Gave Proof Through the Night

By Xlibris US

Set in and around Baltimore, Maryland, during the final year of the War of 1812, the story revolves around Mary Pickersgill, the flag maker who was commissioned to sew the oversized garrison flag that flew over Fort McHenry, hence to be known as the Star-Spangled Banner. At the same time, in the small hamlet of Upper Marlboro, three friendsLiam OConnor, Nathaniel Atkinson, and Malcolm Dalrympleset out on adventures of their own, setting out to free their friend, the elderly Dr. William Beanes, who has been imprisoned by the British for espionage. Along the way, they will become ensnared in the war, which has now centered around Baltimore; and they will interact with some of the more colorful historic figures of the time, including the lawyer who penned the words to our national anthemFrancis Scott Key.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499052282

Book preview

Gave Proof

through the Night

James A. Wynne

Copyright © 2014 by James A. Wynne.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014913065

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4990-5229-9

           Softcover   978-1-4990-5230-5

      eBook   978-1-4990-5228-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Front and Back Cover Design by Jason Wynne

Rev. date: 07/29/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1     An Ominous Beginning

Chapter 2     Nine Years Later

Chapter 3     The Politics of 1812

Chapter 4     Coming of Age

Chapter 5     Creating the Flag

Chapter 6     A Chance Meeting

Chapter 7     Celebrating the Holiday

Chapter 8     Christmas Dinner

Chapter 9     An Explanation

Chapter 10   Horse Sense

Chapter 11   Competition and Confusion

Chapter 12   An Old Acquaintance

Chapter 13   A Letter from Baltimore

Chapter 14   The Three Musketeers

Chapter 15   The End of the Beginning

Chapter 16   The Abernathy Farm

Chapter 17   No Argument Necessary!

Chapter 18   Key’s Other Profession

Chapter 19   The Next Morning

Chapter 20   A Meeting With the Duke

Chapter 21   A Division in the Ranks

Chapter 22   The Wager Begins

Chapter 23   Dinner at the Pickersgill Home

Chapter 24   The Ride Home

Chapter 25   Preparations for an Invasion

Chapter 26   Enlisting…of Sorts

Chapter 27   Growing Pains

Chapter 28   A New Client

Chapter 29   The Executive Mansion

Chapter 30   The Preparations Continue

Chapter 31   A Visit to the Country

Chapter 32   Invasion

Chapter 33   Battle Plans

Chapter 34   Uncovering the Truth

Chapter 35   The Battle of Bladensburg

Chapter 36   Attending the Casualties of War

Chapter 37   The Day After the Battle

Chapter 38   The Sharpshooters

Chapter 39   The Incident

Chapter 40   Saving President Washington

Chapter 41   Enlisting Help

Chapter 42   A New Mission

Chapter 43   An Unexpected Ride

Chapter 44   Under A White Flag

Chapter 45   Preparing to Defend the City of Baltimore

Chapter 46   Moving to the Rear

Chapter 47   Fighting for Freedom

Chapter 48   The Battle of North Point

Chapter 49   Nursing the Wounded

Chapter 50   The Bombs Bursting In Air

Chapter 51   By the Dawn’s Early Light

Chapter 52   Hampstead Hill

Chapter 53   The Aftermath

Chapter 54   Becoming A New Man

Chapter 55   An Agent for the Government

Chapter 56   Remembering a Friend

Chapter 57   Redemption

Chapter 58   Health and Prosperity

Epilogue

DEDICATION

This is the third book in my continuing series of historical fiction that concerns itself with curious historic characters—warts and all. Very often we find ourselves lionizing our Founding Fathers, elevating them to almost mythic and beatific levels—forgetting to consider them as people as real as anyone found in our own generation. Seeing these heroes as real people does not diminish their accomplishments as historic figures—it, in fact, increases our perception of them and helps us understand why they acted and thought the way they did.

This book, as well as the rest of the series, has been a labor of love—but there are many people who must share in the thanks for helping me put this story on paper. First, and foremost, to the continuing inspiration that comes from my wife of more than forty years, Marlene—especially for her patience during the time spent away from her side.

Second, to my wife’s parents—Leonard and Mary Ann—who, in turn, inspired my own children with the love of the National Emblem, the flag of the United States of America. Patriotism can be displayed in many ways, but one of our most consistent forms of visual patriotism is seen in how we display the Star-Spangled Banner—and yet, at the point in our history when this story is set, there were still few rules governing how our flag should be designed.

Finally, continuing a practice started with my previous volume, I have patterned several of the characters—both fictional and historic—after people I have come to know, particularly the personalities given over to some of the young adults in the plot. I have loosely based these characters upon some of my high school students, and one character I have based upon someone much closer to me. So… to D.J., N.T., I.C., C. K., and especially M.W.—thank you!

