A Press of Canvas: Volume One in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 25

  “When will the ships be condemned and sold, Cap’n? We’ve been here nigh on to two weeks, and I’d o’ thought those ships would be handled by now. I thought the prize court would condemn ‘em right quick, bein’s how they probably ain’t real busy right now.” Second Mate Jack Clements, still standing and dusting off his shirt while dabbing at the trickle of blood on his chin, spoke freely to his captain. Halladay and Biggs, the latter still tucking in his shirt, waited for Captain Smalley to answer; they were ready to get back to sea, and each had wondered how many men they would be leaving behind, or bringing back aboard incapacitated from the kind of activity they had just witnessed.

  “Cap’n Abrams said it’s done, Mr. Clements. Everything is taken care of now, and I ‘spect we’ll be gettin’ under way in the next two or three days. Some Haitian judge has already signed the condemnation order and the buyers likely will sign the sale tomorrow, I’m thinkin’. It was our good luck that that planter fellow showed up when he did, and wanted both vessels; otherwise who knows how long these monkeys might have danced us around. They still gettin’ used to their independence – only been ‘bout five years now, and they think everyone’s out to get ‘em. I guess havin’ one o’ they’s own tellin’ ‘em to get it done helped more ‘n’ a little.” Smalley smiled at the thought; it was the first time he had found anything cheering since their first visit ashore. A ray of sunshine was most welcome, as heretofore he, Abrams, and Stebbins had been frustrated, thwarted, and inconvenienced at every turn by the Haitians, who trusted no one, were in no particular hurry, and saw opportunity at every transaction occurring on their island.

  “It’ll be good to be back to sea again, I’ll warrant,” he continued, as anxious as his mates to get this business over and get back to harassing the British. “Willard, do you think you’ll have men sufficient to sail Glory? Seems like whichever of ‘em’s not in the local hoosegow’s been hurt or got sick with somethin’ or other. Maybe we ought to start roundin’ ‘em up in the morning.”

  Halladay’s eyes grew serious as his mind, fuzzy from drink, struggled to return to the business of the ship. “Aye sir. I had figured to be doin’ that anyway. Take Biggs, here, with me. Them what’s aboard now ought to stay there, I’m thinkin’.”

  Smalley nodded at his mate, and looked at Biggs, a scowl crossed his face, giving away the fact that he still didn’t completely forgive the man for preventing the sentry from shooting the escaping Lieutenant Burns. Biggs had stood in the Cabin after the event for some time while Smalley gave vent in an uncharacteristically loud voice to his wrath, something Biggs had not seen even once in the years he sailed on Anne with the captain. All manner of thoughts went through the young man’s mind as he listened to the captain’s rage; foremost concerned his newly acquired status as an officer.

  The upshot of the event was that Smalley felt cheated out of bringing the British officer to the United States for holding and perhaps confinement. Biggs had managed to calm his captain down, at the same time, saving his job as third mate, by pointing out that it was he, Biggs, who had served close to two years on a British frigate under Burns, and all the animosity had worn away. After all, Biggs added, didn’t their Methodist parsons teach them that to forgive is divine? Finally, Smalley regained his composure and dismissed his third mate, allowing the incident to pass, and the business of the ship resumed. He did, however, send a small party of sailors, led by First Mate Halladay, ashore with instructions to find the British officer. A two day search of Port-au-Prince turned up no sign of the escaped Lieutenant Burns, and Smalley reluctantly had given up hope of catching the man. Either he was drowned in his effort to swim ashore, or had successfully evaded his pursuers.

  “Mr. Clements, that’ll put you aboard and makin’ sure that those what come aboard, stay. Also, you might see Cap’n Abrams’ purser and draw some cash, as I ‘spect we’ll be needin’ some stores and provisions. And see that the carpenter has got that pump fixed right this time, or he’ll be in the bilge with a bucket for an hour each watch.” The tone in Smalley’s voice belied his words, and Clements and the others knew their captain’s good mood had not played out. Dinner would be pleasant, now that the more boisterous of the tavern’s patrons had moved on.

