En route, seaward of Rathlin O’Birne Island, Pelican came across a British ship, homeward bound from Bermuda. Captain Ballantyne hove to and sent Weiss and Midshipman Cox to her for information – and possibly one or two of her crew, as she was only a day or two from her destination. He gave the lieutenant instructions about how to determine if the information they might have would be helpful. In the event, it did not signify, as neither the captain nor his mate had heard any tales of privateers, American or otherwise, operating in British waters. They did manage to successfully invite two sailors – an able and a junior petty officer – to join Pelican’s crew, an accomplishment that partially addressed the recent spate of desertions. Ballantyne, while disappointed at the lack of news, did not take it as confirmation of anything, as the ship had been out of British waters for almost two months and was unlikely to have any recent intelligence to offer.
Pelican braced around and began making way again towards the southeast enjoying the fair breeze, and arriving off the mouth of the tiny south-facing harbor on 26th July. Ballantyne fired a gun to request a pilot, and once the man showed up, they handily made their way, short tacking, into the narrow pocket called Killybegs Harbour.
The boat he sent for water came back empty handed, but at least without losing any men. They also brought back two letters addressed to Captain Montressor, which had been sent overland by Admiral Thornbrough. With Montressor no longer in company, Ballantyne opened them, read his immediate recall to Cork, and cursed out loud. The southerly breeze that had carried them in had intensified to a near gale, making it virtually impossible to get out. They had no choice but to wait for the wind to come around. He penned a letter back to Thornbrough, sending it overland, that he would be along as quickly as possible, but that he was waiting for a favorable wind.
Luck continued to elude them. The wind blew contrary for eleven days straight, and, during one particularly tempestuous day, Welch advocated putting out a second anchor to reduce the strain on their ground tackle and God forbid they should drag. In the same effort, while one watch worked to set the additional anchor, the other watch ‘cock-a-billed’ the yards and pointed them into the wind to lessen their windage aloft. The ship going ashore was clearly not an option Ballantyne wanted to consider!
One day, after sending his newest, but oldest, midshipman ashore with a watering party, the two boats ran aground while trying to back to the ship. They stuck fast in the mud, and Bierbak decided to wait for the flood tide. This entailed spending the night ashore, during which three more sailors took the opportunity to run. The same night, one man climbed down the chains undetected and swam ashore, successfully making good his escape.
“Mister Welch. Have the officers and warrants meet in my cabin at eleven this morning, if you please. We must put a stop to these desertions.” Ballantyne was fit to be tied!
“Gentlemen, should this problem continue, we will not have enough men to sail the ship, let alone fight, should our situation merit such. I am putting an armed officer in command of every shore party, effective at once, and the watch on board will be obligated to increase their patrols of the deck. Heretofore, we have been more concerned about people coming aboard; now our task will be to keep them aboard. I will not accept any further slovenly performance from you or the midshipmen. Allowing the boats, for example, to be put on the hard when you knew the tide was on the ebb, was inexcusable.” Ballantyne had been addressing the gathered officers, warrants, and mids at large, but when he spoke this last bit, he stared straight at Jameson Bierbak, who at least had the grace to color, slightly.
The midshipman, his face screwed up in mounting anger at being singled out for criticism, took a step forward, stood up a little straighter, and through gritted teeth, spoke.
“Captain, I have never been here before and could not be expected to know the vagaries of the tides. I am sure my uncle would not – ”
“Mister Bierbak, I will not accept that, and further, I do not care to hear another word about your relations. Should the admiral wish to renew his pledge to forfend you, he can return you to Trent with my blessings. In case anyone needs reminding, I am in command of this ship and everyone on board. You will retire to your quarters and remain there until I or Mister Welch sends for you.”
Jameson began to bluster, a protest forming on his lips even as his mind groped for something to say. Finally, he slumped, turned, and pushed through the last row of warrant officers, opened the door and slammed it shut as he left. The silence in the cabin was deafening, as each man avoided looking at his neighbor. Finally, Ballantyne broke into their thoughts.
