In Hostile Waters: The Cruise of USS Argus (Oliver Baldwin Novel Book 3)

by William H. White

  A knock on the doorframe paused the conversation. Welch, from his seat at the head of the table, nodded at the messenger of the watch: “Aye, sailor? What’s acting?”

  “Sir, Mister Weiss’s compliments and it’s Mister Welch he’d like to have join him on the quarterdeck. Appears there’s a ship in the offing.”

  “Very well, then, you may tell Mister Weiss I shall be there straight away.” Welch rose, swallowed the dregs of his sherry, and nodded to his companions. “With your permission, gentlemen. Duty calls.

  “Well, William. What have you found? Mightn’t it be our American friend?” Welch picked up a glass from the rack at the binnacle and slung it over his shoulder.

  “I doubt it, sir. I sent Pearce aloft for a squint at her and she seems to be ship-rigged. Our quarry is a brig, is it not? But we might learn something from her master.”

  “Aye, and so we shall. Make your course a point to weather, Mister Weiss, and let us see if he might have something to tell us. Sooner or later we will find someone who has seen the American – and not been taken by them.”

  A single gun, fired to leeward from a bow chaser, let the chase know a vessel of the Royal Navy wished a word. They complied and hove to. Captain Ballantyne had a boat lowered and sent Welch across to see what intelligence he might gain from the merchant ship’s master. And should they be homeward bound…to pluck a couple of hands from their ranks to join Pelican’s company.

  Welch returned with no intelligence of any value but with a pair of able-rated seamen – neither was too pleased with their change of circumstances, having been two days from the completion a full-year’s voyage. They had seen neither hide nor hair of an American ship, and “sorry we are, about that, sir.”

  “I told them they should be grateful they had not, and sent them on their way. Did manage to find a couple of topmen for us – one Irish and one a Scot,” Welch reported.

  “At least something good came from it. Maintain our heading to the east, Mister Welch, and hope that the next vessel we come upon will be of some use. Perhaps – dare I hope? – another of their prizes!” He turned to go below and stopped.

  “Perhaps you would care to join me for supper later? Not sure what Stokely will be serving, but I am sure it will be quite palatable.”

  “That would be lovely, Cap’n. And thank you. I will be taking the watch at four o’clock, so when I get relieved I shall come by.” Welch smiled, pleased at the invitation.

  Pelican carried on per Captain Ballantyne’s instructions, lookouts aloft and alow alert for any sail on the horizon, the watch eager to find any information on the American brig Argus. “Take a seat, Tom. Care for a glass? Stokely, pour some claret for Mister Welch, if you please.”

  “Thank you for the invitation, Cap’n. I am glad for the opportunity to talk informally with you. It means a lot to me.” Welch smiled, lifted his glass toward his captain, and took a sip of the fine wine from the captain’s private stock.

  Ballantyne acknowledged his first lieutenant’s comment and sallied forth on a quite different tack without preamble: “We must find that raider, Tom. I am determined to bring him to battle and take him. And not simply because Admiral Thornbrough ordered us to. I need this, for my own sanity – my peace of mind.”

  “Oh, Cap’n, you may rest assured, sir, that we are all as committed as you are. The men are anxious for some action, and the warrants and mids speak often of bringing that American rogue to heel. I feel confident that, this time, we will not be disappointed. Pelican will prevail!”

  Welch’s impassioned words brought a smile to Ballantyne’s face, then he stood, all at once serious, and paced to the quarter gallery window. He spoke, more to the sea sparkling as the rays of the late-day sun dappled its surface, than to his guest.

  “This is bound to be my last chance for some distinction. My entire career has been…less than satisfying…and the tarnish of two wrecked ships tags along behind me, a burden I am unable to shed. Sometimes it has preceded me to an assignment; I can tell. The unasked questions, the querying looks, the occasional whispers. Oh, yes! I know all about them. Never mind I was with Collingwood at Trafalgar, cutting the line of the Combined Fleet at the head of the second column, as the great Nelson did the same to starboard. Never mind I commanded a gunship, fighting the French. That I sailed as second with Thornbrough himself in a sixth-rate frigate, making for us a distinguished record hunting French and Spanish ships through the bloody Mediterranean. All means nothing when all anyone remembers is that I was on two ships that fell afoul of reefs, even through no fault of my own.