To study our past is to learn our future.

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CHAPTER 1 – JULY 1804

An Ominous Beginning

The three men sat quietly on the barge as it made its way across the river. The only voice that could be heard was that of the fourth man aboard, the bargeman, who would make an occasional quip about the weather or the choppiness of the river water. The fact of the matter was that the man operating the barge was well aware where his human cargo was headed for this early morning in July—and for what reason.

The bargeman, Homer Wills, was already a veteran of such crossings. Most of them had been exactly like this one, departing Manhattan Island several miles upstream of New York City in order to take advantage of the strong river currents—and always before dawn. Sometimes it had been late fall or even during the dead of winter, when the water temperature was nearly frigid; but this morning in July, the weather was already hot and humid. It was almost sunrise, and the temperature was already in the midseventies.

Homer eyed his passengers. All three were gentlemen, which made sense, of course, because only gentlemen would behave in this manner. He had heard one of the men call one of their number by the title of doctor, but that really didn’t have much of an impression on Homer. The person that did the least amount of talking was obviously the leader of the group—and probably the one responsible for this little venture across the milewide expanse of the river. The third gentleman held a small wooden box in his hands. Homer was also well-acquainted with this property. It would be most useful in playing out this charade of manliness, he thought to himself.

Homer had spent his entire life making his living off the Hudson River. At nearly sixty-five years old, he had witnessed a great deal of activity on the mighty river during his lifetime. He was only twenty-one when he acquired his license to ferry people from one side to the other, but most of his trips were purely for the purpose of carting goods to the New Jersey side. He would push off from his dock on the Manhattan side, just below the bluff that was known as Morningside Heights. His passengers would make the trek up from the city on the southern end of the island—a distance of more than seven miles—by wagon or carriage. Most first-time passengers would have some sort of invective to utter upon looking directly across the river at the New Jersey Palisades. It was hard for them to imagine that they needed to begin so far upstream in order to land at their correct destination. The return trip would bring them, with any luck, to a mooring in the heart of the city—once again taking advantage of the prevailing currents. Homer would tie up there but would then hitch his barge to a mule team and make the journey upstream to begin all over again the next day.

Homer thought back to when, only a few years into piloting his barge, the river was swollen with over three hundred ships of the British Navy. That had been in 1775. For the next few years, Homer was either searched or had his cargo seized by members of the royal navy. Luckily for him, the British had never quite timed their inspections correctly; they never searched his barge on those occasions when he actually was carrying contraband. He had been on hand to witness the Continental Army and its narrow escape from the island. There was some talk that his barge would be called in to service to transport the army across the river to Fort Lee, but this was abandoned in favor of using the Gloucester fishermen and their boats. Homer had the luxury of watching the whole evacuation play out, but his presence there that morning certainly made him suspicious in the eyes of the British.

But that was so long ago. The country was beginning to establish itself. He had voted for the first two presidents—Washington and Adams. He really didn’t like or trust anyone from the south, so he refused to vote for Jefferson, but he was happy to see that the new system of government was working as it should.

The fog was lifting off the surface of the water as they neared the New Jersey shore. Their destination was a small sandy beach, about five hundred yards north of Weehawken Cove—the same inlet where English sea captain Henry Hudson, sailing under a Dutch flag, anchored his ship, the Half Moon, several hundred years earlier.

No sooner had the flat bottom of the barge run aground on the beach than the three men stood and began to disembark. Homer’s instructions had been clear; he was to wait there for their return. Homer spoke up in a steady voice but not too loudly. Good luck to you, sir. May divine providence watch over you.

One of the men turned back to glance at Homer, a quizzical look on his face. To him, this was all very new, but he hadn’t counted on his ferryman being more experienced than he in this sort of thing.

The three men climbed single file up a rocky narrow path. In just a few minutes, they reached the top of the bluff. Looking across a small clearing amid a grove of trees, they could see that they were not alone. Two other gentlemen were busy clearing away downed trees, branches, and other debris that had fallen onto the otherwise obstacle-free field. Taking notice of the arrival of the newcomers, the other two men approached.

There were the customary and expected salutations; they were, after all, gentlemen. The two principal players then separated, one to each side of the pitch while two other gentlemen carefully measured off exactly ten paces. Then one of the other men on board Homer’s barge produced that small wooden box, opening it to reveal a matched set of dueling pistols. While the rest of the company stood and watched, each of the principals loaded his pistol. They walked to the predetermined spot—ten paces apart—and one of the spectators pronounced the word present. One of the men, the one who had just crossed the river of Homer Wills’s barge, immediately fired his pistol, not bothering to take aim but rather shooting his weapon into the treetops. The spectator now counted, One … Two … Three … present, and the other adversary took careful aim and fired his weapon. His target slumped to the ground, where he was at once attended by the rest of the party. Even the shooter, looking at that moment, remorseful for his actions, walked toward the victim, who was now very much in agony. One of the victor’s party quickly approached the fallen gentleman. I am a doctor, he added as he knelt before the stricken man. If I can be of any service to you, Doctor.

