Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1

by Ron Carter

  Weyland interrupted the reverie. “Mr. Riggins, where did you learn gunnery like that? Nine shots below the waterline in a storm.”

  Riggins shook his head and sipped at his tea. “I don’t know. It just came.”

  Weyland raised his steaming cup. “Mr. Dunson, what were the odds of finding those shoals the way you did?”

  Matthew considered for a moment. “Pretty poor.”

  Weyland pursed his mouth for a moment, and Riggins and Matthew brought their eyes to his, and for a moment they sat silently while something passed between them, and then Weyland said, “Do either of you think you . . .” He stalled for a moment. “Either of you think you did it alone?”

  The instant he spoke all three men felt a subtle, indefinable impression fill the room, and they sat in silence for a time while their thoughts ran.

  Riggins swallowed. “No, sir. Not alone.”

  Matthew spoke quietly. “I did not find those shoals alone, sir.”

  None of them knew or cared how long they sat thus, awed, humbled by their frank confessions and the profound implications of what had been said.

  Weyland cleared his throat and tried to frame his thoughts. “I don’t think I’m religious. I’ve never talked about such things much—a little embarrassing. It’s just that since the colonies broke with the British, things have happened that don’t make sense.” He paused to look at his rough, square hands. “Like the Chelsea. It all seemed normal at the time, but looking back . . . Something’s stirring. I can’t explain it.” He shook his head.

  A sharp knock at the door jolted them all, and Weyland recovered and called, “Enter.”

  The deck watch opened the door, and his breath smoked in the freezing air as he spoke. “An officer from the militia to see you, sir.”

  “Send him in.”

  A man bundled in oilskins appeared in the doorway. “Captain Weyland?”

  “Here.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Abel Haldeman of the Newburyport militia, sir. I have orders to deliver this to you personally.” He handed a sealed envelope to the captain. “I will return in the morning for your reply.”

  Weyland nodded, and the door closed as Weyland tore open the envelope and flattened the two-page document on the table. Riggins and Matthew waited while he read it in silence, then tossed it on the table and again sipped from the smoking cup of tea. “Riggins, read it aloud.”

  Wednesday January 17th, A.D. 1776

  Captain Soren Weyland:

  In session on October 13, 1775, the Continental Congress voted to fit out ships for a Continental Navy. Time being critical, the following merchant ships were purchased to be fitted out as men-of-war: “Andrew Doria,” “Alfred,” “Columbus,” “Cabot,” “Providence,” “Hornet,” “Wasp,” “Fly.”

  Receiving reliable intelligence that a large quantity of British munitions, including gunpowder, is stored on the Island of Providence in the West Indies, on November 29th, 1775, Congress ordered a special committee to secure it. On December 22, 1775, your humble servant Captain Esek Hopkins was appointed Commander in Chief of the fleet, with other officers for the remaining ships. After further advice from a secret committee assigned to execute the plan, a rendezvous has been scheduled at Abaco in the West Indies for March 1st or thereabouts, from which place the fleet shall proceed to the Island Providence to obtain the desired munitions, without which the Continental Army will face immediate and critical shortages.

  Accordingly you are requested to add your schooner, the “Esther,” to this expedition. The fleet will leave from the mouth of the Delaware River on or about February 17, 1776. All to remain in strictest confidence.

  Would you kindly reply in writing into the hands of the bearer of this letter, earliest.

  Your obdt servant,

  Esek Hopkins, Commander.

  Riggins turned to the second sheet.

  To whom it may concern:

  The Continental Congress of the Thirteen Colonies of America, in session met, did on December 22nd, A.D. 1775, regularly appoint and commission Esek Hopkins as Commander in Chief of the Continental Fleet.

  Certified: Charles Thomson

  Congressional Secretary

  No one spoke for a time, and then Weyland set his cup down. “Less than three weeks. We’ll have to unload the Esther and get provisioned.” He glanced at Matthew. “Can you get us to the West Indies?”

  “I think so, sir. I’ve been there.”

  “How do you know when to turn west?” Weyland was grinning.

