A Press of Canvas: Volume One in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 28
“What do you s’pose that’s all about? It surely ain’t for us; no one knew when we were comin’ in.” Smalley ruminated half to himself, but also half to Halladay who was standing by the helmsman as the schooner closed with the dock. Realizing they were fairly close, and that the other two vessels had reduced sail already, the captain spoke aloud to his mate.
“You may hand the fores’l, now Mr. Halladay, if you please. And stand by the main. I will wait till Freedom and Rights get tied up, then we will come in alongside on the stays’l alone.”
“Aye, sir…in the waist there…let go the fores’l and drop ‘er. Lively now. Mr. Biggs, Mr. Clements, encourage those men to step along.”
The fores’l swung out and shivered as the sheet was released, and suddenly came down the mast. The men leaped at the foot of the sail and hauled the now docile canvas into neat fakes, securing it in a seaman-like fashion. The speed dropped precipitously as the sail area was reduced, and the schooner came abreast of the dock, and continued past.
Smalley watched as first Abrams, then Stebbins brought their ships in and passed lines ashore to willing hands. Smalley realized he would be tying up outboard of Bill of Rights, and was about to mention it to the mate when a mighty roar went up from the crowd on the pier. More “huzzahs” could be heard from parts of the crowd, this time accompanied by applause. It was apparent the good people of Baltimore had just discovered what ships these were and where they had come from.
The men on Glory could not take the time to watch what was going on on the dock; soon enough they would be a part of it, but now their full attention was focused on handling the big mainsail and stays’l on their own ship. The main came down smoothly when ordered, was furled onto the boom, and Smalley instructed his helmsman to “Bring her ‘round, son, smartly now.”
With her speed reduced to scarcely more than headway, Glory came around and headed back up toward the dock where her sisters were now secure. Hands on Rights waited for lines, and as Glory’s bowsprit swung out to pass the long main boom of Bill of Rights, Smalley ordered the stays’l dropped, and his schooner ghosted into her place alongside. Lines were handed across and secured. They were home.
The din on the pier had increased in volume, and the men on Glory noticed several scuffles breaking out here and there in the crowd. Biggs and Clements, standing amidships saw an elegantly dressed gentleman in a gray suit climb awkwardly over the far bulwark on Rights and continue across the deck toward them. When he had come across the breadth of the inboard privateer, he began to mount the bulwark with the obvious intention of boarding Glory.
“Just a minute, there, sir. May I ask yer business before you come aboard?” Biggs was taking no chances. He looked at Clements who smiled, and spoke to the gentleman.
“Please come aboard, sir, and welcome. Biggs here’s new aboard. We rescued him off’n a British prize. Isaac, this here gent’s one o’ the owners of Glory. Go fetch Cap’n Smalley, quick-like, an’ tell ‘im Mr. Meade’s come aboard.”
Biggs’ departure for the quarterdeck covered his embarrassment at almost forbidding entry to the vessel’s owner. Before he stepped onto the quarterdeck, Smalley and Halladay were already heading forward, having seen Meade clamber over Glory’s rail.
“Come with me, Mr. Biggs. I’ll introduce you to one o’ the owners. He should know the third mate anyway.” Smalley was smiling as he spoke, and Biggs turned to join the two men.
“Captain, a pleasure to welcome you home, sir. And give you joy on your successes. I heard from Captain Abrams about your splendid voyage, and I believe we have already received notice that the British vessels you took – the ones I believe Captain Abrams said were north of Cuba, have safely reached Charleston and the court has already begun the condemnation process. With those and the others you took you and your men will be quite well off from this trip, I’d warrant, sir.”
“Thank you, sir, for that. I look forward to giving the hands their shares. They’ve earned ‘em, that’s for sure. Tell me, what brings all these good people out to the dock today? It couldn’t be our arrival, since no one knew when we’d be comin’ in.” As if to make its presence even more keenly felt, the noise from the crowd grew increasingly louder, and even two ships out from the pier, the men had to raise their voices to be heard.