“You have your orders, gentlemen. I am deadly serious about them; I will tolerate no failure. God willing, we will be able to sail within a day or so, and the problem will, at least temporarily, go away. But until that time, I am expecting each of you to do your duty.” The reference to Nelson’s inspiring words at Trafalgar escaped no one; those who had not witnessed it personally had certainly heard of them. “It does strike me a bit odd,” he added, “that any would do a runner in this part of the country; the Irish here have no love for the Royal Navy, nor any who serve. But perhaps,” he ruminated, “that only helps a deserter; they are not likely to turn in a man who manages to escape. But still, it is a dangerous place.”
Life onboard carried on as before; watch bills were adjusted for the now ten absentees, the wind continued to howl, while the skies remained clear, offering little hope of a change in the wind direction.
On the morning of 5 August, Ballantyne awakened with a start. He could not at once, in that fuzzy world between sleep and wakefulness, determine why he was suddenly aware, conscious of his surroundings. Swimming up from the depths of a deep sleep, it took him a moment to orient himself. He heard the water chuckling along the hull, a mere six inches beyond the wooden wall next to his cot; everything else was quiet. The ship was uncharacteristically still.
That’s not right…should be noises, wind, creaking, groaning of the hull…Oh dear Lord! The wind has let down and likely changed! At last!
He tumbled out of his bed, threw off his night clothes and donned a pair of nankeen trousers with a homespun shirt.
“Stokely! Stokely! Here, now!” he called out, hoping his servant would be nearby and hear him. Never mind if he wasn’t, the Marine at his door would deal with it.
The steward appeared almost at once, carrying a tray that he set down on the table, removing a cloth covering with a flourish.
“No time for that now, Stokely! I must get on deck at once. See if you might turn up Mister Welch for me and have him attend me on the quarterdeck.”
Good man, Stokely. Almost as good as Black was. I must remember to compliment him.
Ballantyne flew from his cabin on the heels of his servant, up the ladder and two steps forward to the quarterdeck. He cast his eyes about the ship, taking in the now still water, the furled sails secured with extra lashings aloft, and the running rigging suddenly hanging limp, not slapping the masts with the incessant rhythmic beat they had all grown accustomed to. His first instinct was right; everything was quiet, an easy breeze, the heavens overcast, and the water smooth. Maybe his luck had finally changed.
Now we can sail! Wind’s fair. Wait ‘til the tide turns and we’re gone! Bloody perfect…and about time! 5th of August, it is; I am sure Thornbrough is chafing at his lines, pacing up and down his vast quarters, wondering where under the sun we have got to! Well, wonder no more, Admiral! We will be there quick as ever you please!
With the turn of the tide just before noon, Pelican hauled up her secondary hook but had to set her jibs to break the “best” bower anchor out of the thick mud, where the constant strain had it dug in deep. No pilot was available on short notice, so Ballantyne, his enthusiasm rampant, took her out of the harbor himself, navigating the few turns and twists with ease that led them into Donegal Bay. And into a thick fog that quickly enveloped the ship.
“Damn all! This water is too shallow by half to risk b
lundering about in this fog like a bloody blind beggar. Mister Welch, have the men cat the best bower. Heave to until they’re ready. I just don’t need this! Bloody Irish weather!”
This last was more to himself than anyone around, and, happily, Welch had already started forward to get the bosun’s gang working on the anchor, shouting orders to Sailing Master Parker to back the foretops’l and to the men at the wheel to put the helm hard over, thus heaving to as ordered. On Welch’s order, the best bower splashed into the grey waters of Donegal Bay.
There they waited. Ballantyne spent the time pacing the deck, casting hopeful eyes aloft to the limp dripping sails – clewed up but not furled, as they waited for the fog to lift. Between their captain grumbling and pacing the deck and the infuriating lack of wind and visibility, even the men seemed frustrated by the additional delay. For some it was frustrating in a different way; they were still ‘in port,’ but too far from shore to make a swim for it, and no boats would be going in.
