Candlelight licked the walls of the small dining quarters as a young man, hidden in shadows cast by the devilish flames dancing about, listened intently through a crack in the door in anticipation of the next verbal salvo.

 For more than an hour the three American privateer captains, experienced sailors and very worthy adversaries, had been on the offensive. Oh, they had most assuredly been pleasant enough, but they also walked aloof with a certain sense of arrogance.

 As well they should. With three heavily armed vessels anchored off the Village of Chester and scarcely a retaliatory shot from the community's blockhouse heard, the American captains suspected they were working from a distinct tactical advantage. But they needed proof.

 So, when Capt. Prescott offered the opportunity to come ashore, it seemed the perfect chance to get a feeling for the community and assess the strength of the militia at the local blockhouse.

 As the polite chuckles and subtle innuendoes turned to momentary silence, Capt. Prescott, sensing that this may be the moment he needed, openly wondered aloud about how his garrison of militiamen was spending the evening.

 That was the signal - the young man moved from the shadows and pounded on Prescott's door. The captain excused himself, rose and greeted the young man at the door.

 "The men," the youngster said, "more than 100 of them, sent from Lunenburg by Col. Creighton, are set to retire, but they require quarters. Where shall they stay?"

 Capt. Prescott glanced back toward the table, only for an instant, to ensure his next words could be overheard by his counterparts.

 "I have arranged for them to stay in Timothy Houghton's barn to get a good night's rest," Prescott said. "Go and tell them to billet there."

 The young man closed the door, retreating to the shadows, and Capt. Prescott returned to the table.

 "Gentlemen, should you press on with your attack in the morrow, I will be ready for you."

 Capt. Umlah, the leader of the American vessels, put down his fork and swallowed hard. The freshly killed game seemed to stick in his throat.

 Surely Prescott was lying. The Americans had seen little sign of activity when firing on the blockhouse earlier in the day. In fact, there seemed to be little evidence of a defensive force at all. But perhaps the Loyalist community had been withholding its truestrength.

 But still, Prescott seemed sincere with his comment and, admittedly, the Americans had paid little attention to activity around the barns on the hillside. Rather, their attention had been focused solely on the blockhouse. What, Umlah pondered, if he had miscalculated the strength of this little seaside town?

 The American captain pushed his chair from the table. This little reconnaisance dinner had provided him with enough information to plan his next move.

 "Gentlemen," he said to his countrymen, "I believe it is time we allowed our kind host, Capt. Prescott, to retire for the evening."

 The young man listening by the door, realizing that the meal had come to an end, beat a hasty retreat into the darkness of the evening, excited by the trick his father, Capt. Prescott, had invited him to partake in.

 And while the Americans descended to the shore to row back to their privateering vessels, Capt. Prescott, standing outside the blockhouse, watched them go, musing all the while that the dawn of the new day would either bring about the destruction of his burgeoning little community or, should his ruse prove successful, its salvation.

 The captain retired to his quarters for the evening. He had done his best and now it was up to fate to determine whether all the work put into the settlement in the 23 years or so since 1759 would go for naught.

 It was a defining day of events for the Village of Chester. Capt. Jonathan Prescott, a doctor and one of the educated men who had been among the original settlers who populated Timothy Houghton's community in 1759, then known as Shoreham, had laid the plans for what would be perhaps one of the greatest combat hornswogglings that Nova Scotia has ever seen.

 The day had been an exciting one for the settlement. In the morning hours three large vessels, identified as American, had been spotted entering the mouth of the harbour.

 Within a short time, the intentions of the invaders were made quite clear as shots rang out in the direction of the blockhouse. Capt. Prescott, being one of the few men present, grabbed arms and began returning fire at the vessels.

 The bulk of the militia had, in fact, removed to Lunenburg for training and so, when the American ships appeared, the village was essentially unguarded.

 But Capt. Prescott, realizing that the fate of the community lay in the balance, resisted, firing back at the American vessels, eventually hitting one. Prescott's efforts appeared fruitful as the vessels hailed, requesting permission to bury their dead.

 While it may have been an attempt at subterfuge by the American captains to gather information on the strength of the militia present, Prescott obliged the attackers under the condition that they proceed unarmed.

 Prescott later invited the captains to dine ashore, knowing full well that he needed to buy time, either until the militia returned or until he could come up with a plan.

 In the meantime, while his American counterparts prepared to depart their vessels, Prescott made arrangements with the women and elderly in the community who had remained behind when the militia departed for Lunenburg.

 Before dawn, anyone with a red-lined cape was to report to the blockhouse where, once the sun rose, they would parade about, as if soldiers on guard against an invading force.

 As the day grew long, the American captains eventually came ashore and met with Prescott for the proposed dinner, each side feeling the other out.

 And while the exact details of that meal have been lost with time, the passages related above convey the intent and atmosphere of the meal, as well as the critical steps that Capt. Prescott took to convince the Americans that, despite what their own senses might tell them, there was a strong militia guarding the community.

 The next morning, just as planned, before the break of dawn, the townspeople gathered, cloaks turned inside out, the red of the lining facing outward. Prescott's hope was that the Americans, undoubtedly spying on the blockhouse in the early morning from a distance, would see the women and elderly in capes and red cloaks, parading around with brooms, and mistake them for the militia.

 It was a dangerous gambit for Prescott to take. Not only had he lied about the presence of the militia in Timothy Houghton's barn, but he had also used townspeople to create his fictitious militia.

 If the Americans detected the deceit, they would surely land soldiers and the blockhouse would be instantly overwhelmed, the town ransacked and, if the worst-case scenario occurred, prisoners taken back to New England.

 Worse yet, if the Americans failed to detect the deceit but decided nonetheless to pursue an attack on the blockhouse, it would mean the women of the town would be in the line of fire and much blood would be shed.

 As the sun rose that morning, Capt. Jonathan Prescott held his breath, waiting and hoping. Finally, after many tense moments, Prescott and his garrison of townsfolk watched as the American vessels, having weighed anchor, slowly disappeared from site.

 The gambit had paid off and the American privateers had left, not to return.

 It was a tremendous triumph for the people of Chester. The village had been spared by the clever plan of a doctor-turned-tactician.

 Unfortunately for the people of Lunenburg, Chester's victory was to their detriment. The American vessels subsequently rolled into Lunenburg harbour and attacked the town, pillaging it and leaving the settlement in chaos.

 Sources: "Brief History of Chester, Founded 1759," Chester Municipal Heritage Society; "History of the County of Lunenburg," Mather DesBrisay.

Written and researched by Patrick Hirtle.