"Then...A Patriot I'll Be" Now Available for the NOOK!

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"Then...A Patriot I'll Be", to Be Released for Nook!

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"Then...A Patriot I'll Be" Recieves a "5 Star Review"....

"Then...A Patriot I'll Be" Recieves a "5 Star Review"....

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The Massive Guns of Fort Ticonderoga...

The following passage is from the novel, "Then...A Patriot I'll Be". It recounts the arduous task that was performed by Henry Knox, to retrieve the captured cannon from Fort Ticonderoga, and deliver them to Dorchester Heights; thus forcing the British to evacuate Boston....

Henry Knox's Artillery Train From Ft. Ticonderoga to Dorchester Heights

....Struggling with the idea of how to get sufficient canon to Dorchester Heights for Washington’s fortifications, another war counsel was called. The officers met up and kicked around different ideas on where they would get the canons from. Now, they knew that they had some canon from when Captain John Manley captured the British supply vessel Nancy earlier, but that was not enough. They needed more guns, and they needed bigger ones too. It would do no good to stage small canon on the heights. From that distance, a small gun might not even be able to hit a target across the water in Boston. Big canon was the necessity, but Washington and his men struggled with the problem of where to get them from. Finally, the idea came to them. They remembered that Fort Ticonderoga had been captured from the British by Benedict Arnold and Ethan Allen in May of 1775. There was a massive stockpile of canon available at the fort. There was mortar, howitzers, and field guns stored there. Some of the guns were the big guns that Washington needed so badly; twenty-four pounders.

Realizing that there was a supply of canons available to the Continental Army, the counsel was positive about making the fortification effective. Finally, after all the waiting and planning, Washington could now begin his offense. There was however one very big problem facing Washington and his war counsel. Having the guns at his disposal was an extremely uplifting premise. However, the issue at hand now was how to get the guns from Fort Ticonderoga and transport them to Dorchester Heights. That is where Henry Knox would come in. The new friend of General Washington volunteered to take on the epic journey in the cold and snowy conditions. He proposed to Washington that he could make the trip and be back with the cannon in about two weeks. Washington allowed him to undertake this journey. It was the only choice that he had to fortify the heights. The Continental Congress believed in him so strongly that they granted Knox a colonel’s commission. However, the commission did not reach him before he left. He embarked on his quest in mid November, not yet knowing he was now a colonel. Firstly, he would stop in New York City to pick up the supplies he needed for the trip. From there, he made his way to Fort Ticonderoga. It was a treacherous trip through the cold and snow filled forests and mountains. He arrived at Fort Ticonderoga in early December. He made pretty decent time considering how treacherous the trip had been. No sooner had he stepped foot into the fort, he immediately got to work inventorying the guns and preparing the logistics for their transport back to Dorchester.

Once inventorying the guns was completed, he narrowed down what pieces he would be actually taking with him on the journey. He chose to take roughly sixty cannon back with him. Among these cannon were the twenty four pounders that Washington so badly needed. He also decided to take with him various mortars and howitzers; all of which could prove their weight in gold during a bombardment. He had the guns pulled on sleds by teams of oxen from the fort up to the northern end of Lake George. From there, they were loaded on ships that he had already prepared to be there waiting for him. They then began the journey across to reach the southern end of Lake George. On the way to the southern end of the increasingly icy lake, a ship carrying some of the guns sunk. Luckily though, enough of the ship was left above the water line, and she was successfully bailed out and re-floated. A few days later, the flotilla of vessels reached Fort George safely at the southern end of the lake. His first portion of the journey was a success. However, he had much more to go.

Departing Fort George, Knox had over forty more strong duty sleds built and supplied additional yoke of oxen (I have heard upwards of eighty) to pull the sleds through the heavy snow. When the “artillery train” began to move, Knox took off and went ahead of it. He made his way to Albany and met up with General Philip Schuyler. Together, the two men were able to find more equipment and personnel to send north toward the artillery train to assist with the movement. The train lumbered its way through the dense snow toward the Hudson River. Being as cold as it was, the hope was that the river would be sufficiently frozen over with ice to allow the heavy train to cross. Reaching the Hudson however, it was realized that the ice was too thin to support the massive artillery train. Knox and his men decided to assist the river in its freezing. The men began pouring water on the already hardened ice with the hopes of thickening it. To their amazement, it worked, and the train made it safely to Albany. Departing from Albany and heading toward Massachusetts, the train once again had to cross a different portion of the Hudson River. This time, the river would not be tricked into hardening enough, and a few of the heavy cannons crashed through the thin ice and went to the river bottom. Fortunately, with the fusion of manpower and oxen power alike, the guns were able to be retrieved from the river bottom. This was definitely a setback, but Knox knew how important it was to reach the heights with as many pieces of cannon as possible. Once the cannon were recovered from the river, the train mounted up and moved on. Not long after, they finally made it over the Hudson River, for the second time.

