Diamond: A Novel of the American Revolution

By Paul Hammond

Diamond -- A novel of the American Revolution

Seth Morse hated the English warships patrolling southern New England, menacing daily life, levying taxes, seizing what they want, imposing their will. He signs onto an armed privateer schooner to fight the English occupiers. The schooner is quickly defeated by a vastly superior English frigate. Along with a few other survivors, Seth is tossed into an unlit hold and transported to prison in England.
Diamond narrates Seth's harrowing nautical challenges, the utter misery of imprisonment and the profound joy of release. Soon thereafter he experiences the terrifying violence of pitched sea battles, one of which helps to turn the tide of a new nation's fortune. Finally sailing home he unexpectedly falls in love, only to confront a profound risk of losing it as he nears home and family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796051360

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Paul Hammond.

Library of Congress Control Number:    2019911489

ISBN:                  Hardcover                        978-1-7960-5137-7

                            Softcover                           978-1-7960-5135-3

                            eBook                                978-1-7960-5136-0

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. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/17/2019

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Contents

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

BOOK TWO

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

To Paige

Seth Morse walked slowly along the little church’s center aisle. He gently pulled a teary young girl wearing a disheveled black dress complete with a black bonnet strapped tightly under her chin. Next to her, a teenage boy wearing an oversize black suit walked alongside, head down, dark blond hair largely uncombed. Seth stopped in front of the simple walnut casket. He avoided looking at it, fearful of more tears. Slowly, he guided the children just to the right of the casket, sliding by without touching it. He stopped in front of the minister, Rev. John Hammett. The boy and girl moved on either side of Seth, who stared at the minister. His face red from crying, he wiped his nose with a neatly folded white handkerchief. He tugged at his new shirt’s tight white collar, took a deep breath, and stood motionless. He pulled up the old black pants, far too large in the waist. The minister raised his left hand, momentarily touching Seth on his right shoulder. With his right hand, he lifted a Bible. He recited a short prayer for the soul of the deceased, Seth’s wife, Aimee Cassis Morse. The congregation, silent and standing during the prayer, remained standing. Seth turned to face them, the two children turning with him. He coughed slightly and swallowed. Quietly, he read from a small crumpled paper.

Our hearts are both empty and full—empty from our loss, full of love for Aimee; empty thinking of our lives without Aimee; full of the kindness of all here to share their love for Aimee. We will survive our loss together. Doing so now seems an impossible task, but we know your love will help us through. Thank you.

Seth gently pushed the two children toward the three empty chairs in front. Minister John stepped forward to stand in the space where Seth had been. He asked the congregation to kneel in prayer. He began to read excerpts from the Book of Common Prayer. The noise always surprised Seth as the dozens of parishioners shifted from standing to kneeling.

Seth tried to concentrate, to listen to the familiar words and comforting sentiments. He closed his eyes, and again, the image of a smiling Aimee sparkled in his imagination. For days, he had been able to call up that same image. All he owned that depicted Aimee was a shadow woodcut of her profile. It was only a rough outline of her head and helped his memory of Aimee little. Worse, for more than a day after she passed away, he could only remember her ordeal—the terrible headaches and backaches, her awful sickness, the ugly yellow coloring of her skin. Somehow, though, he still could summon an image of her face—nothing else, just her face smiling at him, no sign of the horrible scars and discoloration of her yellow fever. Her image had come into his mind again and again. What would he have done without that memory? Now he worried how he could keep summoning it through the next days. Could it help him comfort Edna and young Seth? In the image, she was young, the lovely young woman who utterly took his breath away when he first saw her.

She had boarded the schooner Le Prince De Vendee in Lorient, France. Seth was to earn his passage home as third mate during the voyage to Newport. He was assigned to make daily sightings along the ocean course. Incredibly, here on the first day of the voyage, of all possibilities, he was overwhelmed. He was staring at a girl he imagined could be his true love. And he had seen her when just starting what then he had dreamed of for months—returning home after almost two years abroad.

Aimee had been carrying a little square cage with tiny windows. Inside was a gray cat with white paws, a white chest, and a white tip at the very end of its tail. The girl had smiled slightly once when she looked his way, catching him gazing at her, mesmerized, utterly captivated. Seth had blushed with embarrassment. He had been caught. He managed to nod to her slightly and then looked away. Where was the first mate? He needed something to do. He just couldn’t stand rooted to the deck staring at that girl. One more look. She’s gone? Where? Ashore? Feverishly glancing about, Seth resumed breathing. She was just walking toward the aft stairwell.

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Let us pray, intoned the minister. Seth blinked and blinked again. He rustled pages in the old family Book of Common Prayer, trying to find where Minister John was reading. He knew Mother would be glaring at him; he was certain she had seen him daydreaming. Finally, he found the text in time to join the recital reading.

