Give Me a Fast Ship

by Tim McGrath

  But that did not matter—his crew more than made up for his lack of lust, demanding that she be taken. Conyngham had no ally aboard—John Beach was gone, and William Hodge was no help in this instance. Refusal invited mutiny or worse, so Conyngham insisted that they write an attestation absolving him of their action. Thirty-six sailors signed their names or made their marks. The Honoria Sophia became the Revenge’s last prize in European waters.65

  To landlubber politicians and noblemen, the paper did nothing but show that Conyngham could not control his men—a fear that lay just beneath the surface of every captain’s skin. The Spanish banished him for good; Vergennes disowned him in public as “an American corsair,” and Franklin promised he “will certainly be punished.” Conyngham’s protestations of innocence were drowned in the storm he was trapped in, with no way to sail out of it but to sail out of Europe.

  In an eighteen-month period, Conyngham and his little cutter had captured or burned sixty ships, a total not approached by any other Continental captain. Those prizes that made it to port went a long way towards financing the American war effort. For all his diplomatic naiveté, no officer, army or navy, did more to bring the French into the war. With European ports closed to him, he sailed at last for Martinique.66

  In Maryland, the Continental Navy’s Hamlet, James Nicholson, was asking himself: To sail, or not to sail? That was the question. The answer from Congress was sail. Sail now.

  The naval war was being fought at sea from Nova Scotia to the Spanish Main and from the beaches of America to the shores of Europe, and Congress’s top captain was missing in action—by choice. After his attempt to press Maryland sailors into service in the spring of ’77—a public relations blunder if there ever was one—Nicholson remained in Baltimore, continuing his pleas and harangues to an exasperated Congress for more money and men. He had offered to assist in defending Philadelphia during the British invasion, but would not attempt to run the gauntlet of British warships at the mouth of the Chesapeake. From time to time, the windows of the governor’s mansion rattled from the roar of the Virginia’s gunnery exercises, but that was all. That autumn, the Marine Committee ordered Nicholson to convoy the growing number of merchantmen awaiting escort out of the Virginia Capes. He did not budge.67

  Finally Congress had had enough. “Wearied of the long delay of the Frigate Virginia under your command in port,” it ordered him to sea. In answer to his request for another officer, they sent him a good one, Joshua Barney, one of the heroes of Turtle Gut Inlet, recently exchanged after being captured, and more than happy to serve under the navy’s senior officer.68

  Weeks later, the Marine Committee found it necessary to remind Nicholson of his orders. On December 19, the committee suggested that the Virginia be used to deliver some tobacco—a veiled insult to both Nicholson’s sense of duty and his courage. The next day, they sent orders for him to escort a French two-decker up the Chesapeake. It had reached the point where Congress no longer cared why he sailed, just that he sailed.69

  To practically everyone’s surprise, the Virginia—with Nicholson aboard—stood down the Patuxent, only to find two British frigates, the Emerald and the Richmond, waiting for him in Hampton Roads. Nicholson wore ship and showed the Virginia’s heels, proving her a fast sailer as she left the British ships in her wake—a move that not even his harshest critics could fault. Even the Marine Committee was impressed, writing him on the twenty-eighth and rewarding his effort, promising a bounty to induce more sailors to enlist, sending some of the sailors at Bordentown down to Baltimore to serve under him, and allowing him to purchase a tender for the frigate. They expected to see Nicholson sailing the Atlantic in February.70

  It is doubtful that they were surprised at writing him five weeks later, on March 4, promising him more money (again) and hoping to “wipe off any malicious reflections” on Nicholson’s character, once his ship was in the damn ocean.71

  At long last, on March 30, under extremely favorable conditions, the Virginia made for the capes. She was a handsome sight, slicing through the water past Annapolis, following a brig steered by a Chesapeake pilot. Night fell. The Virginia’s helmsman stayed behind the brig, guided by a stern lantern hanging off the quarterdeck. In the darkness, Lieutenant Joshua Barney could make out the lights of the two British frigates. They were still—proof that they had not spotted the Virginia.

