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

  “Bring her up some, lad, about a point.” Turning to the third, he added, “We’re coming up, Mr. Tillet, start trimming the main and fores’ls.” He stood with his face to the wind for a moment, feeling its force and direction.

  “Up another point, if you please, quartermaster. Mr. Tillet, we’ll bring her a trifle higher.” Raising his voice so that it could be heard forward, against the wind, he shouted, “Mr. Halladay, you may set stays’ls, jibs and flying jibs, now, if you please.”

  Setting the tops’ls now would hinder the vessel’s ability to sail sharply to windward, and while off the wind, they would add a few knots to her speed, he wanted to drive her to weather as fast as ever she would go now to join Captain Abrams sailing some four leagues ahead and to windward. He knew Tom Stebbins on Rights would be doing the same thing, and although he could not see the other ship, he also knew that they too would be racing to windward to carry out Abrams’s plan of action.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Retribution

  Dawn found the two schooners still racing to windward, their bows cutting cleanly through the turquoise Caribbean, bones in their teeth and sails straining at their sheets. On board Glory, the excitement was high, men leaped to carry out orders – anything to speed the ship on her way to their waiting riches. The water foamed inches below the lee rail, and as the sun hit the spume, it showed a brilliant white in stark contrast to the blue-green of the undisturbed sea. Glory’s wake streamed straight out behind her, a delicate white feather laid on the sea, the only sign remaining of her passage. Next to Glory, Bill of Rights paralleled her course half a league to leeward, and a satisfying league astern.

  Captain Smalley smiled as he looked astern, knowing the frustration his friend Tom Stebbins must be feeling, seeing Glory a league ahead of him. The relative speed of the two ships and the abilities of their crews had been a source of continuing good-natured bickering between the two captains since first they sailed together, and as luck would have it, most of the opportunities they had had to prove the argument either way had shown Glory as the more ably managed, or at least the faster. Today was no exception, and Smalley and his mates continued to urge the men to their tasks, albeit unnecessarily. The captain looked aloft, his gaze taking in the sails and their set, and more importantly, the lookouts, ensuring their eyes continuously scanned the horizon. He had expected the cry of “Sails!” for a while now; Freedom, in sight since dawn, still flew the hoist indicating “Enemy sighted to windward.” The lower part of the flag hoist, indicating the distance and relative bearing, changed periodically, and now showed “two…three”, signifying that the enemy was two points off the weather bow of the sighting ship, in this case, Freedom, and three leagues distant. Smalley fully expected his lookouts to see the ships from the masthead at any moment. He was not disappointed.

  “Sails, two ships of sail, three points to wind’ard.” The cry, expected though it was, startled both Captain Smalley and Willard Halladay. Halladay grabbed a glass and fairly leaped into the rigging, heading to the top of the ratlines on the mainmast, to confirm the sighting. His agility for a man of his size and years continued to surprise many on board. He called down to the deck, his voice carrying clearly over the wind.

  “Aye, Captain. There appears to be two, separated less than a league. Tops’ls and courses I can see. I’d guess French-built by the shape of the stays’ls. Little shiver in ‘em, sloppy or short crew’d be my guess. And no flags showin’.” The completeness of his mate’s report satisfied Smalley, who mentally ran through the plan Abrams had imparted to him and Stebbins. Suddenly he remembered to let Abrams know he had sighted the enemy.

  “Quartermaster, a hoist to Freedom, if you please. ‘Enemy in sight, three then six’. He turned, checking to see if Stebbins had seen the ships as well, and if he had put up the appropriate hoist. As he watched, the flags climbed to Bill of Rights’ main top, whipping initially, then stiffening in the wind as they gained the height of the mast, reading essentially the same as the ones now flying at Glory’s masthead. Smalley glanced back at Freedom, saw his and Stebbins’ hoists had been acknowledged, and motioned for the quartermaster to retrieve the flags.

