Give Me a Fast Ship

by Tim McGrath

  At “Prime,” gunpowder would be poured from a powder horn into the touchhole. “Point your guns,” Jones commanded, and each cannon was set in position by the quoin, while the gunner blew on the slow match in his hand to keep it lit. At “Elevate” the gun was aimed. Finally, on the ship’s up-roll, Jones yelled, “Fire!” and, if this was the last practice round and the gun was actually loaded, there was a spark from the touchhole, followed by a deafening roar from the cannon. The act sent the cannon recoiling several feet; only the lines secured by the ringbolt kept it from flying dangerously across the deck, where it could shatter a man’s leg with its thrust.

  After the recoil—real or pantomimed—Jones ordered, “Sponge your guns,” and the wet sponge end of the rammer was run down the muzzle, extinguishing any sparks or burning remnants of the powder bag. If this was the last round, the gun was “wormed” with a long-handled corkscrew that cleared it of any debris.

  Aboard the Andrew Doria, Nicholas Biddle worked his men tirelessly at the guns to reach the Royal Navy’s goal: that every gun crew aboard could discharge a round within two minutes, firing the guns in unison and with accuracy. Each and every time his men exercised the guns his objective was simple: be faster.

  Like the British vessels, Hopkins’s ships carried a deadly variety of projectiles to fire at the enemy, based on both battle conditions and distance. Two halves of a cannonball connected by a twelve-inch iron bar (“bar-shot”) or chain (“chain-shot”) could easily cut rigging or sailor into pieces. Grapeshot (consisting of iron balls set in a round wooden frame) and canister (scrap metal and musket balls wrapped in paper) were deadlier versions of buckshot when fired at close range. Swivel guns, set along the gunwales, were larger versions of shotguns.

  But the most dangerous weapon to a crew was their own ship when struck by enemy gunfire. Nothing was deadlier than long, jagged splinters, ripped from the bulwarks and sent flying across the deck after a cannonball’s impact. Add the risk of masts, spars, and rigging hurtling to the deck after being shot away, and it became terrifyingly easy for a sailor to realize that the workings of his ship could both save and end his life, depending on split-second luck, good or bad.

  The captain’s order “Clear the decks for action” was also a call for the marines to go aloft. With their muskets slung over their shoulders, they climbed the ratlines to the fighting tops—the small platforms above the spars. If they had any coehorns—small mortars embedded in a wooden stand—they were hoisted up to the tops where their shells could be lobbed onto the enemy’s decks. While some marines owned rifles, most carried muskets, which, like cannons, were smooth-bored and thus not as accurate as a rifle, whose barrel was grooved to enhance both accuracy and range. Marines also carried “grenadoes,” forerunners of hand grenades. Lighting the fuse once the ship had closed in on the enemy, they hurled them down to the enemy’s deck.

  When two opposing ships drew close enough, a captain sometimes gave orders to board the enemy. Grappling hooks—iron claws attached to long ropes—were thrown across the water, sinking into the enemy ship’s bulwarks and allowing his men to pull the ships closer. Once a ship was boarded, the fighting became hand-to-hand combat. Boarding parties carried muskets with bayonets, pistols, cutlasses, pikes, axes, even boat hooks—anything that could inflict maximum harm on the enemy.

  As Hopkins’s little fleet made its way to the Virginia coast, the drills increased, and his officers assessed each hand’s capabilities as best they could to see who among them would take up arms and who would best serve the ship by sailing her.35

  Prior to departing Cape Henlopen, Hopkins ordered his red pennant raised on the ensign staff—the signal calling for a captains’ council aboard the Alfred. Once they were aboard and had entered the commodore’s cabin, the door was closed and guarded by two armed marines to ensure privacy. The officers made an interesting group, most of them, including Hopkins, speaking in New England accents.36

