When the smoke cleared on that frosty night in March, three men lay dead. Eight others were wounded, one of whom would die in a few hours, another after a few days. The following week twenty-year-old Abraham Hammatt of Plymouth, Massachusetts read an account of the "massacre" in the Boston Gazette and Country Journal:
On the evening of Monday, being the fifth current, several soldiers of the 29th Regiment were seen parading the streets with their drawn cutlasses and bayonets, abusing and wounding numbers of the inhabitants. . .
“Those damned scoundrels!” His jaw muscles tightened and brown eyes narrowed to slits. “They fired into the crowd!”
His father, also named Abraham, sat reading his Bible by the light of the same crackling fire. Fifty years old, cleanshaven, he had the rugged look acquired by those who spend a lifetime at sea exposed to wind, sun, and salt air. A simple man, not given to extravagance, he dressed in the fashion of his day, though somewhat out of style, the younger generation foregoing the powdered wig in favor of their own natural hair styled in wig fashion, a short pigtail tied with colored ribbon. He wore a shirt of the same sort he'd worn on the frontier during the French and Indian War nearly two decades past, but white elkskin retained its popularity, as did the homespun brown breeches made from a mixture of wool and linen. Like almost every other man in the colony, out of doors he sported a waistcoat, his being light blue in color, and a three-cornered hat. The powdered wig did add brilliance to Abraham's blue eyes which now rested upon his son.
“I don't know which deserves more disapproval, your sentiment or the language you employ to express it.”
“Forgive me, Father.”
“The soldiers were accosted by an unruly mob, and out of necessity took measures to ensure their own safety.”
“Lucky they'll be to have not ensured their own hanging!” More excitable than his father, the younger stood with clenched fists. Slightly lighter in complexion, he had darker eyes and light brown hair, tied in the back with a ribbon of black. His clothing was, like his father's, homespun of linsey-woolsey, though with less frill about the collar and sleeves.
“There will be an inquiry no doubt, but nothing will come of it.” The older man returned his attention to the Book of the Lord.
As it turned out, a jury found two British soldiers guilty of manslaughter, but the others escaped punishment. The incident prompted many young men (and some not so young) to join the local militia, Abraham among them. A popular man, his neighbors elected him to a position of captain. His father did not react well to the news.
“The militia! Are you preparing to take up arms against your king? Do you not know the penalty for treason?”
“So long as the king keeps a standing army in our midst we must be prepared to defend ourselves.”
The elder Abraham closed his eyes, bowed his head and shook it slowly from side to side. He sighed, then resumed eye contact. “Do you think you can take on the most powerful empire in the world, whose navy rules the seas and whose army is even now at your front door? You, who have no experience fighting? A decade ago these men pushed the army of France clear out of Canada. Do you think you could defend yourselves against the threat of French soldiers and Indian savages? You would embrace the king's troops if faced with French aggression, which is exactly what you will see if King George decides the colonies are no longer deserving of his protection.”
“You never liked the French!”
“Never have they given me cause to like them! I'll not repeat some of the language we used to describe them, accurate though it was.”
“Well, I don't share your prejudices.” The young man pursed his lips and swallowed. “The woman I love is French!”
“What?!” Abraham's unblinking blue eyes locked on those of his son.
“She's the daughter of Doctor LeBaron. She is the most compassionate girl I have ever met, and I fully intend to marry her.”
Abraham slammed his fist upon the table. “I forbid it! I'll not have my blood mixed with that of a Frenchman! Did you hear that, Lucy?” He directed the question to his wife, who had just entered the room. “Our son has joined the militia to fight English soldiers, and intends to marry a French girl!”
The sound of raised voices had prompted her appearance. She stood in the doorway, wiping hands on her cotton apron. The ruffle of a lawn cap framed her stern face. Though not a large woman, no hint of frailty marred her petite frame. Like her husband, she had been toughened by hard work, and also like him, she had aged well. Bred from proud Pilgrim stock, she would stand for no strife in her home. While the men stood glaring at one another her gray eyes flashed from one to the other. “Our son is willing to take up arms against the tyranny my ancestors left England to escape. My father's fathers left the land of their fathers to live in peace as free men. I believe if they were here today they would stand beside my son.”
The door swung open and there entered her other son. Blond-haired, blue-eyed William, younger than Abraham but just as strongly built, he carried an armload of firewood. “It's beginning to snow,” he said, unaware of the tension in the room.
Lucy raised an arm and pointed in his direction. “Did you know when William caught the fever in '55, Doc LeBaron came to his aid? Even while you were out killing his countrymen, the doctor saved the life of your youngest son. Look upon him now and lose your hatred of the French.”
The brothers stood in silence, wide-eyed and mouths agape; never had they heard their mother take such a tone with their father.
Abraham, however, knew well the strength of the woman he had married and he knew she spoke with unshakable conviction. Tearing his gaze away from his older son and with only a passing glance at William, he grabbed his waistcoat, slapped on his tricorn, and strode out the door into the swirling snow. A brisk walk in the crisp air would help cool his temper.
Chapter II: Rebels and Royalists: A Colony DividedThe Winslow mansion, a massive structure overlooking the harbor, was built in 1754 by Edward Winslow, Sr. for his bride Hannah Howland, one of Lucy's aunts. The stately white building with its enormous sitting room was popular with the Old Colony Club, of which Edward Winslow, Jr. was a founding member. Formed in 1768 by seven of Plymouth's elite, the club offered a quieter meeting place than the local taverns. Though not an official member, young Abraham Hammatt often attended gatherings as an invited guest. In the years following the Boston Massacre, the Old Colony Club split along political lines with some members leaning toward Patriot sympathies and others remaining steadfastly loyal to the Crown. By 1773, the Patriot members stayed away and the meetings were strictly Loyalist affairs.
Abraham's brother William, walking past the mansion one evening, crossed paths with a Loyalist headed to one such meeting. This particular Loyalist happened to be his cousin Gideon White who, upon seeing him, threw a barb his way.
“I watched the militia drill the other day.” He lowered his gaze and let out a long sigh as he shook his wigged head back and forth slowly. “They are a raggedy lot.” He lifted his eyes to meet William's. “It seems to me the only command they really need to learn is retreat.” White raised his arms and waved them about in mockery, employing a high-pitched voice. “Run away! Run away!” He threw his mousy head back and laughed at his own portrayal, but failed to provoke William who simply smiled and continued on his way.
White responded to his cousin's lack of interest by calling after him. “Oh William, tell that rabble-rousing brother of yours not to expect an invitation to the Old Colony Club any time soon.”
William wheeled around, face beginning to flush. White continued, “And he'd better hope to God he and his foolish friends don't run into professionals, like these coming up the road toward us now.” He pointed up North Street where four Royal soldiers approached, black shoes clicking on cobblestones. Dressed in white shirts, waistcoats, and trousers, they sported black cocked caps and bright red coats, the buttons of which identified them as members of the 64th Regiment of Foot. On leave from Castle William, they too were arriving to dine with the Winslows.
Stopping before the two men who turned to face them, one of the soldiers, a lieutenant, cocked an eyebrow. “What have we here? A pair of rascally rebels?”
“Not I,” said White, placing a hand upon his breast. “I am completely and utterly loyal to the King of England.”
The tall soldier addressed William. “And what about you? Rebel or Royalist?”
White piped up, “His brother is a traitorous captain of militia. I've just been giving William here a message to take back to the Rebel camp.”
“Doesn't he talk?” The lieutenant's dark eyebrows narrowed. “Perhaps he can shout. Let's hear you holler, Rebel. How about 'God Save the King'?”
“May God save us all.”
“Oh?” The officer drew his saber and held the point an inch from William's face. His expression hardened when the young man failed to flinch. “Perhaps we'll have to teach this one some manners.”
The clang of clashing steel startled everyone. Another blade knocked the saber up and away from William's head.
