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

  Joshua Barney was clearly not pleased and he suffered Jack and Frank another hour of his tirade. The three stood in the mid-day sun and, while the commodore paused every so often to wipe his dripping face and neck, Jack and Frank let the sweat run freely down, soaking their shirts, and gradually turning their faces red, almost as red as Commodore Barney’s. Neither was particularly moved by Barney’s useless ranting and, after a short spell, their minds drifted off, wondering about the whereabouts of Isaac; the commodore’s words blurred and swirled around them finally blending into the background noise of the wind and the cries of the sea birds.

  A cry from Clements’ sloop brought a welcome end to the commodore’s declamation. “Ships! Two sail in sight to the North. Headin’ this way. ‘Pears they ain’t but small ones.” The ensuing silence was complete – and short lived.

  Orders flew from the commodore’s vessel and were echoed throughout the small fleet. Clements and Clark, openly joyful at the excuse to be away, jumped to the rail and into their waiting boat, encouraging the four oarsmen to pull “like the devil himself was in their wake.”

  Anchors were won and, to Barney’s cries of “Sails and oars!”, the flotilla was underway to cut off these two small vessels. Jack’s sloop led the way and the oarsmen in the barges strained to augment their lateen sails and keep up. Carronade, perched in the bow of the sloop, kept up a fearsome noise, either exhorting the British to heave to or the men on the sloop to make it go faster.

  Before the Americans had gained the deeper water of the Bay, the British vessels had passed, turning “cutting off” into a stern chase.

  “Jack, that ain’t two jest vessels.” Clark had returned to the deck after a few minutes in the shrouds with the longglass. “Looks to me like we’re chasin’ a schooner and six, mayhaps seven sailin’ barges.” He looked astern, a dour expression crossing his face, and pointed with his chin. “Them gunboats and barges ain’t gonna be much help less’n they can keep up with us. And if’n we catch the enemy up afore they get here, that little swivel gun ain’t gonna be much help neither.” Clements nodded at his second in command, but ordered no reduction in sail. The sloop careered down the Bay, closing with the fleeing British ships – outstripping the American gunboats and barges.

  Boom. A shot rang out. “That came from the schooner; you can see the smoke. Ranging, I’d reckon, with they’s stern chaser.” Jack watched carefully for the splash.

  “There it is. Short. And from a small bore gun, be my guess. Not much water throw’d up.” Frank Clark correctly surmised that they had “a fair amount of chase left” before they’d be within the range of the light – probably six-pounder – cannon in the schooner. “Any idea what we gonna do when we catch them up, Jack?”

  Boom. Another shot was fired with little change in the threat it posed to the American sloop.

  “I reckon we’ll just have to take our chances, Frank. Don’t much take to bein’ on the receivin’ end of they’s shot, so I ‘spect we’ll have to stay out of their range ‘til them others catch up. Mayhaps we can slow ‘em down a bit, though right now, I cain’t think of how with just the swivel gun.” Clements’ good humor was fading fast, and he was beginning to think they should have stayed in the waters off Baltimore, the commodore and his orders be damned.

  “Ship! They’s another ship ahead! Wind’ard bow, three, maybe four leagues. Don’t ‘pear she’s set with sail, but she’s tall.” The lookout, hanging on to the windward shrouds near the mast cap, was alert and watching not just the fleeing schooner. Jack grabbed his glass and leaped into the rigging.

  “A seventy-four, by my lights. Damn. We got some trouble now.” He glanced astern at the gunboats straining their rigs and the men’s back to catch up. They’s still a cannon shot and more back, he thought and trained his glass on the British schooner and beyond it, the anchored battleship. This ain’t what I signed on for. Ain’t gonna take on a three decker with that toy gun. He peered aft again, hopeful that he would notice a difference in the position of the gunboats. Something caught his eye beyond them, and he refocused the longglass.

  By God, that’s Isaac. I’d bet my life on it. Cain’t be more than the two of us with black sails and hulls. He part slid and part scrambled down the ratlines.

  “Frank. Have look aft an’ tell me what you see.” He handed the bayman the glass and waited impatiently while the stocky mate adjusted the focus, squinted through it, changed eyes after a moment, then refocused.