  As Nicholas Biddle took his seat at the great table in Hopkins’s cabin he acknowledged each captain with a short greeting or a simple nod. He did not know Marylander Henry Hallock of the Wasp but thought William Stone of the Hornet, a Bermudian by birth, to be “A Very Stout and Very Good kind of Man.” In a letter to his sister Lydia, he shared his opinions of some fellow officers, calling John Hopkins “a Good Natured Man” and Hoysted Hacker “an Active Smart Seaman.” He considered John Hazard “a Stout Man Very Vain and Ignorant” with “as much low cunning as Capacity,” and declared Dudley Saltonstall “Sensible” and “indefatigable” but “Morose.” Biddle was “Very happy in haveing Sam Nicholas in the Fleet” as captain of the marines, and lightheartedly judged himself as “a Mighty Good Young Man.” He did not reveal to his sister any judgment of Abraham Whipple or of his commodore.37

  Hopkins opened the meeting by handing out a thorough set of signals he had painstakingly put together. Saying that a signal book was invaluable was an understatement: it would be their main communication source in fair weather or foul, of such importance to their success that each captain knew his book was to be destroyed if there was any chance of his being captured. Signals, a combination of other countries’ flags and different colored pennants flown from various masts, gave the captains specific instructions, from changing course to engaging (or not engaging) enemy ships. They were to learn the signals thoroughly, for the wrong interpretation could turn victory into defeat, or tragedy in a storm.38

  Next, Hopkins shared his plans with his captains without confiding in them about his decision not to carry out Congress’s orders. Reports and rumors that Dunmore’s fleet was reinforced had confirmed in his own mind that this jury-rigged American fleet was no match for men-of-war belonging to the finest navy in the world. British ships were built for war from the keelson to the main topgallants, its captains expertly trained in the deadly art of naval combat, their crews having mastered their gunnery skills with live ammunition. Weeks of being trapped in ice had given Hopkins time to think, and the more he reviewed Congress’s grandiose orders—and subsequent instructions—the more he was convinced that the Americans should not make their debut on the seas in such engagements, and he wisely decided that they would not.

  Instead, Hopkins took advantage of the loophole in his original orders, deciding that “bad weather or any other unforeseen accident” let him arbitrarily change them. Substituting ice for “bad Weather” and an outbreak of smallpox filling his sick bays for “unforeseen accidents,” he determined that his squadron was “not in a condition to keep on a cold coast.” Seeking an alternate destination worth making for, he told his captains to “Make the best of your Way to the Southern part of Abaco”—one of the Bahama Islands. Directing them “to keep Company with me if possible and truly Observe the Signals given by the Ship I am in,” Hopkins made sure that, even if “Separated in a Gale of Wind or Otherwise” they were not to miss their rendezvous point.39

  Hopkins’s new plan testified to his political skills as well as knowing when and when not to fight. He had a hunch that the British forts in the Bahamas held the one thing Washington and Congress lusted after more than victories at sea: gunpowder. With the blessing of Congress to “follow such Courses as your best Judgement shall Suggest,” Hopkins was off and sailing. The meeting over, the captains were rowed back to their ships.40

  Final preparations proceeded as the little fleet rocked at anchor offshore. Taking quill in hand, Biddle wrote one last letter that reflected both his enthusiasm for the cruise and his matter-of-fact approach to its dangers. “Fare you well My Dear Brother,” he wrote to James Biddle, adding,

  I well know the Glorious Cause I am engaged in. And if ever I disgrace it May My Kind father who gave me being instantly Blast me in mercy to me. I mean not to be de[s]perate beyond measure. But to do my duty to the utmost of My Ability. If in spite of my best endeavour I should be taken, If Fortune Should frown upon me I hope I shall bear up against it with that Fortitude Patien
ce and Resignation which I usually found Myself Possessed of . . . And Never in my Life was better pleased with a trip I was going to take than I am with this . . . I beg you to give my Sincere Love to My dear Sister Fanny to My Mother and all the Family.41

  On February 18, under clear skies and with a fair breeze touching his cheek, Hopkins stood on the Alfred’s quarterdeck and ordered Saltonstall to “loose the foretopsail and Sheet it home”—the signal for the fleet to weigh anchor and make sail. Wind captured canvas with a pleasant groaning sound as each ship got under way at a fair clip. The townsfolk of Lewes, not used to seeing such an array of vessels sail together, found them a memorable sight as they made for the Atlantic. The masts of the square-riggers seemed to reach for the heavens while the fore-and-aft-rigged schooners and sloops easily kept up with them. Gradually they shrank in size until all of them, even the sluggish Hornet, “crossed the bar,” slipping out of sight over the horizon.42

  The fleet was just two days below Cape Henlopen when a brutal storm struck, separating the Hornet and Fly from the squadron that evening. A sunny morning followed, giving Hopkins ten days of smooth sailing. Pleasant conditions allowed the captains to repair any damages to their ships from the storm and continue their seemingly endless gunnery practice. The men, too, got to know one another. For each friendship formed, some distances were kept. A wide berth was usually given to any salt with a predilection for bullying or fighting.