Ballantyne was counting on the long day – twilight was not until halfway through the night watch, about ten o’clock, to give him more daylight to see their way out of Donegal Bay when the bloody fog lifted. It was not to be. The fog remained firmly in place, growing denser from time to time and then thinning, raising false hopes that it might lift. More than once, Ballantyne had the master send his topmen aloft, ready to let go the brails and gaskets, only to call them back to the deck when the miserable grey blanket again covered everything.
By midmorning the next day, Captain Ballantyne had had enough. The fog was thinning and he could make out a brighter spot in the sky where the sun should be.
“Mister Welch. I believe we can find our way out now. Have the master and the bosun stand by. I expect to have the ship underway within the hour.” Ballantyne sounded more hopeful than sure, but maybe this time…
At last! The wind filled in and chased away the remnants of the fog, the last tendrils of which had seemed particularly tenacious in their refusal to blow away. Pelican was making good time, taking advantage of a fair breeze, a half gale in fact, and had reached the deeper waters of the Eastern North Atlantic by the time darkness settled in. Ballantyne was so pleased…and relieved…that, even though it was quite late, he thought a small celebration might be in order. He invited Lieutenants Weiss and Welch, along with the four midshipmen and the surgeon, Richard Coniby, to join him for a late supper. The sailing master would manage the quarterdeck.
“Mister Cox, the claret sits by you. Be so kind as to give it a fair wind.” Tom Welch nudged the senior midshipman who, with alacrity, grabbed up the crystal decanter and handed it to his immediate left, into the hands of Jameson Bierbak…
…who promptly dropped it, upsetting it on the table, his plate, and himself. A stunning silence gripped the room, conversations halted mid-sentence, and even utensils stopped en route to mouths.
“Cox, what is wrong with you? Why did you let go when it was bloody well clear I did not have ahold of it? Now see what you have made me do!” Bierbak had a unique ability to not only blame anyone around for his missteps, but to do it loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. Henry Cox, though, would not be caught up in his game; he simply stood, nodded to Stokely, and wiped off his trousers. Stokely took care of the rest, except for the carping Midshipman Bierbak who was, justifiably, the beneficiary of the larger portion of the spilled wine. A sharp look from Captain Ballantyne and another from the first lieutenant stifled the man and, wisely following his colleague’s example, pushed his chair back and stood to allow Stokely to complete his efforts.
Another carafe appeared, this time circumventing Jamie Bierbak, who was still engaged in mopping the deep red stain from his white knee britches and mumbling under breath. The surgeon, Richard Coniby, cleared his throat as Cox took his seat again, putting a bit more room between his neighbor on his left and himself.
“Cap’n, some of us are aware of your participation with Lord Nelson at Trafalgar. But I, for one, would surely enjoy your thoughts on that monumental victory. Most of us here missed that glorious day, being either elsewhere or too young by half to participate. Perhaps you might share an insight to the great man, or that brilliant battle.” Coniby smiled, looking from Ballantyne to Welch, the latter, perhaps, for some support.
“Yes, I was there, with Collingwood, it was. Interestingly, I had met the admiral earlier – well, of course, he wasn’t an admiral then, just a captain. In fact, he was the senior man on the board when I stood for lieutenant near the end of the American war – the first one, that is. He had asked for me, apparently deciding that my prior experience was not a hindrance, and I went out as his second lieutenant. We led the column next to Nelson – he had split the fleet, you know, and attacked the combined fleet by cutting through their lines in two places.