The third man on Homer’s barge was, in fact, a medical doctor. He began his investigation of the wound but was paused in his process when the victim announced, It’s a mortal wound, Doctor.

Doctor? called out the victor’s second, already in the process of gathering up the remorseful shooter in order to make a hasty exit from the scene. We are leaving presently … You should come too.

The man stood. There was nothing else he could do for the poor unfortunate victim of the duel, so he retreated back to the company of the victorious men who had brought him to that side of the river.

The victim’s doctor determined that the man needed to be brought back to the city as quickly as possible, and thus, he and the victim’s friend carried the wounded man back down to the waiting barge. As Homer saw them approaching, he hopped off his barge and helped carry the poor, unfortunate man back aboard. They immediately set off for Manhattan Island.

The second shot fired in the duel had been true. It had entered the man’s abdomen and torn through several vital organs, causing a great deal of internal damage. The ball came to be lodged up against the man’s spinal column, creating much pain as well as paralysis. The man lingered in agony for another day before dying. He was buried in the graveyard at Trinity Church, the largest Anglican Congregation in New York City, located at Wall Street.

The man who had killed him was Aaron Burr, sitting vice president of the United States, now wanted in both New York and New Jersey for murder, for dueling was considered illegal in each state.

The dead man was Alexander Hamilton, the man who had been one of George Washington’s closest advisors and had served as first secretary of the treasury.

CHAPTER 2

Nine Years Later

Where are those girls?

Now, Miz Mary, you know that your two nieces like to take their time when you send them on errands. This should not be a surprise to you.

Hush, Grace, Mary Pickersgill said. Her reply was gentle, though. She thoroughly liked the young African woman who had been indentured to her. You know it was only a rhetorical question.

Excuse me?

Mary smiled. That means that it doesn’t require an answer, dear.

Grace nodded thoughtfully, but she really had no idea what her mistress was talking about.

At thirty-six years old, Mary Pickersgill was about as modern a woman as one could be in 1813. She had been born in the same year that the country declared its independence from England. She married early, had one child—a daughter named Caroline—and then, just as quickly as she had married, became a widow. Needing to survive, she fell back on the trade that she had learned as a child from her mother—the art of making flags and banners. She moved from Philadelphia back to her childhood home of Baltimore and quickly established herself as a maker of nautical ensigns and flags. Her business was a family business. She employed her daughter; her two nieces, Jane and Eliza Young; the indentured servant, Grace Wisher; and even her mother, Rebecca, who was now in her seventies.

But her business was also thriving. She was located in one of the largest seaports in the young nation, Baltimore, and the traffic from the port—as well as the demand for nautical flags—was impressive. But she had also managed to get several military contracts, flags for the new navy that was in the process of being built.

Mary Young Pickersgill was a singular anomaly for her time. She ran a highly successful business, which was conducted from the security of her own house—a house that she purchased on her own from the profits of the business. Living and thriving in a world dominated by men, Mary had managed to become a mainstay in her community—a community which was, once again, about to be plunged into turmoil.

She glanced back over at Grace, who was busying herself finishing off the edge of a signal flag. Even though she enjoyed the success that Baltimore and its seafaring opportunities had afforded her, she was also knowledgeable of the fact that Maryland was strongly divided over the issue of slavery. She was not politically active—that was still very much a man’s world—and except for the president’s wife, Dolley, she knew of no woman who could wield any form of political power. If this was the case, she had pondered, there was no real use to bother with it in the first place. But that didn’t stop her from becoming active in other ways, particularly in the Abolitionist Society in Baltimore, which was small and deemed inconsequential.

Mary watched Grace leave the room but heard her voice moments later as she greeted another resident in the hallway. Mornin’,’ Mary heard her say. The bright and cheery tone in Grace’s voice was reserved for Mary’s daughter, Caroline, who—like her mother and her grandmother—was also a fine seamstress.

Caroline entered the room in quick stride, holding a cup of tea. What is wrong, Mama?

It’s those cousins of yours! groused Mary. I don’t understand why those girls can never be on time.

Caroline sighed, her exasperation almost as great as her mother’s, but she bore it far better. There is no use getting yourself all worked up over something you can’t possibly hope to change. Jane and Eliza are simply forces of nature.

I’d like to give them a force of my nature, threatened Mary. But Caroline knew better. Mary, for all of her complaining, truly loved her nieces and would always favor them with additional second chances.

