Midshipman Porter - In Harms Way: The Porter Saga, #1

By Jack M.D. Owen

Tea and taxes are quickly cited as the reason colonial America broke away from England. It was the cause of 'Free Trade and Sailors Rights' which sustained an infant force of iron men, who gladly served aboard the few wooden ships, of the Continental Navy. Davy Porter, in a lifetime of fights and feuds, shares the courage of ancestors who earned their name during the Holy Crusades, with warriors of the New World.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Owen
• Release date: Dec 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9780938673118

Book preview

HOMECOMING 1786

Baltimore's  background noise of jabbering people, creaking metal-shod wheels over cobble-stones and the hollow thump of empty casks being unloaded onto the dock-side, was suddenly overruled by a booming cannon, off-shore.

Its shock-waves stilled the busy port town scene into silence until the familiar sharp crack of the signal-cannon, fired in response from the fort, eased the tension. Clanging church bells pealed a welcome to the approaching ship, as yet unseen through a fluky Chesapeake Bay mist, broke the  anxious  silence of the quieted crowd. A lone cheer was quickly taken up by others. Colorful flags bearing the bars and stars fluttered from second-story windows.

The quickly swelling crowd soon included the hopeful Rebecca Porter with her son.

Keep a tight hold now, Davy, she admonished the small boy by her side. Contrarily, he loosened a handful of dress he clutched. Her firm grip on his shoulder, tightened.

David Porter Jr. Take hold!

His tiny hand reluctantly resumed its grip, as her elegant but stern face glowered down at him. Then she resumed the search of the weather-worn brigantine slowly working its way into position for docking. Her black eyes glistened in recognition of  her husband, speaking-trumpet in hand, commanding the quarterdeck. 

The jubilant crowd brushed past her, many hands willing to catch the securing lines as in a festive air, the privateer Aurora closed on the dock. For a moment Captain David Porter shifted his attention to meet the penetrating gaze of his wife. A gap-toothed grin blossomed from the depths of his shaggy beard as he mocked a regal wave of his hand to the crowd.  

Rebecca felt herself flush with embarrassment and pleasure at the clowning of her irrepressible husband. Within moments of the ship securing, he clumped down the gangway, clasped her in his arms and kissed her full on the lips.

David! She struggled as he broke off to scoop his son up in his arms. What will people...

"I don't give a damn. How are you, boy? Been looking after your mam like I told you?He rumpled the boy's black curls affectionately, and hugged him close.

Delighted, young David giggled as the whiskers tickled his smooth face. Oh yes sir!

And did you arrange this fine reception for me? teased his father, glancing at the crowd which had subdued somewhat and gathered in small groups earnestly discussing the news of the formal signing of the peace treaty between the United States and Great Britain.   For a moment the boy looked abashed, then replied, Not this time, sir. But I will one day.

Capt. Porter laughed at the determined miniature of himself, and clasped Rebecca to him, despite her show of resistance. I'm sure you will, my boy, I'm sure you will.

Others clustered about them with greetings, talk of the formal peace, and what it would mean to the continued prosperity of the merchandise fleets. The long fight for Independence had touched deeply into the lives of all who gathered around the Porters. They too had suffered, and lost, during the birthing of the nation. What's it to be now, Captain, a shore-berth or back to sea?|asked a well-dressed Baltimore citizen.

Maybe a bit of both, Isiah. I've been thinking it's time for me to do a little bit of fishing, and mebbe raise a few more sprats of me own, he winked and clutched Rebecca closer to him.

Isiah Fulton, prize-agent for the Aurora and a member of the syndicate which financed her, tipped his hat prior to departure. If the continental Navy can't find a place for you, to your liking, you'll be more than welcome to continue command. There's many a navy man beached by the powers that be, who'd welcome the chance.

That I know. But the Porters are fighters, not freighters. And I disbelieve the signing of a piece of paper will keep us out of trouble for long. If I drop too far out of sight, I won't be available to fight, eh?

And a good thing too, snapped Rebecca, possessively clutching her son to her.

