A Press of Canvas: Volume One in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 24

  Smalley, as well as the other captains, and most of their crews were frustrated and generally short-tempered by the time the little flotilla turned the corner of Haiti and set their course for Port-au-Prince. Maintaining constant vigilance for not only British man of wars, but also for additional merchants which might be added to their prize fleet, had contributed heavily to the men being out of sorts. The captain’s normally gaunt face seemed even more drawn, his eyes deeper into their sockets.

  Only one person on Glory would have been happier had the journey taken longer, or a British frigate appeared out of nowhere. Lieutenant Joseph Burns, late of His Majesty’s Navy, remained confined below. He was allowed one hour per day topside, and that with an armed guard. After about a week at sea, the sailor with his musket was excused from guard duty and Burns could move freely about the deck. Their arrival in Port-au-Prince meant nothing to him but further confinement. It was unlikely that Smalley would give him his parole and leave him ashore in Haiti. He had spent the bulk of his time on Glory hatching plans to escape, either in Haiti or at sea. So far, there had been no opportunity for the latter, and the plan he had devised for the former depended on a host of chance happenings in his favor. Unlike his shipmates on the schooner, Mr. Burns was not a happy man as Glory and her sister privateers escorted their prizes into the harbor at Port-au-Prince.

  Setting their anchors in the clear waters of the harbor, the schooners and their prizes created a minor sensation among the towns people, and most certainly among the officials of the city. Having seen the American flags flying from all ships, the city fathers knew prizes would be auctioned off their condemnation by one of Alexandre Petion’s prize courts, and that meant fees and commissions for them. In addition, it was likely that the buyers of the vessels would be the mulatto gentry planters and merchants who had ascended to the top of the Haitian hierarchy after leading the rebellion which had killed most of the white French some five years previously. Those who survived the massacre escaped the island, leaving most of their possessions behind for the rebels. The tavern and shop keepers knew that their businesses would increase dramatically with the plethora of sailors heading for the pleasures that Port-au-Prince offered, and soon a festive air filled the city, echoed by the men on the ships; they were looking forward to getting ashore for the first time since leaving Baltimore. Of course, there was also the matter of the prize shares. The men knew they would see no cash until their return to Baltimore, but they would be able to draw advances against their share tickets which according to the scuttlebutt, would be distributed as quickly as the sales were consummated.

  “Deck there. Small boat approaching…looks like some dandy in the stern sheets.” The watchman half way up the foremast rigging hailed the petty officer stationed in the waist of Glory. “Looks like another headin’ fer Fleur. Looks like they’s all black men – crew and passengers alike.”

  “Boat ahoy. What be your business?” The petty officer hailed the boat closing Glory and waited while a hasty conference was held between the “dandy” and what could only have been his assistant. The end result was a friendly wave from the boat, with broad smiles all around. The men on watch had summoned Mr. Halladay, but as yet, he had not appeared. Watch petty officer Johnson picked up a musket, as did one of his men, and leveled them over the bulwark at the approaching boat.

  “Stop there. Don’t come any closer, or you’ll have the devil to pay and no pitch hot.” He waited, and was rewarded with more broad smiles and friendly waves. Still the boat continued. “Alto,” he shouted, trying some of the little Spanish he had command of, and thinking to himself, if they don’t speak English, they must speak Spanish. The oarsmen hesitated. He was getting through! But there it must end, as he was unable to call to mind any more of the language. Fortunately, it was unnecessary.

  “What’s your problem, Johnson?”

  Halladay’s arrival startled the petty officer, so intent was he on the boat approaching. He collected himself and explained to the first mate, who was watching the boat with some interest. He finished his concerns with “…and they’re all black as night, crew an’ them in the fancy uniforms as well.”

  “Johnson, this here’s Haiti. Ain’t no white folks here at all far’s I know for the last four or five years now. They was all killed or run off when the locals rebelled and decided they wasn’t goin’ to have the Frenchies in charge no more. These coves here look like some kind o’ harbor officials, be my guess. Probably comin’ to get a fee or see if we’re carryin’ disease. They’s a lot of disease, includin’ the Yellow Jack, on some o’ these islands. Let the fancy-pants and his mate aboard, but keep them others in the boat.” He thought a second, then added, “and keep the boat layin’ off a half a length or so. I’ll step aft and fetch Cap’n Smalley. Keep ‘em here ‘til he comes to greet him.”

