War 1812

by Michael Aye

  General Harrison went on deck and talked with Chief Tarhe again while Commodore Perry had a crew for the boats rousted out to row the Wyandots back to shore.

  Once they had departed, General Harrison spoke to Jonah, “Do you feel the chief is a man of his word?”

  Jonah hesitated a moment to collect his thoughts, then replied, “I do as long as you understand his word is just that… his word. If several of his braves decide not to follow it, they just split off and go their own way.”

  “As I thought,” the general replied. “For whatever its worth, Chief Tarhe was mighty impressed with the ship’s big guns. He has promised his tribe will not support the redcoats.”

  “Did he say they’d support us?” Jonah asked.

  “No, he didn’t go that far. While he’s not for us, at least he’s not against us.”

  “Aye, that’s better than nothing.” This was from the commodore who’d returned without the others hearing him. He then informed the two men, “My steward has informed me dinner is ready if we are.”

  Suddenly Jonah was starving. The mention of food reminded him he’d not eaten since early that morning. The aroma of beef had been in the air for a while, but it hadn’t dawned on him what it was he’d smelled. But how could it, he thought to himself, after being knocked senseless, it was a wonder I can do anything at all. Well, I’ll sample the shipboard fare and if it beat camp cooking I’ll spend a few days with the Navy.

  Chapter Eleven

  The following morning brought a clear sky but enough wind to cause the waters to have a significant chop to them. Jonah awoke but lay still in his cot trying to clear his mind from a fog. His unfamiliar surroundings didn’t help. There was a rocking motion to his cot. He’d never slept in a cot suspended from deck beams by four ropes. It didn’t seem right a man’s bed should move like a baby’s cradle. Ah… the taste in his mouth and his aching head. Was the pounding in his head from butting the deck beam or the effects of last evening’s gathering?

  It took a few more seconds for him to realize the sound in his head was not from butting his head nor the abundance of after dinner brandy along with cigar and pipe smoke. They didn’t help, but after a few minutes he was able to recognize the constant thud was from the lap of the choppy water against the hull of the ship. As he rose, he looked over the small cabin… cubical was a better description. Looking for his clothes, he spotted them and was at the point of putting his boots on when a small knock was heard. A man wearing an apron stuck his head in the door.

  “I see you’re almost dressed,” the man said. “There’s a small pitcher of water and a basin in the corner. Once you’ve freshened yourself, the commodore and general are expecting you in the commodore’s quarters.”

  Rushing to freshen up, Jonah made his way to the commodore’s quarters. One look at Jonah and the commodore was quick to order a cup of coffee for him. Greeting the commodore and general, Jonah seated himself in the offered chair and took a timid sip of the hot, steamy black liquid.

  “The navy likes their coffee so strong you can stand a spoon in the middle of the cup,” General Harrison volunteered.

  “I see, sir,” Jonah acknowledged, tasting the scalding brew.

  The coffee was strong, but after a couple of sips it started to bring him back to life. Maybe he would survive the day. Cordial conversation ensued until a breakfast of scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, oatmeal and hot bread with grape preserves was served. Jonah noticed during the meal the commodore’s steward never let the coffee cups get half empty before they were refilled. He did notice while a dish of sugar was on the table, it had not been offered, and except for the oatmeal it had been left untouched. In the past, Jonah had been offered cream and sugar for his coffee. I guess the navy likes it black and strong, he thought, realizing it didn’t take much to acquire a taste for the brew. No cream had been offered to mix with the oatmeal either. Maybe they don’t have any, Jonah thought.

  The commodore had mixed butter in his oatmeal along with the sugar. Jonah tried this and found it tasty. Still, a little milk would have added to the taste. Once breakfast was finished and the dishes cleared away… all but the coffee, General Harrison cleared his throat.

  “Tell me, Jonah, do you think a few of the Kentucky riflemen would mind serving aboard the commodore’s ships?”