  “Mr. Halladay, a moment, if you please.” The captain, the tails of his black coat whipping in the breeze, waited while his mate stepped to the windward side of the quarterdeck, and continued, “I think we might bear off a trifle so as to cross their bows and get to the weather of ‘em. We’d gain some speed, and perhaps more important, the weather gauge on ‘em when the shootin’ starts. What would you say to that?” On Anne, or any of the host of merchants Smalley had captained, he had developed a policy of consulting his officers when he made a decision of this nature – something he had seen one of his Continental Navy captains do quite successfully. Halladay seemed not surprised at the query and, understanding his captain’s mindset, looked at the situation as it was developing, then glanced back at Rights. He tugged for a moment at his beard, then smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

  “I think a couple of points might do the trick, Cap’n. My guess would be that Cap’n Abrams’ll hold his course, then come up ‘round they’s sterns. If us and Rights go off some, we’ll cross ahead of ‘em, and put ourselves to wind’ard. We’ll have ‘em right between us. If we’re gonna fight, we can make ‘em fight both sides at once – give ‘em something to think about afore they heave to and strike.”

  Smalley nodded at his mate’s corroboration of his idea, then turned again to the quartermasters at the wheel. “Ease her down two points, if you please.” He turned forward, and seeing his third mate, raised his voice. “Mr. Tillet. Start your sheets; we’re coming off a trifle. Stand by to set tops’ls.”

  The order created a flurry of activity in the waist of the schooner. Men took hold of the main and fores’l sheets, and under the direction of Tillet, began to ease them out, as the vessel’s head moved further away from the wind. Additional men were standing by the ratlines, awaiting the order to move aloft and set tops’ls. Having eased the great main and foresails, Tillet looked aft for Smalley to signal him aloft. He got a nod from the captain, and he and his topmen were in the rigging, while Halladay moved forward to supervise the heavers on deck. Captain Smalley looked aft at Bill of Rights, tearing through the sea like a ship possessed. He could see her men aloft, already removing the gaskets from the two tops’ls. It would be a toss-up as to which ship had their small square sails flying first. He watched as Stebbins’ crew heaved the tops’l yard up the mast, the sail billowing out beneath it. He could hear the orders being given on his own ship, and heard the main tops’l snapping as it began to feel the wind. He turned. The foretops’l yard was two-blocked, and the braces were being hauled to bring the yard around to where the sail would fill properly. The bowline was kept taut as the yard moved, requiring the coordination of two gangs of heavers on deck.

  Suddenly, the sail filled with a loud whoomp, and the sheet was trimmed to maximize the set of the sail. A second whoomp indicated that the main tops’l had likewise been properly set, and the schooner began to respond to the additional drive provided by the new sails; her lee rail, previously just above the foaming water, was now wet, with the foam running down the deck in a great rushing gout. The waves broke over the weather bow, and the wind carried the stinging spray nearly to the mainmast. Smalley smiled in spite of himself; this was what these Baltimore schooner were all about! He had never been on a ship that moved like Glory and her sisters. They would close those ships and be in position to start an action, should one be called for, before dinner was finished, with the afternoon to bring it to a conclusion. A good day’s work for anyone, he thought.

  The vessels were now visible from deck; when the privateer raised herself on a wave crest, most of the hull of the leader could be glimpsed, at other times, only her sails were seen. Smalley and Halladay could see that the course they set was just about right; they would pass ahead of the two ships about half a league, while Abrams’ Freedom would
pass astern, the schooner having already tacked over to a new course. Apparently, Abrams had seen what his two other ships were doing and agreed, picking up his part in the move to position himself to their leeward.

  Jed Smalley smiled inwardly as he recalled the plan of battle, if such a scanty and rather general concept could be called a plan, that Abrams had outlined to his captains before leaving Baltimore. Minimum shooting was the object; the Americans had no desire to damage their prizes to the extent likely in a running battle. The best scenario would be for the British merchants to strike as soon as they realized what was happening. Smalley was pretty sure shots would be necessary – if only to disclose their intentions, but hoped they would be more for show than harm. There was never a doubt that the three privateers would take prizes; the doubt concerned what would be left of them when the Americans boarded.