And where would we be getting the money to buy fine things for our home, if it wasn't for the prizes we captured? shot back Capt. Porter.

I can live without fancy furniture, and you a whole lot longer if you keep out of the fighting! she retorted. Fulton beat a hasty retreat in face of the public wrangling, shaking his head in despair at the sight of the ruler of the Aurora's quarter-deck unable to quell the domestic mutiny. If he had stayed a few minute longer he would have observed the glib-tongued Captain marshaling his humor to take the sting out of the exchange.

Take it you don't like the fighting’, or anything else to do with it? he posed dolefully.

You can take that as Gospel, David Andrew Porter. She trotted out did his full range of names in emphasis.

He disengaged himself from her, and pointedly held his hands in front of him. In an apparent nervous gesture, he fidgeted with the signature ring on his right hand. Automatically her eyes glanced at the heavy gold band, with its finely-etched motif, and single gem-stone.

How did you get that back? she gasped, impulsively stretching forward to take his hand and examine it. The face of the ring was almost square, the edges and corners worn to a bevel from long use. Its face bore the design of a Saracen sword, surmounted by the Christian cross with a yellow diamond in its center, the whole enclosed by a Muslim arch. It was a talisman which had been in the Porter family since the Crusades. It was awarded to an ancestor who, by securing the king's palace gates in Jerusalem, allowed the final onslaught which drove the hordes from the holy city. The farmer's boy turned fighter, had so impressed others, he had been nick-named Le Porteur, which he promptly Anglicized.

The Boston Jew took a sudden fancy to me, when I stopped in to collect my prize money, he grinned. Of course, the few silver dollars I donated to his welfare, might have helped persuade him.

The talisman had been left as security against the money Capt. Porter needed to move his fledgling family away from the blockaded, starving port of Boston. Rebecca had undergone a difficult pregnancy, and the shortened rations seriously impaired her health, and baby David. Money from the pawned ring enabled her to travel by boat and wagon along the meandering route to Baltimore. There, while still under blockade, the richer soil of the countryside had provided a greater variety of edible essentials.

Caressing the ring reminded her of the torment of that arduous journey, and the arguments which preceded it,

It took a wee bit of fighting, and some small amount of persuasion to the agent, to forward me my share of prize money, Capt. Porter explained. Now, would a peace-loving merchant-man have made as much money, so soon?

She glanced at him suspiciously, sensing he was teasing her into a trap.

N-no, she admitted reluctantly.

Well, here. He leaned toward her and decorously pecked a kiss on her cheek. That’s your freight-carrying captain's gift from a six-month cruise; and here are the spoils of the fighter!  With a flourish he extracted an oilcloth-wrapped package from his tunic, "

She rapidly unraveled the covering, and gasped at its contents.

Tenderly she stroked the sheer silk stockings which lay, gossamer light in the palm of her hand. The elegant luxury of them could never be exposed to public view, but the surge of possessive happiness lifted her spirits to a feminine plane she had not experienced since before the War of Independence began.

Damning protocol and the stares of gawking bystanders, she planted a kiss firmly on Captain Porter's lips, to the delight of Davy. The Porters were reunited as a family, at last. 

@  @  @.

The solid, prosperous city of Baltimore, which had not heard a shot fired in anger during the monumental fight for independence, had provided the safe haven Captain Porter needed. Rebecca and her baby son, had been absorbed into the family life of young David Poe and his wife, while the Captain once again commanded a ship.

As the oldest son of a sea-faring family, he had naturally taken to the life his father, Captain Alexander Porter led. The taciturn patriarch, as unbending as the granite coastline of their Maine homeland, was unable to curb the bubbling sense of fun which constantly flowed from his heir. Once the rudiments of seamanship had been absorbed, Capt. Alexander Porter shifted his irrepressible offspring to the care of an Annapolis-based skipper.

The boy's good at his work and will make a good seaman., Alexander grudgingly admitted. But he's altogether too friendly with all hands 'fore the mast. It won’t do, not if he's to command and have respect.

