A Press of Canvas: Volume One in the War of 1812 Trilogy Read online

  “Keep your eyes on your work, Tyler. One hand for yourself and one for the ship. Make sure you have a good step afore you take it, or it’ll likely be your last. Do what you’re told and don’t talk back to no one. One ship’s much the same as another – just flyin’ a different flag. At least bein’ up here’ll keep you from havin’ to work on the guns. Now that looks dangerous. You’ll get to like it up here.”

  Tyler hadn’t completely bought into the concept yet, and he was skeptical, but figured Biggs had worked aloft for many years and must know. He tentatively tried a look down at the deck. Reeling, he quickly decided that was not a smart thing to do, and resolved not to do it again.

  Coleman had moved in to the top from the furled sail on which he had been resting.

  “I’m Coleman. Toppan send you up ‘ere?”

  “Aye.” Biggs turned to face his new boss. Coleman was young, Biggs thought he was about the same age as he, and pleasant. His light colored hair was tied in a braid down his back, and a gold ring hung from his ear. He was missing several teeth, the result of either a fight, scurvy, or a navy surgeon. He was quick to smile, and his blue eyes danced and his ruddy cheeks puffed in genuine mirth. Biggs decided he could like this apparently easy-going young man. “Tyler here ain’t never been aloft afore, and he’s a little scared. My name is Isaac Biggs…from Marblehead. That’s in Massachusetts.”

  “You can keep Tyler with you. Teach ‘im what ‘e needs to know. Just don’t let ‘im fall; ‘e’d be the second in just over a week. I can’t lose no more men; It’s a bloody ‘andful brailing up the mains’l even with a full crew. Those lubbers on deck don’t ‘ave an idea about ‘auling the clewlines when I tell ‘em. Toppan thinks…well, you’ll see soon enough. Keep an eye on the boy, an’ keep ‘im next to you on the yards.”

  The watch eventually ended. Tyler was becoming used to being aloft now, and had even ventured out on the mainyard followed closely by Biggs. He still maintained a death grip on the jackstay and beckets, and moved ever so slowly, but he had done it, and was suitably proud of his new accomplishment. His tears and trembling had stopped. Then he had to go back down the shrouds to the deck below; that necessitated looking down. He slid his feet down through the lubber’s hole and found the ratlines. Very slowly he started down the windward shrouds; the fact that a dozen or more sailors were watching him and laughing was of less importance to him than finding the next rung of the rope ladder which, with the shrouds, made up the ratlines. By the time he hit the deck, the group had increased in size; those who had missed his performance were filled in by the others with colorful embellishments and all laughed heartily as he jumped off the bulwark. Tyler, realizing he had little option, and thrilled to have made the trip without incident, joined in.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Letter to Marblehead

  Dear Mother and Father:

  I hope this letter finds you both well and getting along. I wish I could say that all is well with me and that we’re soon to be on our way home from St. Bart’s. It was my bad luck, along with two other sailors from Anne that the bark was stopped two days out of our destination by a British warship, and three of us were pressed into the Royal Navy. Your son is now a topman on an English frigate engaged in a war with the French.

  You can only imagine – or maybe you can not – the terror we all felt when that warship ordered us to heave to and did the same her self, about a cable’s length away with all those cannon poking out of the side right at us. And there was a lot of them – huge gaping muzzles what could of tore the poor Anne to matchwood. Looking at them was terrifying, I can tell you. Made some of the men start shaking just out of fright. Captain Smalley was some mad, fit to be tied in fact. He wanted no part of heaving to or letting them Brits come aboard, but he didn’t have no choice in it. Reckon he was some scared on top of it. I can tell you I surely was.

