Bittersweet Tavern

Bittersweet Tavern

by S. Copperstone

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

LEGAL stuff (copyright, etc)

Cover photograph taken from the deck of the 18th century reproduction French Navy frigate, l’Hermoine, used by permission from Nicolas Chambon, Gabier.

Adapted from the screenplay, Winds of Change, registered with the Writers Guild of America, East: August 2010 and copyright © 2010 Shari Wice

First Printing 2015 by Shari Wice, distributed by Smashwords.

Second Printing 2015 by Bygone Era Books, LTD

Third Printing 2016 by Back Porch Designs, LLC

Fourth Printing e-book version 2018 by Back Porch Designs, LLC. Distributed by Smashwords.

Special Thanks Goes To...

Thank you to the following: Christopher Ray Allison, Justin Ashcraft, Bygone Era Books, LTD, Sharon U. Bippus, Windy Buhler, Phillipa Clark, Adam Bradford Clay, Sean Doonan, George Ebersole, Paul Andrew Gierut, Cisco Gonzalez, Michael C. Hitas, Gretchen Hodges, B. Johnson, Elaine Drennon Little, Josh Mathis, Kele McGlohon, Ilona Perry, John Peters, Bryan Riley, Dee Dillion Schroeder, George Seffers, David Tadlock, Kevin Wallis, Diana Wells, Bill Wilson, zoetrope.com

On the cover, the Revolutionary War-era replica ship of Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de La Fayette, a reproduction frigate of the French navy, l’Hermoine, made its voyage from Rochefort, France to North America April through August 2015. It followed the journey it made in the 1780. www.hermione.com

A little History

Although the main characters are fictional, most of the events regarding Falmouth Neck are true.

The town of Falmouth Neck, Massachusetts in the District of Maine, was a busy port town. It was threatened by the British, more than once, after the majority of the loyalists were removed to the safety of Canada.

In 1775, there were three taverns and/or inns in the town of Falmouth Neck, Massachusetts (present-day Portland, Maine) of which I borrowed a little of each for Bittersweet Tavern:

1) Widow Alice Greele’s was a one-story where many county court meetings were held and where a large portion of the patriots received their news. It was on east corner of Congress and Hampshire Streets, and was well known for baked beans and Boar’s Head. By herself, she saved her tavern from a fire during the bombardment in 1775. Her daughter sold the house in 1802, and in 1846 it was cut in half and moved to Ingraham’s Court, off Washington Street. It burned in the fire of 1866.

2) John Greenwood’s tavern was built in 1774 on the south corner of Middle and Silver Streets, but was not finished. The house was a three-story with brick ends and no windows on the ends. Soldiers assembled at this tavern during the war, and in 1776, a court martial was held here. It was sold in 1783 and then finished by the new owner, who turned part of it into a store. The building was taken down circa 1858 to make room for stores.

3) Marston’s tavern stood in Monument Square. It included stables and a shed. It was moved to State Street in 1834 on the southwest side, near York Street. When it was moved, they found one of Mowat’s cannon balls in the chimney. Marston’s tavern was the house where Colonel Samuel Thompson’s Brunswick company of militiamen kept the British Lieutenant Mowat after he was captured on Munjoy Hill on May 9, 1775. Later, Captain Wentworth Stuart and his men kept the crew of Coulson’s ship, who had been captured by Captain Samuel Noyes and his company at the mouth of the Presumpscot River on June 22, 1775.

4) The town’s jailer, Moses Shattuck, took guests into his house for overnight accommodations for extra income.

According to the Collections of the Maine Historical Society Series II, Vol. V edition, Mowat was fascinated with Mary, the daughter of Colonel Sparhawk, with whom he visited alone at the Colonel’s grand house in Portsmouth, New Hampshire in October—prior to the destruction of Falmouth. That could be why Portsmouth was spared from Mowat’s revenge. It could also be said it was because he had used all his ammunition on Falmouth first.