  The four men enjoyed their meal, relishing the unique island cooking heavy with the influence of the French who had occupied Haiti until the rebellion. The barmaid kept their tankards filled with ale, and the conversation flowed evenly.

  “Mr. Halladay tells me you think there’s a topman from the British frigate might want to sail with us, Mr. Biggs.” Smalley’s casual remark had caught the third mate off guard; he had assumed that, having heard nothing further since he mentioned it to Halladay, the matter had died when the prisoners were transferred from Fleur to the beach, and given their parole.

  “Uh, aye sir. I sailed with him in Orpheus for all the time I was aboard. A fine sailor he is and good with the men as well. One of the few, if memory serves, what didn’t get a taste of the cat, ‘least while I was aboard. But I thought all the British and the others was put ashore, long as they agreed not to ship out on a man o’ war.”

  “Aye, they were indeed put ashore, and on their parole on top of it. After all, the ships couldn’t very well be sold with them still aboard! Since it is likely we’ll be sailin’ short-handed in a few days, I would take any of ‘em which wants to sign on, and which ‘pears to be able. Your man included. They’s only a few places where they might be layin’ up, given that they ain’t got any money, and Mr. Halladay, here, can likely help you find ‘em while you’re collectin’ the rest of the Glories. Any o’ the others from that crew ‘at you know and who knows a bowsprit from a sheet block, why, bring ‘em along. Same wages as the rest and a share of future prizes.”

  “What about when Glory puts back into Baltimore, sir? What of the British crewmen then?”

  “What of ‘em? I reckon they’s damn near as many foreign sailors workin’ our vessels as American right about now. Least ‘ways, they’s a lot of Britishers – come over to American ships to sail without fear of the cat, and for better wages, I’d guess – and the war be damned. Shouldn’t be a problem there.” Halladay answered the question, but Smalley nodded his agreement, and added his own observation.

  “We won’t be gettin’ back up to the Chesapeake for another few months anyway. No tellin’ what’ll happen by then. Our business for now is down here and those men can help us out. We’ll worry ‘bout Baltimore when we raise Cape Henry over the horizon. I don’t ‘spect the owners’ll have a fight over some British sailors aboard – probably enjoy the thought of them raisin’ Cain with their own countrymen.”

  “What of me when we get back to Baltimore, Cap’n? Will I be stayin’ on Glory as third? From what I’ve seen in the month and more I been here, I’d like it fine. She’s a fine ship ‘at sails better ‘an anything I ever sailed, save the fishin’ schooners I sailed as a boy with my Pa on the Banks.” Biggs had been giving this matter some thought and decided – with the help of liberal quantities of rum and ale, and the casual setting – that now might be as good a time as any to collect some insight on his future.

  Smalley accommodated him, with a thin smile, and a genuine warmth in his eyes. “Long as I have Glory, Biggs, you got a berth. You keep studyin’ your navigatin’ and the business of the quarterdeck, and they’s no reason you got to stay as a third mate; no sir, you could see second, first and even master down the road were you to apply yourself and learn from men like Halladay and Clements. You need have some ability with numbers and the like, but I’d warrant you could manage it.”

  Isaac Biggs beamed, briefly picturing himself as captain on his own quarterdeck. How proud would Mother and Father be then, assuming they were still alive. At this, a shadow passed over his face, as he thought of how long it had been since he had seen his folks, and he resolved to get himself to Marblehead quick as ever he could when they returned to America. But he couldn’t escape the sincerity of the captain’s
compliment, even though, he reckoned, by morning the words would only be a dim buzz, and hard to remember, but right now, they sounded mighty good. Maybe this was worth the two years he spent as a pressed seaman on a British frigate; Glory was a fine sailing vessel with an even tempered captain who was first a sailor, then an officer, and the prospect of prize shares was appealing. Thinking of prize shares, Biggs’ face again clouded over briefly as he recollected the prize shares he was owed by the Royal Navy from the capture of the French merchants.