Captain Silas Cochran hid an amused smile  by stroking his luxuriant mustaches. So you. want me to whip some sense into the lad?

Glumly Captain Alexander Porter nodded assent, his face coloring in the nearest thing to a blush his conservative nature would allow. The boy is too close to me to bear down on him as I should, for his own good. Now Samuel bides be well. and there's no monkey business with him. I only needs look at him and its: 'yessir, nosir, three-bags-full-sir,' .But that David, he sighed. So the oldest Porter boy passed out of direct control on his family, while his brother Samuel remained.

Captain Cochran was not the tyrant he presented when ashore in hostile New England. His loud-mouthed blustering manner was window-dressing for the hard-nosed merchants along the Ironbound coast. His controlled outbursts, one step away from physical violence, were the cause which provided the effect of cutting through nit-picking negotiations designed to whittle away his demands for cargo payments.

Aboard the Maryanne, the stubby brig which wallowed its way from Boston to Charleston and sometimes far into the Atlantic to Bermuda, or deep into the tropical Bahamas islands, Cochran presented a different picture. David Porter was 15 when he stepped aboard the Maryann for the first time, carrying his few personal possessions in a sail-cloth sack.

Little more than 90-foot from beak to transom, a 30-foot beam and two masts reaching 90-feet into the sky to carry as much sail as practicable. Fully-laden, she had a scant six-feet freeborn, with bulwarks pierced to accommodate four four-pounder cannons. A brass swivel mounted forward, and one on the quarter-deck, were her token armament against pirates still prevalent in the Caribbean.

The weapons immediately caught the youngster’s attention, a fact noted by Captain Cochran  emerging from his cabin. Take a good look, boy. They're going to be your main concern from here on in.

Startled, Porter turned his attention to the Captain, uncertain of his status, flushing at the term boy Together they stood by the swivel, joined be a burly seaman who had heard the comment.

Eli Thompson here don't know enough to take the tampions out before he fires the damn guns, so you're assigned to him to remind him. And if you disremember, we'll use your thick head for one and Thompson's for 'tother, understand?

The Captain stalked away, forestalling any protest and neatly depositing Porter as a burr under Thompson's wing. The gunner and his new mate sized each other up. Brawny muscles amply filled the loose cotton blouse Thompson wore, tucked into worn britches, secured by a wide leather belt which circled an engorged belly. His bony dome had recently been shaved, disclosing a barely-healed| gash near the crown.

David Porter recognized the signs of a man who liked his share of rum, and anyone else’s ,to the point where Maryann's low beams between decks were temporarily forgotten, with disastrous consequences. Thompson's memory-lapse with the tampions could readily be explained; too much contact with solid beads could soften the thickest skull.

What you staring at boy?

Thompson aimed a side-winder at his mate, who nimbly ducked the intended cuff. He swung again, and missed. Men who had been busy loading stores, paused to watch the confrontation. There was a strange absence of Captain Cochran or any other deck-officer and the boatswain suddenly seemed preoccupied with studying the intricate grain pattern on the main-mast.

The ship's newest crew member knew he could expect no help. The outcome of the next few minutes would prove the pattern of the upcoming cruise. If he was downed, he would be beggared by all senior hands. If by some chance he decked the monstrous gunner, he would have a permanent enemy aboard.

His dodging had taken him to the ship's side and the ratlines which braced the mizzen mast. Quickly he swung himself to them, not in escape, but to hang upside-down by his legs, monkey-like mimicking the simian to the extent of vigorously scratching his arm-pits and emitting ape-like grunts.

The unexpected spectacle raised laughs and jeers from the crew, egging Thompson into impudence. He lunged at the teasing boy, grabbed a hand-full of air, tethered on the bulwark and with a cry of horror plunged over the side. The sudden silence was by shattered by a violent splash as he struck the waters of Boston harbor.