Mowat was assigned to the HMS Canceaux and in 1764 conducted a hydrographic survey of the coast of North America and the Saint Lawrence River to Boston. While there engaged, Mowat was ordered to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in December 1774, to protect military supplies at Fort William and Mary. Paul Revere (he must have been busy back then!) alerted the local militia of the British seizure of munitions, and they moved the gunpowder before Mowat arrived. The colonials ran Canceaux aground in the Piscataqua River and it was stuck there for several days before the tide came in. Mowat then patrolled the New England coast for smugglers until ordered to Falmouth Neck, in March 1775, to assist the loyalist shipbuilder, Coulson.

In early October, Mowat was ordered to fire munition on the seaports of Marblehead, Salem, Gloucester, Ipswich, Newburyport, Portsmouth, Saco, Falmouth and Machias, to punish the seaports for their rebellious ways. On October 18, 1775 he destroyed a large portion of the town of Falmouth Neck with his flotilla of the HMS Canceaux; the Cat; HMS Halifax; HMS Spitfire and the HMS Symmetry, spending between eight and nine hours bombarding the town until he ran out of ammunition and had to melt more.

In 1786, the town of Falmouth split off from Falmouth Neck, and was renamed Portland.

On July 4, 1866, a fire destroyed most of the commercial buildings in the city of Portland and hundreds of homes.Prologue

Falmouth Neck, Massachusetts, District of Maine, Autumn 1753

Another morning like the one before, at least that was how young Jerusha Lovejoy saw it. She carefully exited the bakery while balancing six loaves of bread in her arms. Her mother would be pleased she managed to secure the freshest baked loaves before the other taverns. Despite providing the bakery with a weekly order, it never failed that a rise in patrons would fill the taverns, especially when the merchant ships came into port.

Jerusha cringed inwardly when she saw Daniel Stanton. He leaned casually against the hitching post in front of Bittersweet Ordinary and Inn. The bane of the neighborhood in her eyes, the adopted and youngest child of the vast Stanton family, stood watching passersby with a scowl. It somehow reminded her of the time he set fire to Mr. Stanton’s haystack, and then another time when he released Mr. Brown’s pigs.

Her mother had mentioned more than once how Daniel had come to live in their town. The boy couldn’t have been older than three or four when he was found wandering the pier like a ragamuffin. The ship’s master had taken him around to area houses with the explanation that the boy’s mother died at sea and he had no other family. The mystery began when he could not be accounted for on the ship’s passenger list although passengers claimed to have seen the boy at the port of Bristol. His complexion was much too dark for English nativity, although Jerusha knew from experience that the port towns had a variety of nationalities, so that in itself was not particularly strange.

After no one stepped forward to claim the boy as theirs, the Stanton family took him into their brood, despite their advanced ages. They already had fifteen children, many grandchildren and great grandchildren, one more mouth to feed would not matter. Their farm was at the edge of town and they could provide for the boy they named Daniel. He spoke very little at first and the Stantons suspected he hadn’t known English well, if at all.

Jerusha found herself staring at Daniel’s dark, disheveled curly hair as it fell into his face with each turn of his head. He chewed on a sassafras twig eying up everyone with suspicion as they walked by. His usual expression. Two sacks rested at his feet. He crossed his left foot over the other. Then, he noticed her. She quickly looked away before his eye caught hers.

Jerusha walked by Daniel, trying hard to ignore him, even when she felt his intense gaze bore into her skin. The loaves of bread teetered precariously in her arms and she concentrated on not dropping them.

The local butcher, middle-aged Mr. Palamatier sat on the front stoop. He always had a bloody apron tied around his waist and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Today was no different.

Good morning, Miss Lovejoy. Mr. Palamatier wiped his hands on the grass.

Good morning, Mr. Palamatier.

She had to bend her knees slightly for her fingers to stretch enough to reach the tavern’s doorknob. After multiple attempts at opening the door, she couldn’t ignore Daniel’s presence any longer. She sent him an annoyed glare.

Daniel Stanton! If you’re not busy, would it kill you to open the door? As you can see, I’ve my hands full.

