. But I had Simon’s bone with me; perhaps it would provide me the luck of good fortune. I did not think on the future— only to run from the past. If there was a God, then I truly was at his mercy.
I headed north since I once heard Father talk of towns to the north that were so large you could get lost in them, and that’s what I wanted to do, get lost. I walked all night and the following day. As the sun was going down, I came across a lake and decided to camp out for the night and rest. I refilled my canteen and soaked my feet in the cool water. It didn’t take long before I was asleep as I was exhausted and every muscle seemed to be sore including my face, which still seemed to sting a little. The next morning I awoke to see two boys by the lake conferring about my condition. One boy stepped up and said, “Who are you? This is Thomson land.” I slowly came to my senses and saw them clearly. There were two boys, one about my age, the other shorter and a year or two younger. Both had poles and were about to fish for breakfast I assumed.
“I’m Clyde, just passing through,” I said.
“Where you going, this is not a county road,” a boy replied.
“The city,” I said. I really had no idea where I was going, but that was as good an answer as I could think of. They gave out a little chuckle.
“If you’re heading to Franklin, you have about another days walk in that direction,” the taller boy said pointing. “You all right? Looks like you been in a fight,” he said.
Not saying anything I picked up my belongings. The younger boy said, “If my father sees you on this land, he may snatch you up and turn you over to the authorities, he—”
The older boy interrupted, “Is someone looking for you?” I think he saw the look of both desperation and determination in my face, I exclaimed, “I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. I just want to get as far away as I can.”
He decided not to push the questions further and said, “I heard tell there are large boats over in Norfolk. I’ve never seen one, but my cousin told me they can take you anywhere you want to go.”
I replied, “How far is Norfolk?”
“About two or three days walk from here I think.” I gave them my thanks and they promised not to tell anyone they saw me. It took me a couple more days to get to Norfolk. I walked in the direction that was pointed out, avoided the farmhouses and stayed off of the roads for another day. I didn’t know were Norfolk was, and the following day, I came across a well-travelled road and decided to follow it into the town. I was out of food by then and getting very hungry.
Norfolk was amazing. It was the largest town I’d ever seen. There were some streets overlaid with stones so they didn’t walk in the dirt. There were some buildings with two and even three levels. Men dressed with ties, and it wasn’t even Sunday. Ladies passed by with long colorful dresses and large hats. There were stores with large windows so anyone could look in and see what they had. I’d never seen so many people. Some would walk by as if I wasn’t there, others would give me a strange look as if they wanted to ask me a question, but then didn’t. I decided I’d better avoid most people or risk getting snatched up.
The realization that I did not have any money soon began to set in. I thought about what I might do. I walked to the docks and saw the ocean, water as far out as I could see. The ships were massive floating structures full of men scurrying about to load and unload their contents. They resembled enormous barns only with sails and ropes on masts as high as full-grown trees. I knew nothing of sailing, I knew nothing of anything except farming or working livestock—what was I going to do? I began to think about stealing. If I began a life of crime, it wouldn’t be long before I would wind up in a prison. My only other option was the life of a beggar. How pitiful, but I was blessed to find that I cou
ld get a few scraps of food outside the taverns. I even had one man give me a couple of coins. I hated to beg, I felt terrible and often I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t even ask for food, I just lifted my hands and wore my most desperate look. I had no skills and no job and I feared I would wind up in an orphanage somewhere or a workhouse—or worse, be sent back to my father. It was still warm out and I was able to sleep in relative comfort down by the beach, but I had no idea what I was going to do when the seasons began to change. Fortunately, my life was about to change very unexpectedly. I didn’t know if it was Simon or the grace of a God that had another plan for me. One night, not long after arriving in Norfolk, I was outside a tavern near the docks. My hunger pangs were all I could think of, when a door opened and two men came out of the tavern. I begged them for anything they might be willing to give—but I immediately saw the flash of a metal cup just before it hit me in the side of my head. I was dizzy and saw black, as I came back to my senses I heard the laughter of the men fade as they walked away. As I lay in the street, I was not bleeding, but I felt the sting. Just then, another man appeared. He bent down and looked at me for a few moments, then said, “You all right, boy?” I said I was, and then he asked me why I was outside this tavern so late in the evening. I explained that I did not have anywhere else to go and that I was very hungry. He told me to follow him into the tavern. I felt the eyes upon me as I sat with the man at a table near the fireplace. He got up and spoke with a man near the kitchen. A servant soon came out with a bowl of soup, a loaf of bread, and a cup of milk. I greedily ate as if I hadn’t eaten in days. The man said to eat all I wanted, I was more than happy to comply. Through the dim light I could see he had a kind smile, sported a brown overcoat, and wore white breeches and boots that approached his knees.