“Shall we be beginnin' with it bein' impolite to point, then?” The newcomer, an athletic young man whose brown hair hung wildly about his shoulders, had seen the group from a house across the road and rushed to aid what had appeared to be two unarmed civilians confronted by four uniformed soldiers.
The lieutenant scowled at the interference. “Why, you fool! You dare cross swords with an officer of the king? I'll have your heart out!”
“Ye don't say? Have at it, then!” The daring young man broke into a wide grin and readied his sword. The others backed away to give them room. Sunlight glinted off polished steel. Blades sliced the air. Thrust. Parry. Clinking metal. Music to the duelers' dance. The lieutenant increased his efforts, no doubt aware of the scrutiny of his men. Harder and faster he swung, to no avail. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. His grim determination contrasted sharply with the cavalier expression of his adversary. Naked blades crashed again and again, neither man gaining an advantage. The swordplay soon attracted the attention of the Winslows, the eldest of whom hurried outside.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please lower those weapons.”
A feminine voice called from the house across the street. “Prince! Come back inside!”
“Prince?” William asked. The gallant swordsman winked.
“Sheathe those swords, please!” Winslow, a Justice of the Peace, held his hands toward the combatants. “There's no need for bloodshed here. Come inside, Lieutenant Hodsworth, dinner is nearly ready. Gideon, come away.”
The girl who'd shouted gathered her skirts and ran across the road to the crowd. Both men lowered their blades at her arrival. Seventeen years of age, she focused liquid blue eyes on Lieutenant Hodsworth and batted long eyelashes. “Please don't hurt my cousin.” One of the soldiers grinned and elbowed the man next to him. Winslow attempted to corral and usher his guests toward the house.
Lieutenant Hodsworth returned his saber to its scabbard and nodded at the blonde beauty. “Out of respect for your wishes, Miss, I'll not hurt your little cousin, but if he ever dares cross blades with me again I'll run him through.” He shot his opponent a sideways glance. The grinning man kept his point aimed at the ground but lowered his other arm palm outward in a gesture inviting Hodsworth to continue the fight.
“Gentlemen, please!” Winslow again.
Hodsworth nodded once more at the pretty lady, glared at the bold cavalier and began walking with Winslow. “Let's eat.”
While White and the others departed, William turned toward the stranger. “I should thank you for your help.”
“Prince Barker, I am, and at your service.” The man exaggerated a low bow.
“Prince?” William asked again.
Barker straightened up and laughed heartily. “Aye, 'twas the fair maiden name of me great-grandmother, God rest her soul.”
William laughed as well and offered a hand which the other shook. “William Hammatt.”
“Well met, William Hammatt. And this here be me own favorite cousin Heppy, as fair a lass as ever did smile upon the earth. Up from Sherborn [later Nantucket -eds] are we for a spell, to tend our dear aunt, Elizabeth, elderly as she be.” He indicated with his head the house from which he and Heppy had come.
“How do you do?” The girl performed a curtsey.
Barker turned to her and indicated William. “You'll not deny he looks a dry one. I wager a noggin of grog would do for him, to be sure.”
William held up his hands and would have declined, but Heppy didn't give him a chance. “An excellent idea. Won't you come inside?” When he smiled she blushed. When she blushed, so did he.
Chapter III: That French GirlIn the fall of 1773 Dr. Lazarus LeBaron departed this earth at the age of seventy-five having spent his life in the medical service of the people of Plymouth. His death was sorely felt by the community.
His father, Dr. Francis LeBaron, had been a surgeon aboard a French privateer that sailed from Bordeaux. Shipwrecked in Buzzard's Bay, the captured survivors were being sent to Boston where they would likely be hanged as pirates. A resident of Plymouth by the name of Hunter, on discovering that LeBaron was a man of healing, implored him to tend to his sick wife. Impressed with his medical skill, the people petitioned Lieutenant-Governor Stoughton to allow him to stay and practice in the colony where he became quite popularly known as "the French Doctor". Unfortunately, he died a mere eight years later, aged only thirty-six, but not before marrying Mary Wilder and having children, one of whom, Lazarus, followed in his footsteps, practicing physic in the town of Plymouth.
Two wives had predeceased Lazarus and his youngest daughter, Priscilla, had seen to caring for him in his later years. Young Abraham Hammatt had met this beautiful woman after a hunting accident. He had brought William out for the first time and, unbeknownst to him, the young boy had packed the musket with enough powder to fire a cannonball. When William pulled the trigger the flint ignited all that powder and the ensuing explosion blew a foot of the barrel off the gun. Abraham had been standing too close to avoid injury, but luckily his wounds weren't life-threatening. His brother helped him to the home of Doc LeBaron where he beheld Priscilla with something more than a passing glance. Her dark hair, skin, and eyes smote him so he nearly forgot his pain, or even the purpose of his visit.
After the death of her father, Priscilla came to live in the Hammatt homestead, accompanied by two little Negro children. Upon seeing them, the elder Abraham pulled his son aside. “She brought slaves!”
The younger man lifted his hands. “Let me explain, Father. The good doctor bought seven-year-old Nero and his five-year-old sister, Ginna, at auction upon learning they were in danger of being split up. Priscilla has been raising them and Nero has already declared his intention to be a doctor like "Papa LeBaron".”
Abraham had accepted and even grown fond of the two children, who came to call him "Papa Hammer".
Some months afterward, Ginna announced she wanted to read his Bible to him. “You can read?” he asked. Nodding her head, she climbed up onto his lap and, while he held the big book, proceeded to astound him with her capability.
Priscilla had been teaching both the children how to read, write, and even perform some arithmetic. Abraham began seeing "that French girl" in a new light. Up to that time, although he had treated her with civility, he had never once smiled in her presence. That changed the day he heard a small voice read the words of the prophet Ezekiel: “Cast away from you all your transgressions, whereby ye have transgressed; and make you a new heart and a new spirit.”
That very evening at the dinner gathering, with everyone present, he addressed his household. “I have been guilty of judging unfairly this woman, Priscilla, and having been humbled by the Lord, do humbly seek her forgiveness. I am thankful the Almighty has seen fit to place her among us, and hopeful that it be His will that she and my son be blessed with children, the proper upbringing of which I no longer harbor any doubt.”
Chapter IV: The Colonists Brew Some TeaTension subsided in the Hammatt house but remained high in the colonies, and the passage of the Tea Act later that year sparked outrage. The Boston Gazette carried the story of the "Tea Party" a few days after it took place. With unguarded enthusiasm young Abraham read it to his father:
On Tuesday last the body of the people of this and all the adjacent towns, and others from the distance of twenty miles, assembled at the old south meeting-house, to inquire the reason of the delay in sending the ship Dartmouth, with the East-India Tea back to London. . .
. . .A number of brave & resolute men, determined to do all in their power to save their country from the ruin which their enemies had plotted, in less than four hours, emptied every chest of tea on board the three ships commanded by the captains Hall, Bruce, and Coffin, amounting to 342 chests, into the sea!! without the least damage done to the ships or any other property. The matters and owners are well pleas'd that their ships are thus clear'd; and the people are almost universally congratulating each other on this happy event.
“Well pleased, I'm sure,” the older man replied from the cobbler's bench, “to see their cargo destroyed without compensation of any sort for themselves.”
“The Committee of Correspondence could have fired the ships.”
“The Committee of Criminals would be a more fitting name for that bunch of rascals.” Abraham carefully measured and cut leather for the little shoes.
“They're making a stand for our rights. Parliament has no right to tax us while we remain unrepresented.”
“Yet for the past two years we've been paying the duty on tea without complaint, as well as that on sugar, molasses, and wine. For the past two years merchants have been importing and selling tea but now they are suddenly being branded "enemies of liberty" and threatened with violence of every description.”
“We have to show the ministry we're serious.”
“Through the wanton destruction of private property? What do you suppose they will do when news of this treachery reaches England?”
“If they come to their senses, they'll repeal the Tea Act.”
