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

  “Fire Jack; keep it up. You can’t miss. She’s barely a biscuit toss away. You lads amidships – put a ball into her.” Isaac shouted his encouragement to his crew. He heard the swivel fire followed a heartbeat later by the six-pounder; the cutter returned their fire. Another thump and shudder from the sloop told of a British hit – this time for’ard.

  The sounds of a scuffle came aft on the wind. “Damn it, man…Outta the…here…aft…” Words, disembodied in the darkness and indistinct in the wind and almost continuous thunder carried to the quarterdeck, along with Carronade’s barking.

  “What’s goin’ on, there? Keep that gun firin’.” Isaac bellowed into the wind and was rewarded with the sharp crack of the swivel. This time, he heard cries from the cutter and no answering fire. In the next flash of lightning, he saw the cutter had borne up and was in stays, her heavily reefed sail flogging itself to rags, and a gap had opened in her starboard side aft where there should have been solid wood. The top half of her mast was gone and, in the image frozen in his mind by the lightning, he saw men struggling to regain control of the boat.

  “Stand by to board, lads. I’m takin’ her alongside. Grab up your cutlasses and half pikes.” Isaac’s bellow fed the already blooded mind-set that pervaded the sloop and the rail was quickly lined with as rum a bunch of cut-throats as ever sailed.

  The chop on the river and the pitch-black night were of no help in his effort to lay the sloop alongside the British cutter. But Isaac’s seamanship and natural ability, with a little help from strong American hands and a pair of grapnels, put his vessel side by side with the enemy, and quickly they were lashed together. The sounds of grinding – wood on wood – as the waves worked the two hulls against each other was intermingled with the cries of both British and American voices. But, other than some of his crew straddling the sloop’s bulwark, no move was made to board the British boat.

  “Isaac, boarding ain’t gonna answer; ain’t room yonder for any more’n what’s there. Likely sink ‘em. ’Sides, they already struck.” Jack Clements’ high spirits were evident, even over the still howling wind. “I reckon bringin’ a few aboard the sloop and puttin’ one or two of ours aboard them might serve ‘til we get ‘em ashore in the Creek.”

  As Isaac approached the waist where the cutter was secured, he saw Jack and a Royal Navy lieutenant conferring, their faces reflecting the flickering light of a bull’s eye lantern held by a British sailor. The officer’s waistcoat showed a blotch of red spreading under the handkerchief he held against his side. The rain blurred the scene but a more miserable crew would be hard to imagine, soaked, bloody, and defeated. There was nothing animated in the conversation between Jack and the lieutenant, save for their sudden moves to counter the bouncing and rocking of the two vessels.

  “Let’s get ‘em secured aft and make for the Creek, Jack. We’re both bein’ blown to leeward which we’re gonna have to make up. Put your men aboard.” Already eight of the Royal Navy seamen had clambered over the bulwark onto the sloop and stood between several heavily armed American sailors who watched them much like a wolf might watch a cornered cow. Carronade sat tensely next to his master, alternating his gaze between the crew still in the British cutter and those on deck. His almost constant growl could be heard only by those close aboard the huge animal. Jeremiah Plumm made his way aft and Isaac noticed in the flickering light from the lamp he held that his face, above his beard, was bruised. He had no time to worry about the doctor now.

  “Jake: take the tiller and get her underway; let’s get into the Creek and sort this out there.” Isaac also said, but to himself, Give me time to figger out what to do with these coves. God Almighty, I surely don’t need prisoners right now!

  The sloop, its prize in tow, bore away, then tacked laying a course that would take them into the mouth of St. Leonard Creek.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “You know, Isaac, I was thinkin’ we was mighty lucky last night; the frigate them lads is off’n mighta been settin’ here waitin’ on the cutter to come back. We’d a been caught all aback, were they there.” Clements stood with Isaac and Jake Tate on the western shore of the creek just inside its mouth.

  The sloop and the British cutter were anchored in water barely deep enough to float them and the pale morning light showed two groups of men standing and squatting on the diminutive beach at the edge of the trees; the Americans were armed with muskets and cutlasses. Someone had made a fire and the smell of breakfast mingled with the wood smoke and the heavy, dank smell of wet earth and vegetation which clung to the bordering woods like a cloak. From the black sloop, the sounds of hammering and sawing could be heard; repairs to the vessel were obviously proceeding apace.