  Suddenly, around three a.m., a sickening, grinding sound was followed by a violent lurch. Whether it was too dark or the pilot did not consider the Virginia’s great draft is not known. The frigate had run aground. Nicholson’s men dropped anchor to avoid more damage in the dark of night. For more than a year, Nicholson would not move. Now, he could not move.

  The Virginia was easily spotted by the British as the sun rose, her tall masts silhouetted against the brightening sky. The wrenching impact had knocked off her rudder; even if the tide rose before enemy ships saw her, she would be unable to escape. Captain Benjamin Caldwell of the Emerald spied her first, and steered his frigate carefully towards her as the tide came in. An hour passed before the Virginia came within range.

  Once Caldwell opened his gun ports, the Virginia’s crew learned what their captain was made of. Without explanation to Barney or his other officers, Nicholson ordered his barge lowered, clambered down the side, got in, and ordered his men to row hastily to shore. Barney was furious. He was also determined that the British would not take the Virginia. After raising the colors, he rounded up the other officers and proposed cutting the anchor cable, steering the frigate as best they could towards Cape Henry and burning her. If the British got close enough, he would fight.

  The other officers, older and wiser if not as brave, would have none of it. Their rudderless frigate could wind up heading out to sea in a fickle wind, and then what? Better to wait for the British boarding parties. They approached just after a warning shot from the Emerald prompted a sailor to haul down the Virginia’s flag. Seeing the total breakdown in authority, and watching the British longboats close in, the crew made the most of their remaining minutes of freedom. They broke into the spirit room and got as drunk as time and supplies permitted.72

  The next day, as British hands labored to refloat their prize and assess the damages, the captive Barney watched from the Emerald as a barge approached under a white flag. It was Nicholson. With deliberate coolness he climbed up the gangway, asking for Caldwell. In his haste to depart his ship, Nicholson had left his papers and belongings in his cabin: might he have them? Of course he could have his personal effects, Caldwell replied, but his orders, journal, and signal book were now the property of the King’s Navy. Nicholson went below to get his things, but not before getting the tongue-lashing of his life from his teenage lieutenant, who hurled invective at his captain like a mortar lobbing shells. What was Nicholson going to do—flog him?

  It was April Fool’s Day.

  Later, Nicholson reported that he had not abandoned ship in the face of the enemy. Rather, he had escaped, along with “such of my crew as was inclined to run the risque of getting on shore.” Congress swallowed his story whole, and exonerated him in the loss of the Virginia. After all, he had finally sailed.73

  In South Carolina that winter, two of the officers from Esek Hopkins’s original squadron were determined to meet the enemy.

  Two years earlier, Nicholas Biddle was captain of the Andrew Doria and John Peck Rathbun was a lieutenant aboard the Providence. As 1777 closed, Biddle was occupied with getting the Randolph refitted, with the possibility of leading ships from the South Carolina Navy in a cruise against the British ships lurking off Charleston. Rathbun, commander of the sloop Providence, was also planning something big.

  The Providence was making for Charleston in December when she encountered a sloop, the Governour Tonyn. In a short, deadly engagement, Rathbun’s men outfought the enemy and freed eight African American prisoners.74

  No portraits or descriptions survi
ve to give us an idea of what Rathbun looked like, but we know he possessed excellent sailing skills, great courage, and enough nerve for a fleet of captains. He was a farmer’s son, born in Rhode Island in 1746. Rathbun’s love of the sea came from his mother’s side; her great-uncle fought in the battle off Ocracoke Inlet in 1720 that killed Blackbeard. Young Rathbun went to sea in Boston, living ashore with an uncle whose haberdashery shop was a stone’s throw from the site of the Boston Massacre. This uncle also participated in the Boston Tea Party, by which time Rathbun had become a successful merchant captain, married to the daughter of a prominent Loyalist. They later moved to Rhode Island, where Rathbun received his lieutenant’s commission.75

  As the Providence underwent repairs from her recent battle, Rathbun received an intriguing Christmas present—information that the Mary, the ship his sloop had fought off Sandy Hook in August, was in New Providence being repaired after being severely damaged in a storm and stripped of her guns. The thought of sailing into New Providence was tempting, and Rathbun decided to make the attempt. Two years earlier, the Providence was part of Hopkins’s squadron that had taken the town. Rathbun now decided to do it with just his sloop and his seventy-five men. As a courtesy, Rathbun and Marine Captain John Trevett went to see Biddle at a Charleston coffeehouse to get his approval.76