The older man shook his head and returned to his task, tapping maple pegs into wooden soles around which Lucy would stitch the cut leather to finish the shoes.
Chapter V: A ProposalWhat Parliament did was pass measures that came to be known as the "Intolerable Acts", one of which called for the complete shutdown of Boston Harbor. The Customs House was closed and moved to Plymouth. Abraham Hammatt, in the business of rope-making, found himself extremely busy outfitting not only the seventy-odd sloops of the local fishermen, but all the merchant ships that would normally have made Boston a port of call.
This day, as he hacked out hemp in the shop, Abraham's thoughts kept returning to his son, currently out drilling with the militia. Although not a Tory, Abraham thought it very unwise to engage England in armed conflict. He felt a single encounter would destroy whatever "army" the rebels thought they had and that his son would end up a sacrifice to the cause of "liberty", either killed in combat or hanged as a traitor, probably at the end of one of these very ropes.
He had tried to talk the boy out of joining the militia, but when it became apparent the young man would not be swayed, Abraham handed him his Long Land Brown Bess. “Here take this,” he'd said. “It served me well in the war. It's got a steel ramrod, much better than the old wooden ones, and a bayonet too. It's a straight shot, good for a hundred yards anyway, though I truly hope it never comes to be aimed at Englishmen.” The boy had thanked him and bolted out to join the others on the village green.
Abraham wanted his son to take over the ropewalk. The younger boy, William, excelled at making cordage; he could cut all but two strands without scoring the spar, but he wasn't content to simply rig ships in dry dock, he'd inherited more than his father's blue eyes and dark complexion. He wanted to sail the ocean, a passion Abraham understood all too well. His older son wasn't quite so adventurous as William and not as good a rigger, but he had a better head for figures and would be able to keep the shop running. It wouldn't make him a rich man, but it would provide a comfortable living for him and that French girl.
Abraham still couldn't believe his son wanted to marry a French woman. But love was a funny thing. He'd been the same age himself when he married Lucy, back in his sailing days as captain of the schooner Dolphin. The day he proposed he had just returned from Barbados. He had stopped by the Howland house with presents for everyone, several interesting items he'd picked up in his travels. Lucy met him just outside the door, dressed in a flowing red skirt and a white shirt, ruffled at the neck. A patterned bodice, sleeveless and laced in front, completed her outfit. A lock of golden hair peeked out from beneath her white bonnet and her dancing eyes smiled at him.
“Why, Captain Hammatt, returned from your wanderings?”
“Yes, yes, Miss Lucy, and I have brought gifts from across the sea! Finery and fragrances for you and your sisters, Spanish liqueurs for your father, even toys for the little ones!”
“Oh, I must see!” She laughed and clapped her hands.
As is usually the case in very small towns, the dalliance of the young couple at the door was noticed by the neighbors, two of whom felt it their duty as selectmen to report the scene to Lucy's father. As squires Isaac Lothrop and James Warren were thus convincing themselves and each other of this necessity, they were approached by Dr. LeBaron whom they directly recruited into their endeavor, so Consider Howland opened his door to find a trio.
“We must talk to you, Con,” Lothrop began.
“About the sailor,” Warren finished.
“Why, Judge Lothrop, Sheriff Warren, and Dr. LeBaron! Come in, gentlemen, come in! Captain Hammatt has just returned from the islands, indeed has brought some wonderful Spanish spirits, which I was just about to enjoy and will do so even more cheerfully with your company!”
“We need to know,” said Warren, pausing to moisten his lips, “whether or not you are aware of the attention the captain seems to pay Lucy.”
“Curious about his intentions, are you? I must admit I'd wondered at them myself. Come, let's ask the boy!” The three men followed Howland into his sitting room where Captain Hammatt sat waiting. He stood when he saw them. Howland smiled warmly. “Captain Abraham, these men have something pressing upon their minds. Perhaps you would be so kind as to give answer to their questions.”
“Why certainly, gentlemen. What is it you would like to know?”
“As selectmen of the town of Plymouth,” Lothrop said, “we have been charged with overseeing matters that concern its inhabitants.”
Lucy came into the room just in time to hear Warren blurt out the question. “What are your intentions, Sir, regarding Miss Lucy?”
Blushing, the girl turned to leave, but Abraham had already spotted her. “Wait, Miss, since this matter concerns you, you've a right to hear my answer.” Warren turned crimson, but Abraham smiled. “Since you gentlemen have tipped my hand, I must admit my intentions regarding Miss Lucy are honorable and I wish to make a wife of her once I'm able to provide for her in the manner to which she has become accustomed. That is, if she will have me.” His gaze never wavered from the young woman.
Lucy continued to blush but held her head high and looked straight into those cool blue eyes. “Your wish is also mine, and I care for none better than you. If it meets with my father's approval, I shall be delighted to accept you as a bachelor.”
“Well, that's settled!” Consider beamed. “Let's drink, gentlemen, to this joyful occasion.”
Not long thereafter, the couple discussed settling down. “Sailing is all I know, Lucy. I don't know what else to do.”
A smile played upon her lips. “I told you my ancestors came over on the Mayflower, remember?”
“I do.”
“Did I ever tell you my great-great-grandfather John almost didn't make it?”
“No, you never told me that, Lucy. Did he nearly miss the voyage?”
“No, he boarded the ship with the others, but during a storm he was swept overboard!”
“Lucy, that can't be.” Abraham looked down at the floor, shaking his head from side to side. “I know not who told you such a tale as that, but it cannot be true. If he went over they would not have been able to get him back, especially in rough water.”
“No, they wouldn't have, except for one thing. Somehow, some way, with the help of the Almighty, he grabbed hold of a rope.”
“A rope?”
“Yes, a rope. He was able to grab it and hold on long enough to give the crew a chance to fish him out of the sea. He was freezing cold, nearly drowned, and became very sick, but he survived the ordeal and here I am.”
“Here you are.” Abraham whispered.
“Thanks to a rope, here I am; and would sure love a rope-making man.”
They had both laughed at her little rhyme and the laughter helped boost Abraham's confidence. He started the ropewalk after that and the two were soon married. That had been back in 1748. Their son Abraham was born two years later, around the time Judge Lothrop died. Two years after that William had come along. The following year the former sailor went off to fight on the frontier against the French and the Algonquin. Now his son was making himself ready to fight the English. Would he ever be ready? Would any of them?
Chapter VI: The Doctor's HammerAbraham would never know the answer, for in late June of 1774 the blood red flag flew outside the Hammatt homestead; he had fallen deathly ill.
Feverish, his swollen face almost unrecognizable and covered with the red lesions of smallpox, Abraham asked Priscilla to send young Nero in to see him. The eight-year-old, still sporting some of the bruises he'd received at the hands of the other Negro boys in town, might well have expected Papa to scold him for fighting. He entered timidly the room in which the dying man lay, stood stock still, and stared down at his shoes.
“Not too close, Nero,” Abraham's raspy voice warned. “Mama tells me you quit your booklearning.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Because of those boys?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Abraham grimaced. His head throbbed and his back ached, but the importance of this conversation outweighed the pain.
“What did they say?”
“They said I's a poor one no better than them and don't need no book learnin' nohow. I said I's gonna be a doctor and they said I's gonna need a doctor if I thought I's so smart.”
“They want you to stop learning letters and numbers, don't they?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Do you want to do what they want or what Papa wants?”
Nero looked up and into the man's eyes. “I wanna do what you want, Papa.”
“Papa needs a doctor, doesn't he, Nero?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“But Doc LeBaron isn't here anymore, is he?”
“No, Papa, he's gone to Heaven.”
“Pray Papa Hammer goes there, too.” Abraham coughed hoarsely.
“No, Papa!”
“Hush, child. Someday you be Doctor LeBaron and you help people just like he did. Will you do that for me; tell Mama you want to resume your studies?”
“Yes, Papa.” Tears welled up in his eyes.
“You're a good boy, Nero. Go find Mama and Nana Hammer too; I'd like to see them just now.”