  As you know, the British are famous for stopping almost any ship and plucking seamen from her ranks to fill out a crew. This time it was our very bad luck to be selected. When the officer, a Lieutenant Burns, came aboard with armed Royal Marines and ordered Captain Smalley to muster the hands, most of us figgered we would not be taken on account of which we are American. To Lieutenant Burns, that don’t signify, and he pulled me and a cove named Pope and a young boy named Michael Tyler out of the crew and drug us off to the frigate. The Marines even shot one of the Annes afore we was in the frigate’s boat. I didn’t see who the poor fellow was, and I can tell you I was terrible frightened – though not as bad as young Tyler was. That poor boy was crying and carrying on something awful. The Marines had to drag him physical right off’n the ship. And then, he was told he would work aloft with me, and he got even worse. I was some frightened my own self, but not about being aloft. And then we both got put on one of the long guns for when we go into a fight – quarters they call it – and I ain’t happy about that at all. Seems like it might be right dangerous being there. I surely don’t want to upset you, but you ought to know what is what.

  This ship is big – they’s about two hundred and fifty men aboard, and sleeping room is something nobody’s got. Seems like everything is done in a rush and with a whole lot of men. They beat a drum to tell the hands what to do for everything, eating, going to our fighting stations, muster and all. To me, the tunes, if you could call them that all sound the same, and it’s some hard to figger out what I’m supposed to be doing without I ask someone. We’re still finding our way around, and figgering out who’s who, and who we got to look out fer. Over the month and more we been here, we ain’t had a run in with any of the officers yet, but they’s a few others what ain’t too friendly nor helpful. Tyler’s still real fearful of everything, and while he’s getting better at going aloft, it takes him a awful long time, and even longer to get out on a yard. I try to help him, and been telling him how to do it, but he’s just too scared.

  And afore we was even aboard an hour, we was told we were in debt, on account of having to buy our plates, cups, hammocks, and clothes. Course not one of us had even a coin, so the cove that’s in charge of those things, the purser, give them to us, but never said nothing about we got to pay for it out of what they pay us. We found that out later from some sailors. Somehow don’t seem fair, you ask me. But that’s what I reckon everyone what comes aboard got to do.

  Some of the men we met so far ain’t too bad. Fact is, some are real nice and kind to us. One cove, Robert Coleman is captain of the top – like I was on Anne – and he and one of the others aloft – a fellow named Wallace – been real nice. Turns out, Wallace was pressed same as us, and he’s a Brit! I’d reckon about half the foremast jacks aboard are pressed, or on what they call ‘tops’l bail’. That’s when a magistrate tells someone he’s going to sea or jail. Most of them pick going to sea over jail, though I can’t imagine the conditions here are much better than in a jail somewhere. Coleman seems like a easy going cove, about my age, and seems always to got a smile on his face. Wears his hair in a braid like a lot of them aboard here. Coleman is who I work for, and it ain’t real bad. Seems to like me, and I guess he knows by now that I know my own way around aloft. Wallace, he’s one what was pressed – I can’t tell you where, but ashore – he’s been to sea most of his life mostly on whalers and merchants. Don’t take real well to the Navy life, but seems to be getting by all right. Don’t seem to take a lot of they’s rules real serious, and it’s got him whipped more than once.

  The officers what I had truck with don’t seem too bad, though a couple of them don’t know a sheet block from a boomkin. Take out they’s stupidity on the foremast jacks, which makes for hard duty. The first lieutenant, a cove named Burns – he’s the one what pressed us off the Anne – he seems like he knows what he’s about, and most of the time he seems fair. Some of my friends tell me to wait, on account of he ain’t when it comes down to it, but I ain’t had no problems with him. Some of the boys, midshipmen they are – like officers, but they ain’t – seem so stupid it’ a wonder the
y can find the bow without being took there. Captain Winston is a bad sort, though most of the men think he’s a fair hand in a fight, and while I ain’t seen it, they say he’s a right fine seaman as well. I ain’t had the occasion to meet him, but I remember seeing him when first we come aboard from the Anne. Standing there on the quarterdeck, he was. A little cove with a noticeable nose, and his hair worn in a longer queue than even Captain Smalley. He sure stood up straight, probably trying to make himself look bigger than he is, and dressed in a fine uniform with gold braid and shiny buttons. And gold hanging off his shoulders. He was pacing up and down, but when we got on deck, he stopped and stared right at us. Looked like he was about to lay into some unlucky cove. Most of the lads we’ve met say he’s real lucky and that he’s done just fine in taking enemy ships in a fight. I mentioned he was a bad sort, other than in a fight, and he is just that. He calls the men together more’n once a week to witness punishment – flogging – and seems like it’s getting to be more often. I sure hope I can miss that. I’ve watched quite a few in the short time I been aboard, and it is sickening to behold.

