Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1

by Ron Carter

  Matthew realized the self-assured, confident Jones was laying bare some of his most personal, innermost thoughts, or fears, grasping, groping for an answer he had to have.

  Matthew reached into his own soul. “Neither did I.”

  He saw Jones stiffen in the moonlight. “Then how can you say . . .” He did not finish his sentence, because he didn’t have to.

  Thirty seconds passed with only the quiet hiss of the bow cutting the water and the wind in the canvas.

  “If you had been in command,” Matthew said, “would you have tried to take two British forts on that island with seven converted merchant ships and two hundred fifty men?”

  Jones lowered his face in deep thought but remained silent.

  “Concord. We beat the mightiest army on earth.”

  Jones raised his face, eyes wide in the gloom.

  “Bunker Hill.”

  Matthew waited, but Jones remained silent.

  “Tell me from your heart we did all that alone.”

  A full minute passed as the two men stared at each other in the silvery moonlight, lost in something that held them, and then Jones spoke barely above a whisper. “Is that how He works?”

  Slowly Matthew nodded. “I believe that’s how He works, most of the time.”

  Silence held for a time, and finally Jones moved and the mood left as he once again assumed his sure, certain stance. He smiled and spoke. “General Washington will be pleased with the munitions.”

  The matter was closed between them, and Matthew could not gauge what impression it had made on Jones.

  “He should be. With a little help, these men did a remarkable thing.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  ______

  Notes

  The novel’s depiction of the New Providence expedition is based on real events that took place in early 1776. A tiny fleet of ships, under the command of Commodore Esek Hopkins, did sail to the island of New Providence in the Bahamas and successfully acquire British munitions stored there in Fort Montague and Fort Nassau. Though the novel preserves the general tenor of these events, for the purposes of the story certain details have been altered or left out and some fictional elements have been added. The names of the vessels—the Alfred, the Andrew Doria, the Wasp, etc.—and the names of the commanders and other officers, such as Lieutenant John Paul Jones, are historically accurate. (See Knox, A History of the United States Navy, pp. 10–12; Miller, Sea of Glory, pp. 92–99, 107–12.)

  In order to include Matthew Dunson as a participant in this dramatic incident of the Revolutionary War, the author has added to the small fleet of historical ships the fictional ship Esther, commanded by the fictional Captain Soren Weyland.

  March 1776

  Chapter XXV

  * * *

  The front door slammed open, and Caleb burst into the parlor sweating, breathing hard from his run. “They’re leaving! Leaving!”

  Margaret turned from the stove in the kitchen and ran to him. “Who? What are you—”

  “The British! All of them! Leaving town!”

  “What on earth are—”

  “Listen! You can hear the horses and the cannon in the streets! They’re marching north! Daniel Knight’s out getting the story for his newspaper right now!”

  Margaret glanced at the mantel clock—nearly nine a.m., Saturday, March 17, 1776—and rushed past him. Caleb followed her out the front door and into the street, where people had dropped everything to walk unbelieving into the blustery March winds and to stand in the street and stare towards the unmistakable rumble of many men and horses and heavy cannon moving. Women wiped their hands in their aprons, and men abandoned their Saturday work to trot to the nearest corner to see the troop movement blocks away.

  “Who said they’re leaving?”

  “Daniel Knight! He asked.”

  “Leaving Boston? Abandoning their military base?”

  “Yes! Just leaving it behind.”

  “They’re not coming back?”

  “No. They’re going north to stay.”

  Margaret cast her eyes to the sky. “Praise the Almighty!” She sobered with her thoughts and turned back to Caleb. “You better run up to the bakery and tell Brigitte. She’ll want to know about Richard. And then get back to the print shop. Daniel will need you.”

  Caleb vaulted the fence and was gone. Adam and Priscilla walked out of the house.

  “What’s happening?” Adam asked, forehead drawn into a frown.

  “Caleb said the British are leaving Boston. Can you hear?”

  Adam cocked an ear. “Richard too?”

  “Probably.”

  “Does that mean Matthew can come home?”

  “Not right away. The war’s not over. They’re just moving north.”

  “When will Matthew and Richard come back?”

  “Matthew soon. Richard, maybe a long time.”

  Prissy sighed and said nothing.

  Caleb slowed as he came to the bakery, where Calvin and Bess stood in the street, hands and aprons white with flour, and Brigitte beside them, wiping her hands on a towel, eyes narrowed in question.

  “Caleb! What are you doing here? What’s happening? Why is everybody—”

  “The British are leaving town. Daniel Knight said.”

  Brigitte stopped working her hands. “What?”

  “Going north. Leaving.”

  “Richard! All of them?”

  “Men, horses, cannon—everybody. Hear them?”

  “Did you go look? Did you see Richard?”

  “No, I ran home to tell Mama and she sent me here.”

  Without a word, Brigitte sprinted across the street, slowed at the corner, and ran the four blocks to the cobblestone street where the British column moved, soldiers in full uniform, muskets slung, marching to the cadence of fife and drum. The column filled the street and extended both directions as far as Brigitte could see. She moved as close to the cobblestones as she dared and peered into the faces of the oncoming troops, frantically searching. Minutes passed into half an hour, but she recognized no one in the passing parade of unknown faces, and she waited for the next officers, those in charge of cannon, to approach.