He made a feeble attempt to help, if one could call it that. What he did in fact, was lean forward against the post with two forearms resting on it.

It might at that, Abigail Lovejoy, he said.

That did it. She felt the heat rising outward from her heart.

I am Jerusha. Abigail is my sister. J.E.R.U.S.H.A. Remember that.

Of course you are. He smirked, clearly amused by her and pointed his sassafras twig at the loaves in her arms. They make baskets for those, you know. It might help with carrying ‘em.

Never mind. I don’t need your help. She shifted the bread in her arms.

And what did he do? The nerve of him! Daniel Stanton smiled at her.

Blood surged to the surface of her skin as she glared at him, at his scrawny, awkward teen-aged body. She could not deny he was beginning to fill out his clothes from the last time she had seen him last year. He had grown a few inches in height. He must have been about fifteen or sixteen, she reckoned.

The tavern door opened much to her relief but that imp of a boy, Andrew Frost, ran toward her from out of no where and held the door open.

Just for you, Jerusha. Andrew flashed her a toothy grin.

Thank you, Andrew.

My pleasure.

Luke Stanton faced who ever it was he was chatting to as he exited the tavern. He slammed into Jerusha who nearly dropped her bread. Sawdust caked Luke’s clothes as usual and she tried not to get it on the bread.

Watch out!

Pardon me, Jerusha, Luke said.

Why are all of you Stanton boys such... Obstacles? She glared at Daniel, ignoring Luke, who stared at her with surprise.

I didn’t see you there, Luke said, noticeably confused.

Maybe you are the obstacle, ever think of that? Daniel asked.

Jerusha stopped in her tracks. She turned to face Daniel and watched as he picked up one of the sacks at his feet. He hoisted it over his shoulder. Andrew took her loaves of bread and held them for her, the perfect gentleman.

Ah... Jerusha? Andrew waited impatiently, holding both doors open for her with his foot and leg.

I prefer not to see you in Falmouth again, Daniel, she said a little more harsher than she meant with her hands on her hips.

He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by what she thought.

Jerusha, you don’t fancy Daniel, do you? Luke eyed Jerusha and Daniel with a raised brow.

What? No. Never. Why would I? Jerusha said quickly.

Luke shook his head as he bent at the waist to hoist the remaining sack at Daniel’s feet over his shoulder.

Ready? he asked Daniel.

Waiting for you. Found a ship?

Secured passage to Bristol. We’ve got to work for our share though. I’ve signed up as a carpenter and you as cooper’s apprentice.

That is what I already do, Daniel muttered. How will I see the world as a cooper’s apprentice?

Luke smiled grimly as he shook his head again.

Daniel dropped the sassafras twig on the ground. He glanced at Jerusha before he turned his back and sauntered toward the harbor.

Jerusha entered the tavern with a sweet smile in Andrew’s direction. Inside, she rushed to the nearest window, and opened the lace curtains to watch Daniel as long as she could.Chapter 1

Atlantic Ocean, off the coastal Carolinas

late April 1775

Three ships sailed through the storm’s rage. Clouds passed over the moon, blackening the sea. Deafening cannon fire sizzled in the air, drowning out the distant thunder. Each lightning flash revealed the silhouette of the schooner, The Seal. The ship appeared nearly helpless in the water with ripped sails, a split staff and a broken mast of which no flag or jack waved. It leaned slightly on its starboard side. Wood splinters and cannon balls mottled its immaculate white and black paint. On board, the crew was sparse for a ship of its size with only ten sailors.

On the horizon, the frigate, The Fervent Fox, sailed with unlit lanterns. Cloaked by darkness and rising waves, it drew closer, yet always out of cannon range. Red and white stripes of the British East India Company waved prominently from its gaff-rigged pole. It followed the ship employed by the British navy.

Once within cannon range, it became clear the British navy ship had faired no better than The Seal, but it was a larger ship with more carpenters aboard for repairs.