  Initially, Biddle thought the plan preposterous, and openly asked Trevett to rejoin him and his approaching cruise. But neither Rathbun nor Trevett could be deterred: the reward was more than worth the risk. Biddle could understand that. As to allowing Trevett to rejoin Biddle, Rathbun was polite but firm: he wanted Trevett. Biddle could understand that, too. Their meeting concluded, Biddle rose from his chair and shook Trevett’s hand. “I am so very sorry,” he said, “for I never shall see you anymore.” Days later, the Providence made sail for Nassau.77

  Once at sea, the Americans were pursued by three British cruisers. They had the weather gauge—allowing them to easily overtake the Providence and also control any possible engagement. Try as he might, Rathbun could not shake them. He jettisoned his water casks, threw his supplies overboard, but his three pursuers merely grew larger against the horizon. As a moonless night set in, it seemed to be only a matter of time before the Providence became another Royal Navy prize.

  Once it was completely dark, Rathbun told his crew to douse all lights and lower their sails as quietly as possible. Working in the dark and without a sound, his men did as ordered. Sometime that night, three British ships sailed past the possum called the Providence. Once Rathbun was sure they were long past his ship, he simply said, “Make sail,” and they headed for Abaco.

  Rathbun spent two days there, resupplying the Providence before making for New Providence, sailing into Nassau harbor the night of January 27. Once again he ordered the sails lowered, while Trevett’s marines assisted the carpenter in building a scaling ladder. By midnight the sloop was a mile from Fort Nassau.

  One of the twenty-six “lambs” that Trevett had handpicked for this action approached him. The marine had recently gone lame from some mishap at sea. Worried that he might endanger the mission, he told Trevett, “I can’t run.” Trevett lifted the man’s spirits. “You are the Man I would choose,” he said, and sent him into the longboat. With muffled oars, the Americans rowed to the beach. The failure or success of this venture was in their hands now.

  Once ashore, they made their way up through the thickets towards the fort, where they came to a high picket fence. Trevett recalled it well; he had removed some of the pickets two years earlier. He found it just as he had left it, and led his men through to an embrasure where they could hear British sentries chatting along the ramparts. Suddenly one of the guards cried, “All’s well,” soon echoed by the sentinel aboard the Mary. For what seemed an interminable length of time, Trevett’s men waited until the sentries had moved farther down the walls. Taking their ladder, they scaled the wall.

  They were just inside the fort when Trevett bumped into a guard. Seizing him by the collar, Trevett shoved him into a barracks doorway. “For God’s sake,” the startled man cried, “what have I done?” After he told Trevett that there was only one other sentry, Trevett pushed him inside and went after the other one, who informed him that while they were the only two guards, five hundred men were just a holler away. The marines passed by one loaded 18-pounder, and long, lighted matches, their burning ends easy to see in the darkness. While one marine took up the call “All is well” on the half hour (answered blithely by the Mary’s sentinel), Trevett sent some marines to the powder magazine to fill powder cartridges while others pointed the guns towards the streets and the nearby ships in the harbor.

  To the amazement of the townsfolk, sunrise found the American flag flying over Fort Nassau, her guns all manned by green-coated American marines. Trevett sent a flag of truce—not to the governor’s mansion but to the home of James Gould, a merchant and resident of Rhode Island. Recognizing Trevett, Gould immediately began peppering him with questions about the size of the American fleet and its whereabouts. Trevett answered his questions directly and disingenuously: Biddle’s Charleston fleet was lying off Abaco; the Providence was in Nassau harbor to take the Mary and her goods; and Trevett’s marines needed breakfast.

  His bluff worked. Gould sent enough bread, bacon, and coffee to feed a garrison. Trevett sent two marines to see the commandant of Fort Montague and inform him that 230 Americans (204 more than the truth) were in possession of Fort Nassau. He, too, surrendered. A detachment of marines was sent to spike the fort’s guns and throw its powder into the harbor. When the Mary’s second officer—the captain was ill—refused to admit Trevett’s boarding party to board, he got as coarse and threatening as a marine can get. This, coupled with a slew of 18-pounders looking down at the ship, changed the officer’s mind.

