A Press of Canvas: Volume One in the War of 1812 Trilogy Read online

  The petty officers lined up their men in ragged rows; midshipmen and the ship’s officers formed neat ranks on the forward section of the quarterdeck, immediately aft of the mainmast. Captain Winston stepped forward and stood with his officers at the rail facing the crew and spoke the now familiar words again.

  “This muster is to witness a captain’s hearing and subsequent punishment if so ordered. You will remain silent and in ranks.” He raised his voice slightly and continued, “master at arms, bring forth the prisoners.”

  None were surprised to see five men, including Tyler and Spicer, the gun captain, half dragged and half marched to the front of the crew. Beside Spicer, the American sailors knew one of the others, but two were complete strangers to them. Tyler, of course, was well known not only to the Americans, but to many of the British sailors as well. Most who knew him thought him a friendly youngster who made them laugh, caused no trouble and did his job; he would probably make a fine sailor-man one day.

  He stood there, beside Spicer, with the other prisoners, his hands in irons, head down and totally beaten. He trembled visibly and a constant flow of tears streaked his grimy cheeks. His protestations of wrongful accusation had fallen on deaf ears; after all, two King’s officers had “witnessed” his action with the rammer. Captain Winston looked at the group for a long minute and then spoke to the master at arms.

  “Read your charges, master at arms. Let’s get on with it.”

  There were two cases of drunkenness, one insubordination to an officer, and the two gunners. The master at arms, having read the first three charges came to Spicer. He prodded him forward as the charges against him were read.

  “This man, Captain, is accused of threatening a shipmate with a knife, and it was only a matter of timing that he didn’t follow through with the threat. Lieutenant Burns and Mister Fitzgerald witnessed and thwarted the attack in the nick of time.”

  The captain looked at Lieutenant Burns and said, “What about this, Mr. Burns. Did this man attack his shipmate with a knife?”

  “No sir. He was only holding the knife when we arrived on the scene. In fact he didn’t appear all that threatening to me. More like he was just holding it.”

  “I would have to agree, sir. The man made no move to stick his shipmate.” Unnecessarily, Lieutenant Fitzgerald corroborated the story.

  “Spicer. What do you have to say about all this, hmmm?” The captain didn’t seem all that eager to seize the man up.

  “It’s like the lieutenants said, sir. I had just picked it up where Tompkins dropped it, sir. Wasn’t gonna stick him. Wasn’t necessary since Tyler had just whacked ‘im with the rammer.”

  The eyebrow shot up, stayed aloft for a heartbeat, then returned.

  “Very well. Since it appears you were not about to cut your shipmate, I am suspending your grog ration for two weeks for arguing. You’re dismissed, Spicer.” The captain seemed willing to listen, and Tyler, who was next, looked up at him, and smiled nervously, wide-eyed and hopeful he would listen to him as well. Winston turned to the master at arms.

  “This, then, must be Tyler.”

  The warrant again stepped forward and spoke.

  “Aye, sir. He is charged with violation of Article 32 of the Articles of War, in that he beat another, his shipmate with a rammer, sir. He also is charged with fighting and disorderly conduct. I believe Mister Fitzgerald and Lieutenant Burns saw the blow, and there is no question about what happened.”

  “What is your job on Orpheus, Tyler?”

  “I’m a main topman on the starboard watch, sir.”

  “Bosun Tice.”

  “Sir.”

  “Who is the watch petty officer and captain of the main top on the starboard watch?” The captain was looking for someone to speak up for the boy.

  “Toppan, sir. And Coleman is the captain of the maintop.”

  “Do either of you have anything to say for Tyler…in his defense? Did either of you see the incident the master at arms described?”

  Toppan spoke up. There was no question he would be heard; he fairly bellowed his response.

  “The boy is one of mine, sir. ‘E come aboard from that American merchant a ‘alf a year back. Scared to death ‘e was sir, when I sent ‘im up to the maintop. Seems to be used to it now though, and ‘e’s not a bad ‘and. I saw the end of the fight, sir, and seemed to me ‘at Tompkins ‘ad a knife. Tyler didn’t start nothin’. I doubt ‘e could. Sir.”

