“We will put the other two boats overboard, and the mates will issue hand weapons to each man in the boarding parties and the prize crews. Mister Hardy will captain one of the prizes, and Mister Dickerson the other. The first two boats will move quietly into the fleet and pick a likely prize; the second two will do the same, and each must pick a vessel close to the edge of the formation. You will have to determine where the escort lies and naturally, choose targets as far from it, or them, should there be more than one, as possible, and practical. Bosun Dobson will go with the first two along with Hardy, and Mister Biggs and Mister Dickerson will be in charge of the last two. Once the ships are taken, fire a rocket aloft. And be on your guard for any attempt to retake the ships. As soon as the wind returns, the prize captains will shape a course, first out of the formation by the shortest route, and then for Gloucester or Salem. Once we have evaded, or dispatched the escort, we will attempt to relieve the English of more of their vessels, and then shall point our bow toward Salem. Mister Tompkins, see to getting the two yawls launched, if you please, and Biggs, Dobson, Dickerson and Hardy join me on the quarterdeck. Now let us get to our work and do what we set out to.” He watched the men, and seeing them about to shout out a cheer, held his hands aloft, and then placed his finger in front of his lips. The cheer died in their throats, and the silence was unbroken.
“Gentlemen, you must understand that the only chance this task has for success is surprise, and that means quiet – absolute silence. The oars will be wrapped in all the boats, and of course there will be no talking or calling between the boats. While the men will have pistols and muskets, I suggest that to use them will not only draw attention to our effort but, in all likelihood, will cause it to fail. The firearms are to be used as a last resort only, even after you have successfully taken your prizes. It would be particularly pleasant if we could sail their ships out from under their very noses without their even noticing. You will be on your own and, without the wind, I will be unable to assist should you find yourselves in difficulty. Be forewarned. Do you have any questions?”
Rogers waited, looking from one to the other in silence as they absorbed their instructions. Like many other endeavors, the greatest glory usually came with the greatest risk, and this would most assuredly carry a large dollop of risk!
It was approaching that point in the afternoon when dark should be falling – except that the initial change was barely perceptible as the day itself had never really brightened – when the second pair of boats put off from the privateer brig. Isaac and Prize Captain Dickerson watched the first boats disappear into the still falling snow. While they and Bosun’s Mate Dobson had agreed on courses to steer and that Dobson’s boats would try to locate the escort, there would have been a certain comfort in moving toward the hostile fleet with the boats in sight of one another.
The great tightening in his stomach and his inability to swallow made Isaac realize the importance of what was happening; that for the first time, he, Isaac Biggs of Marblehead, Massachusetts, was temporarily in command of an operation that was to be self-reliant and important to the success of the mission as a whole. Captain Rogers had made it very clear to the crews that the bosun’s mate and third mate were to be responsible for finding and taking the prizes, and the prize captains for getting them safely to a friendly port. He became aware of a trickle of sweat coursing down his back and noted that, inside his gloves, his hands were clammy in spite of the cold.
Comforted by the knowledge that he had done as much as he could to ensure the success of his first “command,” he got on with the business at hand. He had picked his men carefully; Ben Stone and Tight-Fisted Smith were both in his crew, in fact both were in his own boat. He knew he could count on them if – or more likely when – things began to get hot. And fortunately, he did not have to issue orders in the boat – at least not for a while.
The other twenty-five men split between the two boats were, for the most part, privateersmen of some experience, with only two landsmen, or “first-timers,” included. All were armed with cutlasses, pistols, knives, and a few half-pikes and axes added for good measure. All had been carefully instructed regarding the use of their firearms and on the importance of quiet to the success of their effort. To insure that the boats did not become separated in the thick snow, a line of some forty feet was run between them. On they moved toward the English fleet, the heavily falling snow effectively muffling the creak and groan of the already muffled oars and the stirring of the men as they eased their positions on the unforgiving thwarts.
One of the men in his boat pointed over the side, and Isaac looked down at the water in time to see a small collection of garbage, mostly foodstuffs, drifting by their boat. He smiled. And managed to swallow.