  The mate moved off, the boat came alongside, and the coxswain shouted up to the deck in a language Johnson did not understand. The American had no idea what was said, but he knew that “fancy-pants” could not get aboard without they dropped him the man-ropes. Once they were provided, and without further comment or fuss, “fancy-pants” scampered up the side and stood expectantly on the schooner’s deck. He looked around, smiling broadly, obviously waiting to be greeted by someone in authority, and hardly noticed Johnson in duck pantaloons and patched jersey. He called down to the boat in the same language used by the coxswain which Johnson and his men still did not understand, and the other man climbed out of the stern sheets and up the ladder. Johnson motioned the boat away from Glory’s side while the two men conferred quietly.

  “Cap ee tan?” The second arrival spoke to Johnson.

  “I ain’t the Cap’n, nor do I have any want to be him. He’ll be right along, though. You gents just stand fast here.” Johnson’s words drew more blank looks from the visitors, but over their shoulders, he saw Captain Smalley and Halladay heading toward the group. “Here’s the ‘Cap ee tan’, now.” The dandies followed the American’s outstretched arm, and seeing the two men approaching, stepped toward them, babbling excitedly in their language.

  The blank look on both Smalley’s and Halladay’s faces dismayed the men; surely men educated enough to be captains would speak a civilized tongue! The frustrated officials spoke more rapid fire patois, raising their voices to assist in the American’s comprehension.

  “I think they’re talkin’ in French, or somethin’ close to it. Mr. Halladay. I got precious little of it myself, but I believe they’s some French sailors on Fleur we might get some help from. I’ll see if I can make ‘em understand we’re gettin’ an interpreter, and you send a boat over and tell Corbett to send over one of his prisoners to help us out here.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. On my way.” The mate welcomed the opportunity to distance himself from the politics and procedures that appeared to be looming on the horizon. He had no trouble facing down an enemy frigate, or even leading a boarding party, but he wanted no part of this diplomatic nonsense, especially in some language he did not understand. He stepped quickly to where one of the schooner’s boats was secured, grabbed the crew and went over the rail. Smalley was surprised to see his mate personally handling such a trivial errand, but assumed it was another example of Halladay’s conscientious attention to detail.

  “Gentlemen.” Smalley turned his attention to his visitors. “Won’t you please join me in my cabin for a glass.” He accompanied his words with gestures, first to the officials, then to himself, and finally, he pantomimed raising a glass to his mouth. All the while, he smiled warmly, and motioning to the men to follow, headed aft. He glanced back once to ensure they were, and continued below. Having heard that “things” were going on up on deck, the captain’s steward had set out on the “dining table” the cut glass decanter and glasses. Smalley was pleased to see that a passable port was in the decanter. He sensed that these two emissaries would likely be offended at something less.

  The port was drunk to a pantomime of gestures; neither Smalley nor
his guests could understand one another, and eventually, the effort proved too much, and silence ensued. After what seemed like an eternity to the captain, a discrete knock announced the return of his first mate and a French petty officer from Fleur who spoke passable English. The French sailor bowed and greeted the Haitian officials and Captain Smalley, each in their own language; he then explained to the Americans that while these two “apes” spoke Creole, a “much lower dialect of the mother tongue,” they could manage to make themselves understood in French, given the extradinaire patience of “your ‘umble interpreter.” Halladay beamed, and Smalley immediately took hold of the situation. He suggested to the French sailor that calling the officials “apes” served no purpose whatever, and “If you think you might make yerself understood, let’s get on with it.” The French sailor, reddened and nodded, turning to the two Haitians.

  After seemingly interminable prologues, the diplomats began to explain the purpose of their visit; not only was there a port charge for the ships, but if the “larger ships were to be sold here, monsieur, there would, of course be a great deal of difficulty with local laws, but we are in a position to be of some help, should there be the right incentive.”