  Thinking again to Clay Gesslin’s men’s comments about fighting on boats compared to horses, he replied, “I’m not sure about the foot soldiers, but I don’t think the mounted riflemen would take to it. May I ask why you ask, sir?”

  Shaking his head in the affirmative, the general responded, “The Navy has enough vessels to take on the British. We also have more firepower, it is believed. What they don’t have are the men to fight the ships. The commodore has asked for volunteers.”

  “How many?” Jonah asked.

  “Two or three dozen,” the commodore answered.

  Taking it all in Jonah thought for a few moments, then replied, “If put to the men just right, you could get your men I expect.”

  “How do you mean ‘put to them just right’?” the general asked, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

  “You could just order them to serve,” Jonah responded. “But remember these are volunteers. I would put it to them that the Navy needed their help. They’d have three square meals a day, and there’d be no slogging through the woods or boggy, muddy roads. The ships would carry them to the fight, and a glorious fight it will be. In fact, they’d be going in style. But you can only take three dozen, so the men would have to make a quick decision before someone else volunteered, as it would be first come, first serve.”

  The commodore reared back and clapped his hands. “You silver tongued devil. I like it. Sir, you could be a politician.”

  Smirking, General Harrison replied, “He works for one.” Then the general smiled and pounded Jonah on the back. “No offense, Jonah. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  The following morning three dozen Kentucky riflemen showed up. Having accepted the challenge or the lark, Jonah wasn’t sure which; they climbed aboard the Lawrence and seemed as excited as Chief Tarhe’s Wyandots had been. The commodore let them have the run of the deck for an hour then called them all forward. A lieutenant mustered them into ranks and instructed them in the ways of naval discipline and explained to them the etiquette of life aboard a ship at sea.

  “I thought this here’s a lake we’s on,” one of the men said.

  The officer then explained that it was the same, the Great Lakes or the ocean, made no difference.

  That evening Jonah dined alone with the commodore. “It will be soon,” the commodore stated in a matter of fact voice, once the meal was served. He seemed in a different mood tonight. One like Jonah had not observed before. It was like he had an appointment with death and was resolved to it.

  “Do you realize,” the commodore spoke after a period of silence, “that the fate of this war… this country looms on our battle with the British? A battle where the loss of one vessel could mean the difference between victory or defeat.”

  The commodore then smiled. “Have you thought what it would be like to answer to the king again rather than have a president?”

  “No sir,” Jonah answered. “I don’t think I’ve ever given it much thought.”

  “I have and it doesn’t sit well,” the commodore replied.

  Jonah went to bed in his swinging cot that evening. For some reason, Moses came to his thoughts and he was glad he was ashore. Moses could take the word back to his family if he fell. The next morning, Jonah awoke at four a.m. As he made his way on deck, he met one of the ship’s officers he’d come to be friendly with.

  “Have you heard?” the officer whispered.

  “What?” Jonah asked.

  “The commodore… he’s down with the fever. The surgeons are with him now.”

  Damn, Jonah thoug
ht. Maybe that’s why he was in such a mood last evening. What bad timing. “Damn it all,” he cursed again. What chance would they have without the commodore?

  Jonah continued on deck where he met up with a sergeant from the Kentucky riflemen. He had a detail of men carrying buckets of water down to the galley.

  “What are you doing?” Jonah asked.

  “The surgeon’s orders, sir. He thinks it’s the lake’s water what has caused the fever and dysentery. He’s ordered all water used to drink or cook with be boiled beforehand.”

  “From what I ‘ears not only is the commodore sick but so is his brother, most of the ossifers two of the surgeons and several men from the crew,” the sergeant whispered.

  “You appear well,” Jonah said.

  “We all is,” the sergeant replied, speaking of the riflemen. “Course we drink our own drink.”

  By that Jonah knew the men drank either vinegar and water or corn whiskey and water, the water being the lesser ingredient. Jonah had learned riding with Clay Gesslin the only plain water the men drank was when it came from a well or fast moving stream. I’ve not been sick either, Jonah thought. But other than the coffee which had been boiled, he’d not drunk more than a swallow or two of ship’s water in days. He’d been given a fresh canteen by Moses each time he’d gone ashore. Well, he’d go ashore today and get a couple more canteens of clean water… and maybe one of corn whiskey. He had little doubt Moses could round up one from the mounted riflemen.

