The Flood Tide: A Story of the American Revolution and a Coastal New Hampshire Town

By Nancy McIntosh

Frank Drew and his son Francis are faced with life-altering challenges and choices as the American Revolution reaches into their peaceful world on the Piscataqua River system in southeastern New Hampshire. Frank is a successful carpenter, content with his life and happy family, while his son Francis is reaching an age of apprenticeship and wrestles with the decision to follow his calling in education, or his father’s trade in carpentry. These choices divide them and ultimately reunite the father and son while each finds a way to fight the War in a way consistent with their beliefs and abilities. Filled with historical details, anecdotes, and real places and figures from history, this book will appeal to anyone exploring New Hampshire’s role in the Revolution and life in Colonial New Hampshire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798823026772

Nancy McIntosh

Nancy McIntosh is the daughter of a boat builder and is a fourteenth-generation American from Dover, New Hampshire. She grew up on the river she writes about and has long been fascinated by the lives of her ancestors there. A decade in the U.S. Coast Guard took her to sea and also exposed her to “creative fiction” while working as an intelligence analyst. Today, she resides deep in the woods of southern Indiana, playing her violin and loving her two beagles.

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© 2024 Nancy McIntosh. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  05/20/2024

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2676-5 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2677-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024910072

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

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Part I: Frank

Dover and Durham New Hampshire

April 1776–April 1777

Part II: Francis

Upstate New York

May–August 1777

Part III: Frank

Dover and Durham New Hampshire

September 1777–April 1778

Epilogue

Notes

Glossary of Nautical Terms for Landlubbers

Selected Bibliography

Acknowledgements

About the Author

For all my first and second cousins, removed

or not, who are fellow Drew descendants:

Maggy, Lou, Amy, Mart, Peter, Louise, Jessie,

Marie, Steven, Joe, Peter, Tommy, Amy, Annie,

Phillip, Ned, Sara, Alex, Douglas, Matt, Jessie,

Chris, Laura, Eva, Sierra, Winslow, Jameson,

Ethan, Emma … and I lose count …

Mostly, in memory of my father, Ned Mac

McIntosh, one generation closer to Frank,

and the man who taught me to be curious

about everything and to find the good in it

before throwing away anything or anyone.

Prologue

Just Off the New Hampshire Coast

April 1778

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Portsmouth to Boston

A pod of whales has been surfacing about two hundred yards to starboard. I hear their huge exhalations and the occasional slap of a tail before diving. I can distinguish at least four individuals based on the pitch of the wind that bursts from their blow holes. The young one surfaces more often, and his mother seems to match his pattern.

I can’t see them of course. The fog is so thick, so pressing, that I feel it has entered my very soul. I exist, my boat exists, and I share this single place of existence with my two shipmates. Twenty-eight feet of reality in the middle of a sorcerer’s globe, brighter overhead and fading into the green-black of the ocean beneath us.

I can hear things. I hear the distant surf rolling gently onto the beach north of Rye Ledge, perhaps a half mile to port. I hear an occasional seagull squawk, sometimes two as they fight over a morsel of fish. They are likely just offshore, and I use this as a guide to my own position.

The glassy ocean heaves gently. Not a whiff of breeze ruffles the surface, making it impossible to see where the ocean ends and the sky begins.

Somewhere astern, off the starboard quarter, lurks our pursuer. They are as blind as we, but hopefully disadvantaged by ignorance of the waters we ply. I know the sound of the waves on Rye Ledge and how they differ from the sea on Foss Ledges. I know the sound of the bell at Kitts Rock. I know how the swell changes just a little when it passes over the shoal we call Gunboat. I am tuned to all these subtle changes in the sounds around us.

I am also tuned to the squeak that occurs on every port roll as the polished waves pass beneath us, and that squeak can reveal us to the enemy.

The enemy on this day is not my usual enemy. I have often dodged the British gunboats that have prowled down from Nova Scotia seeking to capture one of the American patrol boats. My escape from those has been relatively easy. I hug the coast, I traverse waters that are unfamiliar to them, and most importantly, my little sloop looks nothing like a patrol boat. King George is not at war with the average subject of the colonies, but rather with those who have declared open rebellion and freedom.

My enemy this day is not British. My enemy is in pursuit of the man who, a few hours ago, had been my passenger and now has become my crew, a man fleeing to freedom from a life of slavery. While I still carry the post and military missives in a bag hidden below deck, my new companion has far more to lose than I.

He stands at the sculling sweep, his long even strokes telling of a life at sea, though not my sea. His skin is the color of Francis’s ebony fife. I hunker over my compass, a gift from my other passenger, and point out subtle changes in our course that are needed to keep us off the rocky shore, but not too far off.

However, the squeak demands my attention. I can hear an occasional slap of halyard on the mast from the slave-chasing schooner, and that means he can hear my squeak—if he’s listening.