The train continued its trek toward Dorchester Heights. Word got around, and it wasn’t too secret of a mission that Knox and his guns were on their way toward Boston. As they passed through various towns, many of the local residents would come out of their homes into the cold and cheer the artillery train on as it went through. In one instance, the train received such a glowing reception by the residents of Westfield that Knox himself loaded up one of the bigger cannon with powder and fired it off. The gathered crowd responded with great applause and huzzahs.

In mid January, Henry Knox and his much needed artillery train finally arrived in Cambridge, and reported to General Washington. The guns of Fort Ticonderoga had finally arrived. They took considerably longer than the original estimate of two weeks to reach their destination. The lumbering train took ten weeks to reach Cambridge. As late as the guns were, Washington was sure relieved that they had arrived at all. Henry Knox had come through. He had delivered the cannon as promised. Upon arrival to Cambridge, he received the news that he had been commissioned as a colonel during his journey. The next step was for the newly commissioned colonel to meet with Washington and the rest of the war counsel. It was time to put together the plan of fortifying Dorchester Heights....

The Fall of Fort Washington....

In greatful commemoration to the brave men that fought in for the ill-fated defense of Fort Washington, the following passage is from the novel, "Then...A Patriot I'll Be". It recounts the experience of a Continental Soldier as he fought in the final moments before losing the fort to the combined forces of the British and Hessians....

Continental Defenders of Fort Washington

 

....We had gotten within twenty yards of the fort or so, and now we were afforded some cover fire from the men stationed atop the wooden walls of the structure. Luckily for us, this barrage of musketry caused the advancing Hessians to slow their pace just long enough for us to make it to the heavy wooden doors of the fort. As we made it to the doors, they were swung open and a group of riflemen came out to provide some more cover fire to allow us all to run inside and shut the doors tightly. As the doors shut behind us, I fell to the ground while trying to catch my breath. After all, it had been a long run and the pace was at a sprint rather than a jog. I checked on my mates and was assured that they too, though also in need of breath, were ok. Even Jessie had managed the retreat, and he now stood at the walls of the fort firing off his weapon at the enemy outside, seemingly unfazed by the run he had just participated in. I was thankful that although he was in the grasp of madness, he still had enough logic left in him to retreat when the redoubt was overrun.

While still crouched on the ground and trying to catch our breath, an officer came up to Thomas, Francis, and I and presented us with his canteen. “Drink up men, you have had quite a run from those German buggers”, he jollily said with a comforting smile. “Once you have had your refreshment, get to the walls lads. We have need for every available musket to hold the bastards off”. I replied that we would, and the officer went on to the next group of men clearly suffering from the retreat as well. I came to find out that that officer was none other than Colonel Robert Magaw.

Not taking too much time to recuperate, my mates and I quickly took our positions up along the walls of the fort, and began firing down upon the still attacking Hessians and regulars. As they had gotten so close, I was almost positive that some of my musket balls had hit their mark and taken down more than one of my foes. One shot in particular, I actually saw enter the body of a Hessian as he loaded his weapon to fire upon me……. I had just finished ramming down a cartridge into the breach of my musket, when I heard the distinct buzzing sound of a projectile whiz past my head, nearly taking my ear off with it. “Sausage eating bastards almost got me”, I thought! Now enraged, I completed my muzzle load and replaced the ram rod back into the hoops beneath the barrel. Someone was about to pay for nearly knocking me off my perch. I looked upon the mixed masses of blue and red coated enemies and found my target. There, loading his recently fired weapon, and looking back at me with a devilish smile was a big fat Hessian soldier. I was certain that this was the fellow that had fired upon me and nearly sent me to my maker. If he wasn’t the scoundrel that fired upon me however, he would suffer all the same for the color of his uniform. Time seemed to stand still, as our eyes locked upon each other. When he saw that I was already loaded and about to take aim, his evil grin turned into a look of nervous desperation, as he scrambled to get his musket ready to fire at me first. I put my musket to my shoulder and took aim down the barrel. Suddenly, I no longer felt remorse for shooting at a man in combat. Someone was going to die that day, and it was either going to be me or him. I was about to do all in my power to see to it that it wouldn’t be me.