  They watched absently while Jeremiah Plumm examined again each of the wounded Royal Navy sailors. Most of the men had been treated when first the two vessels came to their anchors and none of the wounds were apparently life-threatening, according to the medico. The British lieutenant had suffered the worst of them and was under a makeshift sailcloth tent slightly separated from his crew. Plumm seemed thorough in his inspection, Isaac thought. The bruise the doctor sported on his face again piqued Isaac’s curiosity. He reminded himself to ask Clements about it.

  “Aye, Jack. But they weren’t and here we are.” Isaac nodded at his friend and allowed the trace of a smile to form. It was gone as quickly as it appeared and the young New Englander continued. “Now we got to figger out what to do with ‘em. I figgered to burn the cutter when we burn the barges and all that we can’t salvage of our equipment, but I ain’t got a thought as to what to do with these coves, ‘specially the ones what’re hurt.” Isaac looked around at the forty and more Royal Navy sailors sprawling on the sand and scrub vegetation.

  Jake studied Isaac for a moment, his brow furrowed as he put his thoughts into words. “I doubt whatever ship they’s off’n gonna wait long past four bells for ‘em to come back. They mighta figgered they’d run into the creek during the weather last night, but I’d reckon they’ll be lookin’ for ‘em right quick now that storm’s moved through. ’Cordin’ to one I spoke to, they’s off’n a sixth rate frigate just come in yesterday. They was sent out to help themselves to vittles from any ashore what had ‘em.” He paused, shifting his gaze to the British sailors sprawled on the shoreline. “And I’d warrant they was the ones what set that fire we seen last night, Isaac. Frigate’s anchored, the cove said, down to Point Patience with them others.” It was rare for Tate to offer an opinion, but when he did, he was frequently right on the mark.

  Jake’s comment seemed to remind Isaac of his responsibilities. “I got to talk to some o’ these coves; find out what they’re about. The Commodore’d keelhaul me with my own guts he ever found out we had all these Royal Navy lads here and I didn’t get nothin’ from ‘em.” Isaac paused and looked around.

  Isaac paused and looked around. He turned to his one-armed mate. “Jake, get you some vittles and then take a few of the lads in the small boat across the creek yonder. Take a glass with you and see what’s actin’ with them frigates. You can see right plain from the top of the hill right across from here.” Isaac looked at the mottled gray sky, tinged with the pale light of clearing, and then out toward the Patuxent. It was still choppy, but with the turn of the tide just before dawn, it was already showing signs of flattening out. “I don’t reckon we’ll have any more weather for a while, but don’t tarry; get you over there and back quick as ever you please. An’ if you see any of them army coves, tell ‘em to stand fast.” He finished and watched as Jake stepped over to the fire for his breakfast, then turned to Clements.

  “I meant to ask you last night, Jack, what happened up by the gun for’ard when we was after the cutter? Sounded like you was havin’ a set-to with someone.”

  Clements lowered his voice and turned to face Biggs. “Aye, indeed I was. I ain’t figgered out yet if the doc was just gettin’ in the way on account of his wantin’ to see what was actin’ – or if’n he was trying to stop us f
rom firin’. He mighta lost his balance in the way the barky was tossin’ around, but he grabbed onto the swivel and spun her around just as we was about to fire into the cutter. Damn close to firin’ right aft, we was. Almost seemed like…well, I ain’t gonna say he was trying to stop us firin’, but it mighta seemed like that to some.’ He paused, lost for the moment in thought as he absently fingered the scar that had replaced his ear. “Now I’m thinkin’ on it, aye, I’d warrant that’s ‘xactly what he was about.”

  Clements normally cheery face was serious and his eyes flicked around, settling on Plumm as the medico emerged from the tent sheltering the Royal Navy lieutenant. The doctor shot a glance at Clements and Biggs as he moved away from the tent. There was little warmth in his eye. Jack added, his voice even lower. “And I reckon it was me give him that black eye when I suggested he’d be more comfortable aft.” The thought brought a fleeting smile to Clements’ face.