“I must say, there was a great deal of confusion with the Frogs and the Spaniards when they realized what Nelson’s plan would do, and they tried to reverse course and protect their afterguard. Needless to say, that played directly into Nelson’s hands, and, while the Allied fleet lost a great many ships, England lost not one. That is not to say we did not have many of our fleet well cut up, rigs down – including Victory’s – and no ship escaped without losses. But they all eventually made it back to England – even after the storm, once we all repaired at The Rock.” Ballantyne stopped for a moment, recalling the horror, noise, and confusion of an engagement with some sixty ships involved and, of course, the devastating death of his hero, Lord Nelson.
“And while you did not ask, I would have to opine that the strategy Lord Nelson employed that day has been proven effective and will, should England face another fleet action, be employed again and into the future. For my part, I hope we are not. It delivers a butcher’s bill too large by half and imposes an enormous expense on His Majesty’s Exchequer. I think it safe to say that, with France in its current state and Spain limping along like a three-legged dog, the likelihood must be remote.” It was well known that the captain detested killing and the unnecessary loss of life. He thought it cruel to impose that form of punishment on good English sailors.
“But sir, what about the Americans? We are engaged with them for the last year and have not stood up well against their so-called ‘heavy’ frigates.” asked James Morland, a midshipman more senior to the others who was waiting to stand for his lieutenant’s exam.
“First of all, America has nowhere near the number of vessels necessary to engage in a fleet action. It takes more than one or two, you realize, Mister Morland. And, as to your ill-advised reminder about our losses to their forty-four-gun ships, you might recall that only recently, Cap’n Broke sailed Shannon to a positively brilliant victory over their Chesapeake in their own waters. Took the ship as a prize into Halifax and sent the crew to the prison there. Best way to deal with these bloody Americans, it is. Aye, lock ’em up good and solid.”
“But, Cap’n. That was not one of their heavy frigates. As I understand it, Chesapeake was only of thirty-six guns, and undermanned. Hardly, seems a proper – ”
“That’s enough, Mister Morland. I am sure Cap’n Ballantyne has better things to do than argue with a midshipman about whether or not Cap’n Broke fought a splendid engagement against the American captain – Lawrence, was it not? The record stands that he bested the ship, in plain sight of Boston Harbor, in but fifteen minutes, losing only a few men, while the Americans managed to lose a third of their crew. And their captain.” Welch rushed to avoid a conflict at the captain’s table.
“It’s quite alright, Mister Welch. Morland is correct; Chesapeake is a thirty-six and was, indeed, ill-prepared for the fight. But judgment, as I may have mentioned in connection with the great Lord Nelson, always plays a role in the outcome of a battle, be it ship-to-ship or fleet-against-fleet. And Lawrence was admittedly more than foolish to try and best one of the finest frigate captains with an ill-prepared ship and crew. He paid the price for that foolishness. Even though Lord Nelson had fewer ships
than the combined fleet, he used them to his advantage, exercising brilliant judgment in how to best handle that enemy. You may recall he performed a similar maneuver at the Battle of the Nile. I am sure they include that in the curriculum at the Naval School.”
“Sir, I was not questioning the victory…or Admiral Nelson’s…but only that the American ship taken by Cap’n Broke was not of a class with their Constitution or United States.” With that, the young man had brought up two ships – American – that had bested the best of the Royal Navy a total of three times between them. To lessen the possible controversial nature of his remark, he smiled awkwardly and forked a bit of boiled meat into his mouth.
“Indeed.” It appeared that Ballantyne had more to say on the subject, but was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door, and the Marine calling out, “Messenger of the watch, Cap’n.”
“Sir. Mister Parker’s compliments and we’ve discovered a ship to leeward, barely a league distant. Not showing lights, sir.”
“Very well. You may inform Mister Parker that we shall all be on deck directly, if you please.” The captain stood, throwing his napkin on the table and pushing back his chair.
“Gentlemen, it appears that now, at the eleventh hour, we might possibly have found our quarry. Let us see what is what.”
In Hostile Waters: The Cruise of USS Argus (Oliver Baldwin Novel Book 3) Page 19