  The only thing missing in this great military bluff was the Providence—nowhere to be seen. Contrary winds sent her out of sight of the fort during the night. Her absence might have alarmed another officer, but not Trevett. Instead, he asked that a turtle lunch be provided his men. It was. As they ate, the Providence sailed into the harbor just ahead of a large British privateer, the Gayton, Captain William Chambers—more than a match for Rathbun’s little sloop. But the intrepid Trevett was ready, and he fired a salvo at the British ship. One cannonball struck her, sending Chambers into full retreat.

  Two days passed before the Mary and two other ships were ready to depart with the Providence. When word reached Rathbun that Chambers was landing his men to make a night attack, he decided to leave before his luck ran out. The marines spiked Fort Nassau’s guns, those ships not going with Rathbun were burnt, and Trevett finished his work on the island with one last gesture. Taking three unopened casks of rice from the fort, he ordered it distributed to the poor. Scores of indigent residents came with baskets and bags, while a laughing Trevett informed them it was Banyon Day—the meatless weekday for sailors.

  As Trevett climbed into the Providence’s barge with the other marines, a messenger from Captain Chambers asked if he would join the captain at Mrs. Bunches Tavern on the waterfront, with the promise of “no mischief.” Mischief having described Trevett’s stay, he declined; if the captain “would Come over the Bar and take the Sloop Providence then I would take Some Punch with Him,” Trevett replied. Then he was off.78

  With his prizes sailing alongside and his crew near giddy over their success, Rathbun headed for New England, after accomplishing a feat that would have been totally unbelievable were it a piece of fiction.79

  As the Providence departed on its uncertain enterprise, Nicholas Biddle returned to his chores regarding the Randolph. He and South Carolina president John Rutledge had decided what ships of the state navy would sail with his frigate: the General Moultrie, the Notre Dame, the Fair American, and the Polly. They would clear the coast of British warships and privateers that were picking off merchantmen with no concern for repercussions. Men from two of thes
e ships, the frigates Carrysfort and Perseus, frequently snuck into town to be sheltered by the sizable contingent of Loyalists, who fed them both a home-cooked meal and the latest military information before they stealthily returned to their ships before sunrise.80

  Biddle saw the mission as a chance to command a squadron similar in size to Esek Hopkins’s two years earlier. The similarities did not stop there, thanks to a family connection—the General Moultrie’s captain was his brother, Charles. Nicholas was becoming as attached to Charleston as he was to Philadelphia, not only because of his fiancée, Elizabeth Baker, but also because of the way the townsfolk had adopted both Biddle and his crew. He saw clearing the coast of British warships as an opportunity to repay them for their kindness.81

  The day after meeting with Rathbun and Trevett, Biddle visited an attorney to make out his will. Recent cruises had made the young captain fairly rich, and his approaching wedding was enough for him to consider getting his affairs in order. In November he was stricken with a fever “that laid Violent hands upon me” at the same time the Randolph was being careened. Typically, he “felt much more concern on account of the Ship than for My own Safety.” The will provided £25,000 pounds for Elizabeth, and the remainder of his estate to his mother. Now he was ready to face the British.82

  However, the Randolph was the only ship in readiness; it would be weeks—“the next spring Tides” was the latest deadline—before her consorts were able to sail. The delay forced a change in captains. Charles had been offered command of a privateer sailing out of New Bern, North Carolina, ready to embark immediately. Younger brother consented, and command of the General Moultrie was given to Philip Sullivan.

  Charles had not yet departed on January 15, when he was roused from sleep at four a.m. by screaming and church bells. Charleston was afire, the blaze set by British sailors and their Tory friends in a backhouse or kitchen near the waterfront. Strong winds carried the flames from house to house until all southwest Charleston was burning. Charles ran into the street to the sight of a woman engulfed in flames. Sailors from the Randolph joined the soldiers and citizenry in trying to put out the fire, but there was not enough water—unlike Philadelphia, Charleston did not have enough fire engines. More than 250 homes and businesses were destroyed. The fire was not extinguished until the following evening. It was so cold that the water thrown on the roofs of the remaining homes formed icicles along the eaves.83