Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1

by Ron Carter

  “You fired cannon and did not mean to alarm us? That is foolish.”

  The officer shook his head, unable to make a competent answer. “What is your purpose in coming to this place?”

  “We are here to confiscate all British materials to do with war, and nothing more. We have no wish to engage you or anyone in the fort.”

  “You have not come to take the fort?”

  “No. But we will have the British munitions.”

  Matthew was a scant twenty yards away, musket at the ready, eyes scanning the top of the wall as he listened intently. When Nicholas made his blunt demand, Matthew brought his eyes down, his thoughts racing. We want your munitions—will you fight for them or not? How many soldiers do you have inside those walls? two hundred? five hundred? How many do you think we have? It all comes down to the next ten seconds. He breathed light, waiting.

  The native officer looked up and down the tree line where the smoke was vanishing. “How many soldiers have you brought?”

  “Enough.”

  “We have five hundred in the fort.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “I thought seven hundred.”

  Matthew held his breath at the bold lie.

  The native officer wiped at the perspiration on his face. “Give us half an hour.”

  “For what?”

  “We will move the garrison to the fort in Nassau.”

  “We are going to take the munitions from that fort, too.”

  Matthew watched the eyes of the officer. They were flat, resigned, beaten.

  “I will tell them.”

  He’s afraid. He won’t fight.

  “You will leave your two men with us until we see you move the garrison. If you do not keep your word we will hang them here and take your fort by force.”

  “You do not trust my word?”

  “You sent an officer to meet us. He said you would not resist. You fired cannon. I will keep your two officers until you move the garrison.”

  “How do I know you will release my men?”

  “You don’t. Make your choice.”

  For long, tense moments the officer stood expressionless before he turned to his two men. “You will remain here until they release you, and then come to the fort in Nassau.”

  One-half hour later the heavy front gates of the fort yawed open, and half a dozen officers led the garrison out in rank and file, turned them east, and marched them to the village of Nassau, with the fort and the governor’s mansion near the center. Nicholas and his men counted them—two hundred—and they all grinned at the remembrance of the numbers bluff Nicholas had run at the parley.

  Nicholas turned to Matthew. “Mr. Dunson, take your detail of men inside the fort and be certain of two things. First, that it is deserted. Second, that the munitions are secure and there is no timing device to explode them later.”

  “Yes, sir. May I make a request, sir?”

  “What is it?”

  “May I also take the two native officers with us? It would be interesting to see if they will open the door to the powder magazine.”

  A wry grin crossed Nicholas’s face. “Granted. Move.”

  Matthew motioned the two native officers ahead of him and gave hand signals to his men, and they followed him running through the heavy gates into the compound, muskets and bayonets at the ready, eyes darting everywhere. A dog barked and slunk beneath an old toolshed, but there was no other sound or movement. Quickly Matthew scanned the buildings and pointed to one built of thick, aging stone and crumbling mortar, with a heavy lock in the hasp and a flaking, decaying sign, “MAGAZINE—KEEP OUT.”

  He stopped his detail and spoke to the two native officers. “You two will open the door to the powder magazine. Do it now.”

  Their eyes grew large, and they looked at each other in terror. One spoke. “The door is locked. I have no key.”

  “I’ll take the lock off.”

  “I will not open the door.”

  “Is the powder magazine mined?”

  “I do not know. I have been with you while the garrison prepared to leave. It is not possible to know the minds of the men as they prepared to abandon the fort.”

  “Do you trust your commanding officer?”

  “In daily matters, yes. In such matters as mining the powder magazine, I have not had such experience to judge.”

  Matthew turned to the other officer. “You open the door.”

  The officer shook his head violently but said nothing.

  Matthew looked at his men and paced for a moment in thought. “I’ll open the door. Take these men and find cover. If the magazine blows, shoot them and report to Nicholas. Move.”

  A dozen voices rose in protest. “I’ll open it, sir.”