Caroline laughed at her mother’s veiled threat. Shall we get down to work, Mama?

We can try, my dear. Did you notice if your grandmother was stirring?

I do believe that she is awake, Mama, but I have not seen her yet this morning.

The Pickersgill household was comprised entirely of women. In addition to Mary and her daughter, Caroline, Mary’s mother, Rebecca, also lived in the house—although Rebecca was now quite elderly. Mary had learned all she could from her mother, who was also a talented seamstress. Rebecca could still be called upon to lend a hand every once in a while, but her eyes were now failing her, so her usefulness was limited to basting seams.

Which order will we be working on today, Mama? Caroline asked.

The pennants for Captain McDonald’s sloop, her mother answered. He needs them by the end of this week.

He needs them by the end of this week? Caroline asked, sarcasm dripping with every word. He just gave you that order on Monday, and yet he expects delivery by the weekend! It’s as if he thinks we are at war!

Calm yourself, Caroline, Mary said gently, and remember that … somewhere on this continent, we are at war. Mary sighed deeply and with an air of regret. We are only women living in a man’s world. In the meanwhile … while we wait for that glorious day to come when women will be on a par with men… I have charged him double for our inconvenience.

Good for you, Mama!

Mary Young Pickersgill was well aware of her place in the world, but she was also a shrewd businesswoman who was also aware that she offered the members of the maritime community a service that few others could fulfill, and even if there were other flag makers in the harbor area of Baltimore, the word on the street had been for several years that Mary Pickersgill produced the finest product to be found.

But Mary’s thoughts were still on Caroline’s earlier statement. Caroline … please don’t bring up the subject of war! You weren’t yet born during the last war to remember it, but I do. It would be my hope that President Madison will be able to quickly resolve this conflict before it spills over the rest of the country. No good can come of it!

I know, Mama. I know, soothed Caroline. But still … don’t you think war is almost inevitable?

Mary reached into a large wardrobe and produced several triangular-shaped pennants. She handed one of them, a yellow one, to her daughter. We have far too much work to do today to worry about the war being inevitable, Caroline. We need to worry about those things we know are truly inevitable, and the fact that Captain McDonald will be here on Saturday morning for his pennants … is inevitable.

Mary was referring to the fact that, up until this point in time, the war, which had begun the previous year, had been fought mainly on the high seas in Canada and in the Western Territories, which were responsible, in large part, for the advent of hostilities.

Caroline nodded graciously and took up her needle. Her mother had handed her a yellow pennant, which needed the finishing work added, particularly the dark-blue overlay that formed the shape of a cross. This needed to be done on both surfaces of the pennant. As she was stringing the heavy thread through the needle, she heard the front door of the house open and then shut with a bang. This noise was then followed by giggles. Caroline’s cousins had finally arrived.

Caroline watched her mother rise quickly from her sewing table and head toward the door. Undoubtedly, there would be a reprimand … the only issue was the degree of severity. Caroline knew that her mother needed the extra hands to complete the order on time, so she had a feeling that her mother would let the girls off with just a minimum of scolding.

Where have you two been? Mary asked.

Nowhere, said Jane.

Nowhere? asked Mary. Since when is nowhere a better alternative to somewhere?

Where is somewhere? asked Eliza, who was very serious about her question.

Here … is somewhere, foolish girl! I need both of you to assist us with the sewing. We need every available minute if we are going to finish the order by Saturday. Do you understand?

Jane, who was an intelligent girl of sixteen, quickly agreed, We are sorry, Aunt Mary.

Very well, answered Mary. Please join Caroline in the workroom. Grace will be joining with us in a bit as soon as she finishes her morning chores.

How is Grandmama today? asked Eliza.

I am sure she is her usual cantankerous self, answered Mary. Now get to work, girls. And with that said, she shooed them away to the workroom. But Eliza had reminded her that she had best check on her mother. The elderly woman was a bit more than Grace could handle by herself; at least, that’s the way she wanted it to appear. Mary turned and grasped the newel post at the bottom of the staircase and pulled herself onto the first step, reluctantly beginning the ascent of the stairs.

About three slow steps up, she heard a knock on the front door. Her first inclination was to mutter under her breath that Captain McDonald had returned, either to demand an earlier delivery date for his pennants or to cancel the order that she had halfway completed. As she descended the stairs, she could see through the tiny side windows around the door frame. Even though slightly distorted, she could tell that the person waiting at the door was not wearing a naval officer’s uniform. She muttered another oath to herself, this time silently.

She drew back the door. There standing with his elongated cap in his hand was indeed a military officer, but this man was in the army, not the navy. She had never seen this officer before this moment.

Mrs. Pickersgill? asked the officer.

Yes?

I am Major George Armistead of the United States Army, madam. The major finished introducing himself with a curt bow from the waist.