  “Thank you Toppan. Lieutenant Fitzgerald, is Tompkins up and about?” Receiving a nod in affirmation, he continued. “Have him come forward, if you please.”

  The man shuffled forward from the assembled crew; there was no mistaking him. He still had a slightly glazed over look in his eyes and a bandage wrapped ‘round his head. He stopped well away from the captain and Lieutenant Fitzgerald. He wore purser’s slops that fitted his large frame poorly and kept his eyes averted, furtively shifting between the deck and the horizon.

  “What can you tell me about this, Tompkins? How did it come to pass that you got knocked on the head?”

  “Aye, yer worship. Me an’ Spicer, off’n gun 5, was havin’ a little disagreement over something. Tyler was standin’ there, and then ‘e left, I thought. Next thing I know, somet’in’ cracks me skull. Knocked me cold, it did. Shouldn’t ‘it a man from behind.” A little exaggeration couldn’t hurt his case.

  “Does anyone else have anything to add to this story?” The captain paused. The ship remained silent save for the creak of the rigging and the gentle rushing sound of the water as it slid by the hull. “In that case…”

  “Sir. I saw the whole incident from the gangway, sir, and nobody’s told it right.”

  The eyebrow shot up, and remained.

  “What have we here, Lieutenant Burns? A sea lawyer, perhaps?” The captain left no doubt that he had already made up his mind and did not appreciate the interruption. The first lieutenant stepped to the quarterdeck rail so as to more clearly see who had had the audacity to speak up so plainly.

  “Who said that? Come forward and speak up.” Burns spoke in his usual quiet voice, but every man jack on the spardeck heard him, and heard the menace and challenge that the words carried. There was a pause. Then the same voice spoke again.

  “Me, sir. Biggs. Able seaman, maintopman starboard watch.”

  “Weren’t you one of the men from that American we stopped a few months ago?” Seeing Biggs nod and about to speak, Burns went on.

  “That would make you a former shipmate of the accused. Is that why you’re speaking up, or do you have something to add?”

  Winston’s eyebrow returned to its resting place, and a smile, ever so slight, began to play at the corners of his mouth.

  “No sir…I mean, aye sir…I do have something to add. I saw the whole thing from the gangway. We had just secured from firing the great guns, and I watched as Tompkins started an argument with some of the men off’n gun five. When he pulled a knife on one of them – Spicer, I reckon it were – Tyler hit him a stroke with a rammer. Tyler likely saved Spicer from bein’ stuck by Tompkins – mayhaps even killed. Why, Spicer didn’t even have his knife in hand. Couldn’t have fought back at all. I know Tyler, sir. He wouldn’t start anything.”

  “Captain, that’s not how Mr. Fitzgerald and I saw it. We were, in fact, right on the weatherdeck, not up on the spardeck looking through the gangways into the darkness. It was apparent that Tyler, here, had indeed hit Tompkins over the head with the rammer smooth as kiss my hand. And when I looked at Spicer, I saw the knife in his hand, not Tompkins’.”

  The captain had heard enough, the start of his smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He looked down at Tyler.

  “I will not tolerate fighting of any kind on my ship. Save your fight for the Frenchmen when we find ‘em. Tyler, you’re relatively new aboard so I am going to do you a favor. I am going to teach you about discipline in the Royal Navy so as you won’t soon forget it.” He turned to the Bosun.

  “Th
ree dozen, Bosun.”

  There was no reaction from the crew; they had heard the same punishment ordered countless times. Tyler, however many times he had heard it ordered, had never before heard it associated with his name, and audibly gasped. Then he sobbed. His head was bowed, and his small frame, wracked with sobs, seemed to shrink even smaller.

  With the punishment meted out to the other three men, Captain Winston had ordered a total of over sixty lashes with the cat o’ nine tails to be swung by one of the bosun’s mates. The main hatch grating was rigged to the gangway with its lower part secured on the weatherdeck. Stout line was brought out and the first of the prisoners, a man named Crelock, was stripped of his shirt and had his hands tied to the top of the grate. Bosun Tice brought out the red baize bag and stood to one side, waiting with the bosun’s mate who would deliver the punishment.

