Call of Freedom, page 35
Looking through his glass from the vantage point of a balcony that looked over the bay, Major Ingoldsby, exasperated at yet another incoming ship conveying men and provisions to the fort, bellowed his order to his second in command. ‘Sink that ship!’ The officer then passed the order down the hierarchic line until it reached cannoneer William Gething.
Gunner Gething clasped his hands at the prospect of obliterating the incoming ketch. ‘This will teach the bourgeois bitch to be high and mighty with an Englishman,’ he thought to himself. William was the best gunner of the battery, which was how he had managed to get a billet rather than have to stay at the garrison. But he did not think back then that he would end up sleeping and eating in a dank and miserable barn. Worse, since last night, he and James had even been kicked out of that and sent to kip in the crowded garrison with filthy, snoring, smelly soldiers. In a rare spark of ingenuity, James had come up with an excuse to cover the fact that the pair of them had been evicted from their accommodation: ‘The French lady of the house didn’t like the way we eat,’ he had lied. The garrison commander let it go, and nothing more was said, especially as William’s impressive aim and talent for gauging the wind were legendary among those who knew anything about firing a cannon, and today was the day of all days for the artist to show off those talents in style. In truth, William had been stalking this ketch in particular whose destruction would smooth over the lump of indignation inflicted upon him at the Darlingtons’.
He had meticulously set the elevation and the distance, and had compensated for the wind that had dropped to but a gentle southwesterly breeze, which meant it blew roughly in the same direction as his sea-facing 12-pounder cannon. Perfect conditions for a successful shot, he thought to himself, and at a push, he had time to get three in before the ketch could slip away behind the coastline to the half-moon battery, located on the far side of the fort.
All was set, nothing left to chance or Providence. He had been carefully studying Darlington’s comings and goings a long time before the barn incident. In fact, ever since he and James got barred from eating in the house by the haughty French tart. His recent observations unequivocally proved Darlington was smuggling armed men into the fort to counter Major Ingoldsby’s intention to secure it for the king.
‘You ready, Jim boy?’ William called out as he watched the ketch slowly sail toward the engagement area. William’s plan was not to sink the vessel immediately; instead, he planned to first deploy a canister shot to clear the deck. The gunner knew full well that this type of shot was most effective at short ranges, but though it might sweep wide, it would still incapacitate. The canister contained smaller projectiles, such as musket balls and other small metal pieces, packed into the stiff container. The objective was to scatter the projectiles over a wide area to maximize damage against the crew and the rigging. An 18-pounder rather than a 12-pounder would have been ideal; however, William had a trick or two up his sleeve that would enable him to keep the shot tight for as long as possible over the two-hundred-yard stretch to the strike area.
He had chosen a more tightly packed canister, one whose packing he had personally adjusted himself to reduce any gaps. He had also carefully measured the charge to ensure that the canister would not burst too early, keeping the shot pattern tighter as it hurled toward the target. ‘Then she’ll be like a lame duck on a mill pond,’ William had gloated to James. All they would have to do then was fire a solid shot aimed below the waterline, and down she would plummet as good as a cormorant. If he angled the first shot right, there might be nothing left for the French tart to mourn apart from perhaps the head and a few limbs, if they were lucky enough to find them.
Gunner Gething raised his right arm above his head. As he did so, he gave a discreet wave of the left hand to Ducamp at the fort battery, but the Frenchman was too busy to respond.
Still holding his glass, he was frantically waving his arms to try to warn the ketch out on the bay.
William couldn’t help a Machiavellian leer at the thought of how he had outsmarted Ducamp, who couldn’t even fire a shot, just as Ingoldsby had outmanoeuvred the false governor who dared not fire on the king’s men. ‘This is the English army, mate!’ the cannoneer muttered under his breath. ‘Can’t mess with the English army and get away with it!’ He turned to James, brought down his right hand and, giving full voice to the two syllables, he yelled out, ‘FI-RE!’