  “Looks like a black sailed sloop to me. Got his tops’l set and makin’ a fair turn of speed it ‘pears. Reckon it could be young Isaac catchin’ up with us.” He handed the glass back to Clements and looked at him for a moment. Then he pointed forward with his chin. “What’d you see up ahead there when you was aloft?”

  “That’s a seventy-four up there. I’d warrant our friends here are runnin’ under her guns. If my figgerin’s right, Isaac’s gonna get here just about the time we’re all in her range. An’ he don’t have any idea he’s sailing into a hornet’s nest.” He cast his eyes about the tiny quarterdeck and forward, seeking some way to warn his friend and former shipmate.

  “Flags! Flags on the gunboat astern.” The lookout was earning his keep today.

  “What’s that all about, Jack? He’s just put ‘em up.” As Clark spoke, a gun fired on the commodore’s boat.

  “Must be in the book. Maybe something ‘bout Isaac comin’ on.” Clements was thumbing through the slim volume of signals that had been designed by Barney. He looked up from time to time, licking his finger as he turned pages in the book.

  “They’re tacking, Jack. The gunboats’re tacking; headin’ back north, they are, by God. Mayhaps that commodore cove got some sense after all.”

  “By God you’re right, Frank. Hand the tops’l, lads, then get to your stations for tacking.”

  Four men swarmed aloft and stepped out on the single yard. Sheets were cast off and the small tops’l was quickly drawn up and furled. Even before the topmen were back on deck, Jack threw the tiller over and the sloop spun smartly toward the shoreline, continued through the eye of the wind and back the way they’d come, close hauled and hard on the wind.

  “Schooner’s tacked, too. And they’s a cutter comin’ out from the seventy-four, looks like.” Again the lookout was alert. Everyone on deck looked aft, even the man on the tiller.

  “That cutter ain’t gonna take no time to catch up with them. Looks like the barges didn’t come about, though. I don’t like runnin’ when we ain’t got to. I’d warrant Isaac an’ us an’ them two gunboats could make short work of that schooner. Cutter too, like as not.” Clements looked back toward the enemy again and then forward, figuring how fast Isaac, still headed south, would close them. He picked up the signal book again, rapidly turning the pages and muttering. “They must have something in here I can use to tell the commodore what I’m thinkin’.”

  He handed the book to Clark, pointed to a signal and said, “Here. Use that. He’ll get the idea.”

  The necessary flags snapped in the breeze as they were hauled up to the tops’l yardarm and Jack ordered a single shot fired to windward to get their attention. “And reload that piece with grape quick as you fire it.”

  The gunboat carrying the commodore luffed up, waiting for the sloop and the pursuing British vessels to catch up; Isaac’s sloop closed quickly and, within a moment or two, was within a pistol shot of the other Americans. The barges continued to the north, seeking the shelter of Cedar Point and the Patuxent River.

  Boom! Boom! The twenty-four-pounders on the gunboats thundered out their greeting to the on-rushing British schooner. Jack and Isaac, now within range of their swivel guns, waited until they were sure of their shot and fired almost simultaneously.

  “Jack! That cutter…he’s firin’ rockets!” Frank was pointing at the small cutter, still pressing on with a vengeance. And the schooner now opened fire at what amounted to point-blank range. The air was alight with British rockets fired from the sevent
y-four’s cutter. A hole appeared in Clements’ mainsail and they could hear the crash and splintering as one of the schooner’s shot found a mark in Isaac’s bulwark.

  A cannon roared out from the commodore’s vessel, and he immediately bore off heading for the protection of the river. The two sloop captains, realizing they were outgunned, followed suit. And the cutter, rockets streaking off her deck willy-nilly, pressed on after them.

  “Reckon we slowed that schooner some, Jack. Don’t think he’s gonna be botherin’ us for a while.” Frank allowed himself a small smile and pointed aft at the wallowing schooner; its mainsail was not only down, but hanging over the side. They could see sailors scrambling to get it contained as the vessel lay hove to.