  “No, this opportunity will be my personal triumph, a feather, if you will, in my cap in my twilight commission. I cannot fail. If…when…we find this American pest, I will bring him to battle and we will fight. And we will be victorious. I will see their men in Dartmoor and their ship burned…or brought in as my prize.” He paused, turning back to Welch, perhaps a bit embarrassed at his revealing soliloquy.

  Welch seemed to be equally so. He stood up, stepped toward his captain, and with heartfelt sincerity spoke. “We will find the Americans. And when we do, Cap’n, Pelican will prevail. You will not be disappointed, sir. In the ship or our men.” The older man stared at his first lieutenant, words failing him for a moment. The two stood silent. An unspoken commitment had formed and each knew further conversation was unnecessary. The captain stuck out his hand, a gesture unnecessary, he knew, and Welch clasped it in his own, even more committed to serve this man to his last breath.

  It was Stokely who broke the silence. “Supper is ready, now, Cap’n. May I pour the wine?”

  “Yes, yes. Please do, Stokely. Splendid!” Ballantyne seemed to shake himself, as though ridding himself of the specter of his past and the potential of failure in this commission.

  The meal – such as it was, some toasted cheese and ship’s biscuit – augmented with more fine wine and a taste of brandy at its conclusion went pleasantly; no ship’s business was discussed and their earlier conversation, while hanging in the air like a specter, went unmentioned. Welch, stubbed out his cigar, one from Ballantyne’s personal supply, and rose from his seat. He was about to express his thanks when a cry drifted in through the open scuttle.

  “Ship! Sails. Two points to le’ward!”

  Both men made for the door and sprinted up the ladder to the quarterdeck. Ballantyne spoke sharply to the warrant gunner, Peter Stewart, who held the watch.

  “What have we found, Mister Stewart?”

  “Lookout claimed she looked more like a coaster than our American brig, but perhaps they might have some news for us. Or perhaps, she might be Argus’s prize.”

  “Indeed, Gunner. Let us find out. Ease your sheets and we’ll have a look.”

  The vessel was indeed a coaster, schooner-rigged, and carrying a load of lumber from Wexford across the channel to Milford, in Wales. Welch went aboard and, once he heard her master’s words, invited him back to Pelican to tell Captain Ballantyne his story personally.

  “Aye, sor. A bit before the noon sight it were. Saw two ships burnin’, we done, and not four leagues from here. Just this very day it were. The brig – I reckon the very one you’re after – was in no hurry. We had her in sight until nigh on to eight o’clock, ’eadin in the same direction as us, she were. Makin’ fer Wales, like us, be my guess. Reckon my vessel was too small to be of any interest to ‘em. She can’t have made much distance in this breeze, be my thought. Oughter be still around – or not far, at any rate.” Captain Miller was only too pleased to be of help to the Royal Navy. He doffed his cap and clambered down the side of Pelican into the waiting boat, words of thanks ringing in his ears from First Lieutenant Thomas Welch.

  Ballantyne was rubbing his hands. “We’ve got the bastard, Welch! That can only be the American. Keep her course for the Welch coast and put another man or two aloft. Give them night glasses and tell ‘em we’ll reward the first to sight that infernal ship!”

  Welch remained on deck but the cap
tain retired below, his head spinning with the thought that – finally – he would prevail!

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  13 August 1813

  St. George’s Channel

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  HMS Pelican

  Pelican sailed on, closing slowly on the coast of Wales as the breeze began to fail them. The moon rose in the clear eastern sky, a quarter-moon laying down a path across the water, a path Welch hoped would lead them right to their quarry. He had grown to like and admire his captain, in spite of his somewhat lackluster career, and it troubled him to see him so vexed. Their conversation over supper, heartfelt as it was on both sides, further cemented his resolve to help his captain find a satisfactory resolution to his burden in any way he might. Perhaps this would be his moment. They would find Argus, bring her to battle, and defeat her. And Edward Ballantyne could return home with his prize, ending his thirty-year naval career with a resounding victory. Not many captains would emerge from this war with the Americans with tick marks in the “win column,” as their opponent had insufficient numbers of ships for them to fight. To date, there had not been but one significant victory for the British. So this one, if we can just find the bloody ship, will be important! Welch thought, even as he watched his own ship slow to a crawl as the wind grew faint.