“Avast pullin’, men,” Isaac whispered to his crew, and one of the men tugged hard on the line joining them to the other boat, signaling them to stop as well. He peered into the whiteness ahead of the boat. As they coasted to a stop, the dark shape of a ship loomed dimly, ghostlike in the snow. He watched as the sides of the ship appeared and held up his hand to have the rowers back-water slightly to stop the drift of the boat.
“I haven’t any notion of where in the fleet we are,” he whispered to Ezra Dickerson, sitting near at hand, “but that sure don’t look like a man o’ war to me. Let’s get us a trifle closer…pull easy now.” He steered the boat to starboard, trying to get around the stern of the ship so he could study it more closely.
“Ain’t real big, that’s for sure,” one of the men, he thought it might be Ben Stone, whispered. “Don’t look like no man o’ war I ever seen. What do ya think? Should we try this one?”
Isaac continued to study what he could see of the ship. Stone was right; she didn’t appear to be large, and from what he could make out through the densely falling snow and deepening darkness, there didn’t seem to be gun ports – at least around the quarterdeck, and for the few feet forward of that that he could see. He looked questioningly at Dickerson and saw the prize captain nod.
“Pull the other boat alongside.” Biggs waited as the second boat of his little “squadron” ghosted into position alongside his boat, and spoke to the sailor who was coxswaining it.
“We’ll see ‘bout this one. You lads go up for’ard and climb up under the bowsprit. We’ll go aboard from the transom, and meet at the waist. ‘Member, no shootin’ – use your cutlasses and pikes. Any crew you find, either kill ‘em or drive ‘em aft or below. We’ll give you a count of two hundred afore we go aboard. That’ll give you time to get up to the chains and aboard. Good luck.”
Davies, coxswain of the other boat, waved his hand in acknowledgment and motioned to his crew to wet their oars. Biggs and the men in his boat watched as their mates disappeared silently into the snow, an apparition here one minute and gone the next. Isaac began to count slowly, giving the others time to get into position at the bows of the merchantman, as his own crew back-watered their oars and slid the boat into a position well under the counter of the British ship.
Moving with complete silence now, Biggs placed his boat just under the windows in the quarter gallery of the British merchantman; they were about six feet over his head. He reached out his hand and, signaling his bowman to do the same, he grabbed onto a convenient handhold on the looming stern. The boat was positioned so it would be virtually invisible from the deck, and only if someone opened a stern window and leaned out would the boat be seen. Isaac figured that that was unlikely, given the weather. He waited as he continued to count to two hundred and, giving the time a few extra heartbeats, motioned to his men to follow as he began climbing up the counter of the ship, avoiding the quarter gallery windows and the risk of untimely discovery. He sent up a short prayer that the other boat was in position and also beginning their assault. Isaac led the men up to the stern taffrail in absolute silence.
They paused on his signal, as first just their eyes and then their heads cleared the rail, and Isaac peered through the gloom and snow at
the quarterdeck. What he saw pleased him; the helmsman was standing by the wheel, lost in thought, likely about warmer climes or soft young ladies in soft feather beds, and facing forward, and the mate – or at least what Biggs assumed was the mate – was leaning on the bulwark, thoughtfully exploring the inner workings of his nose. The men watched amused as he dug his finger into his nose, first the left side and then the right, examining each find with an intense interest, before flicking them over the side or wiping them on his sleeve.
Tight-Fisted Smith, watching the scene in front of them, didn’t just smile at Isaac; he bared his teeth in a leer that might put one in mind of a wolf admiring a flock of sheep. At a nod from Biggs, Smith stepped carefully and silently over the bulwark and, with the snow muffling his move, crept up behind the mate of the watch while another of the crew moved to within arm’s reach of the unsuspecting helmsman. Simultaneously each stroked a belaying pin across the skull of the man in front of him and was rewarded with not only a hollow thud but also with the complete and sudden unconsciousness of his victim. The rest of the American crew moved onto the quarterdeck now and Biggs cast a glance forward looking for the other half of his team.