  “Musta been one of the gunboats’ shot done that. Don’t reckon even a lucky shot with them swivels woulda taken down their mains’l.”

  The little flotilla had gained the river mouth and the protection of Cedar Point; the British cutter fired another barrage of rockets and broke off, returning to offer assistance to the stricken schooner.

  Barney led his ships deeper into the Patuxent and anchored. They could see the cutter and the schooner, once again under sail, maneuvering across the entrance to the river.

  The Americans waited, and the captains were called to the gunboat to plot a strategy, as everyone else kept a wary eye on the British.

  “Look there, Commodore. That vessel comin’ in. It’s American I’d warrant.” Isaac had been keeping one eye on the mouth of the river and called everyone’s attention to the tops’l schooner heading in. Suddenly, as they watched, boats put off from the two British vessels and the cutter fired rockets at the American. Then the British sailors in the boats boarded her.

  “My God. They’re gonna fire her. Lookee there. That’s smoke already comin’ outta the schooner ‘midships, by all the stars. Commodore, we oughta get out there an’ give ‘em a hand. Chase them bastards off, by God. Ain’t right settin’ here safe an’ sound while they burn that vessel.” Jack was rightly put out by the action of the blockading ships against the unarmed American ship.

  “That’s just what they’s hopin’, Captain Clements; that we’ll come rushin’ out there and then they got us. No, we will wait until we can get clear without losing our ships.”

  “Jack, cast an eye yonder, friend. I’d reckon that might be that seventy-four we seen earlier at the mouth of the Potomac. You can make her tops over the point. And I’d guess she’s sailin’ this way. Commodore’s right; we’d have sailed right into her guns.” Isaac ran a hand through his curly hair, and wiped the sweat off his face. His frustration was matched by all aboard as they watched in silence as the American schooner burned to the waterline. And the three-decker hove into view, its guns run out and the red coats of the Royal Marines visible in the fighting tops.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “They’re comin’ in again! Stand by your guns and move toward the creek!” Barney’s bellowed commands were easily heard throughout the flotilla in the early morning stillness. An alert lookout had spotted HMS Loire (38), a frigate and a smaller brig, Jaseur, heading into the Patuxent in the second attempt to catch the gunboats, barges, and sloops still sheltering in the bight behind Cedar Point. They brought their barges and the schooner HMS St. Lawrence with them most likely hoping their shallower drafts would find less difficulty with the tricky waters of the Patuxent.

  For nearly two weeks it had been quiet; two frigates, a brig, the schooner, and the seventy-four, which had turned out to be HMS Dragon, maintained their vigil just off the entrance to the river, occasionally sending in small boats to harass the Americans or just to have a look. Yesterday, June seventh, the whole force moved into the mouth of the Patuxent and Barney had responded by easing his group further into the river. He had told his captains of his plan to move into St. Leonard Creek should the need arise. Only Clements had commented, and so only Isaac could hear, “Once they get us in there, we might’s well start walkin’ home. Ain’t no way to get out or around them in that little creek. The British can keep us bottled up long as they want – and likely with one frigate.”

  Isaac had nodded, silently agreeing with his older friend and former shipmate, but as he pointed out, “We ain’t exactly gonna sail right outta the river, neither, Jack, with the Dragon and them others settin’ off the point. Why, they’d turn us to matchwood in a heartbeat, I’d warrant.”

  And now, as the lookout had announced, here they were, coming further into the river again. Joshua Barney’s gunboat led the way toward the mouth of St. Leonard Creek on the northern shore of the river, a league from their earlier anchorage inside Point Patience. The second gunboat followed and Isaac and Jack in the black sloops led the barges, keeping more to the middle of the river, a concession to their deeper drafts.

  Jake Tate stood on the tiny quarterdeck of Isaac’s sloop, his untied blond hair blowing in the morning breeze. He watched the British ships as they sailed around Point Patience, their topmasts moving strangely above the trees on the point and, then as they tacked to clear the shallows, joined by the hulls and lower masts.

  “Isaac, lookee there. That schooner – ain’t that the self same one we tangled with out on the Bay afore they chased us in? Watch; it ‘pears to me they headin’ up higher than the others. Might be she’s tryin’ to cut across the bar and get to the creek afore we do.” Tate resumed tying his hair into a queue – a task none too easy with but one hand – as he kept a steady eye on the schooner.