  “Easy. Go south until the butter melts, and turn west.”

  They laughed. Riggins stood. “I think I’ll go to my quarters.”

  Weyland nodded, and Riggins put on his heavy coat. “Good night,” they all said as he walked out into the freezing night.

  Matthew reached for his heavy woolen coat. “Sir, when we get the Esther unloaded, could I have some time to go home? I left a family without a father.”

  Weyland turned in his chair and drew a small, heavy iron-bound box from beneath his bunk, worked a key, and opened it. He counted silver coins into a leather purse and handed it to Matthew. “One hundred twenty pounds sterling. Take it. Be back before February seventeenth.”

  “I will. That’s too much money.”

  Weyland shook his head. “With what you’ve saved and what’s on the Esther right now, that’s close to your share. I hope it helps your mother, family.”

  Matthew dropped the purse into his large coat pocket. “It will. Thank you, sir.” He opened the door.

  “Matthew,” Weyland said, and Matthew closed the door and waited, startled. Weyland had never before called him by his first name. “Tell your mother I thank her for her sacrifices. For letting you come.”

  “I will, sir. I will.”

  In his small cabin, Matthew fed more coal into the stove and waited for the room to warm before he locked the purse in his instruments case and hung his heavy coat on the door peg. He drew out his leather wallet and carefully removed the small folded paper, laid it on his charts table, and unfolded it in the yellow lamplight. He gently laid the small watch fob on one palm and for long seconds studied the blue and red and white. He touched it gently with his fingers and then rewrapped and put it back, and then went to his knees beside his bunk, and clasped his hands before his bowed head.

  February 1776

  Chapter XXII

  * * *

  “Next.”

  Kathleen stood in the bright, frigid sun of late afternoon in early February and held out her mittened hand at the pay table of Helgestad Fish Company while Peter Helgestad dropped four silver coins clinking. Her feet were frozen numb inside her gum boots, and her breath was a vapor as she faced him on the east end of the Boston fish docks. She thrust the coins in the pocket of her heavy wool coat, untied the cord of the oilskin apron that covered her front from throat to ankles, and lifted the neck loop over the black knitted mariner’s cap that was pulled low to her eyebrows and over her ears.

  “Tomorrow?” she asked.

  Helgestad studied her for a moment. He was bundled in a mariner’s winter coat, his leather cap pulled low, and his breath rose in a cloud as he considered. Twenty-eight years building his fleet of twelve boats to ply the fisheries off the New England coast, and he could not remember hiring a woman to stand in the big, open shed on the docks eight hours at a time at sixteen degrees below freezing, doing the heavy, rough job of eviscerating cod at the big cleaning tables as his boats came in.

  Three days ago, after the heavy storm passed through, the first of his boats returned from the Grand Banks to the north, their holds jammed to the hatches and a ton of cod held loose on the decks. Kathleen had come to the docks with the men, asking for work, and he had looked into her eyes and jabbed a thumb towards the long oak tables. He gave orders to the crew’s Portuguese boss, who loaned her the big apron and the gum boots and elbow-length gum gloves, and gave her a short, thin knife. Patiently he showed her how to slit the fish from vent to g
ills, spill out all the entrails with one sweep of her thumb, shove the mess off the table splashing into a large metal tub, wash the inside of the fish clean in running water, and toss it down a chute to men waiting with wooden shipping crates and ice to pack them fresh for shipping to customers from Boston to the Gulf of Mexico. Helgestad had checked her twice that day, once the next day, and shook his head in wonder. She had worked steadily, watching, learning. She paid for the gum boots and apron and gloves with her third day’s pay, and today she had held pace with the men without stopping, asking no quarter, saying nothing in her fierce concentration.

  Helgestad’s stubble beard moved as he spoke. “Tomorrow’s the Sabbath.”

  “I know.”

  “Is it the money?”

  She remained silent.

  He glanced at the men standing behind her waiting for their day’s pay, and they looked away while he quickly thrust four more coins into her hand and said gruffly, “Monday. Not tomorrow.”

  She looked at the coins. “I didn’t earn this.”