At the helm of The Seal, despite the cold wind stinging his face, Nicolau da Costa, wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand before it dripped into his eyes. He squinted through his spyglass at the Royalist captain pursuing him. Thick smoke from recently fired cannons obstructed most of his vision. Blood seeped through a hastily applied bandage wound tight around his thigh.

Fire! Nicolau shouted through the wind.

Cannon fire erupted in retaliation from The Seal. The sound blended perfectly with the thunder. At the same time, a hot iron ball blasted through the rails and sailed over the top deck, narrowly missing the few sailors manning the ropes on The Seal.

Nicolau dropped his spyglass to survey the damage and his sparse prize crew.

Enemy Schooner... Show your true colors, the Royalist captain bellowed into his megaphone.

Nicolau nodded to the nearest sailor, young John of London. Hoist her.

John of London raced toward the broken staff and retrieved the Colonial flag of Massachusetts. He held it high for the Royalist captain to see.

Cease fire immediately and surrender, the Royalist captain shouted through his megaphone. Behind him, his crew were busy at the cannons and lashing up the sails in the inclement weather.

Lower the battle ensign, Nicolau said to John of London with a scowl. He kept an eye on the Royalist captain through each flash of lightning.

Sir?

Her guns outnumber ours, Nicolau said as he compressed his spyglass and slipped it into a pocket inside his coat. "The Seal is too damaged to continue. I feel if we light another gunner’s daughter, she’ll shake her timbers . We’ll get her back again when we can."

Prepare to be boarded, the Royalist captain shouted through his megaphone.

John of London barely lowered the ensign and raised the white flag to surrender when the Royalist captain summoned his men to board The Seal.

The Royalist captain remained on his ship as eight men from his crew climbed into rowboats. They didn’t have an easy time of it with the rough, choppy waves. Nicolau watched with shaded amusement.

Good that they should suffer. Coward, Nicolau muttered under his breath at the Royalist captain.

Do not fight them, he said to his crew.

Within a span of twenty minutes, The Seal’s prize crew found themselves surrounded with pistols and bayonets pointed at them. A Royalist sailor replaced the Colonial flag of Massachusetts and hoisted the Union Jack up the flagpole. The Royalist first mate stepped forward.

Surrender your weapons, he said, eying all with suspicion and superiority. He stared at Nicolau the longest. I know your tarnal riggings by heart, he added. This is a ship of the Crown.

Is that a northern coastal dialect I hear, too? Nicolau asked.

Possibly.

Yankee trader, he muttered as he reached slowly under his coat for his pistol from under his belt while the Royalist crewman held a flintlock pistol to his temple.

Nicolau handed his pistol to the Royalist first mate, reluctantly.

Who here claims to be captain? The first mate’s intense gaze remained on Nicolau.

No one volunteered that information. Nicolau held his ground, not revealing who he was, knowing his crew would never give him up.

I’d imagine the Fox’s captain would not be commanding a prize ship. It would be beneath his rank and ego. You must be some other of the commission, then? the first mate asked Nicolau. Perhaps quartermaster? Or passed over?

Nicolau kept to his stoic expression.

No matter, who ever you are, ye’ll hang just the same, the Royalist first mate said, for the theft of a ship in the king’s service.

He pushed his pistol against Nicolau’s chest. Meet the hold, he said. She welcomes ye with open mouth.

The first mate’s crew persuaded Nicolau’s with their bayonets and little resistance down the rope ladder into The Seal’s hold.

Nicolau grimaced when the first mate pushed the barrel of his pistol between his shoulder blades, hitting a tender nerve. He followed his men into the hold, with each step sending more pain through his thigh.

The Royalist first mate tossed three buckets on top of them. He peered down at Nicolau and his men as Mr. Preserved Fish raced to catch the buckets before they hit someone in the head. He missed the one that hit Nicolau’s shoulder who had sheltered his head with his arm.

You might want to do something about those leaks otherwise none of us’ll survive for long, the Royalty first mate snickered as he locked the grated hatch.

Nicolau grimaced as