With that young Nero left the room and years later the residents of Nantucket wondered about the colored doctor with the French name who would only say that a hammer made him a doctor and in whose lifetime smallpox lost its place as a killer of man.
Chapter VII: A WeddingThe Protestants of Plymouth differed widely in their doctrines and beliefs but were forged into a single, harmonious parish through the charisma and personality of Reverend Chandler Robbins. He presided over the ceremony uniting the French Catholic and the English Anglican.
On this cool September morning, spectators eager to catch a glimpse of these two young people packed the meeting house, the foundations of which had been laid in the fear of the Lord (though its walls had surely been raised in the fear of the Indians). Any wedding in the small community drew a large crowd, indeed some months ago William had married the beautiful Hepsibeth Barker, but here was a French girl! All the latest designs came from Paris and although the Protestant women of the colony congratulated themselves on their frugality and claimed to detest extravagance, they couldn't help but gawk at the beauty of French fashion.
Priscilla entered the room resplendent in a wedding dress of white satin tinted blue, trimmed with flounces of dark blue lace. A graduated ruffle of lace from the elbows to the wrists accented the tight sleeves of the long-waisted gown. White satin slippers covered her delicate feet. Cherry red cord laced in front to tie the bodice over a white satin stomacher. A kerchief of dark blue hung about her shoulders, clasped with a silver brooch at the center of which shone a mother-of-pearl. A strand of smaller pearls circled her lovely neck. She wore a feather of blue and white in her dark hair which was done up in small, tight curls with ringlets about her ears. She carried a bouquet of white roses accented with blue iris, in the midst of which stood a single, stunning rose of red.
Ready to receive this gorgeous apparition stood the captain, looking splendid in a creamy white deerskin shirt, brown breeches, and a tunic to match. Black boots enhanced his height somewhat, though he was already tall for his day, standing a full five feet ten inches. At his side a stately sword hung from a leather belt. A black tricorn adorned his head.
After the short ceremony and while congratulations were being passed around, William called for a toast, “To the new couple, and the memory of the good Dr. LeBaron to whom I owe a personal debt of gratitude. To all of our ancestors as well as our descendants and to the king.” He paused, then continued, stressing the pluralization of the word. “zzz, under whose indulgent care this colony has flourished and been protected.”
It was understood by all that the present king, whose health was traditionally toasted, had been pointedly excluded from the current pledge.
The moment was a bit awkward for the older generation but the younger fellows drank heartily and everyone proceeded to partake of the excellent courses laid out for them. Giant iron kettles held clam chowder which had been cooking all day. Loaves of rye bread baked in open hearths next to an abundance of fish, as well as wild duck and roasted pork. Vegetables consisted of roasted potatoes and Indian corn. For desert, corn pudding served with a sweet-and-sour sauce made from molasses, butter, and vinegar, and a delightful candy made from maple sugar and butter. Ready to quench thirst stood casks of Burgundy wine, barrels full of hard cider, brandy, and rum imported from the West Indies. Notably absent of course was tea, at least of the English variety, though some Dutch may have been about. There was no better time in New England than that of the harvest and the revelry went on long into the night.
Those were happy times in the Hammatt house and in the colony generally. But the days were growing shorter; before long winter would set in. The colonists didn't know they would experience a mild winter that year, one of the mildest on record, or that the coming spring would usher in a long storm.
Chapter VIII: A Call to ArmsThe storm broke in April. British troops under General Gage marched out of Boston with orders to destroy munitions the local militia were known to be stockpiling. The two groups clashed at Lexington and blood was spilled.
The following morning militia units all over New England answered the call to assemble. On the village green, Captain Hammatt addressed his company. “I've received orders to travel north to Marshfield where some hundred of the "Queen's Guards" under Captain Balfour are waiting anxiously to make our acquaintance.”
Resounding cheers rang out from hardy and eager men. Lacking any sort of standard uniform, they wore various styles of dress, some the buckskin of frontiersmen, others the familiar linsey-woolsey breeches and elkskin shirts, still others the tarred jackets and pantaloons preferred by sailors.
“Sergeant Dunham, have the men form ranks.” Abraham's clipped voice rang through the brisk morning air.
“Dress ranks!” The sergeant's voice bellowed. A drum began a long roll. Once the men were lined up and somewhat organized, Captain Hammatt surveyed them from the saddle, his eyes resting for a moment on William Green, the young drummer. He'd learned to beat battle calls from his late father, a veteran of the French and Indian War. Marshfield being better than ten miles distant, Abraham considered telling Sergeant Dunham to excuse the boy, but he stood so tall and proud with his little drum ready, that the captain decided to dismiss him privately.
He turned his horse and rode circle around the men as if inspecting them, and halted before the drummer, who stood a little to one side, awaiting the sergeant's next command. Something about him reminded Abraham of his own brother at that age. He didn't know it, but the boy was descended from Mary Howland, a great-aunt of Abraham's mother. The captain leaned over to speak to him.
“Marshfield is a long way. Further from here than you've probably ever been. You are not required to accompany us and no one expects you to undertake this journey.”
Blue eyes turned up to Abraham. “But if I stay here, Cap'n, the men won't be able to hear my drum.”
A smile crossed Abraham's lips while he pondered that sentiment. “All right, but the trip is long. If you get tired or that drum gets heavy, you be sure to let Sergeant Dunham know.”
Finishing his ride around the formation, Abraham rode past the sergeant. “Keep an eye on Green.”
“Aye, Sir. Company! Forward, march!”
Golden hair shining in the sun, Willie Green began tapping and stepped off with the others. Someone produced a wind instrument.
On they marched to fife and drum all the many miles to Marshfield. On the road they were joined by Captain Jesse Harlow and his company, also from Plymouth. By the time they'd reached their destination they found themselves among a thousand men who'd come from all over the area. Militiamen from Kingston, Duxbury, Weymouth, even as far away as Bridgewater, had converged in Marshfield. Fishermen left their ships in the harbor to join the men on shore. All together, they outnumbered Captain Balfour's redcoats by a factor of six to one.
British ships waited in the harbor to remove the soldiers to the safety of Boston. The leaders of the colonial militia, Colonels Bailey and Cotton, met to discuss the situation.
“I have no orders to attack,” Cotton said.
“Nor have I,” Bailey admitted.
“There are an awful lot of men out there hungry for blood.”
“Not far removed from a mob.”
“King George would not consider them soldiers.”
“No, he would not.” Bailey surveyed the group. “Traitors, one and all.”
“I think we should allow his Majesty's troops to retire if they so choose.”
“I feel that a wise course of action.” Neither man wanted the responsibility of beginning hostilities. Captain Balfour's men were allowed to withdraw unmolested.
Captain Hammatt, when given the news, rode up to Sergeant Dunham. “Have the men form up, Sergeant. There will be no action today.”
“But, Sir,” Dunham protested, “the men have come a long way to be told to turn 'round and go home!”
Abraham raised his voice. “Other men may grumble, Sergeant; mine will march home smartly in ranks!”
“Dress ranks!” Dunham barked the order.
The men under his charge who had been milling about responded angrily. One yelled, “We outnumber those devils!”
“Else they wouldn't hesitate to fall upon us!” another cried out.
Someone shouted, “Attack the lobsterbacks!” and scores of men rose to their feet.
A familiar sound reverberated through the air. Little Willie Green, making his drum heard, had an immediate and impressive effect on the men. They assembled themselves into marching formation. Captain Hammatt trotted to the front of the columns and began leading them home. Once again someone produced a fife.
These twenty-five colonials paraded away while the British troops watched in silence. Others soon followed their example and no blood was shed that day.
#Home again, Abraham ranted about the march to Marshfield while his mother sat listening. “Then Colonel Cotton told us he had received no orders to attack the British soldiers! Somehow, somebody gave him orders to have us take a long walk just to look at them!”