  “Signal from Freedom, sir.”

  Smalley looked at the schooner sailing close to the wind on the opposite tack. Signal flags from her tops’l crossjack yard stood stiffly in the wind. The quartermaster who had mentioned it stood with the signal book in hand, waiting for the captain’s acknowledgment.

  “Aye, lad. What’s it say?” The captain had a pretty good idea, but this signal book was different from ones he had used in the merchant service, having to do with battle plans, guns, and strategies. Abrams had developed it from one used by the Navy.

  “It’s directed at both us and Rights, sir. Says we’re to fire when in position on the lead ship. Freedom will fire from leeward thereafter. Wait a moment, sir, there’s another hoist…this one’s not in the book, Cap’n; it’s all letters. Says ‘aim low’. That’s it, sir.” The quartermaster looked questioningly at Smalley, awaiting a response.

  The gaunt face split into a smile showing uneven teeth through thin lips that gave the appearance more of a grimace than a smile. “Show our number and ‘understood’, quartermaster.” He turned to Halladay, still on the quarterdeck.

  “Looks like Captain Abrams must have made up his mind they’re Brits, and appears he still has his sense of humor. Be sure our gunners know to fire into the hull if Freedom’s on t’other side of their target, Mr. Halladay. You should have the hands piped to dinner now, even though it’s still early. I want them fed afore we start shootin’. Soon as they’ve had their vittles, we’ll clear for action.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. I s’pose it wouldn’t do to lay a shot or two into Cap’n Abrams, now would it. I’ll be sure it don’t happen.” Halladay’s eyes sparkled, indicating a smile; his beard hid his mouth. He turned to instruct the bosun to alert the cook and pipe the off-watch to their noontime meal. Grog would not be issued prior to the action, but the evening ration would be increased to offset the loss of this important staple in the life of a seaman. Halladay knew the cook would grouse at having to feed the men early, but he discounted it immediately; cook always groused at anything out of the norm, and after all, it was only an hour or so early. By the normal dinner time, the whole crew would have been fed and ready to take their action stations.

  Captain Abrams, following a long tradition in most navies as well as the more organized private vessels, had established a very strict quarters bill for all his ships; every man jack had a specific position and job, all designed to fight the ships more efficiently. There were, for example, five gun crews for the deck guns, each with a gun captain, six seamen, and a boy to run the powder charges from the magazine to the gun. The long gun, mounted on a circular track amidships, had a larger crew. Others were assigned to handle sails, both on deck and aloft. The surgeon, assisted by the steward and carpenter, waited in the cockpit for casualties, while prize masters – on Glory, there were two, and on Abrams schooner, Freedom, there were three – filled in where necessary, replacing dead or wounded officers and petty officers as required. Captain Smalley could not think of any improvement to be made in this plan, and routinely trained his crew in their duties. They would all be tested soon enough in an action likely to be more demanding on the little schooners than any they had seen so far – certainly than the last prizes they took which struck without a shot fired. He again reviewed in his mind the fighting of the ship, and satisfied that all would work out to his satisfaction, went below to see if his steward could put together some vittles for himself before he cleared for action.

  To his pleasure, the table was set in his cabin – his sea chest served as the dining table – and the steward was standing by with a plate of chicken for his meal. Not the usual fare, but it certainly would suffice today. He had barely begun to eat when there was a knock at his door, and Third Mate Tillet stuck his head in. His voice put Smalley in mind of a stuck door being forced.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n. Mr. Halladay’s compliments and it looks as if the Brits are gonna put up a fight. Would you come on deck, sir, quick as ever you please?”

  By the time Smalley arrived on the quarterdeck, men were standing by their guns, and the hand weapons for boarding had been laid out by the mainmast. He looked at the two ships, now about a league off his larboard quarter, to windward. Both had raised British ensigns and men could be seen hurrying about on deck, and aloft as they set additional sail. Rights was close astern and slightly to leeward. He noticed Stebbins had already cleared for action and his windward guns were run out.