“Why, my goodness, don’t you know? No, of course you don’t. How could you? You’ve been at sea. We received word only last night that our frigate, the USS United States, a fifty-six-gun vessel under Stephen Decatur, I believe, not only prevailed in a meeting with HMS Macedonian of the Royal Navy, but that Decatur sent her into Newport with a prize crew. Truly a marvelous victory. The people are delighted to have some good news, after the disasters we keep hearing about from the frontier. Things have been rather dismal here-abouts of late, save for the successes of the Navy, and of course the private vessels.”
“We passed Jack Lockhart down the bay a bit. He mentioned that things weren’t going well out west. I surely am glad the Navy is enjoying success. Small wonder these good people are celebrating. Think of it! A Royal Navy frigate brought into Newport with a prize crew – that had to be a telling blow for the Brits. What are your plans for us now, sir? We do need some refit time, but I know my lads would welcome the chance for another cruise.”
“After you have tended to your ship and hands, sir, we – that is the other investors and I – would like you to join Captains Abrams and Stebbins and ourselves at the Anchor and Owl just across the way there. We have a great deal to discuss, both about your most recent voyage, as well as the future. Until then, I will say ‘good-day’.”
With a tip of his hat, Meade was over the bulwark and headed back across Rights’ deck. He met another gentleman, also elegantly dressed as he stepped onto the dock from the now-rigged gangplank, and together they pushed their way through the crowd, heading for the tavern across the street.
Biggs and Clements, now joined by Coleman and Conoughy, looked at each other in silence for a moment; then all of them began talking at once.
“Isaac, what do you think of that! A British frigate being sent in with a prize crew! What a telling blow that must have…” Clements stopped short, suddenly realizing that there were two British seamen standing close aboard. His look gave away his confusion at his own words. Conoughy laughed and waved a hand dismissively at the second.
“Don’t you be thinkin’ of us now, Mr. Clements. You’re likely righty-oh. The Navy bringin’ in one o’ the King’s finest must o’ been a telling blow to the likes o’ Cap’n Winston and Lieutenant Burns.”
Clements smiled his thanks and continued excitedly. “I’m headin’ down to Annapolis just as soon as ever we get our tickets cashed out. Joinin’ a Navy ship, I am. This privateerin’s fine work, but they ain’t no glory like that in it. No siree. I got me some cash – or I will have, and now I aim to…”
He was interrupted by Coleman, whose own excited voice drowned out the second mate’s.
“I’m thinkin’ young Tim Conoughy and me’ll join on with you. Ain’t a lot of work ‘ereabouts for a topman – nor a gunner – an’ that’s all Tim and me know. This privateer work’s fine, and don’t make no mistake, Isaac, I surely do appreciate your getting me off’n that island and out from under Cap’n Winston and his officers. It’s just that all’s I know is working aloft and all that Tim ’ere knows is guns, and they ain’t enough guns for him to do his job on.”
Tim Conoughy added his confirmation. “Aye, Mr. Biggs. By the eyes of me sainted Mother, I wouldn’t want you to be thinkin’ we ain’t grateful for what ya done for us. It’s like Coleman ’ere says; we need to be on a ship-rigged vessel. This ’ere little schooner sails like the wind itself, she does, but they ain’t not nearly guns enough for my taste. I’m thinkin’, I am, that sailin’ on an American ship could be right satisfyin’. So Mr. Clements, if’n you don’t mind, I’m lookin’ to tag along too.”
“‘Ow ’bout it, Isaac? You’re a topman just like me. You gonna sta
y ’ere on Glory or come with us to do some real fightin’?” Coleman looked at the second, and winked.
“Not now I ain’t a topman, Robert; I’m a mate. But as to stayin’ or goin’ it’s neither one, I’m thinkin’. I still got to get myself to Marblehead and see my kin. They got to be thinkin’ I’m dead bein’s how I been gone two years and more, and I don’t reckon they got any of my letters. After I done that, why then I guess I’ll see what’s up in Boston for me and find me a berth. Soon’s we get our prize tickets cashed in, I’ll have me some money and that’ll help gettin’ me up to Massachusetts. Maybe buy me a horse to ride.”