I carefully stand and stuff a few more rags and short pieces of line into my pockets. Over the past nine hours, since passing Dry Salvages and entering the fog bank, I have wrapped and tied off dozens of pieces of loose gear, gear that would normally lie quiet as my vessel heels on one tack of the other. Unfortunately, this long, even swell rolls equally in both directions. The sails that would normally hold us steady are now furled uselessly on the boom or lashed to the forward rail.

I work my way forward, gripping the caulked seams of the slick deck with my bare toes and hugging the boom under my armpit to help me steady against the rolls. I can tell that my oarsman is trying to match his strokes with the rolls in hopes of easing it somewhat. I am grateful for the effort, though the result is minimal.

His synchronized stroke does help to keep our course true, however. My boat’s long keel also helps keep our course true. I hope it remains true while I am away from the compass.

The whales surface again, closer this time. I wonder if they think our wooden hull is a strange kin. I’ve often had whales and their smaller cousins play around us as we surge ahead with a brisk, fair wind. Their squeals and clicks make me laugh. It’s almost as if they are speaking to each other. Here’s another one! This one doesn’t even catch fish! Or jump out of the water! What a strange beast! Certainly, they are just dumb beasts. What wonderful musicians they would be if they had minds for it!

Arriving at the mast step, I discover the reason for the offending sound. The leather chafing gear on the gaff jaws is rubbing with each roll. While it really needs some oil rubbed in to properly silence it, I temporarily stuff another rag in the gap to prevent its movement. Satisfied, I work my way aft again to the cockpit and my tireless crewman. He nods to me. I check the compass and find our course has remained true.

It must remain so if we are to stay close enough to shore to hear our location yet far enough out to be safe from the rocks. Somewhere about four miles ahead of us is the entrance to Portsmouth Harbor. We will need to alter our course to port at the proper time to safely enter and not pile up on White Island Reef, but hopefully I would feel the sea change over Kitts Rock before that happened.

Suddenly we hear a thunk off the starboard beam, less than a half mile away. It can only be our pursuers. We both freeze and let the boat carry her way. There it is again, this time followed by a muffled curse, some other raised voices, and then a commanding voice berating the others in a slow drawl. Then silence again.

The whales surface, and I signal my crew to scull again, using the sound of great exhalations to cover our own noises. It’s almost as if the whales know we are being chased and are staying between us and the enemy, providing distraction.

From below decks, I hear a low groan. I almost forgot my other passenger who now is hopelessly seasick and utterly useless. He is a good friend though, and I wish that I could offer him the respite of being on deck in the fresh sea air, seeing his vomit disappear overboard instead of sloshing in the bilge below deck, but the sound of his retching would be a dead giveaway of our position, so for the time being, he must remain miserably below. We all sacrifice something for the cause. Jeremy has sacrificed his dignity and, for the moment at least, his desire to live.

I am reminded of my own desire to live and how fragile that outcome might be. Should the slaver capture us, my oarsman will spend the rest of his life under the lash, while Jeremy and I would likely be slain and our bodies sunk, along with my boat.

Another thunk and more cursing, this time further aft and a bit more distant. I begin to think that our survival is possible now, if we can reach Portsmouth and ride the flood tide up the Piscataqua to safety.

I allow myself to think back two years, to one of the last perfect days.

Part I

FRANK

Dover and Durham New Hampshire

April 1776–April 1777

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Piscataqua River System

Chapter 1

I woke Francis Jr. and Enoch well before dawn. The last half of the ebb tide would carry us almost five miles down the Back River and through the Narrows by Hilton’s Point, and then we could catch the flood current up the Piscataqua and Newichawannock to Berwick, where it becomes the Salmon Falls River.

Francis rolled over blurrily, his limbs longer than he seemed to be expecting as he accidentally kicked his toe against the foot of the bed. Already? he grumbled. And it’s cold. He obediently threw back his cover and began groping for his pants and shoes.

Enoch was eager. If I could ever bottle the optimism and excitement of a ten-year-old, I would be a rich man. Francis eyed him with a look that said, Someday you’ll understand, but for now, both boys stumbled around in the lamplight, collecting garments and rubbing their hands in the chill.

I could hear Bess in the other room. This hour was her normal rising time. She was boiling water over the hearth to mix with gruel and, we hoped, a little honey to make a sturdy porridge. This would be a long day and she wanted her menfolk to be well nourished. Meanwhile, Caleb snored gently in the small bed near the fire. He was too young to take on the river journey and would spend the day trailing at Bess’s skirts as she went about her chores.

Francis wasn’t wrong that it was cold. The boys greeted Bess, and I began collecting the things we would need for the day. The boys stamped and blew icy breath, watching the small hearth fire grow.

Are you certain that Mr. Hamilton received your order? Bess asked.