  Matthew shook his head and pointed, and the men reluctantly seized the two native officers and moved rapidly behind the main blockhouse. Matthew waited until they were out of harm’s way and then turned to the heavy door. He jammed his bayonet behind the hasp and threw his weight back, and the screws loosened in the heavy oaken doorjamb. He jerked once more and the hasp ripped out. Matthew lifted the latch and put his shoulder against the thick door and pushed, and it slowly swung open. He held his breath as he carefully walked into the gloom of the unlighted room, waiting for the explosion that would blow the building and half the compound to oblivion.

  There was no sound, and he waited until his eyes adjusted. Then he stood straight and cautiously looked for anything that would detonate the powder, and there was nothing. He walked back to the door, into the sunlight, and motioned to his men, who cheered and came charging.

  “Take a count and don’t miss anything that might be left behind to set it off.”

  Ten minutes later he led them at a run back through the compound, out the front gate, to Nicholas. The captain exhaled air when he saw them burst through the gate, and the entire command broke into nervous, relieved exclamations.

  “Report,” Nicholas ordered.

  “Sir, the compound is deserted. The powder magazine is intact and not mined. There is less powder than we expected, but more cannon and muskets and rounds of shot.”

  A spontaneous cheer erupted.

  Nicholas turned to Lieutenant Weaver. “Take five men and go back to report to Commodore Hopkins, and promptly bring me his orders.”

  An hour later Weaver and his men returned to Captain Nicholas with Hopkins’s written orders.

  After quickly reading them, Nicholas faced one of his groups of men. “Group one, remain in the fort by the powder magazine. Load half a dozen of their cannon with grapeshot and arrange them near the powder magazine to cover each wall, with two on the gate. If anyone besides us tries to enter, fire. Use your muskets if necessary.”

  He turned to the others. “The rest of you, come with me. We’re going on to Nassau before dark. By thunder, we’ll have this business finished tonight!”

  Within fifteen minutes the column was on the outskirts of Nassau, marching rapidly through streets nearly deserted. They approached the fort and Nicholas ignored it, and marched his men to the great red brick building near the center of the town, nestled on a five-acre estate surrounded by a white wrought-iron fence and graced with endless flower beds set in grass and sculpted trees. He stopped his men and ordered them into a square, facing all directions, with muskets at the ready. Then he proceeded up the red brick walkway towards the wide stairway that led to the twelve-foot white double doors covered by the portico and its six white columns.

  Six natives in uniform gathered beneath the portico and advanced down the ten steps to meet him, faces stern, eyes narrowed, and their leader stepped forward. He was over six feet tall, thick in the chest, proud, defiant. “You approach the governor’s mansion with arms. Do you intend forcing a battle?” His speech was flawless British.

  “No,” Nicholas answered loudly, “we do not. We intend taking all the warlike materials we find at the fort, and nothing more. We understand that is British property and not property of your people. We w
ill harm no one or their property, if you do not resist.”

  “Under what guarantee?”

  “A signed manifesto from my commander, if you demand such.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “He is drafting one.”

  “It will be a piece of paper—meaningless if you do not intend to abide by it.”

  “You will have my word. I have kept my word to you thus far.”

  “Where are the two officers you refused to release?”

  “They are here, safe. I will release them upon your written request.”

  The man’s fierce expression did not change. “You will wait here.” He turned on his heel and disappeared through the great white doors. Minutes stretched to a quarter of an hour, and Nicholas began to pace, nervous, impatient. He jerked around at the sound of the big doors opening, and the native officer strode to face him.

  “You will deliver your commander’s manifesto to me today for the consideration of the governor. He will have an answer for you by eight o’clock in the morning. You and your men will be here to receive it.” He paused to thrust a scroll of paper to Nicholas. “This is the written demand of the governor to release our two officers immediately.”

  Nicholas unrolled the scroll and read the bold writing and the scrawled, illegible signature at the bottom. He considered for a moment, then turned to Weaver. “Release the two officers.”