  Just as captains used this shakedown cruise as a chance to see the officers and men at work, the leadership style of each captain began to emerge. Thirty-eight-year-old Dudley Saltonstall, commanding the Alfred, had served in privateers during the French and Indian War. He possessed a snobbish manner that guaranteed unpopularity with both his officers and his men; Lieutenant Jones found him “ill mannered and narrow minded.” Aboard the Columbus, the wizened Abraham Whipple issued his orders with blunt directness. Whipple had nerve, but his tendency to act without considering consequences was not yet evident to his sailors. John Hopkins of the Cabot was deferential to both his father and his peers.43

  The most unpopular captain was John Hazard, the man who got the Providence after Jones declined command. Earlier, when the fleet was iced in at Reedy Island, he was accused of failing to deliver a supply of wood to the Fly that Hopkins had ordered. Minor as it sounds, it was the beginning of Hazard’s poor relationship with practically everyone. Overweight but handsome, William Stone had a reputation as a good skipper whose sailing talents became evident after successfully getting both the Wasp and the Hornet out of the Chesapeake, eluding Lord Dunmore’s fleet. Stone also benefited from having decent officers aboard, including Joshua Barney, his master’s mate. Barely old enough to shave, Barney was embarking on what would be a forty-year habit of fighting the British.44

  Aboard the Wasp, William Hallock was an experienced sea captain disposed to both caution and prayer, frequently seeking the advice of the Almighty as much as—if not more than—that of his superiors. Hoysted Hacker was not Hopkins’s first choice to take over the Fly, but once again Jones had declined an offer to command. Misfortune would sail hand in hand with Hacker throughout the war; blessed throughout the conflict with offers to command several ships, he had the bad luck to accept each one of them. If there was a Jonah in the Continental Navy, it was Hacker.45

  Of all the senior officers, it was Biddle whose star shone brightest. Only twenty- five, he was already a skilled sailor, a respected captain, and a Royal Navy veteran. He possessed enough courage to supply the fleet.

  Both his talent and his drive had been honed by necessity. Biddle came from prestigious stock, but his family frequently found themselves on both sides of the coin where fate was involved. His great-grandfather had served bravely under Cromwell in the English Civil War, but his battlefield experiences turned him into a pacifist. He joined the Society of Friends just when the Restoration began persecuting Quakers. After a stint in hellish Newgate Prison, he immigrated to New Jersey and soon owned nearly 1,000 acres of farmland on both sides of the Delaware. Upon his death the land became his son’s property and was in turn meted out to his six children upon his death. One of them, Nicholas’s father, William, used his share of the estate and his family connections to go into business in Philadelphia after marrying Mary Scull, the fetching daughter of the city’s surveyor. Upon his marriage William joined the Church of England.46

  As his family grew, William established a reputation as a true gentleman whose trusting personality dovetailed with a decided lack of business acumen. The Biddle family fortune rescued his first complete financial failure, but there was no deus ex machina a second time. “I had nine children, one at my breast,” his wife, Mary, later recalled, when William informed her that he had ruined them. Forced to sell his lands to pay off his astronomical debt, he could not look at his family without weeping over what he had done to them. When he died five years later of a lingering illness, he and his were penniless; even his in-laws’ money was spent to keep the family out of debtors’ prison. Mary was forced to follow in her father’s footsteps, taking work as a surveyor.47