  He lifted his glass, his eyes following the progress of a coaster as she took a more northerly heading, making for Milford, just down the coast from St. David’s Head. She seemed to be doing better than Pelican was in the light air, a fact Welch attributed to her smaller size and fore-and-aft rig. She would soon be out of his sight. Welch smiled to himself, recalling how overjoyed Ballantyne was with Captain Miller’s report.

  “Mister Parker,” he called out to the sailing master. “What would you think about a bit more canvas on her? We seem to be doing poorly. Pelican is a fine swimmer, even in light air. Let us see if you might help bring her along!”

  The master muttered, more to himself than to the first lieutenant, “Aye, a fine swimmer she be. But ain’t nothing for it if she don’t got a whisper of a breeze.” Then to Welch he said, “Aye sir. We’ll get another stays’l for’ard and maybe a skys’l on the main. That’ll help, I reckon.”

  The topmen were aloft, loosing the sails Sailing Master Parker had ordered while the watch on deck manned the halyards and sheeted home. The additional canvas helped not a whit as the breeze was hell-bent on not cooperating. Even the typically calm Welch now suffered from same affliction that beset his commander: he paced, back and forth, forward and aft, shifting his gaze from the sails to the Union Jack, hanging limply from the peak of the main gaff. The water around his ship offered only a long slow swell, its surface barely disturbed with small ripples.

  “Deck! Deck there! Fire to leeward! Looks like a ship burning.” The cry from one of the topmen, still at the truck of the mainmast, stopped Welch in his tracks and sent him scurrying for his night glass.

  He focused it and could make out an orange-and-yellow glow – just barely over the horizon from deck level – against the night sky. He ordered a course change to leeward, only a point or so, and prayed for a breeze to fill in. A wind that would blow for England, rather than the elusive winds that seemed to impede them, while helping only the Americans.

  While his prayer took a bit of time to be answered, the breeze did fill in, uncharacteristically from the south, and Pelican spread her wings, closing the distance to the burning ship more quickly.

  “Sail! Sail broad on the larboard bow!” The lookout, this time the one aloft on the foremast, bellowed down to the deck.

  “Messenger, my compliments and all that, and fetch the captain to the deck, if you please.” Welch could barely contain himself. “And fetch me up the Marine corporal as well.”

  I reckon we might well being putting the ship at quarters. I am sure as soon as the captain gets topside, he’ll order it so. I’ll be ready, by God! That sail has to be Argus. I would stake my life on it! Too close by half to the burning ship…and who else could it be?

  “The messenger mentioned a sail, Mister Welch. Our quarry, per chance?” The captain’s disembodied voice preceded him as he scrambled out of the scuttle. He had taken the time only to put on a pair of nankeen trousers; he was shirtless and shod in carpet slippers.

  “I can’t imagine it could be other than him, Cap’n. There’s a vessel aflame maybe two leagues ahead of us – I was headed there, hoping that that arrogant American might linger to watch his handiwork sink – and here’s a sail headin’ to the sou’west, for all the world lookin’ like a bloody thief in the night.” Welch raised his night glass, searching the horizon off the larboard bow for the stranger. Ballantyne did the same, neither man uttering a word.

  “Sir? Your messenger said you wished my attendance?” A new voice, this time the Marine corporal, intruded on the silence.

  “Aye, I did that, Corporal. We have a strange sail to larboard that could easily be the American raider we are after. I will be putting the men to quarters shortly. Wouldn’t do to be caught unawares.” This last was spoken, but more sotto voce than to the Marine.

  “Quartermaster, ease her head a trifle – half a point, no more. Mister Welch, we will cut her off. Put the ship at quarters, if you please.”