“Colonel Cotton is a wise man,” Lucy replied. “That trouble in Lexington and at Concord Bridge resulted from British regulars marching into the countryside and finding farmers ready to defend their homes. Maybe those first shots were accidental. There certainly needn't be a war over it. You boys, on the other hand, went looking for a fight. Attacking those soldiers would have been an outright and unforgivable act of rebellion. Each and every one of you would have been guilty of high treason. King George would have you all arrested.”
“Well, I've had it with the lot of them.” Abraham folded his arms across his chest. “They talk about liberty and freedom, but it's all talk. When the time comes to take action, they shrink from the challenge. As Dad once pointed out, they're quick to attack those merchants and citizens whom they deem to be "enemies of liberty" but when faced with armed soldiers they respond like cowards!”
Lucy held up a hand. “Theophilus Cotton is no coward. He acted sensibly, not cowardly. If he had let you massacre those boys, we would find ourselves at war with England, and like your father, God rest his soul, I believe the colonies are better off inside the Empire than outside it.”
Abraham knew his mother was right about Colonel Cotton and realized his anger had made him say such a thing. He disagreed with her about the welfare of the colonies, but saw no point in arguing about it. He was also aware that Priscilla was due to give birth shortly. When the baby girl was born in mid-July, Abraham held her close and, gazing upon her tiny face, understood his duty. Cotton would have to carry on without him. He could not be running all over the countryside in pursuit of the king's troops. He was needed at home. He would help the war effort by running the ropewalk, keeping the fledgling colonial fleet fit to sail as best he could.
Chapter IX: Panic in PlymouthA shadowy figure stole down Leyden Street and stopped at one of the houses. He had taken great pains not to be seen but the hammering of the knocker echoed through the night so as to wake the dead. Abraham Hammatt opened the door to find the boy shifting from one foot to the other, eyes darting wildly about. He wore the dress of a sailor, though he could not have been more than fourteen or fifteen years of age.
“What is it, boy, that brings you about in the middle of the night?”
The young sailor whispered. “His Majesty's troops are leaving Boston on the morrow, Sir. Captain Dawson sent me to secure canvas and cordage as there's none to be had there.”
“You're taking your life into your hands coming to bargain for the king in Plymouth,” Abraham said sternly.
“I know it, Sir, but Cap'n Dawson said Abraham Hammatt is a man to put the safety of sailing men above any difference of opinion he might have with 'em.”
Dawson referred to the elder Abraham, of whose death he would not have known. For his father's reputation, and in the spirit of a sailor, Abraham replied, “I will sell to Captain Dawson the cabling and sail he requires, but I shan't lift a finger to rig his ship.”
“He knows that, Sir. My only order is to secure the necessary materials.”
So the transaction transpired, Dawson paying handsomely for the supplies, and the boy returned with burly sailors to carry the gear and row through the inky blackness to the waiting ship.
#Alarms flew through the New England town and sailors swarmed to man their own vessels when Dawson's brig, HMS Hope, became visible in the early light of dawn. Privateers Corban Barnes aboard the Harrison and Charles Dyer on the Yankee were the first out and began to engage Dawson who, after exchanging a few harmless shots with them, wisely retreated back to Boston, his rigging just finished.
Late that afternoon billowing sail filled the sky outside the harbor. “It's Dawson!” someone cried. “Come back with the king's fleet to punish us!”
Another citizen made a dire prediction. “He'll probably fire the town!” A rider raced to Monk's Hill in Kingston to light the alarm, a tar-barrel set upon a tall mast, the smoke and fire of which would bring men from miles around to help defend Plymouth.
They responded by the thousands, armed and ready to meet an invasion force. Toward nightfall the townspeople learned the British ships were not attackers but prizes captured by Captain John Manley, a privateer who had lain in wait for the evacuees to leave Boston Harbor. Due to the haste with which the British had set sail (thanks to Colonel Cotton's newly erected guns at Dorchester Heights) and because most captains were not as resourceful as Dawson, many ships had been less than ready to flee. Manley and four other privateers had fallen upon these and taken them, sailing them to Plymouth for refitting. Relieved residents rejoiced. Many made their way to the Sailor's Joy tavern where Abraham found William conversing with a privateer.
“Don't be too long,” Abraham said with a wide grin. “We'll have plenty of work to do in the morning as I've told Manley we can take care of all his new ships.”
“I promise not to be out late.” Such are promises made by men toward whom ale is flowing, William stayed far into the night, listening eagerly to tales of the fortunes to be made by men who went privateering.
“Ye takes yer prize into port where a right-smart fella sees to all them details.” Captain Coyne explained the workings of the naval agent. “He sells away the cargo: rum, sugar, livestock, what-all-ever, even the ship, for the bestest price. As cap'n and owner I get half.” Coyne took a long pull from his glass of ale. “The rest o' them thievin' rascals, they divvy up what's left. Aye, can turn a right-rich man what joins with privateers, and White Raven's the finest as ever set to sea.”
“I want to be one of these men.”
Coyne added to the smoke that hung heavily and raised a dark eyebrow. “Do ye now? Yer a fairly big fella. Qualifications?”
“I'm a rope-maker and the son of a sailor.”
“So ye say.” The captain rubbed the grizzled chin of his weather-beaten face. “A bloke good wi' cord is a treasure, indeed.” He leaned in toward the young man and narrowed one eye to a slit. “In swellin' sea with battle ragin', you cut, bleedin' and nearly dyin', can ye stand fast and see to fixin' a strand?”
William nodded.
“Up with ya, then! Meet some o' me mateys.” Coyne clapped William on the shoulder, rose from his seat, and hollered. “Hey boyos, here's a fool-headed, low-lived, land-lubber thinks to sign on with the likes of us!”
William followed to a table where a handful of men were getting drunk on Jamaican rum. One of them, a burly man bald of head but heavily bearded, gave him a once-over. “He looks a jellyfish to me.”
“No more than yourself,” William responded.
The sailor leapt to his feet, grabbed William by the front of the shirt, and hurled him against the nearest wall, slamming him into the boards. The giant closed the distance, grabbed him again, lifted and threw him onto a nearby table, scattering plates, drinks, chairs, and angry sailors. Before William could regain his feet, the big man bore down upon him, lifting him by the back of the collar. The powerful sailor grasped him by the belt, hoisted and heaved him headlong toward a window. With a tremendous crash William broke through and lay sprawled in the dust outside. Riotous laughter emanated from within.
Returning to his seat, the bald giant hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the smashed window and asked Coyne, “Is that the sort of lily-livered, hen-hearted, son of a dog you want on yer crew?” His companions roared heartily.
Coyne tilted his massive head and smiled, but before he could reply the door creaked open. All heads turned to see William, battered, bruised, and bloody, but back on his feet and limping into the Sailor's Joy. His hands hung at his sides, a short coil of rope dangling in his right.
“Aye,” Coyne replied. “Just may be the sort I want fer me crew; son of a sea dog.”
With a growl the burly bald man returned to his feet. “I'll knock him to the sea!” He strode toward William and threw a right cross which would have flattened him had it connected. But William dodged the blow, took a step past the man, and looped the rope over the bald head, around the massive neck. He yanked the cord, pulling hard against the man's throat, choking him. With a few steps more, he tightened the coil and hauled the man backwards off his feet. As the floored giant fought for air, William continued dragging him, foiling his attempts to regain his footing. Other sailors stood watching the big man in trouble.
Captain Coyne held out his palms. “Belay now, I'll thank you to don't kill him, Will. Cannon's a saucy one, but a sturdy man, still.”
William let go of the rope. The defeated sailor sank to the floor holding his injured neck and gasping for air, in the unenviable position of owing his life to two different men. If Coyne hadn't asked for it or William hadn't given it, he would surely have been done to death right there on the dirty floor of the dingy tavern.
“That's it, lad. Set yourself down and let's be having some rum, and welcome to it. A right proper hangman, ain't he now, boys?”
The following morning, Abraham stared at him. “What the Devil happened to you?”
“I signed on as a privateer.”
