STANDING, AS THEY WERE, on the threshold of rebellion, the English colonies were definitely committed to armed resistance when war flared out at Lexington and Concord in April of 1775.
Yet, curious as it may seem, Lexington and Concord did not mark the first real battle of the Revolution. Three months previous, a landing force of New Hampshire men surprised and captured the English fort of William and Mary at the mouth of the Piscataqua River.
Had news traveled faster in those days and had the results been more bloody it is not too far-fetched to say that this engagement rather than that at Lexington and Concord would have proved the spark to ignite the tinder of the then prevalent unrest.
Since this opening battle of the Revolutionary War was essentially a naval affair it should prove of particular interest. Let us therefore walk back through the dead and half-forgotten days of nearly two centuries ago to the close of a certain wintry afternoon in mid-December 1774.
The light from the setting sun dyed the weather-stained roof of the Earl of Halifax Hotel a rich gold. It was time for the candles to be lighted and apple logs to be piled into fireplaces for the evening. In front of the door of the hostelry a small group was gathered. Three ruffled and laced gentlemen were engaged in a low discussion. A short distance from them, Mr. John Stavers, the tavern keeper, who had just previously renounced the warmth of his living-room for the chill of the outdoors, stood in a state of abject shivering. Occasionally he peered up the street as if expecting someone or something to appear. Near him were several nondescript loungers and one very short and powerfully built negro who served as handy man around the hotel.
One of the gentleman turned from the conversation to address the innkeeper, “I say, Stavers, will the stage be late again?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. It is already past due.”
As if to answer the query a distant thunder of hoofs was heard which grew louder and more distinct until with a roar, a coach drawn by six steaming horses swerved madly around the corner and, with a screeching of wooden brakes and the cries of the driver as he reined in the animals, drew up in front of the sign of the Earl of Halifax.
The squat negro sprang for the lead horses’ heads, and, the animals now under control, the driver jumped nimbly from his seat, shouted a welcome to Stavers, and flung open the coach door.
The only occupant, a medium-size man dressed in dark cloth with plain silver buckles at his knees, slowly climbed out.
He dropped his hand bag, pulled out his wallet and counted out some money. “Seven shillings, driver,” he said, as the coins clinked into the hand of the man.
He picked up his bag and singling out the innkeeper, approached him. “Will you be so kind as to direct me to the residence of Mr. Thomas Pickering?” he asked crisply.
The three gentlemen, who had dropped their conversation to eye the new arrival, looked with interest upon him at the mention of Pickering’s name.
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Stavers, somewhat disappointed at the prospect of losing a customer, even an unprepossessing one with doubtlessly an equally thin purse, “Mr. Pickering lives on the Josiah Folsom place north of the South Mill bridge. Now to get there you—,” and there followed a multiplicity of detailed directions from which the stranger finally extricated himself and after thanking his informant trudged away towards the mill.
The spacious front room of the farmhouse of Thomas Pickering, the miller and militia captain, was softly lighted by tallow candles and a large fire crackled in the fireplace. Before the blaze our friend of the afternoon was seated, warming himself with evident relish. Evidently he had imparted news of some importance to Thomas Pickering, a huge man, for the latter was striding up and down the room, his face knitted with thought.
He turned towards the man at the fireplace. “The committee of safety in Boston is positive, then, that this order issued by the King in council prohibiting the exportation of powder and arms to the colonies is to be followed immediately by the dispatching of a large garrison to Fort William and Mary to ensure that our committee here does not attempt to seize the powder and arms of the fort?” The figure at the fireplace paused a moment but continued to gaze into the fire. “Of that we are certain. You realize of course the importance of arms and particularly powder to our cause. It was for that reason that the committee in Boston hastily sent me north to Portsmouth to notify the society here in order that they may act before the reënforcements for the garrison arrive.”
“You appreciate what this may mean to us?” said Pickering with considerable feeling. “To surprise an English fort, to capture it and sack it when the colonies as yet are not at war with the mother-country will brand my comrades and myself as rebels and pirates. Governor Wentworth will seize our homes, set a price on our heads, and force us into hiding. Then, if we are caught, we will hang for it.” “There will be no hangings, at least not of the Sons of Liberty, my friend,” said Revere quietly. “The colonies are tottering now on the brink of revolution. War is inevitable and to be successful we must have powder. We cannot delay. You must move at once.”
The captain straightened with decision, “I believe you. Tomorrow night we shall take the fort, remove the powder and what arms we may find, and the Sons of Liberty will take a glass of wine with His Majesty’s Captain Cochran—as well as take his gunpowder from him.”
The night of December 15, 1774, was clear and cold. Under the shadows of Long Wharf, out of the reach of the icy tidal current which swirled in inky depths on its way to the sea, were gathered several small sailing craft with lateen sails peculiar to the rivers of New Hampshire. The latest comer, a boat belonging to Benjamin Matheis of Durham, had just come in and the twelve men aboard were receiving whispered instructions from Pickering’s boat to which they had been directed.
An hour before midnight and the tiny fleet crept out into the reaches of mid-river and were rapidly conveyed by wind and current past Seavey’s Island, through the racing waters of the narrows, and on towards Lighthouse Point on the Isle of Newcastle.
Before the harbor mouth was reached the boats turned into a shallow inlet. Three boat-lengths from shore and the heavy craft buried their stems into the shelf of sand which formed the bottom. Without hesitation, the crews went over the sides into icy water reaching nearly to their waists and pushed their boats as silently and as quickly as possible to the shore. Here the boats were partly drawn up on the beach and given into the charge of a few men.