  Captain Winston removed his hat, as did the officers and midshipmen. He then read in a strong voice completely devoid of emotion, the Articles of War appropriate to the offense, in this case, drunkenness, and finished by saying to the bosun, “One dozen, Mr. Tice. Do your duty.”

  Tice nodded at his mate, and the bosun’s mate took the cat out of the proffered red bag and stepped forward, checking to be sure he had ample room to swing the lash. He raised his arm and smoothly brought it down. The nine strands of the cat whistled as they flew toward the unlucky sailor’s back. When they landed, it was with a sharp crack punctuated by a sudden intake of breath. While all of the men aboard had witnessed punishment with the cat, none could help but put themselves in the place of the sailor seized up to the grating. No one made a sound; the silence was broken only by the slap of the leather strands of the cat across the now bleeding flesh. The sailor, Crelock, groaned involuntarily as the lash fell, his back now a mess of pulped skin with the beginnings bone showing, but not once did he cry out.

  At the completion of the twelve strokes ordered by the Captain, Crelock was cut down and taken forward by his mates to treat his raw back. The next miscreant was brought forward and after being order to strip, was seized up to the grate. The captain again doffed his hat, read the appropriate Article of War, and ordered the Bosun to “do your duty.” A different bosun’s mate stepped forward to take the whip. Winston wanted fresh arms wielding the lash so as to maintain the quality of the punishment.

  The scene was repeated yet again before it was Tyler’s turn to be tied to the grate. None had been awarded as many strokes as had Tyler, and most of the crew knew he could not endure more than twelve or fifteen without losing consciousness.

  Tyler, in fact, had nearly passed out just watching the other men receive their punishments; he had no delusions about his own ability to withstand the whipping. The pain he would experience was compounded in his mind by his innocence, and knowing that he was to receive almost twice as many strokes as the preceding three men, it became an unendurable turn of events. His eyes took on a wild look, glancing around the ship, and into the faces of his mates as if looking for an advocate who, at the last moment, might indeed save him from his pending ordeal. No one moved, or met his eyes. His sobbing had stopped, and his tears were replaced with steady streams of sweat running from his hairline down his face and neck, disappearing into his shirt, already dark and stained. His trembling was renewed with increased vigor.

  The master at arms had removed Tyler’s irons and dragged him forward to stand in front of the grate. The boy remained motionless, save his uncontrollable trembling, and his eyes, red and swollen, darted wildly about the scene, never settling long on anything or anyone.

  “Strip.” The word seemed to galvanize Tyler into action, and before the bosun’s mate could grab hold of him to tear the shirt off him, Tyler screamed “Noooooooooooooo…” Turning, he leapt for the bulwark, and in a flash, he was over the side and falling head first toward the blue Caribbean Sea. Nobody moved a muscle, so stunned was every man aboard. Neither the master at arms, nor the bosun’s mate with the cat, nor the captain had ever experienced anything akin to this action. They were momentarily speechless. No one had ever jumped overboard before in the face of a flogging.

  Suddenly everyone began talking at once. All the men who could get there, ran to the rail to see if they could see him. In the confusion, two voices rose above the general din.

  “He can’t swim! Throw him a line!” This was his old shipmate, Isaac Biggs, looking frantically for a loose coil of rope to throw to his friend, now floundering around in the wake of HMS Orpheus. The other voice was louder and more authoritative.

  “Heave to the ship. Swing out the cutter.” The captain’s words were barely out of his mouth when the sailing master, Smosky, issued the orders which would bring the ship to a stop so that a boat could be lowered. Men moved quickly to their sail handling positions, and from the maintop, Biggs, alternately watching his young friend in the water and the job at hand, could see his friend floundering in the water astern of the frigate. Before the ship was stopped, however, he lost sight of him and feared the worst. He could hear Captain Winston ranting on the quarterdeck.

  “Get that man back aboard. No one beats a punishment on my ship. I’ll have him flogged around the fleet for desertion. If he doesn’t drown, he’ll wish he had when I get through with him. I’ll personally flog the skin off his back. GET THAT BOAT OVER, NOW!”

  HMS Orpheus had stopped; the cutter was in the water with a crew and Midshipman Blake sitting in the sternsheets. They pushed away from the ship and began rowing back along the wake, trying to hear cries from Tyler or directions from the ship. Unfortunately, no one on the ship could see Tyler any longer, and the crew was again silent. The boy had disappeared.