The Hessian continued to fumble with his weapon as I steadied myself to lock my sights onto him. I wanted to make sure I had this shot perfectly executed, as I didn’t want to allow the enemy a second chance to return his fire and this time straighten out his musket ball. Looking down my barrel, I could see that the enemy soldier had now finished his weapon loading and was about to put the butt of the gun to his shoulder in anticipation of firing at me. I cursed myself for taking so long to aim my musket, and now given him the chance to present his arms toward me! Another glance to his bloated mustache covered face, and now it appeared that his demonic smile had returned. I suppose that in his mind, he had once again gained the advantage due to my stupidity of allowing him the time to make ready his piece. I knew that I had to aim and fire fast now, as my enemy was endeavoring to do the same. I once again steadied my sights and made sure that I could see his massive body from down the length of my musket barrel. He now held his piece securely in the firing position, and was involved with cocking his lock back to the second position. “I had to act now”! I rubbed my finger along the trigger and squeezed with all my might. The plume of red flame shot out of my barrel, and through the smoke, I witnessed the musket ball tear into the monstrous man’s chest. Upon striking him, a burst of red exploded from the wound, and the blood instantly covered his grayish small clothes.

The man didn’t go down right away, although he did drop his musket upon receiving the wound. At this time, I heard nothing of the war engaging around me. It was as if complete silence encased me from the horrible struggle occurring. All appeared to be at a slower pace once my shot tore into the poor German. I could only focus on this mortally wounded man at the time, and nothing more. I recall his head falling down toward his torn open chest and then rising back up again. He grasped at his wound while staring into the eyes of the American who delivered the blow. His eyes told the tale that he was not only shocked by what happened, but also a bit nervous of what was to come. The dark red blood continued to ooze out from behind his hand as it now covered the wound. Falling down to his knees, the dying soldier continued to look out to me; his tall miter hat now fallen off his massive head. I heard not groans or cries of pain from the Hessian. He simply stayed fixated into my eyes as the blood now began to come up from his gut and flow out from the corners of his mouth. I just stared at him, as I had never so graphically witnessed a man in the throes of death; let alone, the death that my musket had created for him. It took what seemed like ages for the man to succumb to his wound, but finally, the poor Hessian’s body flopped from his knees, to face down in the dirt; kicking up dust as it smashed into the ground. This was followed by a slight twitch of his torso, and then there was stillness. The Hessian had crossed to the beyond, and although I had sent him there before he was able to do so to me, I silently wished him a peaceful travel.

Once I realized that the man had died, all the horrors of war began to come back to me. Time picked up its pace, and the sounds of battle were once again as clear as they had been before my encounter with the Hessian. Around me, men were dropping at their positions in the fort. Before me, enemy soldiers were falling dead as they took on musket fire while charging the walls. The rattling of musket volleys now echoed through my head. Snapping back to the reality of war, I shook my head clear of the dead Hessian and began to load my musket; for I would need to continue my part in the defense of the fort.

We continued to fight the good fight, but there were just too many of them coming at us. As I was firing my musket out over the walls, I was nearly looking clear in the face of the enemy as he climbed up on the wooden defenses. The Hessians were climbing over the walls of the fort like a dark plague infesting the citadel. We continued firing, but the enemy’s numbers were too great. We were ordered to move back from the walls and regroup toward the center of the fort, as it was obvious that we weren’t able to stop the enemy from coming over the walls. Any man unfortunate enough to not be able to get off the walls in time was slaughtered via bayonet as the Hessian beasts scaled the defenses. It was unbearably loud inside the fortress, as the combined sounds of men screaming in pain, musket fire, and the chilling battle cries of the Hessians combined to make it nearly impossible to hear the orders that our officers were yelling out to us. At this point, it didn’t matter anyway. It had almost become a “save yourself” type of situation, as our ranks broke up during the hand to hand combat that had ensued once enough of the enemy had made it inside the fort.

