Carrying Independence

The walk to City Tavern was too short. Nathaniel stood in the doorway searching the lamplit pub for his brother over the heads of patrons. Their forks clinked too brightly against chinaware, the levity of their chatter, too light compared to the gravity weighing Nathaniel down. He pushed his way to the back where he found his brother hunched over his work in the corner.

City Tavern had become his brother’s preferred inn the moment it had been built; Peter held a deep appreciation for both the new guest beds upstairs and the seasoned statesmen downstairs in the pub.

Nathaniel dropped into the booth, but Peter kept bent to his ledger. Nathaniel waited as sumptuous scents wafted over him—savory meat pies, hearty thick stews, fresh breads, and roasted welsh hares mingled with smoked trout. His stomach rumbled and he flagged a barmaid carrying a steaming chicken pie.

“Might I get an ale, ma’am, and one of those pies if you please?” Nathaniel smiled, for the woman’s rosy cheeks reminded him of how his mother flushed as she cooked. The barmaid returned the smile but tossed a hostile glare at his brother. Nathaniel examined Peter’s black head. “Made friends here already have you?”

Peter shrugged and kept at his work, but truthfully Nathaniel welcomed the silence. He let his head drop back against the booth and closed his eyes, his mind aching from the shards of his conversation at the State House. Fifty-five lives in his hands. Everything to gain. The funds would be a help to the gun shop, true, but what help would he be to his father—to anyone—if he didn’t survive?

“Why the grave face?” he heard Peter say. When Nathaniel opened one eye, Peter was studying him through narrowed lids. “You look terrible.”

“Just hungry,” Nathaniel rubbed a palm over his eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

The barmaid delivered the ale, and Nathaniel tried to ignore the gooey sweet smell that lingered on her from the tavern’s kitchen—baked pastries and cakes seasoned with nutmeg, cinnamon, and cardamom. Nathaniel drained a quarter of the pint and wiped the foam from his mouth with his sleeve.

“All you did was deliver a letter.” Peter pushed a linen napkin at him.

“Sure. Just a delivery.” Nathaniel left the napkin between them. He wanted to add, “and then I had a long conversation with Thomas Jefferson and Doctor Benjamin Franklin about working for Congress.” That would wipe away the look of reproach growing on Peter’s face. Instead, Nathaniel nodded toward the ledger. “What happened with your meeting?”

Peter’s gaze fell away. He stacked his papers. “We have a new request.”

Knowing Franklin’s offer was more than they could fetch for ten thousand rifles, each one crafted with Joseph Marten’s scrollwork, Nathaniel asked, “How many rifles this time?”

“It’s not just for rifles.”

“What then?”

“Buckles. Knives. Kettles.”

“But we are a small gun shop—”

“Not anymore.” The two words tolled a warning, which reverberated in Nathaniel’s chest when Peter added, “We’ve been asked to build an armory.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course not.” Peter’s sharp response drew the attention of several nearby diners.

Nathaniel’s face grew hot and he pushed his beer out of the way as the patrons returned to their meals. Nathaniel leaned forward. “What is going on, Peter?”

“Go see for yourself.” His brother pointed toward the docks, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Ships loaded with soldiers are leaving for New York. Rifles alone are not enough when we are at war.”

“We? Is mother included in that?”

Peter waved him off. “If the Continental Army is to win, we need munitions. We need to build armories.”

“Father will not agree to this.” Nathaniel looked about the booth as if a different solution lay between them. He searched Peter’s determined face across the table. “We can find another way. In fact, I might have another—”

“No.” Peter sat back, arms crossed. He stared at the table, but his teeth bit at the bottom lip.

Nathaniel’s shoulders dropped. “You’ve already said yes. And the terms?”

Peter’s eyes flit to the pages on the table, three words typeset across the top sheet. Oath of Allegiance.

Nathaniel sank back against the booth, the flicker of hope at being able to help, extinguished by the stroke of Peter’s pen. Nathaniel groaned as Franklin’s words rang in his ears. Which carries more permanence? A voice, or a signature?

“Father specifically told you not to—”

“I did what was best for all of us.” Peter gathered the pages and shoved them inside the leather portfolio. “With this we will have more than new orders. We’ll have stability. Expansion. Even funds for new buildings.

“Leaving me and our father as what?” Nathaniel asked. “Gunsmiths or bricklayers?”

“I don’t care what you do, Nathaniel.” His brother’s voice was cold. “Building the armory begins in September. With or without you.”

Nathaniel opened his mouth to protest when Arthur appeared, stuffing himself into the booth, and crushing Nathaniel against the wall.

“They are throwing a ball,” Arthur said between gulps of air. “My aunt and uncle. Tomorrow night.”