He wanted to shout—shout about Aimee, shout for all to hear. The service seemed too quiet. They should shout about Aimee. She was everything for him—everything. All he had been merely led to her. All he became was only because of her, for her, through her. How could she now be gone? Go ahead, shout! He knew he wouldn’t, but wouldn’t it feel good, to shout about his love for Aimee?

He was exhausted, almost too tired to stand. Both children were wobbly. Seth put an arm around each and drew them close to him. Minister John saw them and whispered, Please remain standing. He stared at the little family, seeming to make them stand by the force of his will alone.

Once more, the familiar words. How many times had he heard them in church and then repeatedly at home, in his parents’ house, and in the little schoolhouse by Aimee’s first-grade class? He closed his eyes and stared at his shoes as the congregation began to sing. He just couldn’t sing again. It wouldn’t help.

Finally, the service was over.

The crowd shuffled away, leaving the little family, Seth’s mother and father, his sisters and one brother (Francis was away, fishing as always), and a few cousins standing around the grave. Each picked a handful of soil and, as directed by Minister John, sprinkled it into the fresh grave. After a last prayer, they headed for the parish hall. The children stumbled as again and again, they turned to look back at the casket looming over the grave. Two small sections of halyard lines had been placed under the casket. The attendants were to use the lines to lift the casket and lower it down into the grave.

Should they watch? Another goodbye? Seth hesitated. The idea of going into the hall to socialize was hard for him to bear. Could Edna and young Seth cope? Should he instead return to the grave for one last look? No, watching dirt tossed on her box seemed too grim. And she was not really there, right? She was in heaven. He believed that. He’d been almost fierce telling the children he believed. Their mother was now in heaven.

One last look couldn’t hurt, yes? He’d hold them steps away so they couldn’t see down into the hole. Minutes later, though, young Seth was pulling at his father, trying to drag him back down the hill. Seth took the children to his mother standing, watching on the church porch. He took a deep breath and walked into the hall. He sought out his good friends and Aimee’s, a few others, and Minister John. After a circle around the hall, he found the sexton, Eustis something, and then the clerk, Mrs. Curtis. She held onto his hand, wouldn’t let go. Finally, he bent to her, patting her hand with his free hand. She let go, and Seth hurried outside to the kids. Climbing into the old buckboard, he clicked at the skittish young horse and began the trot home. Edna almost fell out of the bench seat as again and again, she and her brother turned back toward the church and the graveyard atop the hill. Seth gently pulled on the hand brake and turned the buckboard to face the grave site. It was too much; tears flowed again. Quickly, he turned the buckboard back onto the path for home.

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BOOK ONE

Chapter One

The captain had insisted there be practice exercises while still in American waters. On their first day out, the foremast lookout sighted a small beamy sloop southeast of New London, Connecticut. After a brief chase, the captain ordered a shot to land just beyond its bow, a warning shot to force the quarry to stop. Unfortunately, the shot landed just to her stern but eventually caused the same result; the target stopped. As instructed, the captain steered the Essex Girl toward the sloop’s stern. He knew the naval strategy—always approach the quarry from windward, taking away their wind as you approach. The first mate ordered Seth to pull the trailing dory alongside the entrance ladder. Eight crewmen and the captain leaped into the dory and rowed madly to the sloop.

Her captain was spitting mad. By what damn right do you attack and stop my vessel going about my business, damn you! None, that’s the damn answer, correct! CORRECT!

The captain replied, "We are off the Essex Girl, New London, Privateer. What do you have aboard?"

Nothing for you, dammit, not a thing! We carry forty-five cords of wood, ten bushels of corn, twenty bushels of pippin, apples to you swabs, twenty-five gallons of corn liquor, all bound for New York. Now get off my sloop! Get off!

We are preparing for sea warfare, sir, to protect America against the Lobsterbacks. We have a ‘letter of marque’ from Governor Trumbull authorizing us to seize foreign vessels operating in Connecticut waters.

Well, find someone else to protect! We are hardly a foreign vessel and will not play a game as one! We will take our leave!

Seth’s father had promised. Once the oyster crop harvest was finished, he could sign up on a privateer to fight the damn redcoats. Seth first had tried to sign on to the ship Oliver Cromwell, a three-hundred-ton square-rigged three-master built locally in Potapaug by Uriah Hayden. She was organized as a privateer and eventually would capture eight enemy ships, before being lost in 1779. Fully subscribed, Seth managed to get on the Essex Girl, just missing the Cromwell. Practice drills now continued for days as the Essex Girl sailed along the coast of New England, finally breaking off alone on the fifth day at sea off Boston. The captain was obliged to follow the letter of marque’s clear instructions outlined by the ship’s investors to head north for the purpose and then to intercept and seize prizes sailing into and out of the English stronghold port of Halifax. Seth stood with a companion on the foremast top platform. Gray clouds scudded by, some rain, some spitting snow in a blustery onshore breeze. Both peered at a square-rigged ship well off to the northwest.

