The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy Read online

  “Aye, sir. I’ll give the second the word; it’ll most likely be his watch that’s shortenin’ sail later.”

  Clark left the quarterdeck and the captain continued pacing, glancing from time to time at the eastern sky. Absently Smalley watched Clark’s compact form head forward, not thinking about anything in particular, but aware of everything going on aboard his ship. One part of his brain again gave thanks that he had this strong leader and excellent seaman as his second in command. He noticed, without thought, that Clark stopped and spoke with a few sailors, his powerful arms gesturing aloft, and, as he turned his face eastward over the larboard side, his light colored-beard glowed as the lowering sun shone through it. The captain expected that the wind would come in more from the east than the north, and said to himself, Be nice if’n we might could get them steady half gales back we been enjoyin’ since Boston. This don’t look like it to me, though. Reckon they might just be some weather over yonder. Be takin’ in a passel o’ this canvas before long, I’d warrant.

  The Anne had all her canvas set – courses, tops’ls, t’gallants, and the spanker on the mizzen; all hung as slack as wash on a Vineyard clothesline. The stays’ls and jibs forward and the sprits’l under the rakish bowsprit were motionless and it might seem to the casual observer, and certainly to some of the landsmen aboard, that thinking about shortening sail was, at this point, a waste of effort – indeed, even foolish.

  The rattle of the pumps brought his mind back to the immediate present, and he looked up the deck where he could see, just abaft the capstan, two men working the handles for the pumps, manned for about an hour during each watch to keep the holds and bilge as dry as possible. He noticed that Clark was now deep in conversation with Second Mate Joe O’Malley and Third Mate Ben Jakes, both good sailors, but only the second was the kind of leader Smalley wanted in his ship. Jakes was a smarmy little man with a scraggly beard and a mean cast to his eyes. Even in the heat of the day, his tarpaulin hat was pulled low on his narrow brow, hiding his eyes as they darted everywhere but at the person with whom he spoke. He did not inspire trust from anyone, least of all the captain. Snippets of conversation drifted aft.

  “…aye, if Cap’n Smalley’s lookin’…breeze, I’d bet on it. Seen…before…”

  “Thinks…men need sompin’ to do…shorten down? My maintopmen surely don’t need no practice…tell Biggs…his crew aloft…ain’t no wind yesterday, ain’t none today and ain’t…none tomorrow, neither. Man’s gotten…sun, you ask me.”

  “I’ll let you know when…later…supper…jest lettin’ ya know…get yer boys together.”

  Biggs stood up and stepped over to where the mates were talking. After waiting for a break in the conversation, he looked at Clark. “Did I hear something ‘bout shortenin’ down later?” At a nod from Clark, continued “I’d best get my boys fed if…”

  Clark cut him off. “Ain’t no rush, Isaac. Cap’n said be after supper and mebbe a song. No need to rush none.”

  Smalley smiled to himself; that young foretopman was always ready to work, and eager to advance himself. Reckon he’ll make a fine mate – mebbe even a master – someday. Good man, that. I could use a dozen like him.

  He watched as Biggs, dismissed by the first mate, joined one of his foretopmen and moved over to sit on one of the twenty-four-pounder carronades, straddling the short barrel. Biggs rested his large, scarred hands on the bulwark in front of him, unconsciously flexing the muscles in his forearms as he stared out to sea, watching the horizon. So intent was his gaze that the fellow with him remarked.

  “Isaac, what’s that you’re lookin’ at so hard. Ain’t nothin’ out there ‘ceptin’ flat calm water.”

  “Cap’n thinks we gonna pick up a breeze o’ wind here soon enough, and I’m tryin’ to see what it is he sees makes him think that. Stuff I need to learn my own self, if I’m gonna ever sail as mate. Must be them low clouds over yonder. Looks like it could rain, you ask me.” He leaned over the rail, looking at the water and the black sides of the ship with the white painted gunports.

