Prelude to Glory, Vol. 8 Read online

  “I understand,” Sturman said.

  Matthew paused for a moment, then asked Pettigrew, “Anything about our other ships or crews that you can’t handle for the next six weeks or so?”

  “Nothing I know of.”

  Matthew turned back to Sturman. “Whenever you’re ready, Captain. We’re at your orders.”

  Sturman turned. “Let’s get the war chest. Tide’s running, and there’s no time to waste.”

  Billy led Pettigrew to the war chest behind Billy’s desk and seized the handle on one end, Pettigrew the other, and the two lifted the one- hundred-forty-pound coffer and carried it to the front desk to set it down. It was crafted from oak one inch thick, bound together by two broad, heavy iron straps and a huge latch, all bolted and riveted in place. The latch was sealed by a great iron lock. Inside were one thousand six hundred dollars in gold, earmarked for unforeseen emergencies, together with a roster showing the name of every crew member, and sealed copies of the maps, manifest, shipping contracts, and insurance contracts necessary for the voyage. If the ship and crew were lost, the contents would be vital to establish ownership, as against the laws of salvage at sea. Captain Sturman was responsible for the war chest, which would be locked in his private quarters on board the ship. He had but two keys, one of which he would keep on his person, the other to be delivered to his first mate once the ship cleared the harbor.

  “Let’s go,” Sturman said, and they all reached for their coats, capes, and tricorns. While they were working with buttons and snaps, Billy spoke quietly to Matthew.

  “I intend talking to Brigitte while you’re gone.”

  Matthew’s hands stopped for a moment while thoughts flashed. His sister Brigitte, beautiful, hotly independent, and all too sure of herself at age eighteen, had foolishly given her heart to the British Captain Richard Arlen Buchanan shortly after the shooting erupted in 1775. Two years later, on the darkest day of her life, she had received a letter informing her that Richard was dead, killed at the battle of Saratoga, thirty miles north of Albany on the Hudson River. Seven years after the surrender of the British at Yorktown, and as Congress began discharging the Continental army, Billy, plain, homely, solid, sensible, had confided to Matthew that he had secretly admired Brigitte for years—had written letters to her but had never sent them—had held his feelings inside because he knew he was not handsome nor dashing nor attractive. A stunned, angry Matthew told him, go to her, tell her. In time, Billy shocked Brigitte speechless when he quietly spoke of his feelings to her, and gave to her more than twenty letters, tattered and faded, that he had written to her over the years and carried with him, refusing to mail them. Brigitte recoiled in blank bewilderment. Love? Marriage? With Billy? Incomprehensible!

  Months passed before she began to see Billy for the man he was and realized that she had never considered him other than the boy who had become as another brother to her. That he could love her, and she him, was beyond anything she had ever dreamed. The day came when the girl she had been was gone forever, and the curtain of youthful fantasy was lifted from her eyes as she came into the full woman. She saw the world as it is, and Billy became something she had never expected. At age 27, a spinster by all Bostonian standards, she sought him out and told him Richard Buchanan would always have a place in her heart, but that her feelings for him were such that she would consider marriage if he so chose. He asked for time, and she granted it.

  Matthew squared with Billy and looked him in the eye. “Marriage.”

  “If she’ll have me. I thought I should get your blessing. You’re the senior man in her family. I’ll talk to Margaret too, before I talk to Brigitte.”

  The thought that Billy would seek his permission caught Matthew by surprise. “My blessing? You have it. The sooner the better.”

  Billy nodded and the two men continued fastening their capes and coats. Matthew and Adam shouldered their seamen’s bags while Covington opened and held the door, and they all filed out into the dull gray overcast, Sturman leading. They clustered around Billy and Pettigrew and the war chest, and picked their way rapidly through the morass of dockhands and carts and wagons on Lewis dock, conscious of all movement and all men they passed. A few wore strange garb from distant ports, and swarthy beards and pigtails or turbans, and slowed in their work to cast hard, covetous eyes on the passing war chest. The would-be thieves licked at their lips as they measured the six men with it, and then reluctantly turned back to their work.