James touched the fuse with the slow match smouldering on the end of his linstock. William stepped back and plugged his ears with his fingers in anticipation of the beefy blast. He then stood wide-eyed, braced for the thrill of watching the dark, powerful cloud of shimmering projectiles hurtling through the air and into the ketch, and slicing everything in its path to shreds.
He waited another few seconds. Then, unplugging his ears, he turned to the bombardier. ‘Put the fire to the bloody hole, man!’ he bawled.
‘I did, Will,’ said James defensively. ‘Powder must be damp or somink.’
William’s eyes narrowed into horizontal slits as he recalled now how James had shown no enthusiasm when he had told him of his plans of revenge. ‘Revenge in all legality, my son!’ he had crowed. James had tried to reason that Darlington had given them decent food, that he had a family to provide for, and that, after all, they were on the same side. ‘You’ve bloody sabotaged it!’ the gunner hurled.
‘No, Will. Must be a misfire,’ said James on the back foot. Then as an afterthought, he added, ‘Unless it’s a hangfire.’
‘Get out of my face!’ roared William as he pushed the bombardier with such fury that he knocked the big, soft fella off his feet and sent him rolling down the slight elevation of ground, upon which they had hauled the gun carriage. William was sure it wasn’t a hangfire, which was when there was delayed ignition; it would have gone off by now anyway. But if it was, he knew he did not want to be standing in front of the muzzle. William took charge, ire coursing through his veins. He knew his crew could work quickly. They could reload in forty-five seconds. He could still get another two cracks at the target. He would just need to adjust the barrel slightly once it was loaded, and this time, he would take care of setting the fuse himself.
‘Misfire! Reload! Reload!’ he bellowed as the crew had already scrambled to their positions. Timing was everything. ‘Remove the shot!’ Done. ‘Swab the barrel!’ Done.
Meanwhile, recovering from the fall, James looked back at the rapid operation in train, an operation the crew had performed hundreds of times together. William was driving them on. ‘Move it, she’s slipping away!’ he yelled as he took the dowser from the hands of the swabber. ‘Enough! Load the charge!’ Done. ‘Load the wadding!’ Done. ‘Load the canister!’ Home.
But something was amiss, thought James to himself. He could feel it in his bones before it informed his mind. Then it hit him like a cannonball. ‘Will!’ he yelled, getting to his feet, ‘remove the charge! Remove the first charge!’ The first charge should have already been removed. Otherwise, in case of a misfire, there was a good chance it would be damp and inert.
William suddenly realised his error too. The inert charge would only create a barrier and prevent the fresh charge from igniting. But there was an even more important reason as well. Double the charge would exert too much force on the barrel. There was a chance it would explode. ‘Damn it!’ roared William. In his mad frustration, he snatched up the worm—which featured a double spiral attached to a long shaft, used to pull out unwanted material from the cannon barrel—and thrust it inside the barrel to reach for the canister while the captain’s calls continued fast and furious: ‘Fire at the ship! Fire at the ship!
But as William hit the canister with the tip of the worm, he heard a faint but alarming sound that filled him instantly with dread. It was the fizz of powder. He let go of the worm and stepped away from the muzzle. ‘Hangfire!’ he screamed out. But his alarm was cut short by an almighty, earth-quaking blast. Then it all became a terrible mess as gunner William and the other five members of the red-uniformed cannon crew were blown upward with the rise of the ground. The cannon had exploded in a flare of red and orange. Moments later, it was raining bits of red and black.
Down by the half-moon battery, Didier Ducamp caught the great flare of the blast, then heard the boom as it rolled like thunder slowly across the bay. The freak explosion momentarily convinced him of the Holy Spirit's undeniable presence, as he realised that gunner William's cannon had burst.