Seth pointed and quietly said, Big square-rigger there … just changed course. Seems headed our way.

Both studied the ship, now clearly heading toward the Essex Girl.

From the deck, the booming voice of the captain startled the two. What do you see, Morse! Tell me!

Three-mast square-rigger just changed course toward us, sir!

I can see that, dammit! Climb higher and describe that ship!

Minutes later, Seth shouted, Damn big ship, sir, seems fully rigged, bigger’n I’ve seen! Three masts, three sails on each! She’s rigged with skysails as well … making good speed!

Moments later, he added, Flying a bright red flag up high, probably a battle flag, sir?

Dammit, yes, a battle flag, in fact, likely a battle flag for a British Navy ship! Damn! Not likely to outrun her! That’s for certain!

For an hour or more, the Essex Girl seemed to hold her own, staying distant from the square-rigger. But that was an illusion; the English warship suddenly fired a long gun, the shell erupting just short of the Essex Girl, followed moments later by another crashing into the sea forward.

Bracketed, she’s ranged us!

Less than a week earlier, Seth had been crouched on the foremast top for his assigned duty. Unlike the three other marines, whom he slightly outranked, with the title corporal of marines, and who served as his little battle team, Seth hurriedly primed his own long-bore hunting rifle. The first mate had ordered Seth to board with the rifle once he viewed Seth’s shooting accuracy, especially his long-range skill. Even his friends bragged about his uncanny ability to bring down not just pheasants on the wing but also small animals at long distances, even rabbits and squirrels at more than fifty paces. Soon after, he had been ordered to teach his shooting prowess to the three-man team. Later, he was put in charge of the ship’s marine marksmen stationed on the mainmast top.

The committee of Essex Girl investors had assembled ten swivel guns as the little brig’s primary weapons, along with the two six-pound cannons. The swivel guns had included ten cartridges each, plus rammers, ladles, wormers, and every armament the committee could anticipate for $700. It was enough with which to attack small prizes but woefully modest against full-rigged English warships.

In little more than a half hour, it was apparent that their entire ship was rapidly coming into the Englishman’s range of fire. Sure enough, a shell exploded just over the stern rail, killing the helmsman and a nearby midshipman, spraying the starboard quarterdeck. The next shell landed alongside. Seth ducked repeatedly, unused to the noise and closeness of battle. Slowly, he raised himself to peer over the low railing. Below, he could see the captain was down, the surgeon just now kneeling to him. Other men were down nearby. Another English shell landed directly on the quarterdeck, killing the new helmsman. The Essex Girl slewed off to windward, enabling the English ship to quickly sail up to her, entirely blocking her wind while firing directly into her with rifles and cannons. Shipmates fell on both decks of the stricken Essex Girl. Someone waved a white shirt from the gun deck.

Seth was certain the horrible mess at the foot of the mizzenmast must be the body of the second mate, Mr. Mansfield, hardly a year or two older than him, at most, barely shaving once a week. Mansfield was amazingly good with his old sextant, better even than the captain. Now a mass of pink flesh was all that remained of his left leg, nothing but a stump. Blood covered his chest, smearing his white pants. Seth’s stomach heaved as he stared. He heard a voice screeching through a speaking trumpet.

Strike your colors, you stupid, godless pirates! Stop dying! Strike now, damn you! We plan to rip you apart with cannonade fire unless you cease fire this instant!

The noise, the whole tumult and confusion of battle, was maddening—cannons firing, men screaming, sails snapping wildly back and forth, shouted orders, occasional gunfire as marines in the tops of both ships fired on one another. One British marine shrieked as he fell, arms flailing onto the deck below.

The surgeon himself was smeared with blood, stumbled and stood, fell, and stood again. Yes, yes … we strike. For God’s sake, we strike.

Who are you? screeched the same voice. Only the captain or his next in line may strike! Who are you?

Ambrose Ryan, ship surgeon … We strike for God’s sake! We strike! Amid the madness of battle, Seth hated that English voice, the intonation, so arrogant, dismissive, scornful; he hated it.

The voice again said, You cannot strike! Your leader must strike!

Damn you! Most are dead or wounded or unconscious! I speak for them! The surgeon lifted the unconscious captain bleeding from head to shoulder. Look! Look! We surrender damn your eyes! We surrender!

"Dowse your ensign, Surgeon … now … Dowse it! Drown your Yankee colors surrendering your little brig! You are surrendering to the frigate HMS Vigilant, twenty-eight guns, Portsmouth!"

Seth watched the surgeon lean back down toward the captain, reaching toward his neck, now entirely red with blood. Seth looked away, focusing instead on the footrope on which he stood. He slowly slid a few steps along it to the yardarm footrope. There, he bent down, grabbing the port halyard attached at the mainsail clew. Hand over hand, he climbed down the