  The two native officers marched stiff-legged up the stairs and turned to watch.

  Nicholas spoke. “I will return to this place at eight o’clock this evening to deliver the manifesto you have requested. You will be here.”

  He watched the native officer bristle at the direct order, but Nicholas did not flinch or recant. “And while we are engaged in these negotiations you will be responsible for the safety of myself and my men.”

  The big uniformed native started to step forward, eyes flashing, and his hand locked onto his sword handle. Fifty muskets clicked onto full cock. The officer caught himself and settled and breathed heavily for a moment as he retained control. “I will be waiting.”

  Nicholas turned and gave orders and did not look back as he marched his men back to the edge of town into a grassy meadow.

  “Lieutenant Weaver, did Commodore Hopkins say exactly when he would send a messenger with his manifesto?”

  “Only that it would be soon, sir.”

  Nicholas nodded. “Have the men position themselves in a defensive circle while we wait.”

  Fifty minutes later three men arrived with the commodore’s manifesto. Nicholas read over the document, then nodded his head. “That should do the job.”

  At eight o’clock Nicholas stopped his men before the governor’s mansion and the big officer appeared on the steps. Nicholas marched forward and the officer raised his arm to stop him.

  “You will give the document to my aide,” he said.

  A man rapidly descended the stairs, Nicholas handed him the tied scroll, and the man hastened to deliver it. The officer gave Nicholas the look of a superior to a subordinate, turned, and disappeared inside the doors. It took Nicholas ten minutes to realize he had been dismissed without a word. He stepped back to his men and gave orders.

  “We will spend the night at Fort Montague.”

  They found food and bunks waiting, and kept a double guard on the walls throughout the night. In the early morning a cool easterly wind arose, and the temperature dropped to seventy degrees. They took morning mess at six-thirty, and at seven-fifteen Nicholas marched his men back to the governor’s mansion. At eight o’clock the big native officer once again opened the doors, followed by his aide. The officer gave a hand gesture, and the aide descended the stairs and handed Nicholas a large envelope, then rapidly returned to the safety of the portico.

  Nicholas broke the seal of the envelope, drew out a signed document, and read it carefully. He again opened the envelope and drew out a great brass key.

  His shoulders dropped as the unbearable tension began to drain, and he rounded his lips and blew air before he raised his face to the big officer. “My compliments, sir. Tell your governor that we are deeply grateful for his hospitality and we will do nothing to breach his trust. We will be about our business immediately and leave the moment we are finished. If your governor has any complaints I will be happy to receive them, and I will offer redress for any wrongs. Tell him.”

  The big officer bowed stiffly, turned, and disappeared again.

  Nicholas walked back to his men and held up the key. “He has turned the fort over to us.”

  Mouths dropped open and a rush of talk burst.

  “Attention,” Nicholas ordered. “Fall into our marching order. We’re leaving for the fort now.”

  Ten minutes later Nicholas inserted the key in the great brass lock and turned it, and two men threw their shoulders into the heavy gates and they creaked open. The compound was deserted, as promised. Nicholas marched directly to the stone powder magazine and swung the doors open and stopped in his tracks. The large square room was jammed to the walls with munitions and supplies.

  “Mr. Dunson,” he bellowed, “take your detail of fifteen men back to the ships and tell them to come here as fast as they can and drop anchor in the bay, as close to shore as the tides will allow. Tell Captain Biddle of the Andrew Doria he’s to circle this island once a day watching for British ships, and we will load him last before we leave.”

  “Yes, sir. May I ask a question, sir?

  “What is it?”

  “What did Commodore Hopkins say in that manifesto that persuaded the governor to turn the town over to us without a shot?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “Nothing I can think of. I do remember his mentioning our fifteen men-of-war that we have coming one day behind us with seven hundred fifty cannon and three thousand marines. He suggested we would signal them to go back if the governor cooperated.”