  Isaac smiled at his friend’s choice of words, then became serious again. “Hmph. I wondered ‘bout that. Let’s keep an eye on him. Commodore mentioned to me they was a lot of British sympathizers – Federalists – in these parts – kinda like up to New England last year. Hearin’ what you’re telling me, it wouldn’t surprise me none if ol’ Doc Plumm was one of ‘em. But I’d be surprised if he would intentionally do something to hurt us. He’s a right cove, ‘cordin’ to Barney. Been around the river since the War of Independence, he said.”

  Isaac started for the Royal Navy lieutenant’s tent. “Might as well see what that cove has to say for himself. Want to join me?”

  The two lifted the flap and ducked inside. The light filtering through the dirty canvas bathed everything it touched in a mottled gray pallor – especially the young man lying on the make-shift pallet. It made him look a good deal worse than he likely was. The man’s hairless upper body was bared, save for the bandage Plumm had carefully wrapped around his ribcage. From the blood still seeping through the fresh dressing, it was apparent that his wound was serious, perhaps life threatening. The top of his britches was stained brown from the blood, now dried, that had flowed down them before the doctor patched him up. In repose, the lieutenant looked even younger than he had last night and Isaac surmised he was likely the junior officer on whatever ship he called home.

  “Good morning Lieutenant. I collect the good doctor has taken adequate care of your needs?” Isaac greeted the man, who looked at his visitors then away. “Reckon we might have a few things to talk about. An’ I ain’t figgered out yet what to do with you – whether to bring you back with me or send you back to…” Biggs left his sentence hanging, hopeful that the young man would finish it.

  “His Majesty’s frigate Favorite. That would be a right proper gesture on your part, sir. And…” He stopped and, realizing his error, looked away again. When the young officer had looked directly at Isaac, dried streaks on his cheek spoke of his pain – from his wound or from being captured in what was likely his first “command.”

  “Anchored inside Point Patience, I’d warrant, with them others?” Clements spoke softly, almost gently. And waited.

  “Aye. I reckon you could see ‘er right clear, should you ‘ave a look. And who are you and why ever should you care what ship I’m from?”

  “What does your cap’n plan on doin’, now he’s got here too late to help out his mates on Loire and Jaseur? Ain’t much actin’ down this way now.”

  The youngster flared. “You damn Yankees just wait. Wait ‘til the rest of the fleet shows up. Then you’ll see what’s actin’ down this way…and more, by God. Cap’n Burns says we’re going to teach you upstarts a lesson once and for all. I’d warrant you rascals are part of that hooligan navy with Joshua Barney we’ve heard so much about. ‘Uncatchable,’ indeed. As soon as the other ships get here from Bermuda, we’ll settle your accounts, right quick; count on it.” Now the lieutenant, breathless from the exertion of his outburst, stared at his captors with as hard a look as he could manage. Jack and Isaac looked at each other.

  The smile on Jack’s face quickly disappeared as he realized that their identity as Barney’s men had not been a guess on the young officer’s part; he had heard it from someone during the night or this morning.

  “Mayhaps we might work out something with your cap’n to send you and your men – leastways, thems what’s wounded – back to Favorite. I might be able to send a boat out under a flag of truce with a letter if’n you was to give me something in return.” Biggs left the idea hanging and turning from the wounded man, walked out of the tent without another word. Jack followed closely behind. Suddenly Biggs stopped, causing Jack to scramble to avoid a collision, and retraced his steps.

  “Did you say your captain’s name was ‘Burns’?”

  “Aye. Captain Joseph Burns.”

  “In his thirty’s, speaks soft, ‘bout as tall as that cove what was just in here with me, but some stouter?”

  “Aye, that’s ‘im. ‘Ow’d you know about Cap’n Burns? What are you, a deserter? I’ve ‘eard about sailors runnin’ ‘ere in America. Not a one ‘as run off’n Favorite, though, ‘ere or anywhere, I ‘ear, since Cap’n Burns took ‘er over.”