“What on earth for?” Nathaniel shoved him off.

“Some big announcement.” Arthur elbowed him back and waved to the barmaid serving a nearby table. Failing to get the woman’s attention, Arthur grabbed Nathaniel’s remaining beer and took a swig. “You know my aunt… any opportunity to extravagantly display her position.”

“By position, do you mean socially or in support of the Cause?” Nathaniel glared at Peter, who stared at the table.

Arthur held the nearly empty glass aloft, looking between the brothers. “Nathaniel, the fact is—”

“The fact is clear.” Peter slid from the booth and stood over them. “It is easy to be righteous when you have absolutely no responsibilities.”

Nathaniel watched his brother push through the crowd toward the stairs to their shared room.

“It’s just a ball!” Arthur shouted after him, and drained the rest of the ale. He then slid from the booth, mug in hand. “I think we could both use some more. Did you get your letter delivered?” Arthur threw the question over his shoulder, but Nathaniel’s “yes” was lost amid the din of chatter, plates, and knives.

Alone at the table, Nathaniel wallowed. Causes. Documents. Signatures. Oaths. Peter’s words tumbled with Franklin’s. To them, Nathaniel was nothing but a tool from the gun shop. Useful, but only in their hands. This wasn’t the freedom Jefferson encouraged him to find. This was being both hemmed in and squeezed out. Nathaniel committed to telling both Peter and Franklin to go to hell.

Arthur fell back into the booth across from Nathaniel with two full glasses, tilting his head with compassion when he took in Nathaniel’s face. “Forget Peter. No matter what you think of him, he’ll always think more of himself.” He took a drink, then said, through a mischievous smirk, “Now about that ball. My uncle quite easily agreed for you to attend. Perhaps he is beginning to see you differently.”

“Meaning?” Nathaniel took a long drink.

“Perhaps he sees you as I do.” Arthur’s grin deepened. “A possible suitor to my cousin, Susannah.”

The barmaid at last delivered the savory chicken pie, but Nathaniel was afraid to eat, to swallow, for his heart was thumping wildly in his throat. The thought of holding Susannah not just again, but for all his life, extinguished the last of his anger, and warmed him from head to toe. If what Arthur said was true… Franklin’s offer be damned for certain.

Arthur, smiling along with Nathaniel, lifted his glass and toasted with his favorite Irish proverb. “May you kiss whom you please, and please whom you kiss.”

Nathaniel raised his glass to Arthur’s and let the liquid drown out all thoughts of revolution…

* * *

Nathaniel secured the satchel containing the Declaration of Independence over his shoulder and joined the crew at the bow. Captain Blythe was on the quarterdeck, his eye to a scope pointed northward into the fog. Thick. Then clear. Then thick once more. Half the crew watched the captain. The rest searched the half-concealed waters. Only the fluttering sails dared to make a noise.

“What is it?” Nathaniel asked, his blond ponytail tugged by an inconsistent breeze.

“A ship ahead of us moving north, like us. An Indiaman. Just before the fog rolled over her again, I saw her sails turn… perhaps she has seen us trailing behind.” Blythe swept the northeastern horizon with his scope again, squinting. The wind gusted. The fog pulled apart like a cotton shirt tearing at the seams. “There she is!”

Nathaniel saw the ship even unaided by a scope. She was massive, thrusting down into the water, a gush of spray sweeping over the nose with each wave. She had turned, heading southeast, as if to sneak around them.

Blythe shouted to the chief mate. “Beat to quarters. Ten points to starboard!”

The crew scrambled to their posts. Rigging ran, the wind whistled through the lines. Sails shifted under the crew’s collective hands. The Frontier turned northeast.

Nathaniel grabbed the captain’s arm. “You mean to take her, don’t you?”

“Of course!” Wildness had turned the captain’s blue eyes a brackish green. Blythe shrugged off Nathaniel’s hand and waved the scope at the opposing ship. “That British vessel is likely a thousand tons––three times the Frontier. She wanted to disappear in the fog. That means she’s loaded with goods she doesn’t want us to have.” He leaned closer to Nathaniel. “Oh, but I do.” He strode off toward the foredeck shouting to his crew, “Prepare to take her!”

Nathaniel tried to elbow his way through crewmen scattering from post-to-post. The hinges on the ports below squeaked open. Beneath his feet, he could feel the vibration of cannons rolling into position. Nathaniel hopped over sun-bleached rigging as the sheets filled with the rising wind. The large-timbered boom swung to starboard. Nathaniel ducked. It brushed the tips of his hair, and the beam jerked into place.

“Captain, no. Wait!” Nathaniel’s cry was lost amid the chaos, the wind.