  For fourteen days the longboats and men of the tiny American force sweated from gray dawn until dark, transferring cannon, mortas, shells, and other supplies from Fort Montague and Fort Nassau until the holds of the seven small ships were jammed to the hatches, and the last twenty cannons were lashed to the railings on deck. Unfortunately most of the gunpowder had recently been removed from the island so that the colonials could not get hold of it. Only twenty-four barrels remained. Nevertheless, the load of munitions and supplies was abundant, so much so that some of the seamen yielded their bunks and volunteered to cast their small straw-filled mattresses over some of the supplies and sleep on them during the voyage home.

  By five-thirty in the morning of the fifteenth day the seven small vessels were hoisting anchors and unfurling sails. They rode deep in the water under a clear sky, in temperatures barely past seventy with a southeasterly breeze filling their sails, and talk was light and easy as every man went about his duties with the solid knowledge in their hearts of what they had done together.

  Matthew and John Paul Jones sat in the crow’s nest of the Alfred and led the column of ships back through the tricky island passage, past Abaco Bay, northwest. With the topsails shot through with a sun nearly set, Jones pointed. “Landfall.”

  Matthew smiled. “The mainland.” He called down to the helmsman, “Starboard, two degrees east of due north, and hold her steady as she goes. Unfurl all sails. We’re clear all the way home.”

  Eager hands added canvas, including the spankers, and the ships leaped, their bows cutting an eight-foot curl, with a white wake two hundred yards long behind their sterns. Matthew and Jones descended from the crow’s nest for mess, and afterwards Matthew walked back to the mainmast and started back up to the crow’s nest.

  “Something wrong?” Jones asked.

  “No. Just quiet up there. Peaceful. I won’t be long.”

  He sat in the crow’s nest with his back to the mainmast, legs dangling, the cool evening wind moving his long hair and the loose sleeves of his shirt. Dusk turned to black, and he studied the clear heavens, with her endless expanse of ete
rnal stars, and the three-quarter moon rising in the east. He looked downward at the running lights and at the white, nearly phosphorescent wake of the Alfred fading two hundred yards behind. He squinted south and could see the fleck of light that would be the running lights of the Esther, and could make out her sails, half a mile behind, and knew the Providence would be behind her, and the other four.

  Seven tiny ships—outbluffed the governor of New Providence—took two forts—never fired a shot in anger—jammed to the hatches with British munitions—impossible—impossible.

  His thoughts came rolling, and he let them come on their own terms.

  I wonder where Father is tonight. Was he right about all this? Is there a deeper plan than we know? Did we take those forts alone? Seven tiny ships? Two forts? The whole island of New Providence? Seven small ships didn’t do that—couldn’t do that.

  Is Mother all right? She’s all right—she knows. Brigitte? Who knows? Kathleen? England? Is that part of the plan? No, it can’t be—she doesn’t belong there—it’s wrong—He doesn’t do things wrong—how will He work it out? What is my part? What do I do? I don’t know—it comes in bits and pieces—never know when—it just comes—I have to believe—wait and believe—do what I can when the moment arrives—trust—maybe that’s my part—trust Him—is that faith? Is that what He expects?

  Shortly past ten o’clock, with the moon casting a million diamonds on the clear Atlantic waters, Matthew descended the mainmast and made his way towards his quarters, and was startled by a voice from the shadows.

  “Could I talk with you a minute?” He recognized the sure voice of John Paul Jones.

  Matthew waited, and Jones spoke quietly. “The men told me about you volunteering to walk into any ambush, and about opening the powder magazine at Fort Montague.”

  Matthew said nothing, and there was an awkward time while Jones ordered his thoughts and came to the point. “Do you feel the Almighty was with us?”

  Matthew drew a breath and released it. “Seven small vessels taking the island of New Providence and two forts without firing a shot in anger? Do you think he wasn’t?”

  Jones’s voice was nearly inaudible. “I didn’t hear a voice—saw no angel—felt nothing I haven’t felt before.”