It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Major, replied Mary. How can I be of assistance to you?

I have recently been appointed to the command of the fort in Baltimore Harbor …

Oh … Fort McHenry? inserted Mary.

Ah … you know it, I see.

Oh yes. I was able to watch the construction of the fort from my back porch, sir. Will you step inside?

Thank you, madam. Armistead stepped through the door and into the small foyer of Mary’s home. I understand from the officers down by the wharf—the naval officers—that you are the finest seamstress and makers of flags and pennants to be found in Baltimore.

You flatter me, sir, said Mary. Please step into my parlor and have a seat.

The two sat in comfort in Mary’s parlor to discuss business. I have come on such business, Mrs. Pickersgill. I want to commission a flag for the fort.

A garrison flag? asked Mary, mindful of her terminology.

Why, yes … a garrison flag, repeated the major, astonished that a female would have an accurate knowledge of military ensigns. Actually, Mrs. Pickersgill … I need to commission … two flags.

Mary nodded her head. As a businesswoman engaged in the business of making flags, no one had to tell her that two flags were better than one. The other flag is what we call a storm flag. In other words—

For use in a battle, she interrupted again. One is for show, the other … more practical.

Once again, the major was surprised at Mary’s knowledge. I could learn a lesson from you in military decorations, Mrs. Pickersgill.

Please, Major … call me Mary.

Thank you … Mary, said the major with a smile. I would like the storm flag to measure seventeen feet by twenty-five feet.

That is a very good-size flag, Major, commented Mary. That is much larger than any flag I have sewn for a ship of the line.

Perhaps, thought the major, but I think that is a good dimension for our purposes. I would like the garrison flag to be even larger: thirty by forty-two.

Thirty feet by forty-two feet? Mary exclaimed. Major … I have never made a flag that large! A flag that size would require a great deal of material—so much so, that I hope when it is raised it doesn’t just cling to the pole.

The intended ‘pole’ is ninety feet tall, so it will have perspective, Mary.

I see, commented Mary, thinking while she was speaking.

Is this request beyond your expertise? he gently asked.

I didn’t say that, Major, Mary quickly replied. I have to give this a bit of thought, though. I don’t know where I will lay the thing out. The dimensions of that flag are larger than the outer walls of this house.

Major Armistead nodded, seeing her dilemma. I was also told that you are a woman of creativity … imagination … and of great ingenuity.

Mary smiled at the major. The fact of the matter was—she loved a challenge. But the other reality was that she was very much a businesswoman. How much will you pay for these flags, Major?

It will be a government contract, Mary, he answered, a note of apology in his voice. I am sorry.

Mary nodded slowly. She knew that the term government contract meant that she might not see payment for these flags for months … if at all. If war with the British was imminent, as many seemed to think, then her position in this was precarious at best. She may not get paid at all, especially if the British win the war.

I have worked for government wages before, Major, said Mary. I will be happy to accept whatever terms they deem fit.

That is very gracious of you, Mrs. Pickersgill …

Mary …

The major smiled again. Mary … you do not know the terms, yet you agree without blinking an eye. I happened to find out earlier that the war department will pay you about $400 for the garrison flag and about $150 for the storm flag.

That fee includes the materials, I suppose?

Yes, it does, confirmed the major. I don’t know how these terms compare with other contracts you may have had this year. They sound … generous.

"They are generous, Major." Mary smiled. But the smile disguised the fact that she was already calculating the cost of the materials plus any labor costs for her family members. Grace was an indentured servant, so she worked for nothing, but she always gave something to the girls. Even so, she thought, she would end up with about $450, which would run the house for over a year.

Then we are agreed? he asked.

Agreed, said Mary.

The major switched mental gears—from negotiator to politician. I must tell you that both flags need to be constructed based upon the terms of the Second Flag Act of 1794. Are you familiar with these guidelines?

Let me see …, said Mary in a pensive tone. Is that the act that allowed for the fourteenth and fifteenth states in the Union to be represented on the flag? The major, astonished at her quick answer, could not even reply. It called for the addition of two more stripes—one red and one white—to represent Vermont and Kentucky. Am I correct?

Absolutely! How did you …"

How do I know about the Second Flag Act, Major? The major did not answer her question but simply stared at her with amazement. Flag making is my business, sir. I would not be able to keep a roof over my head if I was not familiar with every tidbit of information regarding my craft.

But you’re—

Oh, Major, she interrupted, I do hope you were not about to say … ‘But you’re a woman!’

The officer closed his eyes. Yes, I will admit it. I was just about to ask how it was that a woman has this kind of business acumen.

Necessity, Major!

I don’t follow you, Mary.