  He looked away. “Monday. Go home,” and he motioned for the next man.

  She walked off the docks, leaving behind the stench of tons of fish entrails, into the wintry, narrow streets of Boston, steadily pacing off the blocks. Minutes later she looked left at the British base, four blocks away. After the Bunker Hill battle, the work at the military laundry dwindled as the wounded recovered, and by late August all civilian labor was stopped. Through the fall and early winter the British loosened their stranglehold on Boston. Their blockade of Boston Port dwindled, and fishermen went to sea, openly daring the British to interfere. Kathleen found work cleaning rooms at inns and taverns in Charlestown until the storms of January stopped most of the land travel, and then she went to the docks to take any work she could find from the incoming fishing boats.

  She arrived at home with late-afternoon shadows lengthening, and spent half an hour washing herself, working to get the smell of fish from her hair and clothing. She made thick, hot soup for supper, fed the children, and carried a tray to Phoebe, who lay in bed. She finished the supper dishes and sat down at the dining table with a bottle of ointment given her by Doctor Soderquist and began working it into the stiff, dry skin and cracks in both hands, when a bold knock at the front door startled her and she jumped, then wiped her hands on a cloth and walked to the door.

  She opened it eight inches and asked, “Who’s there?”

  “Colonel Arthur Wyans, Twenty-third Fusiliers, detailed to General Howe’s command. I am accompanied by Captain Runyan.”

  Kathleen caught her breath. “On what errand?”

  “I have a sealed message from General William Howe for Mrs. Phoebe Thorpe. Is that you, ma’am?”

  “No. She is in bed. Could you return tomorrow?”

  “I am sorry, I must deliver it tonight to her personally.”

  “Wait a moment.”

  Kathleen closed the door and dashed to Phoebe’s bedroom. “A British colonel says he has a sealed message for you and must deliver it tonight! What is he talking about?”

  Phoebe thought for a moment. “It could be from the king.”

  “What?” Kathleen shook her head emphatically. “No, Mama. You’re imagining things again. Put on your robe and come to the door.”

  Phoebe thrust her chin forward. “Absolutely not. Show him in here—I will receive him here!”

  In weary resignation, Kathleen returned to the door. “Mrs. Thorpe is not well. Do you wish to deliver the message in her bedroom?”

  “Very well,” Wyans said. Kathleen opened the door and the two officers followed her to the bedroom.

  “Mrs. Phoebe Thorpe?”

  “Yes.”

  “I herewith deliver a message to you from General William Howe, in the presence of Captain Runyan, my witness. I will return at one o’clock p.m. tomorrow for your answer in writing.”

  He bowed stiffly to Phoebe, turned on his heel, and marched back out the front door. Kathleen locked it behind him and ran back to Phoebe’s bedroom as Phoebe finished reading the few lines on the parchment and turned triumphant eyes to Kathleen.

  “General Howe has received instruction from King George to see me regarding my letter. He wishes an audience with me tomorrow at one o’clock p.m.”

  Kathleen clapped a hand over her mouth, dumbstruck. For a moment she could not gather her fragmented thoughts, and then she blurted, “You wrote to the king? When? How?”

  “Weeks ago. He has authorized General Howe to make an investigation.”

  “An investigation of what?”

  “My request that the king grant this family a stipend.”

  Kathleen stepped backwards in utter shock. “A stipend? You wrote the king of England for a stipend?”

  “I did. England owes us that, at least until Henry gets back.”

  Kathleen’s mouth dropped open. “A stipend? Help from the king of England? Mother! How could you do that?”

  “We need it. Henry won’t be back until fall, and we—”

  “Mama!” Kathleen threw her hands in the air. “Father is not coming back—ever. He’s gone, banished.”

  “The king wrote to General Howe—”

  “How could you?” Kathleen’s voice rang off the walls. “The British are our enemies! Our neighbors, our friends, have died fighting them. John dead, Joseph Warren, Billy wounded! It ruined us when Father was banished, but asking the British to give us money—we may as well declare ourselves loyal to the Crown and be banished!”