  Every time he has someone flogged, all hands got to be there to watch, and I truly hate it. I found it makes me sick to see a man whipped like you wouldn’t even whip a mule, but most of the hands seem not to mind. Guess they are used to it. Don’t think that’s something I can ever get used to. So far, ain’t none of the Annes gotten the lash. One thing, I noticed that Lieutenant Burns seems to flinch every time a stroke is laid on. I don’t think he takes to it much as Captain Winston does. Course, neither one of them have to listen at night to the ones what got whipped. It’s truly awful to hear the groaning and crying out that they do both in they’s sleep and when they’s awake. Must hurt something powerful having your back flayed open, sometimes right down so as you can see the bone. And they ain’t nothing anyone of us can do about it. Those what got flogged just got to get through it on account of they’s back to work the next watch. Unless the surgeon says they’s too bad cut to work, but that don’t happen too often. I hear the captain don’t take real kindly to him pulling men what been flogged from the duty.

  I hope you won’t think ill of me, but as awful as the flogging is, and as sick as it makes me to watch, it seems like I can’t draw my eyes away when it’s going on. And that makes me even sicker to my stomach. I can’t understand it, and it causes me no end of worry. I hope I ain’t becoming like the Brits, but I don’t reckon I can ever get used to it like they seem to be.

  I don’t have any idea of how I can post this, or even when. Fact is, I don’t have much of an idea of what lays ahead. Seems like a long time ago I was captain of the foretop on Anne and learning navigation from Mr. Clark so I could maybe get a third’s berth one day and maybe after that keep moving up. That’s what Captain Smalley said I might do. All that’s gone now, and I got no idea what is gonna happen next. Ain’t no mates in the Royal Navy, and they ain’t gonna let a foremast jack learn navigation. I been praying like we used to at home, and I got hopes that something will come of it, but I hope it don’t take too long. Sooner or later the Orpheus, that’s the name of this frigate I’m on, is gonna run into a Frenchman and we’re gonna have to fight. I ain’t looking forward to that one bit. I got to stop this and take the watch now. I’ll try and figger a way to get this posted somewhere.

  Don’t you worry none about me on account of I’ll be all right. A prayer for me might help some, though. You take care.

  Your loving son

  Isaac Biggs

  November 21, 1810

  CHAPTER NINE

  Punishment

  Several months passed. The Americans were absorbed into the crew of Orpheus, and had, superficially at least, become British sailors. Even Tyler seemed less afraid and had made a few friends among the British man o’ warsmen. Orpheus sailed her assigned sector in solitary splendor, catching neither Frenchman nor Spaniard, and only once seeing what was assumed to be a French merchant briefly from the masthead.

  Daily, during the afternoon watch, the ship beat to quarters and the crew exercised the great guns in dumb show. Captain Winston’s policy of not wasting ammunition in effect in the early part of the commission was now eased since they had had no actions in which to use the shot and powder aboard, and he allowed the guns to be fired at floating targets on a weekly basis. The crew came to look forward to these real firing exercises, even though each crew had only three rounds to use at each practice due to the shortage of good, corned black powder in the Indies. The gun crews, as well as the officers and midshipmen, vied with one another for accuracy and speed of fire. Since the targets, composed of barrels and scraps of wood nailed together in a free form sort of mass, floated by at whatever rate of speed the ship was sailing, crews had varying lengths of time during which their individual guns would bear.

  At first, as might be expected, the rate of fire and the accuracy was abysmal; accidents occurred at every gun almost every time the ship fired. Mishaps, ranging from burns to broken bones to a crushed foot, kept the surgeon and his mates busy. Captain Winston was fatalistic about them.