It is quite simple, really, she answered. I lost my husband a few years back, so I decided to move back here to Baltimore and go back into the craft that I had learned from my mother many years before. I decided that if I was going to do anything, that I might as well do it well. At this point, Grace quickly walked down the staircase and entered the parlor. Grace … this is Major Armistead.

Pleased to meet you, Major, announced Grace. Missus … your mama is all dressed and washed. She is having a fit about not getting her breakfast brought up. I told her that she needed to come downstairs, but she won’t have any of it!

Grace … please inform my mother that we have hot wheat cakes waiting for her downstairs.

We do? asked the surprised girl.

Just tell her that, Grace. We will worry about the wheat cakes later … that’s if she remembers that we are supposed to have then.

Yes, Missus, replied Grace, who turned quickly and bounded up the stairs.

The major looked in the direction of the girl. Is she … your house slave?

For heaven’s sake . . . No!

I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.

I am not offended easily, Major, Mary answered. I can tell by the sound of your voice that you come from south of here … Virginia, perhaps?

Exactly … Virginia.

I know that you Virginians keep slaves … and I am not going to tell you how to run your business … because your business is your business. But … even though I live and work in Baltimore, which has always been very divided on the question concerning slavery … I must tell you that I abhor the practice!

The major prepared an answer and was about to speak when Mary held up a hand to silence him. Major … Grace is an indentured servant.

The major was certainly knowledgeable of that term, so he simply nodded his head. Work quickly, Mary. War is coming … we just do not know when … but it will come, I can almost guarantee that! I would like to have the fort ready … if they dare to enter the harbor … and I am sure they will because—

Because Baltimore is the largest seaport in the country.

Yes, it is, replied the major, but there are other reasons as well, which I am not at liberty to discuss with you. Mary nodded her head. She was aware that there were always areas of conversation with the military that could not be breached. How long do you think it will take to make these flags?

A few weeks perhaps, said Mary, maybe a little more … maybe a little less.

That sounds just fine, answered the major, standing to take his leave. I will check back in with you sometime next week, when next I come to the city.

CHAPTER 3

The Politics Of 1812

St. John’s College was the third oldest institution of higher learning in the country. Established in 1696, during the Colonial era, the only schools predating its charter were Harvard College in Boston and the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg. The college and its administration took an enlightened approach to a young man’s education. The curriculum had been devised around a canon of required readings called simply the Great Books. All students were to read these books and then actively participate in lively discussions with their peers in order to gain a deeper understanding of what was contained therein.

In the last few years of the eighteenth century, a young man from Carroll County in Maryland attended the college, hoping to pursue a career in the law. The Great Books, which made up almost the sum total of his education, had introduced him to some of the great writers of prose and poetry, most of whom were European, and many of those were of English background. Now a dozen years after his graduation and subsequent reading of the law in the office of his uncle Phillip Barton, the young man was now a rising young lawyer, living and practicing his profession in the barely finished capital city of the young country.

Francis Scott Key was the son of an American revolutionary. He was now fast becoming an insider in the new capital and was already beginning to rub elbows with almost every politician in the Madison administration. His education had given him a love of poetry, and Key fancied himself a poet, although much of his writings contained a deep spiritual leaning. He made his residence in Georgetown, a small town close to Washington City, but he also still considered the state of Maryland his home. Key worked as a lawyer in his uncle Phillip’s firm and had already married and settled down when the grumblings of war began to approach.

Key, as a student of the history of the country, was aware that the relationship between Great Britain and the United States had never really much improved over the three decades since the war for independence had ended. The first three presidents had a difficult time keeping a balance of neutrality between their ties with England and with their famous ally, France. The administration of John Adams, in particular, was beset by problem after problem concerning the newly organized French government. Adams was also undercut from within by such strong opponents as Thomas Jefferson, who clearly leaned on the side of France, and Alexander Hamilton—a member of his own Federalist Party—who wanted to create a much stronger federal government than the one Jefferson would have. Spies and espionage were rampant. The Adams administration was rocked by the scandal of the XYZ Affair. This incident, which was dramatically incited by Hamilton, with aid from cohorts in England, had almost drawn the United States into war with France—the country which had given us the most financial and military aid during our own revolution. The Federalists were able to pass the Alien and Sedition Act, which included provisions for deportation and censorship. It cost Adams his reelection.

President Adams was succeeded by Thomas Jefferson, who wasted no time repairing the relationship with France. At this same time, the government of France collapsed, and a new, brash leader took control—Napoleon Bonaparte. Relations began to become more strained with Great Britain, which was already feeling the presence of Napoleon in that hemisphere.

Napoleon, on the other hand, wishing to conquer as much of Europe as possible, turned his head away from the French Territories in the New World and, in one of the most fortunate of land deals, sold the entire Louisiana Territory to the United States. Jefferson immediately sent out an expedition under the leadership of Meriwether Lewis and William Clark to explore the vast new territory, and within only a few years, the population of the country began to expand westward.