Clements smiled at the third mate. His eyes crinkled and his ever-present smile broadened. “Well, we gonna be together a few days more, boys, while we wait on our tickets. You all got time to change your minds, if’n you got a mind to change. Har har.” He laughed at his little joke; the others just shook their heads and went to see to their duties. Isaac smiled inwardly as he thought of seeing his parents again, and headed forward to oversee the furling of Glory’s jibs.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
A Press of Canvas
Prior to and during the early days of the War of 1812, the sea was a perilous to find oneself, particularly if one were a merchant seaman of virtually any nationality. The likelihood of being pressed into service in the Royal Navy was a reality and the constant and growing need for seamen to man their warships created in the British naval mind all the justification necessary to stop merchant ships of both England and others and help themselves to a few sailors. Desertion and death (from disease, battle, and poor medical practices) were the primary factors creating this need.
The characters in this novel are imaginary with a few exceptions; Adm. Lafory was indeed the commanding officer of the British Leeward Island Station, head-quartered in Antigua. There was a Royal Navy frigate named Orpheus on the Leeward Island Station, but she was commanded by Hugh Pigot, a worse flogger than even the fictitious Captain Winston. While the officers and men who people the ships are fictitious, I have tried to maintain the accuracy of job descriptions, ranks, and relationships between ranks. Ship’s routine has been portrayed accurately as well.
The operations of the privateers depicted within these pages and which sailed from Baltimore early in the War are essentially a composite of actual Baltimore “sharp-built” schooners. Their owners sought letters of marque and reprisal immediately after the war began and sent these fast able vessels out to harass and capture British shipping. And where better than in the West Indies?
Bringing a prize in for condemnation and sale was a real problem for the captains of the privateers, and short of sending them back to America (a poor choice due to the likelihood of recapture), only countries neutral to the combatants or allies of the privateers were able to be of help. Further adding to the difficulty was the fact that the United States had to have a treaty in place allowing for such action.
In the tale preceding, the privateers bring their prizes into Port-au-Prince, Haiti, for adjudication by the prize courts operating there under the direction of Alexandre Petion in Port au Prince, and Henri Christophe in the north. It is unlikely that this actually happened during this period, although Toussaint-L’Overture did indeed cause prize courts to be operated on British and American principles and it is known that, during the Quasi-War with France, the United States ships did, in point of fact, avail themselves of their services.
Fells Point on Baltimore’s Harbor (now the Inner Harbor) was a popular facility and departure point for the privateers, and while many were built on the Eastern Shore, most wound up operating out of Baltimore. This fact was a major consideration in England’s later (1814) choice of Baltimore as the target of siege after Washington DC, as well as for the attacks and raids on the Eastern Shore before and after their failure at Baltimore.
William H. White
Rumson, NJ
1999
Following is a selection from
A Fine Tops’l Breeze
the second book in the War of 1812 Trilogy
by William H. White
© William H. White 2000
The storm was ferocious, and would be remembered by the locals as one of the worst of the decade. The wind drove the tops of the powerful waves into the air, giving the horizontal rain a curiously brackish taste as it stung the faces of anyone unfortunate enough to be outside. The low sky was filled with racing, heavy clouds roiling and tumbling in from seaward, it’s tone matching that of the sea and the Bay. Waves crashed on the shoreline, their white spray and foam the only bright relief in the monochromatic gray of the late afternoon in early March.
As the surf pounded Cape Henry and spilled huge rollers into the entrance of the Bay and beyond into Hampton Roads, a small schooner rigged vessel, shortened down to a few scraps of canvas staggered out from behind the lee of Cape Charles and into the maw of the storm.
“I don’t reckon them Brits’ll be any too anxious to be out here lookin’ for the likes o’ us’n, Mister Blanchard. You likely can set your mind at ease bout that.” Warrant Bosun Clements smiled as he shouted through the storm into the face of the young midshipman clinging desperately with both hands to the windward main backstay. The water – a mix of rain and salt – dripped off his eyelashes and nose; wiping them would require him to let go of the backstay. A deluge of the same mixture was pouring down his collar, adding with cold, wet clothes to his misery. Jonas Blanchard had been the senior midshipman on the frigate and was now in command of this pilot schooner, commandeered by Captain Stewart to sail out and warn any American vessels they saw about the tightened blockade. The bosun’s words, if indeed the young captain even heard them, did little to ease his abject fear; never in his short career as a sea-going man had he experienced anything like this. It would be only through divine intervention that they survived this holocaust of raging seas and wind. Never mind the British; they were the least of his worries now. Blanchard remained mute, but it did register in his mind that Clements and some of the other men on this little cockleshell seemed unconcerned about the weather; in fact they seemed to welcome it as a guarantee that the British ships effectively closing the Bay would be off station, allowing the American ship to slip through the cordon unnoticed. The storm, combined with the rapidly falling darkness, would cloak the little schooner in invisibility, and it seemed likely to most of the seafaring men aboard that, as long as this worst of Mother Nature didn’t sink them, it was reasonable that the British blockaders wouldn’t.