  The ship had been painted before leaving Boston for this run to St. Bartholomew and he knew she still looked Bristol. The gunports, mostly there to deceive, did include four that opened to reveal the twenty-four-pounder carronades, short barreled and with a range of scarcely more than a pistol shot. They were lethally effective when properly served and loaded with bits of iron, nails and chain; unfortunately, there were few aboard save Mr. O’Malley who knew how to handle them, and the owners, New Englanders all, and parsimonious to a fault, felt there were far better ways to spend money than on powder and shot for practice. Let the Navy handle that. Besides, if a French privateer or British man-of-war really wanted to cause trouble, those four carronades would not slow them down much.

  There seemed to be little defense against the British “right of search” boarding parties which could strip a ship of vital crew members in a trice. The British had been busy with the French for the past several years, but instead of that ongoing war distracting the English Navy from American ships, it focused the attention of any short-handed Royal Navy vessel squarely on American merchant vessels. The conflict required a constant supply of seamen to sail the king’s ships. And in the eyes of the British, a supply of skilled sailors existed for their pleasure on American ships like Anne. A cry from the masthead of “sail ho!” could mean an opportunity to speak a homeward bound American, or the potential for the British to board them on the premise of looking for British subjects avoiding service in His Majesty’s Navy. This had become an increasingly frequent occurrence in the past several years, and a problem that many ship owners and captains felt should be handled by the American Navy. If it led to war, so be it. Smalley, while not having experienced the British “right of search” first hand, agreed with his fellows that something must be done, and soon. Already ships that had been regulars on the Indies run were heading off to Europe or Russia where there was less likelihood of problems with the Royal Navy. Smalley had captained a score of successful trips to the Indies for his owners, but still felt the uncertainty that always showed up about two or three days before the anticipated landfall. That landfall this time would be St. Maarten, just to the northwest of his destination and occupied by both the Dutch and the French. The likelihood of crossing tacks with a French privateer leaving or returning to port was a consideration, but he was more concerned about a British ship, and was in part at least, why he had been on the quarterdeck for most of the past two days.

  Designed to carry cargo in many forms, Anne’s deck areas and holds were packed with a variety of barrels, casks, crates, and puncheons filled with goods for the market in St. Bartholomew, a Swedish colony and free port. Some contained fish, beef, and butter; others were in fact empty – the clean barrels were themselves the trade goods. From time to time, the cargo included boots, shoes, and hats. The return trip would find the holds filled with barrels of molasses for the thriving rum distilleries in New England, and brown sugar for both American consumption and re-shipment to Europe.

  “Dingding, ding.” The ship’s bell called the captain back from his reverie, and he watched his men appear on deck for supper and their evening ration of rum. The heat was beginning to tell – or maybe it was the boredom from being becalmed – but small fights and arguments were breaking out and it was only a matter of time before one or another of the men brought forth a knife. The men of the larboard watch were eating so they could relieve their mates in the starboard section at six o’clock. Smalley looked at the eastern sky for the hundredth time in the past two hours and saw his suspicions were about to be confirmed.

  “Mr. Clark,” he called to the mate. “We’ll hand the t’gallants now, if you please. And trim for an easterly.”

  The mate glanced at the horizon, and saw that once again Smalley had anticipated the weather accurately. “Aye, sir. And don’t look to me like they’ll be any singin’ this night, ‘ceptin’ mebbe the wind.” His brow furrowed in concern.

>   Indeed, even as the captain spoke, the water had begun to stir; little ripples and ruffles disturbing the reflected image of the ship which appeared in the molten glass of the still sea. The temperature reacted to the cooling easterly breeze as it started to fill in, and the men on deck moved as one to the weather rail so as to feel the relief on their sweat stained faces and arms. Hats off, and the sweat drying on their faces, they stood with their shirts pulled open, feeling the cooling gentle breeze on their skin; a few laughed, while others just enjoyed the sensation quietly. Captain Smalley had a reputation for being conservative, and the preliminary shortening sail prior to a blow instead of during it was one of the manifestations of his conservatism, and one appreciated by his sailors.

  “Mr. O’Malley,” hollered the mate as he started forward, “let’s get all hands on deck, if you please. We’ll be shortening sail directly.” Seeing Third Mate Ben Jakes, who had neither opened his shirt nor doffed his hat, loitering near the ‘midships capstan, he nodded and spoke.