  “I sailed in the Royal Navy near two years back afore the war started; sailed with Mister Burns – I mean Cap’n Burns. On Orpheus, it was.” Isaac turned suddenly and, bending, stepped out into the brightening day.

  “What was that about, Isaac? You went back in there so sudden I didn’t even know you was gone. You ain’t really plannin’ on lettin’ them go, are you? What would that serve?”

  “You heard him mention a Cap’n Burns, Jack? Burns was first lieutenant on Orhpeus, the fifth-rate frigate I was on in the Indies. Fact is, he’s the one that pressed me off’n Anne back in the year ten. He escaped off’n Glory when we was in Haiti. You remember, Jack; he jumped right over the side and swum for it. Cap’n Smalley was right tore up when he found out I was the one let Burns escape. I know you recollect the cove – you was second on Glory when you captured them two British prizes – merchantmen they was – we was sailin’ to Antigua.”

  Jack stared at his friend. Then broke into a smile at the memory of the privateer. “Aye, I do recollect the cove. Some pompous ass he was when he come aboard Glory, as I recall – stormin’ an’ struttin’ around like some damn peacock what got stung by a hornet. I heard about him jumpin’ over the rail in Port au Prince, but I’d already gone ashore when you…But I can picture Smalley’s face when you told him. He was sore wantin’ to get that cove back to the States. But he ain’t got no bearin’ on us, now, cap’n or no.” Clements looked wistfully again toward the fire. He repeated his earlier question. “What are you going to do with them prisoners, Isaac? You really ain’t gonna let ‘em go, are you?”

  “I ain’t figgered out what to do with ‘em, yet Jack. But I ain’t gonna take ‘em back to Benedict with us. They’s more of them than us. Be easy for ‘em to take over the sloop should they get a mind to on the way back up river. But I’d surely like to find out more about what that youngster was sayin’ in there. Reckon the commodore’d like to know, ‘s’well. Less’n, o’ course, he was just blowin’ to try and shake us.

  “For now, though, let’s get us some breakfast and then I’m gonna take some of the lads up the hill and see what’s left of the Army. I’d appreciate it if’n you an’ Carronade kept your eyes on things here. ‘specially the good Doctor.” Isaac had noticed that all hands seemed to give the big dog a wide berth – even the Americans.

  The twinkle had returned to Clements eyes and he fondly patted his dog who had remained outside the tent, but came and sat by his master once the two men stepped back into the growing light. And now stood eagerly as the men started toward the food smells.

  “Aye, and with great pleasure. Though I don’t reckon any of them coves’ll try anything just yet. Their cutter’s pretty busted up and they’s too many of our lads on the sloop. Don’t figger any’d want to tangle with Carronade, neither. All this talk’s made me some
sharp-set. Time for vittles.” Without waiting for an answer, Jack, the big dog at his heel, stepped quickly down the beach toward the fine smells that promised breakfast. Isaac followed, and took the offered mug of coffee gratefully from Hay.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Standing on the top of the bluff overlooking the mouth of St. Leonard Creek, Isaac and the handful of men with him surveyed the scene of the recent battle – short-lived, though it had been – between the American Marines and the British. Some of the artillery pieces had been overturned and articles of clothing and packs strewn around spoke of the fury of the battle and the heat of the late June day.

  Well, I can sure see how come Colonel Wadsworth couldn’t see where he was shootin’. Isaac had squatted down behind the berm where some of the cannon were still sited. The waters of the Patuxent were completely hidden by the hill and the trees. Wadsworth had indeed been shooting blind. Lucky for us, I reckon, he didn’t hit the gunboats, firin’ like that.

  Sam Hay and Clive Billings were investigating several artillery pieces. Clive’s distinct voice brought Isaac out of his reverie. “This here gun ain’t been spiked. Fire as good as ever it would, I’d reckon.”

  “Check them others, you two. If’n we cain’t get ‘em down to the water and onto the sloop, we’ll have to spike ‘em where they stand.” He glanced around the wooded area where several artillery pieces were evident. One was turned to fire toward the back of the Creek and Isaac recalled the colonel’s comments about the Royal Navy trying to get behind the gun emplacements with their barges. A furnace for heating the shot sat in a small dirt enclosure surrounded by other accouterments left behind.