  Smalley smiled at his mate, and nodded his understanding. Then he answered.

  “Of course, gentlemen, I am but one captain of several. You should be dealing with our commodore, Captain Abrams on Freedom.” He waited while the French sailor translated, then continued. “He can discuss his plans for providing for our own crews. As to the sale of the ships, our prizes, Cap’n Abrams is of the belief that one of your prize courts will handle that. I believe he plans to handle personally disposition of the foreign crews in due course.”

  The Haitians stood abruptly, apparently miffed that it took this long to tell them they were in the wrong place, dealing with the wrong captain. They uttered something which caused the French sailor to color noticeably, but not translate. Within minutes, they were over the side, taking the prisoner from Fleur with them, directing their crew to pull for the schooner commanded by Joshua Abrams. Neither official had looked nearly as dignified while going over the rail as when they had arrived, and indeed, the junior of the two nearly fell out of the boat as it shoved off, but their stiff attitudes gave no hint of embarrassment, if in fact they felt any. Halladay was laughing so hard he had tears cutting a path through the salt crust on his cheeks before they disappeared into his beard. Smalley continued watching with a neutral expression, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed his own enjoyment of the situation.

  Later in the afternoon watch, the lookout called to the deck. “Signal flags on Freedom.” The captain was called, after the quartermaster was found and without even looking in the book, told the watch that the flags meant “Captains to Freedom.” Smalley appeared in his standard rig, including his hat and black frock coat, and was rowed the few hundred yards to Abrams’ ship.

  His return was cause for most of the hands to appear on deck, more than a few in their shore gear. The sailors pressed as close as they dared to hear what their captain would say to Mr. Halladay; there was barely a sound, save the creaking of leather “shore-side” footwear, and the occasional grunt as someone got elbowed by his mate who tried to get within earshot. The men in the front ranks heard, and let out a lusty cheer; the word traveled quickly to the rest – there would be leave for the starbowlines and idlers at once. Larbowlines would go tomorrow! The schooner’s boats were pressed into service and without delay, nearly half the Glory’s men were on their way to the taverns, shops, and brothels of Port-au-Prince. Those who could not get into the first boats and had no stomach for waiting, hailed passing small boats and began negotiating for transport ashore.

  Isaac Biggs, watching from a perch atop the number two gun, could not help but compare American order and discipline with that of the Royal Navy, his home for the past two years. He could not fathom what might be Captain Winston’s reaction to this unruly mob; of course it was unlikely that Captain Winston would ever be in a position to react to such a display; it just would not occur. There were many other dissimilarities as well, most notable was the total lack of flogging on the American privateers; indeed, Biggs was not even sure there was a cat o’ nine tails aboard Glory. It was fine with him. These American sailors didn’t need to be flogged to do their duty; they were all fine seaman, most of whom had been to sea since boys, and respected their captain and mates because their leaders earned it, not because they flogged the crew into submission. Biggs thought he would like to stay on the privateer. The word among the crew, and indeed, Mr. Halladay had pretty much confirmed it, was that they’d be back in Baltimore before the end of November, giving them a cruise of less than one hundred twenty days. He hoped that perhaps Smalley would sign him permanently as third mate, recognizing the progress he had made with his navigation and learning the skills of the quarterdeck. He thought of the men he would never see again from Orpheus: Toppan, Wallace, Coleman, Bosun Tice, and old gunner Chase. Some of the midshipmen weren’t half bad boys, he thought. Too bad they’ll not get the chance to sail on a ship where pride, not fear, was the prime motivator. Suddenly he jumped to his feet.

  “Wait a minute.” He didn’t realize he was speaking aloud. His eyes lit up as he smacked a fist into his other hand. “Coleman’s right over there locked down in the hold of Fleur. I ‘spect he’d come sail on Glory, given the chance…Mr. Halladay. Could I speak to you for a moment?”

  “What’s on yer mind, Isaac? I was just about to get into my shore rig. Ain’t you heading ashore your own self? I’d reckon ‘bout half your starbowlines are drunker than billy goats, by now.”