A dim shape Isaac took for Cox’n Davies waved from the foc’s’le as he moved his men aft; so far no one had given an alarm. He stationed two men on the quarterdeck with prize captain Dickerson to mind the helm and give the appearance of normalcy, motioning the others to move forward to secure the waist and meet up with Davies’ men heading aft. He watched for a moment while the sailors began to ease their way forward and, satisfied that his plan was being carried out, Isaac dropped down the scuttle to the main cabin, seeking the vessel’s master.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the lower deck, he saw a door slightly ajar which appeared to lead aft. Pushing it silently open, Isaac stepped through. The British captain sat at a writing table, intent on a chart spread out before him. A lantern hung to one side, throwing long shadows over the room, and a candle flickered on his table. He did not look up as Biggs entered.
“Yes, Mister Spencer? ‘Ave you a breeze of wind to report?” He looked up, confusion showing on his face as he saw a stranger standing before him, a pistol in his hand. His eyes darted from the intruder to the door, as if expecting the mate to appear. “You’re not Spencer. What is the meaning of this? Where is Spencer, and who in bloody ‘ell are you?”
“Good evenin’, Cap’n. If Spencer was recently on the quarterdeck, he is still there, I’d reckon, and resting quietly. I am Isaac Biggs, third of the American privateer General Washington. I have taken your ship. My men are topside securin’ your crew right now. I will place a man in your cabin to ensure you come to no harm, and as soon as the breeze returns, we will sail your ship to an American port. Please don’t do nothin’ stupid, as it will only cause me or one o’ the others to shoot you.”
“This is an outrage! How dare you? This is a British vessel under the protection of the Royal Navy. HMS Shannon, a frigate of thirty-eight guns, is likely within cannon-shot of us and will most certainly get wind of this unconscionable act of piracy. You will surely not get away with this, and the consequences will be right harsh, I assure you. However you got here, leave by the same conveyance and it is likely that nothing further will come of it, since this beastly weather will delay Shannon of learning of your American buccaneering, but should you delay, sir, I…”
“Enough, Cap’n. We ain’t leavin’. You and your crew will be put ashore and sent to a British port when our cap’n says. Right now, I’m in charge here.” Biggs turned and called quietly to one of his men, who appeared in the doorway. “Stay here with Cap’n – ‘scuse me, Cap’n. I don’t know your name, or the name of your vessel.”
“I am Gregory Stephens, and my ship is the Hopewell, of Portsmouth. And I assure you, sir, you will most assuredly not get away with this outrage. Shannon will be on you before you can sail a league.”
Unfazed by the outburst and bluster, Biggs continued instructing his sailor: “Stay here with Cap’n Stephens, and don’t let him out of his cabin. If he tries, shoot him.”
“Aye, Mister Biggs. I can do that, an’ make no mistake. The boys topside pretty well got things took care of on deck.”
As if to add emphasis to the sailor’s point, the three men heard a most distinct scream. It came from on deck, and was followed by a string of curses and the sound of a scuffle. Biggs turned to the door, heading for the source of the problem.
“Thank you. I will see for my own self right quick. Cap’n, you stay here, if you please, and don’t give this man any cause to shoot you. I’ll be topside.” With that he left the cabin and the dismayed captain and his guard could hear his footsteps on the ladder leading to the deck.
When he stepped out into the snow, Isaac was gratified to see that his men had followed their instructions; he had heard no shots fired, and the men under Davies had moved what British crewmen they encountered into the waist with the watchstanders already there. Several of the boarding party were watching them, cutlasses and pistols in their hands. His glance at the quarterdeck was rewarded with a wave from Dickerson, reassuring him that all was still well aft. The only indication of the scuffle he had heard while below was blood flecked snow leading to a large red stain near the pin rail of the mainmast, and one of the British seaman holding a rag to his side while uttering a quiet string of curses. Blood ran from between his fingers, and Isaac stepped toward the man to check his wound.