  CHAPTER TEN

  English Harbour, Antigua

  The island of Antigua broke the horizon and was duly recognized by the lookout in the foretop, acknowledged by the officer on the quarterdeck, and caused all hands currently on deck to leap into the rigging for a glimpse. The bosun and carpenter quickly restored order and returned the men to their pre-dawn duties, which included washing, holystoning, and then flogging dry the deck. As the sun broke out of the calm turquoise sea, the deck was nearly dry and lines were being recoiled. The men were beginning to think about queuing up for breakfast which would be piped in another hour. The sighting of their destination and the knowledge that it was only a matter of hours away brought a new air of vigor to the men, and a level of excitement not yet experienced on this so-far quite ordinary cruise. There had been no prizes or battles; the last close contact had been with the American Anne six months and more ago. There had been some sightings thought to be French, but they were so far hull down that Orpheus had been unable to close them. The crew’s frustration and resulting testiness had been echoed by the officers, and Orpheus was not a happy ship.

  “Mr. ’ardy’s compliments, sir, and we have in sight Antigua off the larboard bow, five leagues distant and not yet visible from deck.” The midshipman sent to inform Captain Winston of their landfall made it through his report without stammering, a fact of which he was suitably proud.

  Fourteen years old and in his second year as a midshipman, Mr. Charles Duncan had been sent to sea by a father with a minor position in the district government and thus enough influence to secure his son a midshipman’s appointment. There was little hope in the Duncan family that young Charles would make a success of his budding career, but at least his being at sea reduced the number of mouths to feed and bodies to clothe. Charles’ stammer came from a combination of factors, not the least of which was an appalling lack of confidence which his time in the sea service had finally begun to abate. His small stature and pock-marked face made him frequently the butt of jokes and recipient of unsavory jobs, but, as he kept telling himself, taking abuse in stride built character.

  “Very well, Mr. Duncan. When I have finished my breakfast, I shall be on deck. Unless there is a reason I should come now?” The captain never made it easy for the midshipmen, or anyone else for that matter.

  “
Uh…yessir…I ma-ma-mean no sir. There is nah…nah…nothing else, sir. Lieutenant Hardy di…di…didn’t say nothing…I ma.…ma…mean anything about cuh…cuh… coming now. Sir.” Young Duncan’s discomfort fed on itself and with his face turning crimson, he turned on his heel and walked squarely into the door which he had only moments before most carefully closed.

  “Excuse me, pa…pa…please,” he said either to the door or the captain. Captain Winston uncharacteristically laughed out loud at the boy’s clumsiness, and sent him back to the quarterdeck without further comment.

  As the midshipman returned to the deck, he heard seven bells struck. He knew he’d be relieved soon and would then be able to return to the mid’s berth – and his breakfast. He looked forward to getting away from the constant scrutiny of the quarterdeck, and the resulting criticism. Glancing up the deck, he saw the men from the larboard watch rolling their hammocks tightly and stowing them in the netting provided for the purpose along the bulwark. The practice afforded some protection from a musket ball, and cleared out the lower deck for cleaning. He briefly thought the sailor’s lot might be an improvement, but quickly disabused himself of such ideas.

  After a meal of ship’s biscuit, burgoo, and today, cocoa, the starbowlines, including main topman Biggs, were turned out to clean the berthing and gun decks. Since the sea was calm, and the weather bright, the gunports were raised, pumps rigged and the decks washed down. They would be holystoned and ultimately flogged dry with swabs, as had been the spardeck a few hours before. Working a holystone across the deck was a hands and knees job, and the men talked and joked about their officers and midshipmen, a popular pastime when none was within earshot. The Navy had changed with the ever-growing need for sailors and direct manifestation of this was a marked reduction in the loyalty and regard of the officers for their men. While many of the tars were fiercely loyal to their ships and captains, there were also many who were anything but, and it was these who would have been hard pressed to understand the kind of loyalty and respect that Admiral Nelson commanded, and the willingness of his sailors and officers to sail into the face of danger with nary a thought of personal safety.