  “Aye, Jake. An’ if’n she does, commodore’s gonna have to fight his way in there. An’ I’d bet he won’t want to do that. Hope he sees what’s actin’ there.”

  The two watched in silence as the British schooner worked her way to weather of the slow and ungainly American gunboats, her intentions becoming increasingly clear. Isaac spoke quietly to the man at the tiller.

  “Bring her up some, Sam. We got room here. Maybe we can distract ‘em some.” He raised his voice, calling forward. “Stand by to trim; we’re hardenin’ up. For’ard there: stand by with the swivel.”

  “Isaac! Look! She’s took the ground, by God! Skipper’s put her right on the hard. Must have thought he could clear that bar – or didn’t know it was there. Reckon he’s got some problems now. Har har!” The smile that split Jake’s face and the evident pleasure he derived from the ignominy of the British schooner captain made Isaac smile.

  Boom! Boom! The gunboats sailed by the stricken schooner and offered a salute to her plight. One round told; the stranded vessel’s bowsprit and jibboom drooped, then fell, hanging from their rigging, and her jib and stays’l went slack. Men scurried around, trying to clear the wreckage while others tried to get a boat in the water to row out a kedge anchor.

  “Reckon we ain’t got to worry ‘bout them for a while…and probably not that brig, neither.” Tate was pointing to HMS Jaseur which had split away from the frigate and was heading as high as she could make toward the shallows and the grounded schooner. The flotilla pressed on, fighting the falling tide in the easy morning breeze. Their only consolation was the fact that the British ships, even less weatherly and of deeper draft, were fighting the same tide and light breezes. The mouth of St. Leonard Creek slowly drew closer and it was apparent to the Americans that they would reach the relative safety it offered before the British could cut them off. In time, they tacked and were inside.

  Signal flags flew to the mast of the commodore’s gunboat and then flapped lackadaisically in the light air. “What’s that say, Isaac?” Jake called out the flags and Isaac was thumbing through the flotilla’s signal book trying to make sense of the commodore’s orders.

  “Looks like he wants us to make a line of battle, Jake.” Isaac looked at the young one-armed sailor, a perplexed look on his face. “I sure don’t understand this signal book nonsense. You’d think we was in the Navy or something. Them coves do this flag…”

  “Isaac. Follow me and set your hook next to me.” Jack Clements sailed across Isaac’s stern he
ading for the far bank of the creek. The former Navy bosun and privateersman had understood the signal and was heading to a position between the gunboats and some of the barges, an anchor ready at his bow, another at his stern.

  “That’s what he meant, by God, Jake. Form a line across the creek. Reckon we’re gonna stand an’ fight, it looks like. Let’s get it done, then.” Isaac paused and shouted forward. “You men there, haul out the anchor cable and stand by. Stations for anchorin’. Look lively, there.”

  When the flotilla finally came to rest, they were formed in a line stretching from one high bank of the creek to the other. Less than a mile to their south the frigate Loire came to her anchor in the deeper waters of the Patuxent and launched her boats. These were joined by the British barges that had accompanied the squadron into the river and together they rowed, somewhat tentatively, into the mouth of the creek.

  “Stand by…fire on my order…FIRE!” Barney’s voice rang out clearly. The gunboats, barges, and sloops fired as one, then continued raggedly, at the approaching British boats. Some of their shots told and, with the shrieks of their wounded echoing off the high banks of the creek, the British retreated to the safety of the frigate.

  “We stopped ‘em, Jack. Reckon they won’t be rushin’ back in here right quick.” Isaac called to his friend on the next boat and stepped over to the low bulwark to talk to him further. Clements followed suit.

  “Isaac, I been meanin’ to ask you since you showed up here two weeks ago – where’d you go that night back up toward the Choptank? Near as I could tell, you just disappeared from right in front of us. One minute you was there, then you was gone and that British brig was standin’ out right for me. Commodore come after me like I was some kinda fool, not knowin’ where you was when I got down here.”