  The door opened, and Faith and Charles stood with long faces, frightened at the raised voices. Kathleen spun. “Go back to the parlor and wait there.” Charles quickly slammed the door, and Kathleen could hear Faith’s soft whimpering as they walked away.

  Phoebe’s eyes flashed. “Nonsense! I did what had to be done! Look at yourself! A common fishmonger—look like a woman twice your age! And the children—can’t even go to school, you have to teach them here—in the parlor now, crying! I did what I had to do!” She set her chin in defiance.

  “Us live on British money while everyone else is suffering? Brigitte at the bakery. Billy can’t even stand straight. Margaret taking in wash. Mama, can’t you see what you’ve done? Can’t you see?”

  Phoebe turned her back to Kathleen in cold silence and pulled the comforter to her chin.

  All the air went out of Kathleen and her shoulders sagged and her chin began to tremble and then the tears came. She dropped onto a chair in the corner and buried her face in her hands, and her sobbing moans frightened the children in the parlor.

  They walked to the North Chapel for church services the following morning in stony silence, and ate their noon meal without allowing their eyes to meet. At twelve-thirty Phoebe confronted Kathleen in the kitchen.

  “The appointment is in one-half hour. I’m leaving.”

  Kathleen remained silent.

  “Are you coming?”

  Kathleen shook her head and said nothing.

  “Very well, I’ll take the children and make whatever arrangements I can for us.”

  Kathleen placed her hands on her hips. “The children are not going.”

  Phoebe’s eyes narrowed. “They are my children, not yours. They come.”

  “You are not in your right mind.”

  “Do you intend allowing Charles and Faith see us divided? Haven’t they suffered enough? It is on your shoulders. Decide.” She turned and called to the children. “Get your coats. We’re leaving for a while.”

  The children stood in the archway, eyes wide in question as they stared at Kathleen, waiting for some indication from her. She saw the confusion and the hopelessness that had crept into their faces over the past months, and she could not bear thrusting more upon them.

  “Get your coats.”

  The oak and maple trees that lined the streets were stark and bare, and their branches were like bony fingers reaching to claw at the frozen heavens. Vapor trailed from their faces as they walked to the British
military compound, where a sentry at the main gate accompanied them to the office of the commanding general. They sat silently in the anteroom for a few moments before an officer opened the door with the sign “GENERAL SIR WILLIAM HOWE” written in scroll, and he ushered them inside, then closed the door as he left.

  The general stood. “Mrs. Phoebe Thorpe, I presume,” he said. He was taller than average, slender, restless eyes, regular features.

  “I am Mrs. Thorpe,” Phoebe said. “These are my children, Kathleen, Charles, and Faith.”

  The general nodded deeply. “Please be seated.”

  He sat back down in his large overstuffed chair behind a polished cherry wood desk and picked up a piece of paper. “I have been ordered by his Majesty King George to proceed with an investigation of a letter which he believes was written by yourself. Is that accurate, Mrs. Thorpe?”

  “Yes. I wrote such a letter.”

  “Your husband is Henry Thorpe?”

  “He is.”

  The general tapped a heavy brown envelope. “I have a transcript of the proceedings taken against him.” He shook his head. “Extremely disheartening.” He waited a moment before raising his eyes again to Phoebe. “Your letter explains that because of the absence of your husband, you now find yourself in serious social and financial condition. Is that so?”

  “Yes.” Phoebe’s chin was high, eyes bright, words clear. “When Henry returns this fall we shall recover.”

  The general’s face clouded in question and he glanced at Kathleen. She held a steady gaze into his eyes and said nothing.

  The general reflected for a moment before he looked back at Phoebe. “Do I understand correctly that your husband was banished for life by a Massachusetts court?”

  “No. He is away on the king’s business. He will return when it is finished.”

  The general leaned back in his chair and raised one hand to stroke his chin for a moment before he moved on. “You have no source of funds?”

  “None. I must remain at home with the children. Kathleen has taken some positions to secure what funds she can, but they have been temporary. We have no more money and no way of getting any.”

  “Do you have relatives, perhaps?”