  “Mr. Jakes, have your topmen stand by to go aloft – and see if per chance you might be able to keep up with the foremast hands. The only topmen slower than your crew are the bunch on the mizzen, and Jackson’s landsmen are afraid to let go of the jackstay and beckets.”

  Jakes bridled at the remark, but said nothing save “Aye,” tugged his hat brim further down, and went to ensure that his men were ready at the weather shrouds when the word to shorten was passed. The traditional rivalry between the hands working aloft on the three masts had transcended normal competition, resulting in several fist fights and more than a few incidents involving the ever-present seaman’s knives which, fortunately, resulted in only minor wounds. The other mates, of course, were well aware of this contest of the seamen’s skills, and used it constantly to their advantage; a certain benefit to the ship was that sails were usually smartly handled, furled, and set.

  The hands had begun to break off from their pause at the rail and take their positions when the order to shorten sail went out. The waisters gathered amidships to handle halyards, sheets, and braces, pulling the big square sails around either to fill them, or spill the wind from them so the men aloft could furl them. As O’Malley and Clark saw that the “heavers” were in position at the foremast, he signaled Biggs and his men aloft. The t’gallants, being the highest sails on Anne, were usually first to come in when the weather started – not only did the yards have to be lowered and the sails furled to the yards, but the masts had to be either housed or struck down into the lower rigging. This was frequently difficult and dangerous. When non-emergency shortening was being accomplished, it was often done from the foremast to the mizzen, one mast at a time. This generally was quicker due to the availability of enough men as ‘heavers’ at each mast when done individually as opposed to breaking up crews for halyards, sheets, clew tackles, and braces at each mast.

  Biggs’ men were at the topmast cap and on the rope ladder leading to it from the top of the lower mast. Seeing this, Clark blew his whistle and shouted for clew lines to be hauled up and halyards to be let go. As the yard moved down the t’gallantmast, the sail drooped from its clewlines. Immediately the yard came to rest on the top mast cap, the men jumped onto it to haul up great handfuls of sail, securing it along the spar. As soon as the sail was securely furled, the order came to “ease jumper stays, standby to house the t’gallant mast.” Biggs’ men watched below to ensure the necessary lines were in hand, then on order from Biggs, pulled the dog from the topmast cap and the t’gallant mast slid down the lubber hole in the topmast, coming to rest against a stop so that only a few feet of it showed above the topmast. There it was made fast securely.

  The foremast jacks were then released by Biggs to go below, and most did by sliding down the backstays to the deck . Even before they reached the deck, the maintopmen had started to perform the same tasks on the main t’gallant mast. Biggs watched for a few minutes as Jakes continually harangued his men, more often distracting them than inspiring them to greater speed. As the clewlines for the main t’gallant were hauled up, the sail’s middle moved up toward the yard producing a “draped” effect which made it easier for the men on the yardarm to haul up the canvas and secure it. It seemed as though the job was going smoothly, in spite of the third’s “encouragement.” Biggs knew that Jakes had a great deal more deep water time than he, but he also knew that most on board thought Biggs was a better sailor.

  As he made his way forward with his mates for supper, Isaac Biggs recalled the men who had taught him to hand, reef and steer. Of course, his father, a Banks fisherman who had taken young Isaac to sea at the tender age of eight, had been the major influence. Isaac remembered the skipper of that schooner, a Mr. Rowe; a real sailorman he was who had sailed the deeps, and had only taken up fishing later in life. He had found in the lad a willingness to learn and an enthusiastic pupil who eagerly absorbed all that he saw and heard. It was he who had arranged for the boy to secure a berth as ordinary seaman on a brig out of Salem bound on the coastal route south. A bully mate had convinced Isaac that minding his business and staying out of reach was the way to not only stay alive but also to advance, and within a short while, Biggs had been made an able seaman. Still youthful and unwelcome ashore with the older men, Isaac, while becoming a most competent sailor, was sadly lacking in worldliness. His Methodist upbringing had taught him taverns were no place for a young Marblehead sailor, and aside from the half rations of grog provided him due to his youth, he had yet to taste the sweet potions of the ale houses. A succession of coastal ships added to his education, and ultimately to his current berth as captain of the foretop here on Anne. Watching others over the years, men he respected, had taught him that it was easier to lead men from in front, than by pushing from behind with a starter and shouts. The men liked his easy-going style and instinctive leadership and bent to their tasks with a will. Captain Smalley, with whom Biggs had sailed for almost two years, had noticed his development and natural ability aloft as well as with his men, and was waiting for the opportunity to find him a berth as a third on a sloop or brig. To that end, Smalley had encouraged Sam Clark to instruct the topman in the art and science of navigation, and the reports he received from the mate confirmed his hopes for the lad’s potential.