  Her older children joined their mother in an effort to recover the family’s reputation, scrambling to make money as best they could. By the time Nicholas was fourteen, in 1764, his elder siblings were lawyers, merchants, and in the military. Charles, then eighteen, was a sailor, and the sea called Nicholas as well. He signed on as ship’s boy aboard a snow—a two-masted square-rigged vessel ideally suited for the West Indies trade. His first voyage exposed to him to every aspect of a sailor’s lot: pleasant days of progress mixed with gales and terrific storms; idyllic islands fraught with blackguards and thieves. With pluck and ambition he earned a mate’s rank, surviving a shipwreck for good measure. At twenty he had grown to five feet nine, handsome and unassuming—as long as he was not crossed.48

  Rumors of war with Spain over the Falkland Islands were the talk of Philadelphia in 1770. Nicholas saw this as an opportunity to further his maritime career by joining the Royal Navy. Putting his family’s contacts to use, he wangled letters from Robert Morris’s partner Thomas Willing and Pennsylvania Assembly leader Joseph Galloway that recommended him to Benjamin Franklin, the colony’s agent in England. Galloway’s letter described young Biddle’s “Good Character and Esteem,” adding, “his laudable Ambition leads him to pursue some Thing more honourable.” Thus armed, Biddle booked passage to England, where he found Franklin full of “good advice and encouragement” and a midshipman’s warrant aboard the HMS Seaford, twenty guns.

  The Seaford was off the Isle of Wight in the English Channel when Biddle learned there would be no war with Spain. He transferred to the Portland, a fifty-gun two-decker bound for the West Indies. Then he was back to England, where he wrote his sister Lydia that the navy had not changed him much, if at all: not only had the affable Nicholas made many friends in the service, but “I wear my own hair . . . lodge in London and sleep in a bed.”49

  While ashore, Biddle learned that the king and the Earl of Sandwich had approved the Royal Society’s proposal “for an expedition to try how far navigation was practicable towards the North Pole.” Two bomb-ketches, the Carcass and the Racehorse (two-masted vessels usually armed with mortars), were in dry dock, their hulls being reinforced to withstand ice. Here was an adventure young Biddle could not pass up, but the berths for command and warrant officers were already filled by other applicants with political connections. Undeterred, Biddle volunteered as an able seaman. He was assigned to the Carcass. One of the midshipmen was a teenager who, like Biddle, was the very model of a future captain, mature and confident beyond his years: Horatio Nelson. The ships departed in June.50

  Biddle found the voyage exhilarating and character-building. Almost immediately he was promoted to coxswain, in charge of the captain’s launch. The two ships made their way to Spitsbergen Island, north of the Arctic Ocean’s deepest point—more than 18,000 feet. Under the long daylight summer hours, t
he two ships entered the ice-bound channels, making progress by the yard; “ice clogging us on every side” was one log entry. A shipmate described the setting sun’s rays “of bright blue, like sapphire, and sometimes like the variable colours of a prism, exceeding in luster the richest gems of the world.” Biddle later recalled “the Sun[’]s not setting for two months.”

  Throughout the passage, Biddle and the others beheld “Whales spitting their fountains towards the skies”; when polar bears fearlessly approached the ships they were frequently shot and skinned. Conditions baffled and alarmed captain and crew alike—on one side of the Carcass the sun beat so warmly one day that the captain noted how the tar was running off the standing rigging, while on the other side, where ice had just been removed, the water was instantly freezing over.

  By August the ships were ensnared in the ice from a western cold front. Without an easterly wind to send them to open water, the men would be trapped until the spring thaw. Their only hope of escape was to haul the ships’ boats over the ice, heading east during the day, walk back to the two ships for a night’s rest, and repeat the same arduous task until the boats had been carried to running water—all the while hoping for a change of wind. On the morning of August 7 all the boats were lowered, with Biddle in charge of the Carcass’s launch and young Nelson commanding her four-oared cutter. Working with deliberate caution they painstakingly hauled the boats eastward. By sunset they had made only four miles. Exhausted and cold to the bone, they trudged back to the ships. On the second day they returned to find that the ice had broken sufficiently for the rest of the men to make sail and slowly inch the ships towards safety. On August 10 the ships finally reached the boats, and they were hoisted back aboard. A strong northeast wind sent the Carcass and Racehorse slamming into ice floes; only their strengthened hulls kept them from being ripped apart. In the afternoon they broke through to the open sea. Their mission a failure, the crew shouted with joy. After another six weeks of rough seas, they made it home.