He could see Blythe near the bowsprit, looking north again. Nathaniel followed his gaze. The three-masted ship barreled through the water toward them. Her sails holding the wind coming from the north. She was aiming straight for the Frontier’s nose at an incredible speed. Nathaniel leaped over a cannon being pushed through a port and reached the foredeck just as the oncoming ship trimmed her sails and turned more toward to the east.

Water spilled over her oncoming bow and starboard side as she leaned into the turn. She slid slightly ahead and slightly parallel to the Frontier.

Nathaniel read the name scrawled across her aft: Montagu. The British Royal Navy’s flag–the Red Ensign–flew from the bow. Captain Blythe had seen it too, and he smiled broadly.

“Chain shot!” he shouted.

The Montagu opened her deck of gun ports. Nathaniel quickly counted them. She had nearly twice the firepower of the Frontier.

“You cannot engage, Blythe!” Nathaniel shouted over the gale force winds. “You must back down, this is too important!”

The captain spun on him. “What the hell is so goddamn important, Mr. Mirtle?”

Nathaniel hesitated only briefly, grabbed Blythe by the back of the neck, and spoke into the captain’s ear. “I am carrying the one and only copy of the Declaration of Independence still missing five original signatures of the Congress. Signatures I am to secure that will unite the colonies.”

“Blistering blackguards!” Captain Blythe stepped back, his eyes wide as if seeing the satchel and Nathaniel for the first time.

“Yes,” Nathaniel said, patting the leather. On the wind, they could hear the captain on the Montagu shouting his own orders. Nathaniel begged, “Turn. Flee. They outgun you, but you can outrun them. If you lose and I am captured, the Declaration is incomplete. They’ll hang us all. And it will be on you.”

Blythe looked to the Montagu, but then shook his head. “No, I prefer to win. Besides… look.” Blythe grabbed Nathaniel’s sleeve and turned him toward the rail. “We have the wind gauge. Watch her starboard guns as she completes the turn. That northern wind is leeward, off their port side, she’ll tip too far.”

As if on cue, the full weight of the wind filled the Montagu’s sails. She heeled to starboard, listing sideways, southward toward the Frontier. The Montagu’s crew scrambled to close the gun ports as half the hull fell below the water line. She lost speed and the Frontier slid in alongside her.

Without even a glance at Nathaniel, Blythe yelled, “Bring down the masts! Fire!”

Nathaniel gripped the rail as the Frontier rocked to starboard under the power of cannon fire. Cannon balls chained together whipped across the water, pulling up spray, and with a whistle, snap and crack they ripped through the Mantagu’s rigging and masts like a splayed hand through a spider’s web. Fire! Another volley flung out from the Frontier tearing through the Mantagu’s mizzen and crumpling the topsails. Men tumbled into the water tangled in sails and rigging. Smoke swirled. The boats raced eastward through the crashing waves, sliding closer together, the Montagu nearly crippled.

Nathaniel loosened his grip, but then the Montagu began to tilt. With sails damaged and no longer holding the wind, she began to right. She heeled away, her gun ports rising, opening, until Nathaniel could see straight down a barrel.

“Bloody hell” Nathaniel whispered.

But Blythe shouted, “Fire at will!”

The Frontier’s cannon all fired at once. Nathaniel covered his ears. Raging shot cracked into the Montagu. It splintered the British gun ports. The hull. The bowsprit. Nathaniel ducked under his arm as shards from the Montagu clattered down upon the Frontier’s decks.

As Nathaniel peaked out from beneath his arm, the Montagu’s main mast moaned. It tumbled like timber into the sea. The Montagu tossed side-to-side on the waves. Smoke billowed away in the wind. Groans echoed from her decks. Each time she tilted to starboard, the scuppers spilled red stripes of blood down the hull. Among the flotsam in the water and waves, was the Red Ensign flag.

Over the decks of the Montagu on the remaining rigging, a white flag slowly rose.

“They’ve struck their colors!” The crew of the Frontier cheered. Nathaniel puffed out the breath he was unaware he had been holding.

Captain Blythe turned to his crew, his voice deep with victory. “Fine work, men. She’s yours. Prepare to board her.” Then he at last turned to Nathaniel and winked. “I prefer to win.”

Nathaniel was so shaken he didn’t know whether to laugh or to punch the captain between his smirking lips. “Captain Blythe, it’s my understanding the British fleet has just entered the New York harbor. I certainly hope you’re not intending to take them all.”

“Go to my cabin until I retrieve you personally.” Blythe glanced over at the British Montagu then back to Nathaniel’s satchel. “We needn’t have our new prisoners finding out about you.”