After the detonation that sent hundreds of gulls into flight, there befell an eerie silence as each man within and outside the fort endeavoured to comprehend what had happened. Ducamp instinctively crossed himself as per his Catholic upbringing but thanked the Protestant God that Darlington would make it back in one piece, and that Didier would not be duty bound, after all, to provide for his friend’s family.
The shock wave had hurled James several yards further from the epicentre of the explosion. Moments later, dazed and sprawled amid a pile of mess and dust, he rolled over, pressing the ground with his left hand to pick himself up slowly to his stumbling feet, his ears still ringing.
He turned in a full circle to make sure his bearings were right and stopped, his eyes levelled at the space where the cannon had been. ‘Will?’ he called out as the sharp, acrid odour with undertones of metallic and burnt organic scents filled his nose. He coughed, squinted, and rubbed his bloodshot left eye with his left hand as the foul-smelling smoke and dust began to settle where the obliterated barrel and carriage had gouged the ground. It at last dawned on him that the crew and Will were gone, blown to smithereens.
Meanwhile, the shock and horror of the explosion began to hit home to the other battery artillerymen nearby, some covered in the grim fallout, who now approached to view the scene of desolation. Then all eyes fell on James. ‘Weren’t my fault,’ he said dumbly.
‘James, your arm, man!’ said a squat soldier from Newcastle upon Tyne, ignoring James’s comment.
‘What?’ said James, instinctively raising his right arm on which all eyes seemed to be fixed. But to his surprise, the space where his arm should have appeared was empty, and his limb felt weightless. Becoming panicked, he peered down his arm and rather comically felt the air at its extremity only to eventually realise that his forearm was missing. It must have been severed by a piece of falling shrapnel.
‘Well, man,’ said the Geordie, ‘it might have been worse. I mean, you can still fire a cannon, can ya not?’ But James there and then decided he no longer wanted to fire cannons. He just wanted to go home.
The detonation brought Major Ingoldsby from his viewpoint and charging out from his HQ. The tragedy would have a moral impact on his men, he thought to himself once he had found out what had happened. From experience, he knew that how he managed the situation would either bring him love or resentment. So, he ordered a cease-fire and an inquiry, although it slipped his mind to find out about the names of the victims.
A short while later, there came a knock on his HQ door, and instead of handing him a report on the cannon explosion, the messenger said, ‘Sir, I am to inform you that Colonel Sloughter’s ship has been sighted. Wind permitting, she should be in New York by tomorrow, sir.’
Chapter 26
March 19, 1691
New York
News of the arrival of the long-awaited governor had already rippled through the town to the fort by the time, the following day, Ingoldsby had dispatched Colonel Dudley with an urgent plea to H.M.S. Archangel.
Anchored in the Narrows, the man-of-war’s advance into the bay of New York continued to be hampered by adverse winds. So, once Dudley had conveyed the critical need for the governor’s presence onshore, Colonel Sloughter, standing tall in full regalia, sank one last draught of Madeira wine to fortify himself for the final passage to port. He had already survived one near disaster on the rocks of Barbados, where the Archangel had lost thirty-seven feet of her false keel—one reason for his delay—and he was loathe to court danger so soon again at his age. Yet, recognizing the urgency, he consented to an undignified row to shore, instead of waiting for the wind to turn.
Indeed, the people of New York, weary from the extended standoff between Leisler’s defenders and Ingoldsby’s forces, had been waiting all night and all morning in the hope that the new governor’s arrival would herald the end of the conflict.
On that Thursday afternoon of March 19th, a cold north wind sent ominous clouds coursing over the half-moon battery, where Darlington and Ducamp were wrestling with furling the mainsail they had left out to dry that morning.
Looking out across the bay, Daniel caught sight of the silhouetted pinnace braving the choppy waters as it advanced toward the harbour, the oarsmen heaving into the wind, with two officials sitting bent forward holding their hats. So, they had got their man, Daniel thought to himself, realising the significance in the unceremonious arrival that underscored the weight of Sloughter’s first mission: to weave together without prejudice the frayed thread of a divided city.