I nodded and then shrugged. He certainly should have by now. It’s been a week since I placed it in the post. And even if he hasn’t, he always has spare short lumber in the shipyard. Stuff that’s too big for pipe staves and too small to plank his ships. He’s usually grateful to sell local.

I just hope he’s grateful enough to give you a good price, Bess replied, raising her eyebrows and giving me a half smile.

My proposal was fair, and I need the lumber in any case. Lots of orders. The last part was only partially true. It had been a year since Concord and Lexington, and we had chased the Brits out of Boston barely a month ago. The desire for my plain but sturdy Colonial furniture was strong, but my neighbors’ need for cash was beginning to be stronger. I justified the materials purchased by reminding myself I couldn’t sell anything if I had nothing to sell.

Bess began humming a favorite hymn as she puttered, and soon Francis was humming with her, adding a lovely upper harmony. They loved to sing together but his voice was changing, and I knew those days were numbered. Bess knew I disliked listening to churchy stuff, but her voice was so lovely that we compromised—melody with no lyrics.

I stepped to the door and took in the night air. Venus was already in the morning sky, just rising over Dover Neck east of the house. The half-moon stood at the zenith over Back River. Somewhere a cock crowed. The smell of the tidal flats and marsh grass reached me on the gentle southerly wind that was just stirring. I was glad of the southerly breeze, although it might mean a bit of a pull getting down the Back River. After we rounded Hilton’s Point and brought it behind us, we would have a comfortable journey upriver to Berwick, powered by the wind and guided by oars.

Jenny tugged at her anchor then swung broadside to the current as a gust of breeze spun her. I could see her silhouette against the moonlight. She was a contented old girl, a smaller version of the river’s workhorse gundalows. Jenny was the perfect vessel for bringing lumber home and taking finished projects to the various customers on our many rivers. Stable, for sure. Reliable. Trustworthy. Boring.

Bess called us and gave us bowls of porridge with the hoped-for honey. We ate as she assembled food for our next two meals: yesterday’s bread, dried salmon, smoked venison, a few tasty oysters in a covered jar, and several jugs of water. She put this all in a canvas rucksack and placed it beside the door.

Birds were beginning to call as we finished our meal. I knew we had no time to waste, or the tide would drop enough to ground Jenny on the flats.

Thus fortified for the day’s efforts, the boys and I bid goodbye to Bess. You be careful now, we heard her call after us as we started down the path to where the punt was pulled up into the marsh grass. The setting moon provided ample light, and the sky now showed just a hint of dawn.

How long will it take us to get to Berwick? asked Enoch. He was so eager. He had made one trip with me, but that was just a quick trip up the Oyster River to deliver some pews to the meeting house.

We should get there before lunch, I answered. We’ll load and then catch the ebb downriver. I was very businesslike in my answer, though I really just wanted to pick up the boy and tickle him. Too soon they grow.

We arrived at the punt and then wordlessly shoved it over the marsh grass into the water and climbed aboard. I lowered the rucksack, careful not to upend the precious oysters, and Francis began to pole us out to Jenny. After a few pushes, the water got deeper and he settled in to row.

Francis was a strong lad and becoming lanky as well. He would have the height from his mother’s side and the sturdiness from mine.

It didn’t take him long to propel us to Jenny’s ample topsides. I swung the rucksack up first then gave Enoch a leg up. Francis had sprung aboard while I wasn’t looking.

Tie the punt to the anchor line, I called. We won’t be taking it with us.

Sure thing, Pa. Francis waited on the bow to slip the anchor line while Enoch and I set the sweeps in place. The current would do the work, but I wanted maneuverability as we wound downstream between the seasonal channel markers.

We slipped the line, took up the oars, and began to pull south on the current in the darkness.

This river system is amazing. Much of the region’s trade travels its multifingered length before heading to sea from Portsmouth. The rivers connect most of the coastal towns by water, but the current doesn’t just run out to sea. It is tidal, swishing back and forth, in and out, swapping directions every six hours. Almost as if it breathes.

And quite a current it is. At Hilton’s Point, it can run over four knots. This can be a wonderful thing if you catch it fair and romp on to your destination, but unless you are sailing a fast schooner or sloop, there isn’t any point to even trying to buck it. On many parts of the river are good eddies in decent water that can be worked when the tide is against, but not at Hilton’s Point, or at Furber Strait going into Great Bay, and not the Narrows past Boiling Rock on the way downriver to Portsmouth, or at Henderson Point, or … Anyway. So, while it is possible to run against the current, with strong arms and good local knowledge, it isn’t for the faint of heart or limb.

If you have the time, just wait on the tide. If your trip involves going down one river and then up another, timing is critical. Either hit the river change at slack water or have the patience to wait for a fair current.