  The top of the gangplank reaching from the dock to the deck of the Adonis rose and fell with the ship as she rode the tide-swells when Sturman led his little column thumping upward, and at the top they stopped, facing the first mate, Ulysses Faulkner. Burly, bearded, direct, wise to the ways of the sea and the men who venture, Faulkner carried a heavy scar on the left side of his face, and his left ear was partly missing, partly deformed. Years earlier a knife stroke from a wild, drunken deckhand had cut most of the ear from his head and laid the scalp open to the bone before Faulkner struck back. The ship’s surgeon had sewed what he could find of the ear back in place the best he could, and put an additional twenty-one stitches in the scalp. The deckhand was nine weeks recovering.

  Faulkner stood to one side as the six men came on board, while the crew that was on deck stopped where they were to watch and listen. Sturman led Billy and Pettigrew to his quarters where they set the war chest in a small corner closet, bolted the door, and returned to those waiting on deck. Billy said his goodbyes and walked back down the gangplank to the dock and to stop and watch.

  Sturman fronted Faulkner. “All hands aboard?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ready to cast off?”

  “Ready.”

  “Carry on.”

  Faulkner turned and barked orders to the crew, and in the gray overcast, men burned brown by wind and sun trotted to their duty stations. Two pounded down the gangplank onto the dock, and went opposite directions, one to the bow, the other to the stern of the ship to unwind the three-inch hawsers from the cleats and cast them free, while men above them on deck hauled them upward to coil them on the worn planking. The two men on the dock trotted back up the gangplank, and with two others hauled it clattering aboard as the Adonis slowly drifted away from the wharf. Others climbed rope ladders to the two arms on the mainmast where the great sails were furled tight, and worked their way outward on a one-inch rope, spaced themselves, and stood waiting spread-legged, chests against the heavy timber, arms hooked over it, peering downward, waiting for Faulkner’s hand signal. Sturman took his place at the wheel on the quarterdeck and nodded to Faulkner, who waved to the men overhead. Hands rough from hawsers and ropes and salt water jerked knots free, and the canvas, dripping from the rain in the night, dropped free to send a shower onto the deck below. Within seconds the lower edges of the sails were secured. They caught the morning breeze quartering in from the northwest, and Sturman spun the wheel as the sails popped full and billowing.

  It was as though the wood and the iron and the canvas of the Adonis suddenly became a free, living thing. The squat, blunt-nosed ship slowly turned from the dock, angling away south toward the deep-water channel, obedient to the wind and the rudder, running with the tide. Sturman brought her into the wake of the small pilot boat that was to guide them out of Boston Harbor, and the tiny craft spilled her sails to slow and wait for the huge, heavy ship to gain speed. Faulkner raised a hand to the men spaced on the arms of the foremast, and two minutes later the canvas on the foremast popped full. The big ship plunged forward and the bow began to cut a six foot curl as she plowed on. The small pilot boat added sail and speed, and all hands on both ships watched the small islands in Boston harbor slip past, and then the pilot boat turned due east out into Massachusetts Bay. She spilled her sails to let the Adonis pass, and then set them to turn north and tack into the wind as she returned to Boston. Sturman waved to the pilot boat as it passed, and Faulkner raised a hand to the men in the rigging. They unfurled the sails on the aftermast
, and they snapped full, and the big ship was running with the wind. Faulkner strode to the bow where men waited for his order to unfurl the spankers, and within three minutes all canvas on the ship was filled and the curl beneath the bowsprit was a full ten feet. Adam gave a new heading to Sturman, and the captain turned the wheel to the right, bearing east-south-east, to pass the Provincetown lighthouse on the northern tip of the giant hook of Cape Cod, forty-five miles distant. Sturman gave the wheel to Faulkner, who checked the compass bearing, and held the ship steadily on course, while the crew settled into the established routine of four-hour shifts, with Sturman and Faulkner and Adam handling the wheel.