  Well, he thought, I had figured to use that money to get myself off the frigate, and here I am, off. Pounds well spent, I guess; I’m on an American ship jest as I wanted, and I ain’t got the money, but I reckon I’ll manage fine. Things have took care of themselves, more or less like I figgered. Mebe I’m even better off than I figgered to be. He suddenly realized the captain was speaking and refocused his eyes and attention on the man.

  “…have more important things to do than sit here with me.” Captain Smalley spoke to all of them. “I’m going to go back out to Glory and see to some paperwork. I’d warrant you gents can find something or someone to amuse your own selves for the remainder of the evening. Mr. Clements, I ‘spect I’ll be seeing you on deck first thing?” The tone Smalley used made the observation rhetorical, and Clements nodded, mumbling “Aye” or something similar through drink thickened tongue and lips. The sparkle in his eyes seemed brighter, perhaps fueled by the rum he’d been drinking and he fingered the gold ring in his ear. He unfolded his tall frame, and as he started to rise, pushed back his chair so that it fell over with a crash; it went unheeded. The others rose as one and wove their way out the door, separating to go their own ways once on the street.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  New Hunting Grounds

  “Heave around together…put your backs into it…listen to the fiddle you left-footed lubbers and step like you’d been to sea once before.” Winning their anchor and making sail had always been chores that Halladay hated after a prolonged period ashore. It seemed like all his men staggered and stumbled, and the concept of walking the capstan around or heaving on the mains’l halyard together was totally foreign to them. Once they sobered up and worked through their monstrous hangovers, they would once again function like the smooth working, well trained crew they in fact were; right now, he’d be just as happy with sober, untrained farmers – at least they could listen and be shown.

  Several days after the officers had dined together ashore, most of the crew had been found and Glory, Freedom, and Bill of Rights had severed their tenuous relationship with the shore and sailed smoothly out of Port-au-Prince harbor, looking for all the world like innocent, albeit rakish, coastal schooners carrying goods between the islands. No flags flew at their mastheads as they sailed a generally northwesterly course.

  Abrams had decided to try their luck above Cuba, sailing through the Windward Passage and up towards the Bahamas. With Britain’s northern West Indian fleet sailing out of Nassau, he figured to have some degree of success. He admonished, perhaps unnecessarily, his captains to “mind the shoals up there – water’s thin as a whore’s virtue in places.” Their plan was essentially the same as it had been; they would sail in a widely spaced line across the wind so that the lookouts could cover a huge amount of ocean. At night, the standard light signals would be used should any potential prizes be spotted. He had met with his captains on Freedom the day before departure. After discussing their next area of operations, he hauled out a small trunk and set it on the deck of the Cabin.

  “Gentlemen, here it is. Some of the fruits of our labors. You and your crews all will share in this, as you know, and I have had Richards, my purser, go over the accounts in the greatest detail.” With a grand flourish, Abrams opened the chest, and as the bright sun, streaming in through the skylight, hit the contents a radiant glow emanated from within. Smalley and Stebbins watched as the lid came all the way up and saw the chest was filled about three fourths of the way up with gold coin, some loose, and some apparently in small leather bags.

  “We’re not going to distribute that before we get home are we, Joshua?” Tom Stebbins had done this before, and knew from sad experience that paying out prize shares to a crew in foreign ports would result only in a lot of heartbreak, not to mention broken heads. No, it was more prudent to hold the shares until such time as the ship returned to her home port and the crew paid off. Besides, the owners would handle the distribution along with the courts, and it was only in the most unusual cases where the captain paid out cash.

  “Not on your life, Tom. You know me better’n that. No, I will give each of you your ship’s share to hold aboard until we get back to Baltimore. That way, if something happens to any one of us, the other crews’ shares aren’t lost as well. We should have more’n we do here, but those damn Haitian agents had a fee or commission comin’ out ever’ time I turned around. When that judge told me to negotiate the sale of the two after he condemned ‘em, I knew I was in for a devil of a time. If it wasn’t the port authorities themselves, it was the merchants. A trial, by all that’s holy. I’m telling you, that’s the last time I want anything to do with sellin’ prizes. The owner’s agents and court clerks who do that work earn their fees, they do, and you won’t hear me begrudgin’ them again. After dealin’ with these thieves here…I’m tellin’ you, what a misery!” Captain Abrams shook his head as if to clear the memory of the frustration.

