Prologue
OCTOBER 1776
From the white sandy beaches of Dry Tortuga in the South to the forested green tip of Newfoundland in the North, the Atlantic Ocean steamed under a hot brassy sun that shone like the unblinking eye of a malevolent God.
No swell marred the smooth face of the sea; it was as if the flotilla of eight British ships had been raised up and sculptured out of some great inland lake of sluggish gray granite ... unmoving, silent, desolate ... their empty sails hanging lifelessly, the carved figureheads' painted smiles looking artificial and forced in the harsh, reflected glare of the sun.
The flotilla had been becalmed in the same spot for five days, the only movement being the occasional rowboat that came bearing an officer from one of the seven ships toward Admiral Burton's flagship. The heat was so intense that crewmen and passengers still stayed below decks, venturing topside only when called to duty or to throw waste overboard.
Earlier, in the morning, there had been some organized activity above decks-a brief burial service for an eight month old male infant belonging to Abigail and John Morgan who had died of dysentery during the hot, sweltering night. The child's mother's expression had been as fixed and as emotionless as that of the bow sprite's as she had watched the tiny bundle being lowered into the water and heard the Captain's burial prayer. Mercifully, she had been down below decks when, four hours later, the Captain had ordered Lieutenant Robin Burton, the junior duty officer to attach two heavy cannon balls to the shrouded infant which floated like a soiled piece of jetsam, scraping and nudging softly against the sides of the ship as if it were beseeching those aboard the vessel to return it to the safety of its mother's arms.
Young Burton, who was forced to undertake the unpleasant task, found himself even more repulsed by the fact that five days of trash and excreta also floated in a brown malodorous halo of scum around each of the ships. Robin ordered four sailors who had lowered a lighter to row out about two hundred and fifty yards before the water was once again clear, and even then he travelled another hundred yards before he was satisfied the sea was uncontaminated.
Only then did Lieutenant Burton release the lead-weighted infant, and this time the shroud sank quickly, leaving behind it a trail of bubbles. Before ordering the men back to the boat, Robin stripped and jumped overboard into the lukewarm water where he thoroughly washed himself and his blonde hair.
The sailors watched him, amused and slightly contemptuous. Like all good men of the sea, they could not swim, nor did they believe in the beneficial aspects of bathing. The young officer was a bit of a fool anyway and they all knew it. A rich man's son and a nephew of Admiral Burton aboard the flagship, his attitude toward the sailors was not really circumspect for a British naval officer. He treated them almost as equals, and that made them even more suspicious. There were whispers that he secretively supported the American's cause which in some of their minds, definitely confirmed that he was not only a fool, but a traitorous young fool at that.
Still, though, in some quite unfathomable way, the men held a grudging respect for the young naval officer. He wasn't in the least a foppish effeminate ass as were so many of the younger sons of the British Aristocracy. Nor was he coward, that was all too evident. It had been Robin who, in their last voyage out, had led the boarding party against the American privateer, Flamouth Lady. Braving the withering musket fire, he had used his cutlass to create a bloody havoc on the decks of the other ship, slashing and cutting away amidst the flaming guns until the decks were awash with blood.
But then he had shown his foolishness by attempting to plead for the lives of the six American survivors.
"These men are not pirates," the impudent young rascal was overheard saying to his uncle, the Admiral. "They're commissioned by the government of Rhode Island. This is war, so they must be considered as prisoners of war."
The Admiral, his mustache bristling in indignation, had been quick to reply, "There is no such government as the government of Rhode Island. Murderers! Thieves! Pirates! Scum ... scum ... scum! And, Robin, I'll brook no interference from junior officers, even if you do happen to be my nephew. There is no war, only an insurrection among certain rabble-rousing malcontents in the colonies. Those ... those "Noble Americans" are pirates! And they are going to hang from our yardarm ... before the suns moved another degree to the west."
And the American sailors had been hung ... left hanging like slowly revolving trophies, three in a row, at each end of the fore sprit; it was not until the stench of carrion became too great to bear in the officer's mess that they were finally cut loose and dropped into the sea.
Robin had proved his bravery again less than three weeks ago on a night filled with thunder and lightning and rain when he had taken three lighters into the American-held port of Boston under cover of the storm in an attempt to rescue some 250 Tories who had not been able to sail earlier when Sir William Howe escaped with almost a thousand Boston loyalists just before the city fell to George Washington's troops. The town had been under American siege since June of the year before; once it had fallen to Washington, those who felt a loyalty to the British Crown found themselves in an untenable position, and they had fled. Robin and the volunteers he had taken with him on the rescue mission had no misguided notions about what would happen to them if they were caught that night in Boston. The Americans were not inclined to be charitable after the British forces had stupidly hung Nathan Hale as a spy. The best they could expect would be imprisonment ... the worst, a vengeful execution as a British spy.