This morning, we were catching the ebb tide down Back River, hoping to pass Hilton’s Point at slack and then catch the flood up the Piscataqua and Newichawannock. The half-moon made the tides a little smaller and the currents weaker, and at half-moon, low tide occurs at dawn and dusk. This configuration worked perfectly for our planned trip to Berwick.

Enoch was excited to be on the river in the dark. He set his young eyes as lookout for the channel stakes while Francis and I manned the oars.

Come left, he called.

Your left or ours? Francis and I said almost in unison. We rowed facing aft. Use port and starboard so we don’t get confused.

Come to port, Enoch tried again.

Francis and I obliged.

Now, steady your course. Enoch was trying so hard to be nautical now.

We dipped the oars steadily but not hard, mostly enough for maneuverability, and made comfortable progress. It was almost four miles through the winding course downriver and then another two to round Clements Point and run past Boston Harbor. We made about two and a half knots over the bottom. Thus far, we were on schedule to hit slack current at the point.

Enoch was easily distracted by the sights and sounds of the awakening marsh around us. Birds mostly, but so many fish swam in Back River that sometimes it seemed to boil. Cormorants were starting to patrol, diving steeply into the muddy water for their prey. Twice I had to remind Enoch to tend his duty, but I did so with a laugh, and he quickly obliged.

The day had brightened enough that we could see color easily. The sun would rise soon. Great flocks of migrating waterfowl suddenly rose in Royalls Cove, circled, and headed north. Dawn was inevitable now. We hugged the shore past Royalls, staying in the wandering channel, and finally passed Clements Point and started to pull in earnest past Boston Harbor toward Hilton’s Point. The tide was slack low, and I hoped we could squeeze around before it moved again.

The shoreline here was unforgiving. No long, muddy flats to gently nuzzle into if we made a mistake navigating. I directed us out away from the point, and after twenty minutes of diligent effort, Francis and I could see the Pimple Stone at the point coming astern. That signaled we were almost past the split in the river and very soon could ship our oars, set the small sail, and head north with the wind and the current.

Several river gundalows and a coastal schooner were coming upriver from Portsmouth. They caught up and joined us as we passed Pomeroy Cove. Their crews waved but made no effort to moderate their language after seeing that my two crewmen were boys. Even at normal volume, their voices carried perfectly across the water. These were hardened men who would never be rich, but they were happy at their trade.

For the next few hours, we alternated at the helm. Sometimes the wind nudged us through the water at almost two knots, but most of our progress over the bottom was drifting in the two- to three-knot current. I put Enoch on the helm oar, and at first, he struggled with the big sweep, handling it as if his own strength alone was what directed the vessel. I was content to let him adjust and learn the feel of it on his own, but Francis stepped in and showed him how to pull to port or starboard just enough to push the bow in the other direction. Here in the wider part of the eastern branch of the Piscataqua was a good place to practice. Soon we would be in a narrow ditch between the mud flats. Easy enough for a skilled oarsman, but not a place for a novice.

The sun was well up when Francis reached inside his shirt and brought out his fife. Inwardly, I groaned. The boy was learning to play and showed great promise, but Lord, he was struggling with breath and controlling the shape of his mouth. It seemed every few days his face was a different shape and size. Just when he learned to get a clear, steady tone, he would grow again and have to change. His hands, which at first had struggled to cover the six holes, now seemed almost too big. The instrument was not the best quality, being a hand-down from an older friend who had gone off last year to join the siege in Boston.

I was glad he showed the same enthusiasm for his reading, writing, and numbers. Most boys his age had barely learned their letters before quitting their studies to work on the farm or a trade. I wanted my boys to be comfortable with writing to be able to exchange letters and place orders with merchants. Bess encouraged it as well, though she usually had them practice by reading something religious. I didn’t have much use for that. Sometimes I had them read Ben Franklin’s work, which was entertaining as well as educational.

The morning warmed steadily. Thankfully, it was a crystal blue day, with no sign of April showers on the horizon. How fortunate we were to have a rare day like this on one of the few days of the month when the tide accommodated our trip! We passed Sturgeon Creek, where the brick makers were already hard at work. Then we passed the mouth of the Cocheco, where two of the gundalows and the schooner were already steering away to go to Dover.

Gradually, the river narrowed—or rather the navigable channel narrowed. While the river still appeared broad and safe, I knew the mud flats below the surface were closing in on each side. The watermen had already placed the seasonal poles there as well.

Another hour passed, and we rounded the last point and could spy Hamilton’s shipyard just over a mile away. We still had several hours of flood tide behind us, and I was pleased with our timing.

Time to grab some lunch boys, I said. We’ve perhaps thirty minutes before we arrive.

Enoch eagerly opened the rucksack and broke off a piece of Bess’s soft bread and some venison. I passed the first water jug up from below decks. Francis favored the dried fish, though it was