In a last ditch defense, we had nearly fifty of our men line up to give the Hessians one last volley before our inevitable slaughter at the hands of these mercenaries. There was one lone sergeant giving us our final firing commands. We quickly loaded in open order and prepared for our last stand. “To the ready”, he yelled with his sword up high! Across from us was a hulking mass of enemy soldiers cutting and slashing anyone they could get their infernal bayonets to. They were so involved with their butchering that they hadn’t noticed that we were lined up to fire upon them. The sergeant flung the blade of his sword down and yelled, “Fire Men! Damn you, Fire”! Instantaneously, we all squeezed our triggers, and a massive volley of hot lead tore into the enemy as they were busy slicing up our unfortunate men at the walls.

As the smoke cleared, I noticed that we had taken out a great deal of the Hessians, but unfortunately, more of them (including regulars as well) were now climbing over the walls in waves of red and blue. The situation turned bleak. Our officers had no orders to give, and they seemed as nervous as we were. All this time, some brave men still continued to resist the invading forces from the walls; using their muskets to block the bayonets and swords coming toward them at a fevering pace. It was a sad sight to behold however, as nearly all of them were hacked up and dispatched to the earth. Desperately, we began to load our muskets one more time, with the intention that though we would inevitably be cut to bits by the ghoulish Hessians, we could at least fire on a few of them; hopefully causing some casualties for their effort....

Differences in Opinion....

The below is an excerpt from the Novel, "Then...A Patriot I'll Be". It recounts a tense situation in a local tavern during a conflict between supporters of King George III, and a man that holds intense hatred for the king....

....There was one sailor in particular that arrived at the inn one afternoon in want of refreshment. He was a middle sized man with a gray beard of a short length. The crevasses on his face were the proof of the raw and rugged life he lived. This lifestyle, I believe also gave him the appearance of looking much older, than he probably was. His hair was long and messy, and he did not wear a hat, though he carried it in his hand. The clothes he wore, surely were clean and refreshing at one time, though this was no longer the case. What was once a white linen shirt was now black from continual ware and was evident of the hard work of a man at sea. His britches, I could not gather their original state. He did not wear stockings (which was the custom of most sailors), and his shoes were decently worn. He did not seem a scary man, but one that was no stranger to hard living.

 There were two long tables and two small round tables in grandfather’s tavern. At one of the small tables, there sat a group of four well dressed “gentlemen”. They were the sort that grandfather favored to have at his inn. They were (as best I can recall), business owners from the northern part of town. Punch was served to these men, and they were merrily toasting to each others’ health, and talking of their business.

The strange sailor made his way to the far end of the tavern, and sat quietly alone at the end of one of the long tables. I believe he had cider and beer served to him. Obligingly, he placed his hat (that he had been carrying) on the table, and drank on his own with no toasts, only a grumble to himself every now and then.

After not a long time had passed, and the punch bowl was empty, the gentlemen at the round table had ordered plenty of Madeira, and libations and toasting once again began. One man yelled, “A good cheer for my stores, and shipments. May they arrive safely to harbor and not meet an unfortunate fate at sea”.  At that time, the other men expressed their cheer, and began to drink to it. Next, another of this party arose up out of his seat, and lifted his glass for another follow up toast. “Have no fear for the safety of your stores, kind sir. His Majesty’s navy is in the waters, and will see to it that your ships are protected”! The other men stood up and another of them cried “Here… Here, to his Majesty’s navy! God save King George!” The men followed with their approval to the notion, and drank down their glasses of spirits.

“God save King George”, bellowed the stranger at the end of the long table, as if in jest. “God save King George, indeed! I will never drink to such nonsense” he grumbled. “A pox upon King George, I say, and a pox upon his royal navy”, the old sailor exclaimed! He then lifted his drink, took it down in one gulp, and slammed the empty glass on the table.

Across the room, the gentlemen at the round table were speechless. They could not believe what they had just heard. Looking around at each other to see who would dare challenge this disheveled man’s words, one of them turned to look at the stranger, and with a little tremble in his voice asked. “Why do you say such words”? His companions looked between the stranger, and their “brave” friend. He then followed up, this time more assertive. “This, sir, is a British colony, and we all live under the protection and rule of England and King George the third”! “To even posses such thoughts is treason, and to actually say the words is utter insanity”! The gentlemen followed up with a hardy “here, here”, to show that they were all in agreement with what their friend had just exclaimed.