  “As long as we’re running the drills,” he said to Lieutenant Burns, “we might as well give everybody some practice. The sail handlers and officers are learning to move faster and work the ship to better advantage, the gunners are gaining some skill and accuracy, so too should the surgeon and his mates be provided an opportunity to practice their trade.”

  Gradually, the rate of fire improved along with the accuracy, and often by the time the target was in a position where the after guns would bear, there was little left for them to train their pieces on. As the skill of the men went up, the number of accidents, as well as the severity of them, went down. After a few months of practice, the surgeon was heard to complain that his men had little do in the dark and confining cockpit where they were required to set up a make-shift hospital each time the ship beat to quarters. The entire crew became acclimated to the crashing roar of the great guns and the organized bedlam involved in firing them. Even Lieutenant Fitzgerald’s crews, on the forward six pieces, began to develop some respect for their officer, and those guns, each manned with ten seamen and a gun captain, became the bench mark that the other crews strove to beat. Of course, Lieutenant Fitzgerald took as much of the credit as he could for the success and strutted about the ship like an overstuffed popinjay. On the positive side, however, he was less of a bully to the midshipmen with whom he came in contact. Rarely did he abuse them when they came to the quarterdeck to shoot the noon position, and while he knew little more than they about the art and science of navigation, he tried to be of modest help to them when they had questions. The other officers took the positive change in their brother with a smile, and most felt that there would be no long lasting improvement. As Lieutenant Burns was heard to observe one day at dinner in the gunroom, “A leopard will not change his spots.”

  Except for the men in his own gun crews, the ship’s company felt little of the benefit of Mr. Fitzgerald’s success. He continued to be as unpleasant and unknowing as ever, and the petty officers and warrants had constantly to swallow reactions to his usurping their authority in routine events.

  Biggs, who had been assigned to a gun crew in addition to the main top as his Quarters station, was sent aloft along with Coleman, Wallace, and eleven other men to reset the reefed main tops’l; he returned to the deck as quarters was piped down one day, and watched from the gangway as Tyler got into an argument with another seaman, one who happened to be on gun two. Tyler had been put in a gun crew and in spite of practice, the men could not seem to combine accuracy with an acceptable rate of fire. No one would later recall what the disagreement was about, but most did agree that one of Fitzgerald’s men fired the first verbal sally. As the disagreement reached full cry, the man from gun two pulled his knife and started for the gun captain on Tyler’s gun, a man named Ezra Spicer. Tyler had been in the van of the argument until the knife came out; at that point, he moved away, and th
e knife-wielder started for the other man, not caring who he cut. Tyler chose his moment, then from behind, whacked the man with a rammer from one of the nearby guns . It was only a heartbeat later that Lieutenants Fitzgerald and Burns appeared on the scene. When Tyler’s rammer struck the knife wielding sailor, the knife dropped from his hand and was immediately picked up by his intended victim, so that what they saw tended not to be an accurate representation of the circumstances; Spicer was holding the knife, and Tyler, still holding the rammer, had obviously just hit his shipmate in the head. Tyler and Spicer were ordered below in irons; the victim, since he had not been observed in the commission of a crime was sent back to his duties by way of the surgeon, and the crowd, wanting not to be the focus of either Fitzgerald’s or Burns’ attention, melted away rather than correct the misapprehensions of either lieutenant.

  The pressed sailors from Anne were soon to personally experience the major difference between the American merchant fleet and the Royal Navy. While most American sailors had heard the tales of swift justice and floggings, none of the men late of Anne had witnessed such punishment before coming aboard the British frigate. They had seen floggings many times over the months they had been aboard Orpheus and each had been sickened by it; it seemed arbitrary and unfair to them. The warnings they had been given at the start were right; Captain Winston used flogging as the answer to any discipline problem.

  Now the Americans were about to witness the ritual again, only this time, one of their own would play an active role. The day after the incident at Tyler’s gun, the men were called to muster in the waist. This had become an all too frequent occurrence under Captain Winston. The Marines were also assembled, and fully decked out in their red coats and white pants. Bayonets gleamed on their muskets and the line they formed was razor straight.