  It was five a.m., September tenth. Three days after the fever had spread among the officers and crew of the Lawrence. Jonah had been awake since four a.m., as had been happening of late. Unlike the card games and campfire gatherings he was used to with the army, the navy had set watches and when not on watch, the men rested. They gathered about on deck and in their messes below deck, but when lights out was called the ship became very quiet.

  Jonah missed the whinny of the horses, the giggle of some wench the men had snuck into camp and hid in their tent, the crackle of the campfire and the fresh air. The smell aboard ship was insulting to the nostrils. Not that he didn’t understand it; from all the unwashed bodies to the stale water in the bilges, there was no way a ship could be without odor. But it was a special place, and while Jonah would never be a sailor, he was glad for the experience.

  “Sail ho, sails on the horizon.” The cry from the mainmast of the Lawrence caused an immediate rush of activity aboard the ship. The commodore was on deck talking with the first officer. After giving the orders for the ships to weigh anchor and set sail, the commodore strode over to Jonah. He still looks pale and weak, Jonah thought. But there was fire in the commodore’s eyes.

  “We will meet the British today, Mr. Lee. I don’t know if I told you but our foe, Commander Robert Barclay, is a most capable and experienced Royal Navy officer who fought with Lord Nelson at Trafalgar in 1805. I hear he lost an arm fighting the French a few years later. A most capable man, an honorable opponent,” the commodore repeated.

  The second cry of sail ho interrupted the commodore’s conversation. “Where away,” the commodore called up to the masthead lookout.

  “To the northwest, sir,” the reply came down. “Several ships sir, more like the whole British squadron.”

  Taking his telescope and peering toward the oncoming British fleet, the commodore ordered the signal lieutenant to make, “Enemy in sight.”

  The ship’s master made his way to where Jonah and the commodore were standing. “It appears they will have the weather gauge,” he volunteered.

  “I don’t care,” the commodore snapped. “To windward or leeward, we shall fight today.”

  Jonah had no idea what the two were talking about. Lieutenant Jones, seeing the quandary, explained having the wind at their advantage or having to fight the wind. The sun rose and the sky was clear but with light air. For two hours the commodore’s vessels clawed to windward, repeatedly tacking in an effort to close with the British.

  At ten-thirty a.m., Commodore Perry appeared very frustrated. “We’ll not bring them to battle before noon,” he said addressing his first lieutenant. “Have the men served their midday meal.”

  “Aye, aye,” the lieutenant answered. As he turned to carry out the commodore’s orders, Perry spoke again.

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “A double tot of grog for every man.”

  Hearing this, the crew gave a cheer. Leave it to the commodore to fortify the men for battle, the lieutenant thought.

  Chapter Twelve

  After the midday meal and grog had been served, Commodore Perry had the ship ‘beat to quarters’ and ‘clear for action.’ Jonah felt that he was in the way as he watched what looked like mass confusion quickly turn the ship into a battle ready state. He could hear the noise below the decks as partitions were struck down and stowed. He watched as the surgeon’s mates ran about setting up the place where the wounded would be treated. The deck was doused with water and sand spread across them.

  A harried petty officer quickly explained blood made the deck slippery. The wet sand would help with grip. Jonah had faced death in battle many times, but the callousness of the sailor’s abrupt explanation made him shiver.

  The wooden stoppers called tampions were removed from the mouth of the guns. Looking at the brutes, Jonah recalled the commodore saying they’d have to be close for the carronades to be effective. Did he think the British would wait until they got in range? Much like the long rifle compared to the musket, he thought. A few men with long rifles could standoff a company of infantry with muskets by picking them off before the infantry closed to within range.