“Did you fall from the sky and land on the deck of their ship?”
“No, but there was sort of an initiation ceremony.” William grinned sheepishly.
“What of Mother? You know the anguish she's suffering over Uncle Consider. And I don't know if you've seen this, but the Royal Navy has warned that rebels caught under arms at sea will hang from the nearest yardarm. What do you suppose she'll do when she finds out you're running that risk?”
#Lucy Hammatt paced the floor shaking her head and wringing her hands. Her slate-gray eyes came to rest on the cobbler's bench where the elder Abraham had so often crafted shoes for the family, a task he'd greatly enjoyed. When the children were small he would line them up so he could measure their growing feet, something he hadn't done in years, until the arrival of Nero and Ginna who hadn't any idea what he'd been up to. Nero had asked, “Is Papa seeing how tall I's gonna be?” Lucy paused a moment before turning her gaze upon William. “I've lost my husband; my brother faces great danger in England, likely to stand trial for treason; and you, a married man, you want to tempt the same fate?” Lucy glanced at Hepsibeth who stood rigidly on the other side of the room, before the great hearth, clasping and unclasping her hands in front of her apron. Wrinkles of worry creased her forehead and surrounded beautiful blue eyes, marred only by dark circles of sleeplessness. It didn't yet show but she was with child.
“Don't do it, Will,” she pleaded. “Stay here and help your brother with the ropewalk.”
“Abe can handle the ropewalk. I want to help win the war.”
“But the troops have gone.”
“They've left Boston, yes, but not for England. They've gone to New York to recruit Tories to fight and they'll be back here soon enough.” He crossed the room and brushed aside the wisp of wheat-blond hair that poked through her white lawn cap. He wrapped muscular arms around her. “Besides, there's money to be made, Heppy. Lots of it.”
“No good to a man in irons,” Lucy said.
“They won't get me, Mama.” He looked over his shoulder toward her. “I won't let 'em.”
“Your Uncle Con didn't think they'd get him either.”
Hepsibeth took a deep breath. “I'm pregnant.”
William's head snapped back around to face her. “What?”
“A baby, Will.” She paused. “Needs its father.”
William placed his hands on her shoulders and held her at arms length. “A baby needs a future. A future free from poverty. I've got a chance to secure that future and I have to take it.”
Heppy hung her head. Lucy turned her back on them and stared out the window at the rippling ocean. The following week William set sail with Captain Coyne aboard White Raven.
Chapter X: The Legend of White RavenWhite Raven, a three-masted frigate of 250 tons, carried twenty cannon and boasted a compliment of 200 men. A white flag with a green pine tree and the motto "Appeal to Heaven" fluttered from her mizzen mast. She cruised the shipping lanes, hunting for British cargo ships carrying supplies from England. Every boot, biscuit, and bullet intended for the king's troops had to travel across three thousand miles of ocean to reach its destination. Captain Coyne intended to interfere with that transport.
He stood on the quarterdeck shouting orders. “Topmen lay aloft and loose top sails! Come on, ye monkeys, quick about it!” Men scrambled up the ratlines at each side of the masts.
“Man topsail sheets and halyards!” Deckmen ran to grab hold of the ropes that hung from the corners of the sails and lines that ran through the center of the yardarms down through blocks to the deck. Meanwhile, the climbing men reached the top and balanced themselves on footropes in order to slacken the lines that held the sails aloft. Most of the men were seasoned sailors able to direct those who were not. With everyone in place, Coyne yelled, “Sheet home!” and topmen released the sails. Gleaming white canvas flew down the length of the masts, massive sails flapping and billowing in the wind.
“Run away with topsail and halyards! Backs into it, boys!” Men grit their teeth and heaved. Muscles bulged as men strained, pulling the ropes with all the strength they could muster to tighten the sails so the most wicked of winds wouldn't rip them loose.
Once the ship was underway, William found a moment to chat with Captain Coyne. He took the opportunity to ask about the ship's unusual name.
“How did you come up with "White Raven"? Aren't ravens black?”
Coyne chuckled and stroked his grizzled beard. “In them days before this here trouble with England, blast her, I captained a whaling ship; Black Prince 'twas. We were having a right-rough time of it, a month at sea an' nary to show fer it. Gettin' late in the season an' time runnin' out, that's how 'twas fer us.
“Up Davis Straight to Baffin Bay off'n Greenland there's a stretch of water what don't never freeze and I knew there'd be whales a-plenty. But convince the snivellin' crew, no end of trouble. Bunch of women saw no way through pack ice and most of 'em didn't even believe the open water existed, thought me right-daft.
“'Tis a myth,' they said. 'I seen it myself in my youth,' I said. Finally I talked 'em into tryin', mostly on account of looking like returning home empty handed. We could nay stand fer that, no sir, not men the likes as we.”
Coyne shifted his weight while the ship gently rocked on the rippling waves of a tranquil sea. He gazed off into the distant horizon as if he could still see Greenland. “Well, we forced through right-treacherous ice flows of Baffin and came to open water. The men could hardly believe their eyes. I stood tall on deck, just pleased as punch, and bellowed, 'There you go, boys! Whales for the takin'!'”
His wide grin vanished. “All proud of myself fer bein' right. Turns out them other fellas were just as right. Too far north too late in the season. We filled our hold, surely we did, but got iced up tryin' to get outta the blasted place. We tried breakin' our way through, had a little success early on, but ere long we were stuck fast and in a bad way. We watched helpless as babes while lanes closed up ahead of us; loose pack ice solidified before our very eyes. Stranded in a god-forsaken frozen world deafened by the roar of risin' pressure ridges and blinded by furiously fallin' snow, we were.
“Fer days we sat trapped like swine, watchin' huge chunks of ice crash to the frozen sea, broken off glaciers what surrounded us like guards. We listened to the ship scream in agony, huge ice flows workin' against her hull. A right-great grinder she was in, timbers creakin' and crackin'; her deck bucklin' 'neath our feet, beams arched, twisted by pressure. Whole length of her bent like a bow.
“She started takin' on water then, and fearin' for our lives, we made ready to unload supplies and take our chances on the ice. Driftin' helpless on nature's raft seemed right-preferable to sinkin' with the craft; she'd break apart, crushed to death by relentless ice, we were sure of it, we was.
“Standing by to abandon ship, I heard a sound like a pistol shot. The great flow at starboard cracked up the middle along its entire length, relievin' the pressure on Black Prince. She bounced back into shape—twisted and warped—but no longer leakin' so bad. She was safe for time being so we risked another night aboard.”
Coyne looked up at the cloudless sky. “The mornin' dawned clear and bright, sorta like today, light breeze. A man climbed aloft to look for open water. He called down, saw nothin' but a bird. 'I fear I must be snowblind, Cap'n,' he said, 'for it's a raven—I swear it to be—but it's white!'
“Through my own spyglass.” Coyne touched a hand to his breast indicating the very same glass. “I saw it, Hangman. Sure enough 'twas a raven, there's no mistakin' that bird, but the man spoke right-true, 'twas white as the snow all around us. I took it to be a sign from Heaven, sure as the dove what brought the olive leaf to Noah. I knew then we'd survive our ordeal, surely I did.
“No mistake, next day lookout spotted open water less than a hundred yards off. We disembarked and cut a lane with ice picks. Our rudder was bent but workable and the Lord sent us a right-favorable wind so we finally made our way clear, thanking Him the entire time, to be sure. Black Prince, hardly seaworthy, limped home, us workin' like dogs at her pumps, but glad of the chance of doin' it. I vowed my next ship would carry the name White Raven, and that's the truth of it.”
William smiled, unsure whether to believe any of it.
Chapter XI: First PrizeThey had not been sailing for long when Coyne discovered some of the newer deckhands were afraid to climb the rigging. After an afternoon spent on various drills: loading, aiming, and unloading cannon; furling, unfurling, and adjusting sails; the men assembled in eager anticipation of the highlight of their day—the doling out of the evening grog, a mixture of rum and water. Every man was entitled to half a pint, twice a day, a custom borrowed from the Royal Navy.