David, a grin splitting his face, peered over the side where all were clustered to watch. Quickly the grin faded as the splashing figure struck the water frantically with his arms, swiftly being swept away from the ship's barnacle-encrusted side by the ebbing tide. A fast-thinking crew-member hurled a lashed hammock into the water, but it floated out of reach. None ventured into the water. There was a scrabble to man the ship's boat and lower it over the side. But before that task was completed, David jumped feet-first into the water, hand clutched his nose to avert the inrush of  swirling water.

Surfacing, he struck out with an easy stroke to the gasping, blue-faced gunner. Cautiously, David circled him, getting behind him away from the grasps hands clutching for security.

Thompson, you're going to drown if you  don't do as I say, he shouted above the man's bellowing.

Something in the timbre of his voice penetrated the panic of the floundering man who, with an almost physical effort,  forced himself to cease all movement while David looped an arm around his barrel chest, supporting the sailor's shiny-dome on his shoulder.

The youth made no attempt to fight his way against the flow, back to the ship but concentrated on keeping them both afloat. Encouraging shouts, and the splash of oars, heralded the approaching ship's boat, and within minutes, they were being hauled none too gently over the side of the dory-like gig.

Later they were both given Captain Cochran's best broadside; leavened with the order to get into dry clothes before he charged them with damaging ship’s equipment by catching cold. To that end he issued  instructions to draw a tot of rum from the purser, for medicinal use.

Thompson did not get any less belligerent, but he regarded David with awe-like wonder, that a sailor should actually be able to go in the water with no fear, instead of atop it like nature demanded of seamen. Captain Cochran reflected he'd made a good arrangement by shipping aboard his new gunner's-mate. He saw a clown who could break the monotony of a long dull passage, but one who drew the line at action which could endanger the ship, or his shipmates.

Through the following years, as the Maryanne plied the Atlantic trade, the gunner's-mate adapted to the life with ease and pleasure. Capt. Cochran adjusted his rank with the additional responsibilities he placed on him. The guns were never fired in anger, but even when David achieved the position of first-mate, he did not relinquish his interest in the weapons, despite his many other duties.

They were en route from Charleston to Boston, a standard run, when they received news of the debacle at the town square where the King’s soldiers had been harassed; and the first shots of the War of Independence were fired.

The sloop Katy, en route from Rhode Island to Baltimore, spoke to them as they closed by the continental shore-line where the four-knot flowing Gulf Stream they had  hitched from the Bahamas, met. Tensions between the colonies and the mother country had become increasingly fragile as George III's government applied greater restrictions on the lives and trade of the colonists.

A Parliamentary monopoly, instigated by London merchants, limited the markets to which Americans could trade; and at the same time, levied taxes on the new country in the form of import tariffs. Despite protestations from the independent colonies, and a plea to have their representatives seated in parliament to argue their cause, the restrictions grew tighter. It inflamed the hard-working, enterprising colonists, who had wrought productivity from the untamed land. They now had the goods, but no markets to sell them in without paying exorbitant tariffs. A few had ventured into the Mediterranean ports with their goods; and had promptly been set upon by pirates and corsairs plaguing the North African coasts.

More volatile protesters had published broadsides urging a breach with the Mother Country. A step regarding with horror, and incredulity, by Royalists who could not comprehend such a treasonous step. But the winds of change were continually being fanned by protesters, aided in their cause by insensitive edicts issued by the Hanoverian Court's advisers.

Rumors of the situation in the northern seaboard states peculated into the southern plantations, where gentlemen farmers, sustained by a captive labor force of slaves, produced lucrative crops of tobacco and cotton at minimal cost. They too began to pay heed when the gap between expenditure and profit narrowed. They had loaned their support to petitions of protest, confident the measured terms would be considerately reviewed by the Parliament. At first they were annoyed when there was no indication of the restrictions being eased, then they became alarmed at the alternatives facing them.

Travelers' gossip, broadsheets which found their way through the cluster of colonies, and the reports of sea captains to their syndicates, fed the disquiet. The distance from the mother country, and the degree of independence they enjoyed, aroused a resentment at the shabby treatment meted out. The unthinkable, cession, became tap-room talk, and a loose-knit coalition of colony representatives began a correspondence which eventually led to the schism at the fatal congress in Philadelphia.