  The Adonis was running in open waters, all canvas out, full, tight, and straining. She was loaded heavy, with the stubby bow cutting a ten foot curl hissing, rising and settling with the gentle sea swells. A deep, unspoken sense of rightness rose in the breast of every man on board at the feel of it. For them, the ship was a living thing, to be cared for and nurtured and protected. In return, for the days they were at sea with her, their world was the Adonis, small, simple, understandable, predictable.

  At noon the overcast thinned. By two o’clock, shafts of sunlight were reflecting like jewels off the Atlantic waters. Adam brought his sextant from his quarters and carefully took a reading before giving Faulkner a course correction, due south. The sun was setting in a clear sky when the crew paused in their labors to peer two miles due west at the familiar sight of the eastern shores of Cape Cod sliding past. Evening mess was in progress on the thick, scarred table in the small mess hall below decks when they passed the Chatham lighthouse on the southeastern tip of the cape. They were in full darkness when the crewman in the crow’s nest, eighty feet up the mainmast, called out, “Landfall due west—Monomoy Island,” and the lights on shore passed and slipped behind them and disappeared as they continued due south with the open waters of Nantucket Sound to the west. It was past midnight when the call came from the crow’s nest, “Lighthouse ahead to the port side,” and Sturman held the wheel steady on the course due south. The night crew had just rung two bells when the lights of Nantucket Island with its Sianconset lighthouse passed on the starboard side, and Adam came to the wheel to give Sturman a new heading, south by southwest, following the westerly slant of the coast. If the winds held, and no spring storms swept in from the Atlantic, they would hold that course for the next four days, past the coastlines of Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, and New Jersey, to Delaware Bay, which separated New Jersey from Delaware. The bay narrowed at the northwest tip, where the Delaware River flowed into it.

  At daybreak on the fourth day, the eastern horizon clouded, and at midmorning a rain squall caught them and held for half an hour before the purple clouds moved on west, leaving the ship and most of the crew drenched and the sky clear. Half an hour after the one o’clock mess, Adam turned the wheel over to Faulkner and went belowdecks to the tiny quarters reserved for the officers. He stopped before Matthew’s door, bowed his head to listen for a moment, then rapped.

  “Who’s there?” came the voice.

  “Me. Adam.”

  “It isn’t locked.”

  Adam raised the latch and pushed the thick door inward, with the heavy iron-strap hinges quietly complaining. Matthew was seated before his small table facing the door, with two stacks of documents before him. His long-sleeved, white shirt was open at the throat, and it was obvious to Adam that he had been working with the papers. Matthew leaned back in his chair, waiting, and Adam spoke.

  “You’ve been down here a while. Anything wrong?”

  Matthew shook his head and gestured, and Adam sat down facing him. Matthew tapped the top of the nearest stack of papers. “In two days I’ll be meeting with the delegates to the big convention in Philadelphia. I’ve been going over the letters and papers I’ve gathered over the past two years—the ones written between the leaders. Some to me. I have to be ready.”

  Adam sat focused, studying Matthew. “I know a little about what’s happening. Not enough. How do you see it?”

  “You were away at college for most of it.” A smile flitted across Matthew’s face and was gone. “You sure you want to hear all this?”

  “Yes. I’d like to know.”

  Matthew’s brows raised. “From the beginning?”

  “From the beginning.”

  Matthew shrugged. “All right.” He paused for a moment to order his thoughts.

  “We could lose it all—everything we’ve fought for since 1775. There are kings in Europe right now who are waiting for the states to go to war with each other.” He rummaged to pick a copy of a letter from the stack and laid it before Adam.

  “George Washington. June, 1780. ‘Our measures are not under the influence and direction of one Council, but thirteen, each of which is actuated by local views and politics . . . we are attempting the impossible.’”

  Adam quickly read the letter and laid it back on the table. His expression did not change. Matthew continued, his voice restrained as he plucked up a copy of another letter.

  “Washington again. Six months later. December, 1780.” Matthew read aloud, “‘ . . . there are two things (as I have often declared) which, in my opinion, are indispensably necessary to the well-being and good government of our public affairs; these are greater powers to Congress and more responsibility and permanency in the Executive bodies.’”