This also had a negative effect on Great Britain, which still controlled regions around the Great Lakes and in the Ohio Valley. Great Britain chose to retaliate by trying to limit the expansion by involving their native allies. Violence sprang up all along the wilderness border.

Meanwhile, the English government, along with the English Navy, began to impress American merchant sailors, taking them by force from their ship to work as seamen on a British ship. As the wounds had never truly healed after the revolution, the new president, James Madison, felt compelled to have the congress declare war on Great Britain.

CHAPTER 4

Coming Of Age

Liam O’Connor opened his eyes. Liam never seemed to have difficulty waking up in the morning. He didn’t need the bell in the church tower or the crow of a rooster; he didn’t even need to hear the sound of his mother’s voice calling him for breakfast. No matter the day of the year, Liam was able to wake up at five o’clock each morning—give or take a few minutes in either direction.

So Liam arose at five in the morning on this particular day, the twenty-ninth of September. It was Liam’s seventeenth birthday. But that the fact that this was the anniversary of his birth meant little, if anything at all, on a farm. The cows needed to be milked and the livestock needed to be fed. He would eat a quick breakfast now and get a much larger meal after an hour and a half of chores in the barn. The boy walked across the expanse of his room, which was no room at all but rather a loft space in the one-room house. He scooped out two handfuls of water from the bowl on his chest of drawers and threw it in his face, completing the process of waking up.

Liam walked back to a chair that sat next to his feather bed. The bed held a shirt and his breeches, which he quickly pulled on over his undergarments. He yawned and stretched his arms and then walked to the ladder that connected the loft to the rest of the tiny house. He was still barefoot, because his mother had forbidden him to wear his mud-coated boots anywhere inside the house, so they stood as silent sentinels by the door. Morning, Mama, he said softly to his mother.

Good morning to you, Liam, his mother replied, her mouth immediately rounding into a smile. Here is a biscuit for you, dear, she added, handing him the baked good.

Baine O’Connor had been up for the last hour. At thirty-six years old, she was already a widow. Her husband, Aidan, had died several years previously due to some pox going around at the time called the milk sickness. Together, Baine and Aidan had come across the ocean the year after they had married. The crossing had not been a pleasant experience. It had taken several weeks in generally rough seas, and to make matters worse, Baine was pregnant.

The ship landed in Baltimore, and Aidan was able to purchase a small tract of land in a little town just outside of the city of Washington. Unfortunately, she discovered that the baby that she carried on the voyage over, whom she named Liam, in honor of Aidan’s father, would be her last child. She miscarried the next three pregnancies, and soon thereafter, her husband died. By the time he was ten years old, Liam had become the man of the house. Money was difficult to come by. The small farm yielded a good crop most years, but there was very little income from the crop for the two of them to live on once it was sold.

For the last two years, however, their fortunes had slightly improved. Liam had been able to earn some additional money by working part of the day at the farm belonging to Dr. William Beanes, a physician living just down the road from the O’Connors. Dr. Beanes gave Liam a daily regimen of chores to do around the farm, but most of this amounted to stable work, especially the care of the doctor’s horses and carriage. As the only medical doctor in the Upper Marlboro area, Beanes had become a very popular resident, but a great deal of his popularity did not simply emanate from a need for his medical skills—he was a very well-liked gentleman.

Liam was not sure if the doctor had hired him to work in his barn because he knew that the O’Connor household was not financially secure or because he truly needed the help in the barn. Whatever the doctor’s reasoning, Liam and his mother were happy for the extra money. As Liam grew in stature in his years of employment, the doctor gave him more responsibilities. Over the past year or so, when the doctor would be called to deliver a child or to race to a neighboring farm for a medical emergency, he would ask Liam to accompany him. It wasn’t as if Liam had ever claimed to have any future ambitions of becoming a doctor, nor was it Beanes’s hope that Liam would choose a path in that direction. It was simply that the doctor was beginning to show signs of aging and that he enjoyed the young man’s company.

The O’Connors had decided to settle in Maryland because of the state’s history of religious tolerance, particularly toward Roman Catholics. As émigrés from Ireland, they were careful to pick a state that held to their religious traditions, traditions that could be traced back to the original charter granted by the king of England to Lord Baltimore—a Roman Catholic. Baine O’Connor (nee Gleason) had been born with milk-white skin; hence her first name, which in Celtic means whiteness or even pale. Even though they named their baby for Aidan’s father, Liam—which could be Anglicized to William—the genetic trait of overly fair, milky-white skin was passed along to the child. Baine’s hair color—a fiery auburn red—was not passed down; instead, Liam was born with a shock of jet-black hair, which not only made him look all the more Irish but also all the more like his father, whose hair was also black. Even after sixteen years in her new country, Baine still retained a great deal of her Irish brogue; however, Liam’s speech was not quite as affected, and the lilt of his brogue could only be detected every so often.