As the pinnace cut fiercely through the waves toward the heart of New York, it became clear to Daniel that Sloughter’s landing would not simply herald a new chapter, but set the stage for a final, decisive confrontation that would determine the very fate of its people and governance for years to come. Would the old order be restored? Could Leisler find a place in this new arrangement? If that were so, how would he work with his rivals? Or would he and his council face retribution? Daniel knew the stakes were especially high for a foreign-born New Yorker like Leisler, who did not count among the town's grandees. And Sloughter, even though he was from far across the ocean, was after all one of them. Would these birds of a feather flock together against this popinjay?
If only Leisler could have acted on the news of the governor’s arrival before his adversaries could get their grips on him, thought Darlington. Sloughter would arrive amidst the intended council’s scorn of the elected governor and Ingoldsby’s relish to see his demise.
Meanwhile, Ducamp finished fastening his side of the sail to the spar and joined Daniel’s gaze over the turbulent bay. ‘It’ll take a strong leader to stand up to a pack of vengeful hounds.’
‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ returned Daniel.
‘They won’t be making any compliments about the restored defences or the new battery, for sure.’
‘Nor the war efforts Leisler has personally financed to preserve us from the French.’
‘True.’
‘They’ll portray him to Sloughter not as a New Yorker empowered by the people to safeguard their lives and livelihood, but as a usurper bent on taking the power from the crown.’
‘Aye, my fear too,’ said Ducamp with resignation in his voice. ‘But at least we thwarted a civil war.’
‘It came dangerously close, though.’
‘Thank William for the cease-fire, eh?’
‘Ha, still can’t believe the scoundrel tried to sink me. But let us not speak too soon. Leisler will not accept anything less than a formal handover in due form.’
‘That’ll please Ingoldsby, for sure!’
A little later, they heard the bell of the Town Hall as it echoed through the subdued streets of New York, beckoning the townsfolk to gather to bear witness to an event that would mark a significant change.
Darlington left Ducamp at the battery to finish furling the last sail and rendezvoused at the fort. Ten minutes later, he was standing in Leisler’s office, listening to a message being read out. ‘The colonel has taken the oath as Governor Sloughter before the people of New York,’ the messenger announced breathlessly. Daniel sensed both relief and apprehension amid the haze of pipe smoke. Leisler, who had stood firm in the face of adversity, seemed momentarily unmoored by the news. Sloughter's actions set a course that could not easily be undone, one that Leisler had long anticipated, yet its reality was stark. Daniel felt a deepening concern. The political landscape of New York was transforming as he breathed, and the implications for Leisler and his supporters were troubling.
The messenger continued, ‘And the intended councillors have been sworn in, all except two.’
‘Bayard and Nicholls, I presume,’ Milborne interjected, his voice betraying a hint of concern.
‘That is so,’ the messenger confirmed.
‘Well, they remain confined, though well attended to. Their freedom is the only thing they lack,’ Milborne mused aloud. The room fell silent, each man lost in thought over the implications of this new development.
Daniel knew full well that the absence of Bayard and Nicholls from the council's swearing-in was a pointed act, one that did not bode well for the future. Their freedom, or lack thereof, was a chess piece in a game that was rapidly advancing towards an end.
Leisler's reaction was measured, his voice steady despite the undercurrents of tension. He lowered his pipe. ‘We have acted in the interest of our city and its people, against all odds,’ he stated, his gaze settling fleetingly on each of the members of his council before resting momentarily upon Daniel. He went on, ‘Our actions have been in defence of our homes, our families, and our rights. This we have done with clear consciences and steadfast hearts.’
After a pause for collective thought, Milborne, ever the pragmatist, added, ‘And now we must navigate these new waters with the same resolve and wisdom that have brought us this far. The arrival of Governor Sloughter and the establishment of his council mark a turning point, but our principles remain our guiding star. We still hold the power, and we have the support of the people.’