  The third on Anne, Ben Jakes, was a poor leader of men and weak of character. Any man who felt regular use of a starter necessary would not, in Smalley’s opinion, ever rise to command. Smalley also suspected that Jakes was involved in some underhanded dealings aboard, and did not trust him. Jakes was, however, an excellent seaman, and for that, the captain found him useful.

  The wind was rising steadily now, and it was obvious to even the landsmen aboard that some dirty weather was indeed afoot. The t’gallants were in their gaskets and their masts struck down. The ship was responding to the trimming of sheets and hauling on the braces; she moved quickly now through the still calm sea as gradually, the wind’s song in the rigging rose from a whispered caress to an insistent whine. The sky became darker – an ominous darkness which was beyond the growing dusk. Heavy clouds were beginning to move rapidly across the sky, increasing the gloom of twilight. The main topmen were back on deck, and were headed for the galley and their evening meal, debating the relative rapidity of handing their respective sails. In all likelihood, they’d be back soon – either to relieve the starboard watch or to reef tops’ls and courses if the wind continued to build. Anne began to heel to the wind, and the occasional burst of spray from the now building seas wet the decks.

  Second Mate Joe O’Malley made his way aft toward the quarterdeck, moving his lanky form down the now canted deck in a rhythm dictated by the seas as they attacked the windward bow of Anne and rolled down the side of the ship. He noted the men working under the direction of First Mate Clark securing the carronades against the bulwarks. This action would be justified by the deteriorating conditions; a loose gun could wreak havoc on a tossing deck. The men had shortened the gun tackles and the barrels were sl
anted up against the bulwark and tied in place with heavy hemp line. Once secured in this manner, it would take more severe weather than they expected to move them. O’Malley stepped onto the quarterdeck and headed for the wheel, where the helmsmen’s stance and concentration provided a marked contrast to their inactivity earlier that day. O’Malley considered adding another pair of seamen to the wheel, then decided it could wait awhile. As the leader of the starbowlines, he was responsible for ensuring that the ship was properly manned while his watch was on deck. He checked the slate on which were recorded the regular casting of the ships log; after a string of “0”s and “1”s, it was good to see an “8” written on the slate just a few minutes previously. He estimated the wind at about thirty knots already, and knew that if it continued to increase, sails would again have to be shortened. Spray was now blowing across the quarterdeck, making the watch turn their faces away from time to time when a heavier gust carried the spume over the deckhouse. It would surely get worse before it eased any. He watched the ship’s boy turn the glass and move forward to the bell; five strokes could be heard before the wind carried the sound to leeward and away. The larboard watch was on deck and taking their positions at lookout, and at the sheets and braces, ready for the inevitable commands necessitated by the rising storm. O’Malley saw Ben Jakes, late yet again, heading for the quarterdeck to take over the watch until eight bells, when O’Malley would return to manage the ship until midnight. Jakes relieved his superior with few words exchanged in the face of a rising wind and their mutual antipathy.

  Having assumed the watch, Ben felt the ship shiver slightly as a larger wave shocked the windward bow, and a burst of green water flew down the deck. The door to the deckhouse closed as O’Malley disappeared inside, narrowly avoiding a surge of water down the companionway. “What a night this is going to be,” thought Jakes, buttoning the top button on his oiled canvas jacket, and jamming his hat even further down on his head. “This is only going to get worse.”