The remainder of the band quickly assembled, there were a few last whispered directions and then the party set off across country, led by the militia captain.
A short distance from Fort William and Mary the men were halted in the shelter of a small woods from whose edge the earthen landward parapet of the fort could be dimly discerned by the light of the winter moon.
Leaving the attackers under the command of his friend, Langdon, the miller left the concealment of the trees and moved forward alone, taking advantage of whatever concealment the ground offered.
During his advance a sentry appeared on the western ramparts and the captain crouched motionless until the soldier had moved out of sight.
A moment later Pickering had reached the turf embankment, which, although of considerable slope, nevertheless was easily scaled by a person of agility.
He flashed over the top and dropped into the shallow pit of a gun emplacement. He was undiscovered. He clung to the shadows of the wall.
Soon the step of the sentry was heard and the man passed by all unaware of the danger lurking on the wall itself. Two paces past and the redcoat half turned at the rustle behind him. But it was too late. Iron fingers clamped around his throat, choking there whatever warning cry might have escaped, but his musket clattered off the parapet and rattled down the bank.
Dropping the sentinel senseless at his feet, Pickering quickly stood erect on the wall and beckoned to the watching eyes in the woods beyond.
The noise of the falling musket and the pounding of running feet alarmed someone in the fort’s interior. Three shots rang out but Pickering had dropped safely to the ground within and was speeding towards the quarters of Captain Cochran.
Behind him the men from Hampshire streamed up over the western wall into the fort subduing the tiny garrison before it was aware of what was happening.
Captain John Cochran had just lighted a candle and was standing half clad in the middle of the floor when his door was rudely flung open and he was confronted by Pickering.
Speechless with rage at this midnight intrusion and feeling his loss of dignity the Englishman sputtered, “What—what I say—is the meaning of such a damnable intrusion at this hour of the night?”
“Sir,” said the soldier-miller, permitting an amused smile to flicker over his suntanned face, “I have the honor of requesting the surrender of His Majesty’s fortress of William and Mary and of your excellency’s sword.”
Recognizing his captor Cochran exclaimed angrily, “By what authority does the miller of Portsmouth presume to act? And since when has it been the custom for a British officer to surrender his sword to a Yankee farmer?”
“By the authority of the committee of public safety of the American Colonies,” replied Pickering, the smile dying from his face at the taunt of the angry officer. “Furthermore, is it necessary for me to remind you, sir, that I am not only a miller, a profession of which I am justly proud, but that I also hold a commission in the militia of New Hampshire and therefore am quite fit to receive your sword.”
Trembling with anger Captain Cochran reached for his sword which hung at the head of his bed and reluctantly presented it to his captor.
Pickering handed it back to him. “A gentleman should retain his side arms,” he said simply. “As to the disposition of this fort, it will be returned to your command at daybreak, after we have removed the powder and arms from the magazines. No harm will befall you or your men providing you make no move to hinder us. May I have your word then?”
For answer the redcoat wrenched his saber from its sheath and launched a terrific blow at the militiaman. With the litheness of a giant cat Pickering swung his huge bulk of a body to one side and with marvelous agility dodged the slash.
Then without deigning to draw his own sword he leaped forward and with one blow dropped his antagonist like a dead man to the floor. Snatching a crimson uniform sash from the wardrobe he hurriedly knelt on the floor of the room and securely bound the unconscious Britisher’s hands and feet. Jumping to his feet he blew out the candle and made his way to the yard.
When he had gained the open he found that the magazines had already been broached and that cask after cask of powder was being carried on willing shoulders out through the gates to be piled up on the shore. A detail of men had already set off to bring the boats up to the fort.
The boats having arrived, the powder and whatever arms that could be found were hastily loaded into them—the men silently hurrying from shore to boats carrying their burdens through the icy waters which froze to their clothes and chilled their bodies through and through.
Finally, when the last cask and the last musket had been put aboard, the boats were manned and taking advantage of the tide, which was now setting up the river, they were soon well upstream and free from immediate pursuit.
The muskets were found to be defective and were thrown away but the kegs of powder were carried to Durham. Part of the casks were hidden under the pulpit of the old meeting-house there; the rest, in the cellar of John Demeritt of Madbury. Later the powder was moved by oxcart to Boston and on the eve of the battle on Bunker Hill was measured out to the Yankee defenders.
Thus in a daring movement by river and sea a small band of New Hampshire farmers and fishermen invested a fortress of His British Majesty, George III, and without a single loss of life, carried off military stores which were to prove of inestimable value in the trying June days to follow.
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It cannot be too often repeated, or too much insisted upon, that the success or failure of a state policy is dependent upon the amount of armed force behind it. For upon the amount of armed force behind it depends the greater or lesser amount of resistance, of friction, which that policy will meet with on the part of other nations. The prestige of a nation depends upon the general belief in its strength. The less its prestige, the more it will be checked and foiled by its rivals, till at last perhaps it is goaded into a war which would have been prevented if its prestige, or armed force had been greater. On the other hand, the greater its prestige, its armed force, the more reasonable and inclined to a fair compromise are its rivals found. So that the greater the prestige, the armed force of our nation is, the more likely is it that all our negotiations will be settled by peaceful compromise, and the longer we shall enjoy peace.—Murray.