They cleared the Cape and the full fury of the storm driven seas met their sharp bows. Clements again put his face close to his captain’s. “I’d suggest that mebbe a lookout aloft for’ard might be a worthy pursuit, Mister Blanchard. No tellin’ what we might find out yonder, an’ surely better to see them afore they see us’n. I can take care of it for you if you wish, sir, seein’ as how you’re a mite busy right now.”
The midshipman’s only concern at the moment was ensuring that no one or nothing caused him to release his grip on the windward backstay. He looked at Clements, at first not comprehending his words. Finally the words sank in and he nodded, opening his mouth to speak. Unfortunately, his lunch rather than words came out, and since Bosun Clements was directly to leeward of the young man, he received most of Jonas’ offering. Clements’ face darkened briefly, then split into a grin as he wiped the front ofhis tarpaulin coat with his sleeve.
“You jest stay here, sir. You might consider moving to the leeward side ifn you feel that comin’ on again.” He smiled and added, “Or you might go below,” knowing that the smells and close atmosphere of the lower deck would surely inspire the midshipman to even greater levels of seasickness. Blanchard nodded again, but remained stationary, and Clements left the quarterdeck, following the lifeline forward.
No sooner had a lookout taken up a tenuous position in the fore crosstrees than a hail faintly reached the deck. “Deck... two p’ints ta wind’ard...one...this way...” The words blew away before
they reached the deck, but Robert Coleman, topman, heard most of them and waved at the quarterdeck to get Clements’ attention. He pointed to windward, and jumped into the weather shrouds, heading aloft himself.
“Looks like it might be a brig, but ain’t no flag I can see. She’s makin’ ‘eavy weather of it, like us. Looks like she’s lost a fore topmast and the yard. She’s runnin’ off afore it, bout a league off. Likely she’ll pass astern, and busy enough so’s they might not even see us.” Coleman thought for a moment, then added, “An’ if’n they did see us, I don’t reckon they’s much what they could do bout us. ’Pears they got they’s hands full without addin’ a little schooner to they’s worries.”
Clements nodded, and ordered the schooner hardened up some, taking the waves more on the bow, but hopefully lessening the likelihood they’d be seen by the brig. He grabbed the wheel to steady himself as a green wave rushed down the deck, knocking two men off their feet and continuing on to the quarterdeck. The water swirled around the feet of the watch before running off the leeward side of the deck taking with it anything loose. Midshipman Blanchard groaned, and tightened his grip on the backstay.
The brig, still showing no colors and shortened to a reefed main tops’l, was now visible from the deck, and true to Coleman’s report, her fore topmast and the tops’l yard swayed drunkenly over the leeward side of the vessel. There were men aloft obviously working as best they could at freeing the dangerous spars before they did more damage to the ship. It was apparent she was running for the protection from wind and seas offered by Cape Charles and had no interest in the schooner heading out, if indeed the brig’s crew even noticed it, being as busy with their own problems as they were. The unknown vessel passed comfortably astern of the Americans, and they continued on into the deepening night and the raging storm.
By morning, most of the worst had passed, and while a still large sea was running, the wind had abated and the schooner was showing jibs, a reefed fores’l, and a full main. They had made some southing and tacked at sunrise to gain a further margin of open water between themselves and the British blockade. And Midshipman Blanchard was over the worst of his seasickness. He had not left the deck all night, knowing that to be below would be more than his heaving stomach could stand. Jack Clements handed him a pewter cup half filled with strong coffee.