“Listen here, ya bunch o' mongrels; here, ya puppies!” Coyne grinned and scratched his bearded cheek while addressing his thirsty crew. He raised an arm and pointed skyward to where Cannon perched high in the crow's nest with a large barrel. “Lookee here! Yer ration awaits!”
The older hands laughed heartily and began scrambling up ratlines while those intimidated by the height exchanged nervous looks. Coyne directed the rush to control the number of men aloft at once, encouraging them to get up and down quickly so as not to keep the others waiting. “Lively, mates, there's them what's thirsty, yet!” The fearful watched the others climb with ease until thirst and desire outweighed fright and they joined their fellows.
Under the supervision of Coyne and the direction of the old salts, the crew of White Raven soon matured into a fighting force ready for an engagement. An opportunity presented itself on a clear day when the lookout spotted a craft in the distance.
“She's flying a red ensign, Cap'n!”
“A hundred pounds to ye if she turns to be a prize!” Coyne raised his glass. “A right-fat merchant.” He lowered the piece and yelled to the crew. “Full sail! Pack it on, boys!” A stiff breeze filled the canvas and propelled White Raven toward her quarry. Sailors rushed to battle stations. Gun crews unlashed the cannons and opened the gun ports while powder monkeys scurried below to bring up powder and shot. Snipers clambered up ratlines to pick off enemy gunners. Boarders rolled up their sleeves and dipped their bare feet in sand. Other men spread sand on the deck so it wouldn't get slippery.
The gun master, a burly man named Samuel Sumner, instructed the gunners. “Fire on the upward roll to wreck her sails and riggin'. Fire on the downward roll only to clear her decks if nec'ry. We don't wanna sink 'er, by gum!”
The other ship saw her coming and plied on sail herself, but heavily laden as she was she had no chance of outrunning White Raven. As soon as he'd come within a hundred yards, Coyne ordered a single shot fired across the other's bow. She immediately struck her colors. Across the expanse of water, Coyne hailed with a speaking trumpet. “This here's White Raven, Cap'n Cornelius Coyne. We be a privateer commissioned by the Massachusetts Provinc'l Congress to seize any ship carryin' troops, munitions, provisions, or any other such thing destined for the British bastards at Boston.”
The other captain called back. “This is Norfolk, a merchant ship of the British Empire, Herman Bridges commanding. We are unarmed and unable to offer resistance. If you harm this vessel, her passengers, or her crew it shall be deemed an act of piracy!”
“We be fully intendin' to inspect yer papers an' cargoes. If you're carrying anythin' fer those motherless curs, we'll have your ship and everythin' in it, so help me. You and yer crew will be taken prisoner and dragged to Plymouth fer trial, lest o'course ye be troublesome, which case you'll be food for fishes. Now then, prepare to take on boarders!” To his own crew he yelled, “Grapple!” Men who had been standing by for this order hurled the iron claws onto the deck of Norfolk. Coyne watched her carefully, suspicious of a trap. Satisfied, he issued his next order. “Boarders away! Go get 'em, mateys!”
Brandishing cutlasses, the first wave of boarders leapt to Norfolk's deck. A second wave stood ready with pikes. Captain Bridges produced his papers while his crewmen were herded below and his cargoes inspected. He and his officers were then escorted aboard White Raven for a meeting with Captain Coyne.
“She's bound for Boston, all right, Cap'n, sure is.” The leader of the boarding party handed Norfolk's documents to Coyne.
“Thank ye, Burnett. Now let's have a looksee what she's got in her hold.”
“This is an outrage!” Bridges stood red-faced.
“So's this. Livestock, uniforms, brandy—the men'll be liking that—boots. Seems an army'd find these items right-useful. Burnett, put a prize crew aboard that ship and lock her puppies below decks. These fine officers'll sail with us. Aye, and bring me her colors, an' a few of these here uniforms. I gots me an idea.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“This is an outrage! The ministry will hear about this!”
“Welcome to the war, Cap'n Bridges.”
Chapter XII: A Surprise at SeaWhite Raven returned to Plymouth where her crew waited anxiously while naval agent William Watson assessed the value of her captured cargo. Once they got paid, most made a beeline to the Sailor's Joy where they gladly liquidized their assets. William Hammatt returned home to see his pregnant wife. Hepsibeth may have been surprised had Nero not spotted him first.
“Master William's home! Master William's home!” The youngster ran down the pathway to help William carry his things.
“Nero! How are you, lad? You want to carry something? Here, you might like this.”
Nero caught the silver coin and his eyes almost left his head. “Wow! Is this for me?”
“Sure. And give this one to Ginna.”
Nero took the piece and scampered back up the path toward the house, apparently forgetting all about William's baggage. “Ginna! Ginna, we're rich!”
William continued on to where Hepsibeth, now eight months pregnant, waited in the doorway. “I've missed you,” she said.
“As have I you. How are you feeling?”
“Tired.” She rubbed a hand across her round belly. “This is an active one.”
William dropped his bags inside the door and took his wife into his arms. “Where is everyone?”
“You saw Nero. Ginna's here with me too. Your mother and Priscilla have taken little Pris to see her Uncle Lazarus. He's come back from the West Indies and started a practice right here in Plymouth. It's good to have a doctor close again. He's going to help me when this one comes. He says he'll take Nero as an apprentice in a few years, which has the boy dancing around in circles. Oh, and Priscilla's been teaching at the Goodwin house, all the children in town, whether they can pay the shilling or not.”
Ginna came running in and William turned just in time to catch her when she jumped into his arms. She planted a kiss on his cheek. “Welcome home, Uncle. Thank you for the present. Look, Auntie!” She held the coin up for Hepsibeth's inspection. To William she said, “And I have to show you something!” He put her down and she raced away.
From his breast pocket, William extracted a pouch full of the coins and deposited it on the table. “Plenty for everybody. Not bad for a few months work, aye? That's my share based on the value; there will be more when the goods have been auctioned.”
“Does this mean you'll be staying home now?” Hepsibeth gave him a hopeful look.
“Oh no, Heppy. There's still a lot of money to be made before the war ends.” Her eyes fell but William didn't seem to notice. “Speaking of which, I haven't any news in these past months. Where's Abe? I'm sure he can fill me in.”
“He's down at the ropewalk, as usual. He'll be glad to see you. He often wonders aloud how you are doing.”
Ginna came galloping back, holding up a pair of white mittens. “Look!”
“My, my, what have you got there?”
“Mittens! I made them! I'm going to make some for everyone! We'll all have warm hands this winter!”
Heppy said, “And plenty of candles. The tallow is almost ready; then you can start dipping.”
“Yay!”
Nero accompanied William to the ropewalk where they found Abraham spreading tar on a strand. His face lit up when he saw them. He laid the grease horn aside and wiped his hands on the leather apron. “Why look who it is. I hope nothing's happened to your ship.”
William laughed. “No, I didn't sink it or anything. Coyne may bring her to see you before we sail again.”
“Hopefully he can pay me. Lately I've been outfitting ships on credit. Everybody's waiting for money promised by the Continental Congress. Between Manley, Dyer, and Samson, I'm going broke.”
“Don't worry, Coyne can pay. We've just sailed in with a prize.”
Nero asked, “What's a prize?”
“A ship we captured at sea.”
The boy's head perked up. “Big battle? Boomin' cannon and everythin'?”
“Oh, yeah, cannonballs flew everywhere.” William winked at his brother. “They had horrible aim, though, and never hit us once. We got them so many times, we're lucky they didn't sink. Finally they gave up and we swarmed over the decks. Some of the crew still showed fight, but when we raised our pikes and pistols, they all jumped overboard.”
“Really?”
“No, I'm telling stories; it wasn't that exciting. We took this one without any fight at all. There will be others, though, before it's all over. Abe, how's the rest of the war going? Any news?”