  Matthew dropped the paper back on the stack and for a moment did not raise his eyes. Then he went on. “That was in 1780, seven years ago. He saw it coming as far back as 1780. A government that was going to die because it lacked the power to raise revenue to maintain itself and had no head.”

  Adam shifted in his chair but remained silent. Matthew reached for the next copied document.

  “Washington. 1783. A letter to all thirteen governors.” He scanned the paper for a moment, then once more read aloud.

  “‘There are four things . . . essential . . . to the existence of the United States, as an independent power. First. An indissoluble union of the States under one Federal head; secondly. A sacred regard to public justice; thirdly. The adoption of a proper peace establishment; and fourthly. The prevalence of that pacific and friendly disposition among the people of the United States, which will induce them to forget their local prejudices and policies; . . .’”

  Adam studied his brother—the timbre of his voice, the flitting expressions on his face, and he saw the first hint of fear rising. Matthew shuffled for more copied documents and held them up one at a time as he spoke.

  “John Jay of New York. September twenty-fourth of 1783, to Gouverneur Morris of New York. ‘I am perfectly convinced that no time is to be lost in raising and maintaining a National spirit in America . . . In a word, everything conducive to union and constitutional energy of government should be cultivated, cherished, and protected . . .’”

  He dropped the copied letter and read from the next one.

  “John Hancock of Massachusetts to the Massachusetts legislature. September. 1783. Our Massachusetts John Hancock—the one who so boldly signed the Declaration of Independence. ‘How to strengthen and improve the union so as to render it completely adequate, demands the immediate attention of these states. Our very existence as a free nation is suspended on it.’”

  Adam was aware that Matthew’s voice was rising as Matthew went on with the next document.

  “Thomas Jefferson to James Madison. 1784. Jefferson shared these letters with me. ‘I find the conviction growing strongly that nothing can preserve our Confederacy unless the bond of union, their common council, can be strengthened.’ Matthew dropped the letter and referred to the next one. “Jefferson again, to James Monroe. 1785. ‘The interests of the states ought to be made joint in every possible instance, in order to cultivate the idea of our being one Nation.’”

  Matthew paused to take a deep breath and release it slowly while he brought his thoughts under control. He raised his eyes to Adam and spaced his words.

  “The c
ountry’s coming to pieces, but that’s not the worst of it.” He laid the next document on the table. “From Stephen Higginson—remember him? Former Congressman from our own state? To John Adams. December, 1785. ‘Experience and observations most clearly evince that in their habits, manners, and commercial interests, the Southern and Northern States are not only very dissimilar, but in many instances directly opposed . . .’”

  He laid the papers on the table and leaned back in his chair. His face was a blank, his eyes without expression. “The north against the south. It could mean war.”

  For the first time Adam dropped his eyes and leaned forward, studying the floor while he worked with his thoughts. Matthew sighed and straightened in his chair.

  “You didn’t come to hear all this. You’ve got a ship to navigate.”

  Adam raised his head. “No. I need to hear it. Go on.”

  Matthew shrugged and picked up the next document. “The Higginson letter shook Congress. They appointed a committee. Rufus King, Charles Pinckney, James Monroe, John Kean, and Charles Pettit. They were to investigate and report.”

  Adam raised a hand. “I recognize Rufus King and James Monroe, but not Pinckney, Kean, or Pettit. Who are they?”

  “Pinckney and Kean are from South Carolina. Pettit’s from Pennsylvania. All Congressmen.”

  Adam nodded, and Matthew reached for a thick document. “Here’s the report they made to Congress on February sixteenth of last year. 1786. I’ll read part of their conclusion. ‘ . . . the crisis has arrived when the people of the United States . . . must decide whether they will support their rank as a nation, by maintaining the public faith at home and abroad; or whether for want of a timely exertion in establishing a general revenue and thereby giving strength to the Confederacy, they will hazard not only the existence of the Union, but of those great and invaluable privileges for which they have so arduously and so honorably contended.”