And they had gone in, and returned to the flotilla several times, with the loss of only one sailor who had been shot in the head by an American patrol on Robin's last trip in. It was with a heavy heart that the young navy officer was forced to report the death of his shipmate and six of the American militia. The 257 rescued men, women, and children were now aboard the various ships of the becalmed flotilla, heading toward Halifax, heading to a land most had never seen, a place they always referred to as "home", even though many of them were fourth and fifth generation Americans.
Robin was not unaware of their sad plight for they had been forced to leave most of their worldly possessions behind. It was one of the tragedies that inevitably occur when men and governments can no longer communicate with each other. In his own mind, he knew it was war ... no matter what his Uncle, the Admiral, and other English statesmen called it. It was war and it would be a long and nasty war. Already, too many had suffered, too many had been killed. Actual fighting had been going on since April 19th of the year before when the British Military Commander, General Gage, sent a thousand British regulars to Concord to confiscate military supplies being stored by the Americans. The year and a half of fighting as ferocious as it was, had been merely armed protests against a coercive English government who was trying to impose new economic regulations against the stubborn colonists.
Robin, himself, had avidly read John Dickinson and Thomas Jefferson's stirring Declaration of the causes and Necessity of taking up Arms which had been addressed to King George in July 1775. The declaration stated in part, "We have not raised armies with ambitious designs of separating from Great Britain and establishing independent states...." Robin knew for a fact that as late as January of 1776, the health of the King was still being toasted in the Continental Army officers mess presided over by General George Washington. No, despite the growing tumult from the battle fields, Robin sensed that independence from England was something remote and far from the thoughts of the colonists. The British bodies, especially the opportunistic Lord North who had the ear of King George, was determined to punish once and for all the recalcitrant Americans.
Then, just within the last five or six months new voices-some rational, some emotional, some sheer stupidity-began to make themselves heard. Some even had the unmistakable ring of truth to them! "Liberty! And "Freedom!" The words and ideals they supported were simultaneously exciting and frightening!
Thomas Paine especially inspired Robin.
Paine's pamphlet Common Sense had been read with a pounding heart. And then like the sound of far-off trumpets had come Paine's comment, "The sun never shined on a cause of greater worth ... Freedom hath been hunted around the Globe. Asia and Africa have long expelled her-Europe regards her like a stranger, and England hath given her warning to depart. Receive liberty and prepare in time an asylum for mankind...."
Now, as the oars from the lighter made a dull slapping sound in the contaminated waters, Robin's thoughts went to the future. As his boat drew nearer to the flagship, he suddenly made up his mind. Instinctively he knew he would no longer, with clear conscience, serve as a naval officer in the service of the King. His trips into Boston to bring out the loyalists had proven that to him. He could smell the difference in Boston and in most of the seacoast towns of America. There was singing behind doors, a determination that could be felt, and an infectious enthusiasm. He knew his thoughts were treasonous, but he felt a kinship with these people who spoke of liberty and of freedom, and who had an entire continent to roam as free men. He wanted to share that excitement with them. And now he knew he would join them, even if it meant giving up everything-naval career, wealth, a title, family ... even life itself.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't see one of the sailors lift his head from the oars and sniff, then turn and look toward the west. The sailor whispered it to himself first, then said it aloud, "The wind! Thank God, the wind is coming!"
In front of them, the lifeless sails of the flagship quivered once, then slowly swelled like the smoothly rounded belly of a pregnant woman as the wind filled them.
His uncle, smiling and now full of bonhomie at the change of weather, met the troubled young officer at the top of the rope ladder. "Well, my lad! The halcyon days are over. The wind is here, and we shall be in London for the King's holiday, after all."
And Robin, who absent-mindedly returned the Admiral's smile, looked toward the stern. Back there, some 600 miles was America. The wind was taking him further away now; he would be home for the King's holiday, but oh how he wished he would be back there in that land of rebellious colonists when they celebrated their own day of Thanksgiving. How very much like we British, he thought. We have a day honoring a King's graciousness, while they celebrate God's blessings and the right to stand tall and free, with loyalty not to royalty, but to an ideal....
He stared back at the rapidly receding brown area where they had been becalmed for days. Somehow it seemed very symbolic to him: there had been stagnation, a burial, and then the freshening breeze. That one spot out there not only marked the final resting spot of the poor infant but also his own political ideals as well.
"Freedom," he said softly to himself, and then added, "liberty!" The words tingled against his tongue and reverberated through his mind like soundless thunder; and his eyes glowed at the realization he had finally come face to face with his own long-hidden self.