Abraham frowned. “The only good news is Uncle Con's still alive. He and Taylor are being held at Halifax. Watson made an appeal to Washington for exchanges; conditions at the prison are said to be deplorable. Apparently those two and some others tried to get away; lucky they weren't killed on the spot. I hope they get traded for soon, but Watson says the escape attempt puts them at the bottom of the list, so it doesn't look good. Meanwhile, all of New York has fallen to the king's troops. A raging fire burned out a large section of the city; some say Washington started it himself to cover his escape. He's supposedly heading for Delaware.”
“So the army's still intact, then?”
“Yes, for now at least. At year's end a lot of enlistments are up and quite a few men will be going home. Congress is offering twenty dollars and a hundred acres of land to any man who signs up for the duration.”
William waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Bah, who wants to run around with the army? There's a lot more money to be made at sea.”
“I would, if I wasn't stuck here. This war won't be won on the high seas. We've got nothing that can stand up to England's warships. Our soldiers are worth five of theirs, though. The regulars may be more professional, but we've got righteousness on our side. We can't fail in the fight for liberty even if King George sends in his Hessians.”
“Hessians?”
“Yeah, rumor has it German mercenaries helped take forts Washington and Lee. I hear they fight like devils.”
“Another argument for the open ocean.”
“Just stay off the bottom of it.”
#After a quick outfitting, White Raven sailed off in search of more prey. Coyne headed north to intercept supply ships rumored to be running between Canada and New York. Before long, the lookout spotted a vessel. Coyne peered through his spyglass. “Haul down our colors and hoist George's Jack! Lively, now! You fellows without uniforms, git below and stay hid! Hangman, stand ready to hail that ship. I want 'em thinkin' we're a right-friendly escort.”
William Hammatt stood at Coyne's side wearing a blue coat with white lapels, gold lace and buttons over a bright white waistcoat and blue breeches. The uniform, that of a captain in the Royal Navy, was a bit tight on him but much too small for Coyne's broad shoulders. The captain had to settle for the plain blue coat and white vest of a midshipman. A handful of other men clad in uniforms confiscated from Norfolk made themselves highly visible, while the Union Jack fluttered in the breeze above them. Thus disguised, White Raven approached within hailing distance of the other ship. Her captain raised a horn to his lips. “Ahoy! What ship is that?”
Coyne told Hammatt what to say. “This is H. M. S. Norfolk, Captain Bridges commanding, out of Halifax with prisoners for exchange.”
“This is Captain White of Roebuck, bound for New York.”
“We require assistance. Our water has turned brackish. We are willing to trade rum.”
“We can spare a barrel. I shall dispatch a boat.”
“No need. We'll send one over. The rum is already loaded.” White Raven drifted closer.
“Very well.”
William leaned toward Coyne. “Permission to go aboard his ship, Captain?”
Coyne chuckled. “Permission granted, me boy, permission granted.”
To Captain White William shouted, “I will accompany the boat. We can sample the rum and toast the king!”
“Very good, Sir.”
Coyne ordered a boat lowered. Inside were four casks, each concealing an armed man. While the boats hit the water and a crew of eight began rowing, sailors aboard White Raven readied her cannon. “Run out the guns on our signal,” William said. They made good headway in the calm sea.
Aboard Roebuck Captain White, wearing the green coat with white facings issued to Loyalists, watched the small craft approach. “I said one barrel,” he muttered. He raised his glass and trained it on the cutter, scanning faces. He froze. “Gunners!”
William watched in horror as Roebuck's gunports opened and four eight-pounders appeared. Crewmen aboard White Raven saw the same thing and began racing to the rescue, their own guns bristling. The tiny cutter was caught in the middle. One of the rowers gripped the gunwales. “Blimey! Curse us, if this ain't but a safe place.”
William scowled. “If you wanted safe, you should've joined the army. Row on, boys, we're boardin' that vessel.”
Roebuck fired. White Raven answered the deafening roar with one of her own and clouds of thick smoke filled the air. Sharp-shooters manning fighting tops fired upon one another and down onto the decks of each other's ships. The cutter closed in on Roebuck. William shouted, “There, boys! We'll climb right up her chains!”
“But oughtn't we wait for her decks to be cleared?” a sailor asked.
“We ought but we shan't!”
The men from the cutter began scaling Roebuck. Most of her crew were occupied on the other side, where White Raven jockeyed for position, but one face appeared, glaring down upon the climbers. Peter Hinch, who'd been concealed in a cask, stood up and put a pistol shot through the man's forehead. Within minutes William and the others had stolen aboard. Heading toward the stern, William happened upon Captain White frantically throwing papers over the side. White wheeled when he saw the figure coming toward him. “Hammatt, is that you? Egads, it is!”
William stopped in his tracks, eyes widening. “Gideon? Gideon White?” His surprise quickly gave way to anger and he readied his pistol. “I've got you now, you rascal! You throw one more thing overboard, and you're going after it.”
White threw up his hands. “Please don't kill me!”
“I'm not going to kill you, you dog, though you deserve it. But I am going to use you.” William leaned toward the cowering captain. “You will exert all your influence toward affecting an exchange with my uncle Consider Howland.”
“Of course, of course; everything in my power.”
William growled. “Strike your colors!”
Roebuck struck. The prize crew from White Raven herded the ship's officers and crew below and took control of her. But the short battle had gained some attention. Another sail appeared within striking distance. The 32-gun frigate, Blonde, loomed into view and took up a position opposite White Raven. Aboard Roebuck, William ordered his men to beat a hasty retreat and get behind Blonde. “Rehoist those colors! She probably doesn't know this ship's captured. Her captain'll probably figure us to be getting out of harm's way.”
Another sailor frowned. “We might well be. Two of the port cannon are smashed.”
“We've got four on the starboard side, no?”
“Aye, we do, but what's that against her array? Just look at the size of her, Hangman.”
“Run them out. And get me whatever's left of the cargo manifest, if my no-good cousin didn't manage to toss it all over the side. You men, make sure you give that ship three cheers as we sail past. And make sure you dip the flag to her as well!”
The cheers followed, “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” and men waved their hats in the air. The crew of Blonde returned the salute with a broadside aimed at White Raven. William swore under his breath. White Raven returned fire. The smell of powder hung heavy in the air. While Roebuck sailed around Blonde William read the manifest. He motioned to a sailor. Peter Hinch trotted over. William pointed to an item on the list. “China?”
“For the English officers' table, no doubt.”
“Fine?”
“The finest, I be willin' ta bet.”
“Well, let's give it to them, then.” He pointed at Blonde. “Send it to those officers.”
Hinch grinned. “Right away!” He hurried off to relay the order.
Blonde and White Raven traded broadsides again. Not only better armed, Blonde also had the advantage of holding the weather gage. While White Raven struggled against the wind to maneuver into a more favorable position, the larger ship prepared to blast her again.
“Fire!” Guns at close range thundered from behind Blonde. Shards of broken china ripped across her decks, sending bleeding men screaming and sprawling. “Fire!” Smashed glass shredded sails and ripped up rigging. Into Roebuck's guns men shoved salt, normally used to preserve meat. “Fire!” Injured men lying upon the deck of Blonde cried out in fresh agony as it sprayed their wounds. Ports opened on her starboard side to deal with the nuisance in the rear. William directed Roebuck's prize crew. “These crowbars were intended for the English army. Let's see if the Royal Navy can use them! Ready? Fire!” A blast sent this flight of arrows sailing through the air; it rained down upon the frigate, smashing massive holes in her decks, threatening to sink her. “Fire!” After a second volley, coupled with a devastating broadside from White Raven on the port side, her captain had enough and struck his colors. He never even fired upon Roebuck.
Captain Coyne sailed into Plymouth with two prizes in tow. Naval Agent Watson looked dumbfounded as he gazed upon the mighty Blonde. “How on Earth did you take a British warship?”
Coyne winked at the leader of the prize crew. “Force of Will.”