Liam, now seventeen, stood at an impressive six feet one inch tall—exceedingly tall for the early part of the nineteenth century. At this age, his height made him lanky and awkward but at the same time easy to spot in a crowd. His Irish complexion had made it challenging to work the farm in late spring, when the sun could easily burn his skin to the point of infection. But Liam, partly because of his physical makeup, had become well-known around Upper Marlboro. His black hair and white skin, combined with his piercing blue eyes, had fostered a saying around the more rural areas of the county: We have many a handsome lad in Marlboro, but none as beautiful as Liam O’Connor. Whether this axiom had complete merit in fact could be debated; however, the fact remained that Liam was also, in every respect, the gentlest of young men—a credit to his parents—and for that alone, he was indeed beautiful.

Like many other citizens of the country, Liam had never ventured more than a small distance from the town in which he lived. He had been to Washington—several times for that matter. Liam had found the new capital to be an exciting place to see, even though many locals tended to speak uncomplimentary remarks about the city. Washington had been built on a bog—a swamp—and much of that topography still existed in 1813. A few of the federal buildings had been constructed, including the presidential mansion and the Capitol Building, but the rest of the city was a mess of mudding streets, shacks and hovels, and general disorganization. It was not in any way similar to the existing cities of New York, Baltimore, Boston, or Philadelphia.

On the other hand, Liam had never been to Baltimore—except in utero. For that matter, he had never been to the capital city of Maryland—Annapolis, either. This lack of adventure only mildly annoyed him, and even though he did not have any designs on practicing medicine, he did harbor a secret desire to go to sea—a thought which, for practical reasons, he kept well-hidden from his mother. He also realized how truly strange this goal was for, with the exception of swimming in nearby Schoolhouse Pond, Liam had never been anywhere near open water. Still, he had enjoyed reading about life at sea, and the desire to experience the same seemed always present in the back of his mind. But just like other young men his age, Liam wondered about his future.

Liam quickly ate his biscuit and had a small cup of tea. He pulled himself up from the table and walked to the door. He grabbed his boots and pulled them on and then headed out to the barn to milk the cows and feed the other animals. He finished that aspect of his daily chores around six thirty. He headed back to the house for a bowl of oatmeal and another cup of tea before spending the rest of the morning working around the small farm, fixing a fence and working in the field.

He started out down the road toward Dr. Beanes’s farm at around eleven thirty. The doctor had a much larger piece of property and with it a much larger barn. As he approached the large farmhouse, Liam spied the doctor saddling his horse outside of the stable.

Morning, Doc, Liam called.

Good afternoon to you, Liam, corrected the doctor.

Would you like me to finish saddling King George for you? Liam had always found humor in the fact that the doctor had named his favorite horse after their former king.

No, son … I’m almost finished, replied the doctor, who was in the process of adjusting the bit in King George’s mouth. The doctor had always made mention of the fact that now King George was a beast of burden rather than the American colonists.

Liam patted the chestnut-colored gelding on the side of his neck. Nice day for a ride, Doc.

Yes, it is, answered Beanes, but I have a call to make in Marlboro, so it’s not to be a pleasure ride.

Don’t you want your carriage? asked Liam.

Not today, my boy. I shouldn’t be very long, and the king needs his exercise … just like his namesake in England.

Liam laughed at this remark, a comment that the doctor had made countless times in the past. It was a standard quip that he made. I will get started on the stable chores then.

That would be fine, said the doctor, but … Liam?

Yes, sir?

Please don’t work very hard today.

Sir? Liam was confused by the doctor’s cryptic remark.

Isn’t this a special day in your life? Beanes asked, smiling broadly, rising to mount his steed.

Liam looked up at the doctor, his head tilted to one side. A special day?

Isn’t this your birthday?

I suppose that it is, sir, admitted the boy.

Then we shall have a celebration when I return … so don’t work so hard.

No, sir … I will try to take it easy. Liam laughed.

Liam waved goodbye to Dr. Beanes, who trotted off on King George to his appointed visit. Mrs. Beanes poked her head out of the back door of the farmhouse and waved to the boy. Good morning, Liam. How are you today?

Good morning, Mrs. Beanes. I am fine. Thank you … and yourself?

Couldn’t be better, she replied, her face drawn up in her characteristic cheery smile. Would you like a slice of pie?

Maybe a bit later, Mrs. Beanes, but thank you.

You just come on over when you are ready.

Liam nodded and turned toward the stable. The doctor had eight horses, one of which—King George—was now in use. Of the remaining