“Nothin’ serious, Mister Biggs; likely only a flesh wound. Fellow thought his fists were a fair match for a cutlass and Jack here had to teach him some manners. Reckon he’ll live.” One of the General Washingtons guarding the British crew waved his cutlass menacingly at his charges while he spoke.
Davies and Smith, having secured the mate and helmsman, both still unconscious, were below rounding up the off-watch Britishers and herding them into the hold. Smith shortly appeared on deck, a smile on his face and a cutlass in his hand. There was blood on the sword.
“I’m thinkin’ we gots ‘em all, Mister Biggs. They was one or two what had a problem with our taking they’s ship, but we took care o’ that.” He looked tellingly at his cutlass, and continued. “Davies checked they’s cargo; looks like a lot of uniforms and such, but they’s a score an’ more o’ barrels o’ spirits into the bargain. Said somethin’ ‘bout rifles an’ powder too, but I cain’t rightly ‘member what he said ‘bout ‘em. Now all’s we be needin’ is a breeze o’ wind to get the barky asailin’. Not a bad prize she looks, you ask me.”
Since no shots had been fired and the visibility was still barely one hundred feet, Biggs felt it unlikely that they had been seen from any other ship, and he was quite certain that the escort was unaware of the change in ownership on one of their charges. As Smith had said, all they needed was wind and their prize would soon be on her way to a friendly port. They had but to wait and maintain the appearance that nothing had changed aboard.
Still, the snow continued to fall, though it appeared that it might be letting up a trifle, and the flakes swirled more often, leading them to believe that a breeze might be coming sooner rather than later. It was unusual for the wind to stay this calm for as long as it had, especially in late February in these waters.
“You want to fire this rocket now, Mister Biggs?” Tight-Fisted Smith was holding the rocket they had brought from General Washington to let Captain Rogers know their efforts had been successful.
“Let’s check with Cap’n Dickerson, Smith, but were it up to me, I’d wait ‘til this snow eases some; I doubt anyone on the General could see it now anyway.” Biggs was staring intently into the whiteness, looking for nearby vessels and, most importantly, the Royal Navy escort. A rocket now might be seen by His Majesty’s officers if the escort was even moderately close by and paying attention to their charges. While the lack of wind would likely prevent them doing anything about the capture, it would also prevent Captain Rogers from helping the American prize crew. Dickerson agre
ed; they would wait.
* * * * * *
“Aye, a close one it was. Thought those damn Brits were gonna take us, sure. Cap’n had us at quarters right through it all, but neither us nor them fired a shot. Don’t reckon we was close enough for a shot to tell, an’ that little schooner was the onliest one what might have gotten into the thin water where we was. I guess even our crew coulda had them without no problem.” Jake Tate and some of his fellow topmen, including Robert Coleman, were sitting in a tavern in Gosport regaling the publican with the story of how Constellation happened to be anchored off Fort Norfolk, and had been for the past week and more.
“So after you towed her onto the bar, you towed her off with the tide, and then sailed here. You ain’t the first what’s taken the ground out yonder, and I don’t reckon you’ll be the last. Ain’t catched a Brit on it yet, though we’re hopin’.” The tavern keeper was smiling at his patrons and pouring ale for them. Business had been good of late, what with half the Chesapeake fleet blockaded in Norfolk or Gosport, and he could afford to buy newcomers the occasional tankard. “Jeremiah Gallant makes hisself a fair livin’ pilotin’ vessels into Norfolk; piloted more’n a few off’n that bar yonder when the captains didn’t figger to need his services. Probably knows these waters better’n anyone livin’ or dead; he bin sailin’ ‘em since he was a boy an’ ain’t no bar out there he cain’t smell. Sailed the deeps for fifteen an’ more years afore the war started, and happy to be back home now, sailin’ what he calls the ‘trickiest water ‘tween Boston an’ Charleston’. No sir, ain’t none better – leastaways, not ‘round here.”
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 8