  “Aye, Mr. Halladay. I am goin’. Just got to thinkin’ though. There’s a mighty good topman over there in Fleur. Man named Coleman. He was on Orpheus and captain of the maintop. He might sign on Glory. Bet he’d jump at the chance.”

  “‘Spect as how he would. I know I would sign on even as a seaman afore I’d stay locked up in the hold of some ship. How do you know he won’t cause no trouble…an’ what happens if we run into the Royal Navy or some British merchant? You think he’d fight his own people? I don’t know, Biggs, he might be a problem lookin’ for some place to set a hook, but if’n you think he’s so good and won’t be no trouble, I’ll mention it to Cap’n Smalley, see what he thinks.”

  “Thank you. I think he’d be right at home on Glory – fit in real good and, like I said, he’s a fine sailor. Ain’t got no love for the Royal Navy, neither.”

  Willard Halladay nodded and headed below; Biggs sat down on the gun carriage again, smiling at the prospect of seeing his friend and former shipmate again.

  “Biggs…’ow does it feel to be back on a Yankee ship again?” Isaac turned at the strong, aristocratic English accent, and looked right into the face of Lieutenant Joseph Burns, Royal Navy. Habits die hard, and Biggs leaped to his feet in the presence of an officer, surprised at his sudden appearance. The Englishman smiled at him. “It would appear we’ve changed roles, now, eh, Biggs? ‘ere I am being watched by some rag-tag sailor with a gun while you are an officer on the vessel. A fine turn of events, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes sir, I would.” To Biggs, Burns was still an officer, still to be called ‘sir’, and still to be feared. “I guess it was my good luck and your bad luck that Fleur didn’t make it to Antigua. Sorry about the guard, but I guess Cap’n Smalley ordered that started up again now we’re in a harbor. Are you going to be put ashore here with the others, sir? ”

  “I am really not certain, Biggs. Your Captain Smalley has not asked for my parole here and seems committed to the notion that I should be taken to America to be held until the hostilities end.” All the while Burns was talking to Biggs, his eyes darted everywhere watching the shoreline and taking in the lack of activity on Glory’s deck. The sailor assigned to guard him was leaning casually against the foremast, smoking a pipe and studying what he could see of the town of Port-au-Prince; his musket rested on the fife rail several feet away.


  Seizing the opportunity, Burns vaulted over the rail and hit the water with a loud splash, stroking strongly for the shore as soon as he surfaced. Hearing the splash, his guard grabbed the gun and ran to the side the of schooner. He sighted the musket over the rail on the Englishman’s back, cocked the weapon, and waited for a clear shot at his charge. As the weapon discharged, Biggs grabbed the barrel of the gun, knocking it sideways, and spoiling any chance the sailor might have had to shoot the British lieutenant.

  “What’s the point, sailor? What are you gonna prove by shooting the man in the back? Let him go. If he makes it to shore, there’s others there he’s got to get around. You may see him yet again.”

  “Aye, sir. I understand, but Mr. Halladay’s gonna have my arse for lettin’ him jump. He ain’t as easy goin’ as you, Mr. Biggs.”

  “I’ll tell the mate. He ain’t gonna give you a bad time. If you’d been on a British Navy ship, though, you’d be given a floggin’ you probably wouldn’t live through…and me beside you. Go on ‘bout your business now, while I go find Mr. Halladay.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A Waterfront Tavern

  When the noise and fighting died down and order was restored in the tavern, the four men, who only moments before had been sitting around a table, stood their chairs back up and picked up the two tankards that had overturned in the scuffle, signaling the barmaid to refill them. A drunken topman from Freedom had insisted that the commodore’s ship was better sailed, with a better crew than any of the other schooners; naturally any crewman not on Freedom took immediate and physical exception to the statement. Soon it didn’t matter which ship someone was from, if they were within reach, they got hit. A free-for-all ensued, and even two of the men sitting at the table had become involved; it would have been impossible not to with the entire tavern a sea of swinging fists, bottles, chairs and the occasional knife. The three mates dining with Captain Smalley, assisted by the local constabulary, cleared the room out to the dirt street, and once there, the fighting seemed to wither and die. Discussions immediately ensued among the now friendly sailors as to which establishment would next be blessed with their presence.