Slightly annoyed, and not too pleased, the old looking, ruffian rose from the bench behind the long table, picked up both his glass, and hat, and came around the table, all the while, his grey squinted eyes fixed on the gentlemen whom he had been “engaging” in conversation.  He walked up to their table and paused for a moment. “Do you mind”? He asked as he grabbed the decanter off the table (not waiting a reply), and proceeded to pour himself a robust glass of the gentlemen’s Madeira. “God save the king and his fleet of ships, huh”? Mumbled the man, as he pulled a chair from another table, and set it backwards among the group of men. Sitting down to the table facing forward in his backward chair, he took a hardy gulp of the wine from his glass, and flopped his dirty hat on the table, much to the “delight” of the well groomed, shocked, and now nervous gentlemen. “Let me tell you about our merciful king, and his navy led by “gentlemen officers”.  I recall everyone in the tavern, including grandfather and myself suddenly fell as silent as the grave. Most were unsure of the man’s intentions, and were more or less on guard. As for me, I wasn’t worried about violence. I wanted desperately to hear what the stranger was going to say. For some reason, this was the first time grandfather had not ushered me away from spying on the conversations of the patrons. Perhaps he was so fixed on the stranger’s next move that he had not thought of chasing me away.

“My brother and I were amongst the enlisted crew of an English man-of-war, not seven years ago”, was the man’s first comment. “It was my first tour, and his second. The French were reported out to sea, leaving Brest (on the east coast of France) with a good sized fleet, and they had been spotted three weeks prior to the east of the (English) channel. Our vessel was sent out ahead of our fleet along with a small tender to find the location of the French ships. We departed from Portsmouth, and made a heading of south by south west through the broad channel, while employing a zigzag pattern in search of the enemy”. The man paused to take another gulp of his wine and scratch his head, as if trying to remember particulars that had escaped him at the moment. “Ah, ordinary seamen, we were”, he continued. “We held no rank, but worked as hard as any man on that ship. Assigned to a gun crew, I spent most of my days below deck in drills, and preparing the guns for when we would meet our foe. Admittedly, the navy was not my true calling. Months out to sea with neither sight, sound, nor smell of land was not where my heart wished to be. I preferred the comfortable quilted feather bed of home to the cramped swinging hammock aboard ship, among other things at this time I won’t mention. My brother, Jack was more experienced a sailor then I and he found it agreeable to be out on the open sea. His hope was for a long, profitable career in the Royal Navy. I thought of his decision as foolish. He hadn’t the money to purchase a commission, and had no political attachments to further his ambitions. But still, it was the life he chose, and truly loved”.

“We were out to sea about a week”, the stranger went on with his story. “Around this time, we met with a fierce gale that pounded us severely. During the storm, we lost contact with the smaller tender that was part of our party, and we were made aware some time later, that the small ship had succumbed to the waves. Down to the bottom with fifty two honest men she went. A few of them had been acquaintances of mine for some time before.

 Having rode out the storm, and made the necessary repairs to the ship, we finally made it to the mouth of the channel, and we encountered some agreeable weather for a few days”. As the old sailor spoke, I hung onto every word that came pouring out of his mouth. I’m sure this man has lived through some most amazing adventures. Far more than the repetitive daily “adventures” we were so accustomed to in Boston, minding the tavern. After another gulp of Madeira, he promptly continued where he left off. “About one week passed, and on the horizon, the lookout spotted a sail. Not sure who the ship belonged to, or of what business they were involved with, the lieutenant of the watch ordered all men to battle stations. We were to stay that way until the ship’s colors could be seen and further until the ship could be hailed to enquire of its activities”.