  “Captain Richard Buchanan,” she called, “have you seen him?”

  The officer gave her the slightest shake of his head as he passed, and continued. She waited, and again called out, and again the officer shook his head and moved on without a word. An hour slipped by before the infantry and cavalry and cannon were past, and the endless wagons bearing supplies came on, and Brigitte’s shoulders slumped. Slowly she turned and walked back to the bakery, desolate, staring unseeing at the ground.

  Calvin met her at the bakery door. “We saw you run. You’ve been gone for two hours. Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Fornier. I guess I forgot everything when Caleb told me about the British,” she said, without meeting his eyes.

  “Something wrong at home?”

  “No.”

  He looked at her dubiously, then asked, “Did you see them leaving?”

  “Yes. I watched too long. I’m so sorry. I’ll make up the time.”

  “No harm. Bess and I will probably close the bakery early. There’s bound to be celebrating.”

  By one o’clock the rear of the British column had cleared the west edge of town, while the head of the column was well past the barricades at the Neck and had made the turn northward. In Boston people spilled into the streets from everywhere. Business was forgotten in the hurrahs and the tumult of a spontaneous outpouring of unbelievable relief from frustration and anger too long endured. Youth breached the gates and ran into the abandoned British compound and took souvenirs wherever they could be found. Fishermen and laborers left the docks to stream into the crowds, shouting, laughing. Ship bells clanged as captains and crews from merchantmen left their vessels half-loaded, or unloaded, and joined the outpouring of triumph and relief. They had outlasted the British! Beaten them! Once again the Bost
onians owned their beloved Boston!

  Calvin sent Brigitte home, and threw open the doors of his bakery and set trays of his goods on the counter and tables and let people take them, no questions asked. Taverns and pubs opened their doors and set out bottles and mugs for any takers.

  Brigitte worked her way through the crowds and walked down the cobblestone street, past the trees with the green buds of spring swelling, through the gate, and into the parlor.

  “Who’s there?” came Margaret’s call from the bedroom wing.

  Brigitte dropped onto a dining table chair without answer, and Margaret appeared in the archway.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Brigitte turned to her, face pleading. “He wouldn’t leave like this, without telling me—a letter, something.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t. He’s an officer. Maybe he had orders.”

  “He would have found some way. Not just leave with nothing.”

  Margaret saw the pain, and she sighed and sat down facing her. “Good soldiers—officers—obey orders first, last, always. He was ordered to leave, and he left. If he didn’t send you word, there has to be good reason. Trust him.”

  Brigitte’s eyes dropped, and she began working her hands together in her lap. “How can I write to him?”

  Margaret shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  Brigitte stood and walked into the kitchen. “I have to get cleaned up. Maybe there’s someone left at the military base who can tell me.”

  Margaret sat at the table, listening to the children in the backyard, wondering what she should do for Brigitte. She started at the unexpected rapping at the front door, rose, swung the door open, and faced a man she had never seen before.

  “Are you Mrs. John Dunson?”

  “I am.”

  “I was paid to deliver this to you personally, today after noon.”

  “What is it?”

  “I was not told.”

  The man handed her a sealed brown envelope and turned and walked rapidly out the front gate. Margaret closed the door and quickly turned the envelope to read the name in the upper left corner, and she froze.

  Captain Richard A. Buchanan.

  She looked at the name of the person to whom it was sent.

  Mrs. Margaret Dunson.

  She slowly walked to the table and again examined the envelope, and then laid it on the table to stare at it as though it were something foreign, peculiar. Minutes later Brigitte walked through the archway, dress changed, hair brushed, and she slowed when she saw Margaret, then the letter.

  “What’s that?” she asked, then gasped. “Is it Matthew? Is Matthew all right?”

  “It’s not Matthew,” Margaret said.

  Brigitte rushed to the table and snatched up the letter. She read the name of the sender and began tearing it open, then read Margaret’s name and stopped. A look of wonderment crossed her face. “For you? Not me?”

  Margaret nodded but said nothing.

  “Open it. Read it!”

  Margaret drew a deep breath of foreboding and worked the envelope open. She unfolded the stiff paper and slowly, silently read the letter.

  “Well?” Brigitte demanded.

  Margaret began again, reading the brief writing aloud.

  Thursday, March 15th, 1776.

  Dear Mrs. Dunson:

  A private courier will deliver this to you after the British military has evacuated the city of Boston. I could not leave without making my thoughts known to you, and your family, and to Brigitte.

  It was my great blessing and privilege to share an evening with your family. I have never felt nor seen bonds of love to compare with those that were in your home that night. I will remember it always. I cannot imagine the joy if I were allowed to associate with such a family for the rest of my life, through your daughter Brigitte. I have never associated with young women before; however, in my heart I know I will have the strongest of feelings for Brigitte as long as I live.