The two ships wallowed with sails spilling the air, as Captain Cochran and the skipper of the Kate exchanged gossip on the open sea. The news of the Lobster-backs confrontation, withdrawal and the harassing blockade hastily imposed, bore ill for the continuation of their voyage.

Capt. Cochran ordered a course-change which would run them into Delaware Bay, and the as yet peaceful shores of the Chesapeake. We'll take our chances on a smaller profit from our cargo, for I'll not run the chance of an encounter with the press-gang from the blockade, he confided to David.

The young mate agreed, as he knew would other members of the crew, who dreaded the appearance of the black-and-white-hulled British war-ships and the constant threat of impressment they represented. The imperial nature of His Majesty's fleet captains, empowered with a degree of absolute authority, bending a leg to none but King and God, could deprive a colonial of life or liberty at whim.

Even ship's captains were not immune to the wrath of the King's ships. An incident, which fueled the humiliation of Bostonians and roused their fighting spirit, occurred when the master of a coasting sloop ran into harbor, passing a British ship of war. The sloop's big mainsail effectively stole the wind from the square-rigged vessel, before being doused and proceeding under jib alone.

Infuriated, His Majesty's captain dispatched a boat to board the sloop. The boarding officer drew his cutlass and struck the coastal master across the face, imparting a three-inch gash. He damned the master for ...not showing proper respect to a King's ship, then slashed the main-halyards, dropping the main on deck, in a tumbled mass of canvas.

Sea or harbor, the British navy held sway over the lives of all, with instructions from a Parliament fighting to stay in power by off-setting its monumental debts, to make the Colonies pay for the mother-country's administration of them. The American population of 2.5 -million in the early 1770's, had achieved a degree of independent thought and action, while Britain occupied its attention with war with France, Spain and North American Indians. The colonials bucked when the reins of freedom were pulled tighter.

The busy little port of Baltimore was already feeling the benefits of burgeoning trade, as blockades eliminated other sea-ports from open operation. Capt. Cochran nosed his way through the offices of trading agents and merchants, seeking a buyer for his wares, and information regarding the likely turn of events.

He returned aboard with a corpulent, well-heeled merchant, introduced as David Poe who appraised the young mate with a skeptical eye. His hand-shake was firm, and his stern visage evoked a fleeting memory of his late father, Samuel Porter. And then he smiled, warmly, and his countenance changed completely.

You appear to be about the age of my son, Mr. Porter, and somehow I do not envisage him in such a position of responsibility, he said deprecatingly. Your resemblance also brought him to mind, you are much alike on the surface.

Perhaps he'd be good enough to stand the dawn-watch for me, sir, grinned Porter. I would willingly keep his bed warm in exchange.

Poe shook his head, rejecting the offer. His quarter-deck is the Southwark Theater, in Philadelphia. And his dawn would be closer to mid-day than yours, I fear. He is an actor, he explained to the puzzled Porter, and the broad boards he walks are far removed from reality.

Speaking of which, Mr. Poe, cut in Capt. Cochran, perhaps we should go below to discuss the reality of your proposal.In the cramped quarters of the stern cabin, secure from eavesdroppers, Poe outlined their next cruise which would take them to Bermuda.

There is little doubt the country is getting onto a war footing, he explained. "War means food, clothing and munitions idioms must be available at some central point, safe from enemy harassment. An enemy force would be hard-pressed to fight its way through the Chesapeake, into Baltimore, whereas the coastal ports can easily be blockaded. Munitions and clothing are not my province, but salted foodstuffs is. But to salt the product down, we have first to obtain the salt, and that will be in the hands of the enemy.

"There was no disputing his choice of the word 'enemy'. His proposal to sail with all haste to Bermuda to load-up with salt before that British outpost became aware of the imminent prospect of war, would be a patriotic and profitable action.

You’ll be racing against events which are rapidly putting us on a collision course, said