  Excitement and anticipation ran throughout the ship, rousing the sailors, warrants, and mids and chasing their grogginess and sloth quickly from their minds. Each man was fixated on the same thought.

  This was what we were out here for! This will be cash for all hands, once we bring the bastard to and fight her to surrendering. Aye! Finally!

  They closed, maintaining a course that would keep them to the weather of their quarry. Both Ballantyne and his first lieutenant were nearly certain this was the American raider, and Pelican was ready: the men were at their stations, the carronades were forward in battery, tompions pulled, and gun port lids hauled up. Through the darkness, the men who could peered through the open ports, straining to see what they might and quietly reported to their shipmates, “Ain’t nothing there, lads. Cain’t see a bloody thing.”

  But from the quarterdeck, the officers with their night glasses could make out the brig’s silhouette and watched as it carried on, seemingly unaware of the presence of their impending doom. At long last, Ballantyne ordered the helm down, putting his ship across the bow of the other at a distance just within the range of his bow chaser long guns. As Pelican bore off, a shot rang out from the starboard bow chaser, ordered to be a near-miss.

  The twelve-pound ball threw up a gout of water just off the enemy brig’s weather bow, eliciting shouts and a great deal of scurrying about her deck. She rounded up, sails shivering and luffing before the crew could get them under control. But no shot came back.

  “I think that is not our American brig, Tom. Allen would have seen us, and fired back, I am certain. Let us see what information they can, at the very least, provide.” He turned to the sailing master who stood just off the quarterdeck awaiting orders. “We will heave to now, Mister Parker. Have the bosun get the cutter over once the ship has stopped making way. Mister Welch, take a few men and some Marines and see what’s acting over there, if you please.”

  The two brigs rolled in the easy swells, not a musket shot apart. Ballantyne hid his disappointment well but continued to pace along the spar deck as he watched the progress Welch made toward the stranger. And back.

  “She’s a merchant, Cap’n. British, with all her papers correct. Headed into Falmouth, she is. Out of Liverpool. Considering that she’s only a day or so out, I took the liberty of borrowing a couple of her hands. But the master, a Mister Gilmartin, offered that he had seen another brig when he passed the area where the ship was burning, but it slipped away in the darkness, or maybe they just weren’t interested in his vessel. That’s likely to be our prize!” Welch gasped out his report even before he had properly got himself on deck.

  “Very well, Mister Welch. Stand the men down. I feel that today could prove to be a long one –
and hopefully a lucky one.” Ballantyne retired below and Pelican reset her sails and continued toward the glow, now just below the horizon. Weiss took the watch, allowing the first lieutenant to get himself below for some well-deserved rest.

  “Sir? Mister Welch? Mister Weiss’s compliments, sir, and you’re wanted topside. Lookout’s spotted another sail. ‘ – pears’ to be a brig, again, sir.” The messenger was reticent about awakening the first lieutenant but shouldn’t have been.

  Welch bounded out of his cot, grabbed up a pair of trousers and some shoes and ran for the ladder.

  “What ho, Bill? Another one?” Welch tumbled out the scuttle calling for the watch officer.

  “Aye, sir. A brig for sure. And he has seen us. Lookout says he’s altered course, hauling his wind and is now heading toward us. If I had to guess, I’d say this would be the American. She’s the first ship we’ve come across that hasn’t either run or immediately heaved to.”

  It was just coming on dawn; the eastern sky showed a fine golden line at the horizon, which slowly resolved into the upper limb of the sun. It cast a bright line of effulgence across the water, clearly silhouetting the other brig, still a league and more distant.

  “Fetch up Cap’n Ballantyne, if you please, Mister Weiss.”

  “Too late, gentlemen. Cap’n Ballantyne is already here. What have you found us now, Mister Weiss?” The captain’s tone gave away his state of mind; he was not generally given to joking with his officers while on deck.

  “She’s hauled her wind, Cap’n, to head up toward us. I’d warrant that’s no merchantman!”

  The sun continued its ascent, lighting more and more of the sea ahead of them. The oncoming brig had further altered her course, coming about to close with Pelican and, at the same time, try and gain the weather gauge – nothing a merchantman would ever do!