Now, just for sake of knowledge, I will attempt to detail what was involved when the signal was given for battle stations, or “beat to quarters”. My father, being a sailor in the merchant service, had many acquaintances that had served aboard a warship. He relayed down to me some stories he had heard, so I acquired some knowledge of ship to ship battle. When the officer of the watch gave the command to “beat to quarters” a drummer would beat to a tune familiar to all on board. This tune meant, “Get to battle stations lads, there is to be a fight ahead”. With that, the crew of the vessel would clamber about the ship to pre-determined positions, such as their place in the gun crew below decks, as the marines climbed the masts to get to the fighting tops. Officers would take their place amongst their men, to shout out commands over the thundering fire of the cannon, and the sailors assigned their task would ascend to the cross trees, and yards in order to bring up, or unfurl the sails as their orders came to them. A scene that surely looked to be chaos, but in reality it was a well choreographed dance, where everyone knew their part. The ship itself would have to be prepared for the fight as well. Bulkheads below decks would be removed to make way for the powder monkeys running to and fro with their precious charges for the guns. The decks above and below would be covered with sand as to allow the men proper footing when running through the blood of their wounded comrades. Sand was also made to cover the floor of the surgeon’s cockpit. This was also meant to sop up the blood that poured on the floor as he was performing his amputations, and other treatments for the injured. The surgeon and his mates would prepare a bucket for the disposal of amputated limbs. The “instruments” were laid out on the makeshift operating table, that not hours before was used by the crew to eat dinner on, and will be used for the same purpose hours later. Being made of wood, the ship was prone to fire. For that measure, the powder magazine’s canvas curtains were wet down to prevent any unwanted sparks (for obvious reasons). The stove fire was put out, and leather “fire buckets” were filled with water or sand, and placed about the ship to douse any fires that may arise. On a ship, the quarters were cramped with not only men, but also livestock and stores of furniture, and supplies. The livestock and such stores were usually put into the ship’s boats, lowered, and towed behind the ship by a rope, or simply set adrift with intentions on bringing them back on board after the fighting had ceased. While this was all going on, selected members of the crew would see to it that all hammocks were placed on the upper deck, and into the netting constructed above the sides of the ship’s walls and rails. This was for the design of a barrier to protect the crew against musket fire, and splintered pieces of the ship that may flail about during battle.

The gentlemen at the table, still in disbelief that this strange scraggly rascal had just sat down with them uninvited, had stopped their drinking for some time now. One of them, being a more courageous fellow than the rest interrupted their “guest”, and carefully asked of the stranger, “pardon me sir, but you’ve been in our company for some time now, and have not yet made your point. I beg of you to please go from whence you came, and leave us to our conversation”. “I’ll leave soon enough”, the old man groaned back to the outspoken gentleman. “For, I’ve not yet completed my story, and I wish not to leave it unfinished”. He took another hearty gulp of wine, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, much to the chagrin of the mortified gentlemen.

“Still at our battle stations, the unknown vessel ventured closer and closer into our sights”, the man continued with his story. “Not long after, we were almost side by side with it. She appeared to by flying the same colors as us, so we initially thought her to be a friend. Finally, as we positioned ourselves alongside the vessel, our captain hailed the friendly ship and asked of her purpose. Just then, a mighty broadside rang out of her, and smashed us well! That is when she rang up her true colors, and we realized that indeed she was French. She must have been out on the same business as ours, to scout for our fleet. We exchanged broadsides for some time, and the ships of both countries were in bad resort. Many a good sailor was dispatched during this period. We were finally able to heave to, and found ourselves in the most agreeable position at the stern of the Frenchman. From this view, her name was clear, Le Reine Mere (The Queen Mother). “I’ll never forget that name as long as I am graced to live”, added the man. Recalling the name easily, as it was etched into his memory. “Pleased with our favorable position, the captain ordered a fierce bombardment with the guns on our starboard side. The command was given, and we fired at once, the cannons unleashed their deafening fury, raking our opponent stern to stem. The Frenchman was left devastated, and killed a good number of her men”.

“The captain ordered the ship to come up alongside her and prepare to board. The ships crashed together and grappling hooks were thrown, and used to lash the two wooden hulks together. The quartermaster saw to it that the boarding parties had weapons, and the command was given to board the ship. The two forces clashed, and swords flew as musket fire rang through both vessels”. The ragged man suddenly looked solemn, and seemed to stare off into the distance, as if he was watching this battle replay just outside the tavern walls. “My brother was part of the boarding party”, he said as a somewhat proud semi-smile crept onto his weathered face. “He was led by a midshipman, just recently promoted to lieutenant named Norris. Norris was a favorite of the captain, but not so much by the crew. He always seemed to be off on his own writing letters, or staring out to sea. Not much of a friendly man with his own crew, but found the company of other ships officers more agreeable while at port, or visited whilst at anchor. Many a rumbling was heard amongst the men of how he was thought to be an unsavory sort. 