  Not far away, Jonah could hear a sailor explain to one of the Kentucky riflemen how the battle would likely proceed. “The commodore will try to get the weather gauge. That will give us-un’s the chance to cross the British’s ships and rake ’em. We’ll have our guns blazin so that we blast them from stem to stern.”

  Seeing the frown on the Kaintuck’s face with the use of stem to stern, the sailor quickly added, “That’s from the front to the back. If it’s done right, they’ll not likely even get a shot at us. Course, sometimes they do, and then it’s like the infernal pits o’ hell.”

  Taking a breath, the sailor looked about. Seeing he had an audience, he wiped his whiskery jaw then continued, “Now, more often than not, two ships will collide. When that happens, grappling hooks get throwed about so the ships get tied together. Iffen that happens, it’s a free for all with the winner taking all… or what’s left. There’ll be marines and sailors swarming all about. Some will have swords or cutlasses and even some of them boarding pikes like I already showed you. Others will have pistols and tomahawks and such. People will be firing swivel guns, sharpshooters will bang away with rifles and officers will have pistols, like I said. You’ll hear officers shouting orders, men screaming in pain, some cussing and some praying. You live through this, boy, you can say you’re going to habben cause you done been to hell.”

  “Sir.”

  Jonah turned. He’d not heard the lieutenant approach.

  “The commodore’s compliments, sir. Would you join him in his cabin?”

  “Thank you,” Jonah replied and made his way aft.

  Entering the commodore’s cabin, Jonah found the man tearing up letters and throwing them out the stern windows. “Letters from my wife,” Perry said, by way of explanation. “I’d not want the British to have them if I fell or was captured.”

  Throwing the last fragments out, the commodore then tied a set of official looking documents in a bundle with a small cannon ball. “These are to go over the side if we are taken,” the commodore explained. “The first lieutenant has been instructed to deal with it if I’m unable. Should we both fall, I leave it in your care.”

  Realizing this was a sacred trust, Jonah felt moved. “They will not be taken as long as I br
eathe, sir.”

  “Good. Now, I called you down to offer you a brace of pistols and your choice of a cutlass or sword.”

  “I know nothing of either, sir. I have a sharp tinker-made knife and pistol. I also have my tomahawk. The other pistols will be appreciated, but I’ll leave the long blades to someone else.”

  Back on deck, Jonah watched as the British and American ships sailed toward each other. Lieutenant James walked up to Jonah. “Makes a magnificent sight, don’t it, sir? Two fleets preparing to do battle. We may never see such a sight again.”

  “Do we know the British ships we are fighting?” Jonah asked.

  “Yes sir,” James answered. “Commodore Barclay’s fleet is made up of the Detroit, Queen Charlotte, Lady Prevost, the Hunter, the Chippewa, and the Little Belt.”

  “And our ships are the Lawrence, Niagara, and the Caledonia,” Jonah said.

  Lieutenant James replied, “Yes sir, those are three of our ships. We also have the Ariel, Scorpion, Somers, Porcupine, Tigress, and the Trippe.”

  “So, we have the most ships,” Jonah commented.

  “Aye,” James replied. “But they have the most guns.”

  The crew was silent as each man was deep in his own thoughts. Would we defeat the British? Will I fall? Who will care for my family if I fall? So many questions and no answers. The only thing for sure is a battle was about to take place.

  Suddenly, a cheer went up as the commodore ordered his blue banner run up. The banner read ‘Don’t give up the ship’. The banner was the battle slogan Perry used to honor the dying words of Captain James Lawrence. The captain had been a close friend who had died in battle on the first of June. The commodore’s ship had been named for the fallen Lawrence.

  As the Lawrence sailed forward, Lieutenant James looked aft and hissed, “Damn Elliott.”

  Elliott had been commander of the Great Lakes squadron until Commodore Perry had arrived. Some thought Elliott had lost his command due to Perry’s political involvement with the senior senator from Rhode Island. Elliott had acted appropriately thus far. He was in command of the brig Niagara of twenty-two guns, the Lawrence’s sister ship.