  “You may pipe the men to quarters, Mr. Halladay, if you please. We’ll take in the tops’ls and flying jibs now also.”

  The mate waved at the bosun, who instantly brought his pipe to his lips and blew the shrill notes that the men had been waiting for. Smalley realized that at least half his crew had not yet eaten, but it seemed to be of little import to them, given the likelihood of action, and more importantly, the prizes. The men aloft, coordinating with the heavers below, had the tops’ls almost under control; several of the more aggressive of the topmen were riding the tops’l yard down and gathering the sail in as it went slack in the bunts. The guns were run out of the open gun ports to weather, and as soon as the schooner eased her angle of heel, the leeward ports would be opened and those guns run out. The petty officers were moving through the vessel, encouraging the men and lending a hand were needed. Smalley knew that they would be cleared and ready for action in record time this day, and he nodded, almost to himself, in satisfaction. Seeing that Glory had crossed the bows of the two ships and now, with the weather gauge, was in control of the situation, he turned to the man at the wheel.

  “Quartermaster, bring her down three points. Your course will parallel the British ships for now. Mr. Halladay, do not ease the sheets. My intention is to slow Glory, then when the first ship comes within range of the starboard battery, we will wear and fire as we cross her bows. If Rights does the same, we should give them something to think about. Cap’n Abrams on Freedom will see what we’re about and support our move, I am sure.”

  Glory bore down, now less than half a league from the first British ship, and slightly ahead of her. Smalley could see the activity on the vessel, and wondered if they would fire first; his schooner was certainly in range of their guns. He suddenly realized that Stebbins had the American flag whipping from his mainmast, something he had neglected to think of. He turned to his mate.

  “You may show our colors, now, if you please, Mr. Halladay.” The mate looked at the captain, then glanced aloft; the captain followed his gaze and saw that his mate had already taken care of it.

  “Thankee kindly, Mr. Halladay. I am glad you took the liberty…”

  His words were cut off by a thunderous boom from across the water. He looked quickly at the British vessel. A huge cloud of smoke hung briefly over her bow before it was blown away by the wind. Looking forward, Smalley and Halladay saw a small geyser thrown up in front of their ship.

  “We will bear off, now, and you may have the gunner fire as the larboard guns bear. Stand by to wear ship.”

  Halladay’s bellow forward was overshadowed by another boom, but this one was not from the British ship; Tom Stebbins had fired the first
American shot of the action, and his ball found its mark. Splinters flew from the bulwark of the Englishman, and even against the wind, the men on Glory could hear to cries of the wounded on the ship to leeward. Glory wore around, her heavy main boom flew across the deck, and the sails refilled with a satisfying whoomp. With their course almost directly downwind, the leeward gunports were now also open, and the guns run out.

  The after guns, larboard side, found the target first, and each spoke in turn, belching smoke and flame and more importantly, an iron ball. The first shot was short; the gun captain had been overly concerned about firing low so as not to shoot over the ship and into Freedom, and the ball splashed half a length from the target. The next ones, however, found their mark and thudded resoundingly against the hull.

  Now the forward gun was firing, and then the long tom amidships spoke with its deeper voice. Suddenly, a huge boom came from the British ship, greater by far than any of the preceding, and the second gun from the bow exploded, throwing men and iron into the air. Screams, punctuated by shouted orders from aft, added to the cacophony. Smalley saw it happen, but was unsure if a ball from Glory or Rights had done the damage. Regardless of whose shot it was, he was pleased, none-the-less, and spoke to the Mate.

  “Mr. Halladay, we will bring her back around to starboard, if you please. Signal Stebbins we intend to board. We should be able to catch them before they have restored order. Have the boarding party armed and standing by, and put some marksmen in the foretop with muskets as soon as the ship comes about.”