The lieutenant leapt over the railing onto the French vessel followed by his men. They fought with heart and vigor through the Frenchmen on the top deck, and made their way below. The lieutenant led them into a cabin only to be met by a line of French marines with their muskets drawn to protect their captain, who by this time was hiding behind them. Lieutenant Norris, faced with this sight, cowardly jumped behind his men as the French fired. His men, now abandoned with no leader, were left vulnerable, and one shot rang true enough, and entered my brother’s chest, killing him instantly”. The stranger paused, as it was apparent in his voice, his wound from losing his brother had not yet healed sufficiently. Clearing his throat, he resumed his story. “After the line had fired, the men that had withstood the blast, charged forward (though leaderless), cutting the musketeers to pieces along with the ship’s captain. Immediately after, the men took their own cowardly lieutenant, and placed him under arrest for the act he had just committed”.

Not too long after, the French man-of-war struck her colors and surrendered. Prisoners were taken on board, and our dead and wounded were brought back to our ship. Norris was presented to the captain, and his shameful actions were explained. The captain, friendly as ever toward his favorite subordinate, did not strip him of his rank, and allowed him to continue serving as before. It was decided however, that when we made port, he would be brought to a court martial to address the charges before him. The crew, not too pleased with the captains’ decision went about the business of consigning our fallen brethren (one of which was my dear brother) to the deep, as was the tradition in the navy. Though Lieutenant Norris had escaped punishment for now, the remainder of the trip he did look much over his shoulder, as he was aware of the crew’s disdain toward him”.

“Arriving back to England, as promised Norris’s court martial was approaching.  The Norris family was a very influential name in the English aristocracy. They reportedly had close ties to the king himself, and this man was set to be on the rise in his naval career, thanks to not much talent in seamanship, but lots of money, and political leverage. The young lieutenant showed up to the event dressed in his most elegant naval uniform, surrounded by an entourage of servants, and “influential” companions. He had the appearance of attending a party or ball, more than a court martial. His accusers arrived looking less than opulent, but in great numbers. There had been quite a few men who witnessed his cowardice that day. Both sides presented their stand on the situation, and though overwhelmingly proven guilty, the verdict did not allow for it to be so. Apparently, his influences were not for naught, and the scoundrel was cleared of all charges. Smugly, he left the court with his entourage, ready to resume his navel career. It was later overheard from a credible source that His Majesty had known of this situation in advance, and saw to it that the verdict was decided well before court had even began. As mentioned before, the king was very friendly with the young officer’s family, and they did not want their beloved name tarnished as well as a blemish on what they were sure would otherwise be an exemplary career for the young lieutenant. The king agreed, and saw to it that the decision went as he had scripted it. To which it did”.

The stranger paused for a long minute. Silence was still throughout the tavern, as he lifted his head, and gazed back upon the still nervous gentlemen. “Good brave men, including my brother died that day”, the man said. “Due to the cowardice of a noble “gentlemen officer” of the king’s navy. He was never accountable for his actions thanks to that “glorious” king that you toast with expressions of joy. You say he and his men are heroes. I say he is a murderer, and his minions are all his tools to this employ.”

The man looked around the table, gazing at each of his table mates one by one. He grabbed his glass of wine, and stood up from the table and yelled. “God save King George, huh”. He then spat upon the floor. “I’ll never drink to the health of a man that stands accomplice to the murder of his own loyal subjects. I say, a pox upon the king, and a pox upon his gentlemen officers”! With that, the scraggly old man drank down the rest of his glass, and slammed it down on the gentlemen’s table. He looked at the men at the table, as if challenging them to say otherwise. After a moment of receiving no response, he picked up his hat off the table, placed it on his head, and walked out of the inn. The men at the table quietly finished their wine without offering any further toasts, politely rose from the table, and also departed the inn not too long after. Grandfather and I were left to remove the glasses, and clean up where the guests had been drinking. We worked fast, and didn’t speak a word to each other while employed with our task.



Rowdiness At A Tavern