  Jed Smalley, like most privateer captains, had never been involved in the sale of prizes and could only imagine what Abrams was talking about, but he had a good idea from the brief exposure he’d had to the “port officials,” that the negotiation with the arrogant and determined ship brokers must have been a frustrating affair indeed. He was pleased to see the results here on the deck before him, and knew the money would be a Godsend to most of his men’s families, his own included.

  Abrams explained again the way the shares were to be divided between the ships and then between the men, all in accordance with the vessel’s Articles of Agreement. Naturally, the owners’ shares came out first and would be maintained aboard Freedom. Under normal circumstances, where the owners had an agent in residence in any but their home port, the captain would be advanced funds for provisioning the ship, paying the crew and the like, while the balance would be retained for payment by the owners upon the ship’s return. Since there was no U.S. ship’s agent in Port-au-Prince, Captain Abrams had wisely decided to take the money in gold, and not trust in the wiles of Haitian bankers or brokers. The balance of the funds, after the owners’ shares, were for the officers and crews of the three schooners, and it looked to Smalley like quite a tidy sum.

  Yes indeed, he thought. This money, along with the shares from those two we sent into Charleston, will go a long way. A captain only gets paid when he is in command of a vessel, and prior to the start of the current hostilities, the shipping business had pretty well ground to a halt, and Smalley, like many of his colleagues had used up much of his resources just keeping body and soul together. In fact, he had been in Baltimore at the start of the war, planning to take command of a merchant bark bound for France. Of course, that was forestalled by the declaration of war, and Abrams, an old friend, sought him out for his privateer fleet.

  Having gone over the accounts most carefully with his captains, Joshua Abrams had his steward bring in two canvas sacks. When he left, Abrams began counting the gold and placing small stacks in each bag. When he was finished, each captain knew his ships’ share and agreed the distribution was equitable. Further distributions would be made by the individual masters, but on a basis consistent with the practices of the infant privateer fleet. There were always discretionary shares for captains to award for particularly deserving crew members, but fairness generally prevailed.

  Smalley, like his friend Tom Stebbins, had brought Glory’s share back to his cabin and stowed it carefully in a concealed locker behind his gimbaled cot. He had instructed Willard Halladay previously about he lock
er so that its contents could be salvaged should anything happen to the captain.

  Smalley reflected on this as he watched Tom Stebbins work Bill of Rights up to windward of his schooner. The wind was freshening, and the spray flew down both ships’ decks whenever their bows caught a wave just so.

  A little cool water, hard work, and sunshine will help them sink those hangovers faster, he thought as he noticed that still the men seemed sluggish in moving about the vessel. Already, he knew that a dozen and more had left their breakfast in the wake, victims of the unpleasant mixture of too much rum and choppy seas. Clements had the watch, and Smalley turned to him.

  “What’s the final tally, Mr. Clements? How many did we leave ashore, and how many do we have which are unfit for duty? I don’t mean those I know are suffering the ill effects of drink, just the ones too hurt to work.”

  Clements’ eyes were clear and showed their usual gleam that appeared always ready to burst into genuine mirth. “We didn’t leave but five ashore, sir, not countin’ the three what come down with the Yellow Jack an’ expired. As to the live ones, I don’t know where they got off to. Biggs and some others must o’ looked in ever’ whore house and tavern one end o’ town to t’other without they didn’t find no trace of ‘em. We got two men from the prize, Coleman – he’s the one what’s a friend of Biggs’ – and another man. I don’t recall his name – somethin’ Irish, if memory serves. Seems like a fair hand though. Doctor checked ‘em both out, and they’s healthier ‘an most. More ‘n I can say for the three he’s got in hospital; a broke arm, a knife wound, and one down with somethin’ the surgeon ain’t yet figgered out. I’m thinkin’ it’s the Jack again, but he ain’t sayin’. Report is that ‘ceptin’ for the last, they’ll all survive and be back to duty with a few days.” The second himself sported the remains of a raspberry on his jaw, a souvenir of a bar brawl.