  Notwithstanding, the reality is, I am a British officer, and she is an American. I am unable to consider asking her to leave you, and your home, to live in England. While she may accept that offer now, I can see plainly that with the passage of time, she would yearn for you, and her family, and native land, which is only as it should be. My regard for her will not allow me to do that to her.

  I know you can make her understand, and for that reason I address this letter to you. Please help her.

  I hope I do not exceed my proper bounds when I express my love for you and your family, and for your daughter Brigitte.

  Sincerely,

  Captain Richard A. Buchanan

  Margaret finished and laid the letter on the table, and Brigitte turned and folded her arms on the table and buried her face in them, and her unbridled sobs filled the room. Time was forgotten as Margaret sat still, hand on Brigitte’s back, not knowing what to say or do to console her.

  When Brigitte finally raised her head, her face and arms were wet from her tears. “I’ll find him,” she said, more to herself than Margaret. “I’ll find him and I’ll go to him.”

  Margaret said nothing as Brigitte took the letter and rose and walked to her bedroom and closed the door.

  Half an hour later Billy came to be sure Margaret had heard of the British evacuation.

  “Does Brigitte know?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Billy sobered. “Did her captain tell her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Not right now. She needs time.”

  “Would you tell her I’m sorry? Truly sorry?” Margaret saw the hurt in Billy’s eyes.

  “Of course. Would you stay for supper?”

  “Mother has our supper nearly ready. I just had to share the news with someone.”

  An hour later Tom knocked on the door. “The British are gone. There’ll be celebrating in the streets. Will you be all right?”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “I hope this means Matthew can soon be home.”

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful? Tom, please stay for supper.”

  She served beef stew, with nut cakes following, and took Brigitte’s to her in the bedroom.

  “Mama, can I go watch the celebration?” Caleb coaxed. “Everybody’s out in the streets.”

  “There could be trouble,” she replied.

  “I’ll watch him,” Tom volunteered. “It will be something to remember.”

  Margaret stopped to look directly at Tom. “Always here when we need you.” She looked at Caleb. “You mind Tom and get home early. Tomorrow’s the Sabbath.”

  At ten o’clock, with the children in their beds and the coals banked in the fireplace and the early preparations for the Sabbath dinner completed, Margaret sat at the dining room table in the quiet solitude of yellow lamplight, with paper and quill before her.

  At ten-thirty she took the quill in hand, squared a piece of paper, and carefully began to write.

  Saturday, March 17th, 1776

  Boston, Colony of Massachusetts

  My dear Kathleen: . . .

  The following morning, with church services ended, she made her way to Silas Olmsted as he stood by the tall front doors of the church, shaking hands with his congregation.

  “Silas, has Kathleen written to you yet?”

  “No.”

  “Will you send this to her with your first letter?”

  Silas studied the envelope. “Yes. I will.”

  “Here’s money for the postage.” Margaret held out her hand.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  A raw April wind swept in from the Atlantic up the Thames River, driving a thin, drizzling rain slanting beneath a dull gray overcast. For two days the south half of the island of England, from Grimsby on the east coast to Liverpool on the west, had shivered in the chill wind and the fog. In the sprawling deep-sea port town of London, divided by the river, shop owners and factory workers made their way to work with shoulders hunched and coats tight
ly wrapped, walking cautiously on smooth, worn cobblestones slick with icy rain.

  On the six great roads built by Romans seventeen centuries earlier, all leading to London from farms and villages for thirty miles in every direction, carts and wagons drawn by dripping, shaggy draft horses moved slowly, hauling their loads of cabbages and turnips and milk and mutton to the shops and inns and docks. The Westminster Bridge, beneath the great square tower, was jammed with the steaming, plodding horses and wagons. Dock laborers turned up the collars on their heavy coats and worked their way to load and unload the tall ships that were endlessly arriving with cargo from China, India, Europe, and the West Indies, and leaving, loaded with English wool, china, mutton, cutlery, steel, soft coal.

  Seven miles west of London, and two miles south of the Thames River, Kathleen Thorpe stood at the front window of a small cottage on the outskirts of the old village of Bexley, a shawl pulled tight about her shoulders as she watched through the rain-streaked glass for Charles and Faith to appear, heads down and coats wrapped as they walked head-on into the wind and rain.

  “Are they here?” came Phoebe’s voice from the bedroom.

  “Not yet. Be patient.”

  “Henry will be upset.”

  Kathleen did not answer. She shivered and drew the shawl tighter, and moved her feet impatiently, and then they were there, in the distance, slogging in the mud of the dirt road in their gum boots. She waited until they were walking up the gravelled path before she opened the door and they walked in.

  She hung their oilskin coats and caps near the fire in the small fireplace to dry, sat the children at the small square dinner table, and brought hot milk and bread and honey.

  “How was school?”

  Charles sipped at his milk, then turned accusing eyes. “Do we talk funny?”

  “Who said we talk funny?”

  “Everybody. Just like last week. They point.”

  “We don’t talk funny. Don’t listen to them.”

  Faith wrapped her hands around her milk glass to warm them. “Charles can’t go back to school Monday.”

  Charles scowled at her.

  Kathleen straightened. “Why?”