A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy

by William White

Coleman nodded, and added, “Aye, and we’d agree with that. Nasty thin, that out there.”

  “You on that frigate too, young fella? You sound like you might be English…”

  The tavern keeper’s thought was interrupted by the sudden gust of wind and cold which blew in through the open door. With it, like she was blown in by the wind, followed what appeared to be a young woman, wrapped in a heavy cloak and muffler. The door slammed and the figure stopped; she threw off the muffler, shaking out long auburn hair which cascaded in waves over her shoulders as she looked around the tavern, mostly empty at this early hour. The action was completely natural, unpresumptious, and gave an indication as to the upbringing of the young woman. “Would you ‘ave a look at that, lads,” Coleman observed quietly, and the men at the table looked appreciatively at her.

  As her eyes adapted to the dim light, she spied them sitting at the far table, the tavern keeper standing next to them and, under full sail, headed directly for them. Her spectacular green eyes were hard as flint and her gaze never wavered from the men at the table.

  “Oh lordy. I got trouble now.” Jake cast nervous eyes around the room and made to rise from his seat as the woman altered course to head directly for him. There was nowhere to run.

  “Chauncey Tate, you scoundrel! You can not run from me. They told me you’d be here and they certainly were right. I might have known you’d be in a place like this, hiding in the dark like some wicked animal.”

  “Chauncey? Chauncey?” Coleman couldn’t believe his ears. “I thought you said your name was ‘Jake’.” He laughed, seeing the sheer terror on his shipmate’s face. That Coleman knew, and soon most of his other shipmates as well would know, his real name was the least of Tate’s problems; the real difficulty was firing chain and grape shot at him from close aboard and showed no sign of offering quarter. Another broadside was coming. He looked around again for an escape and, seeing none, slumped down in his chair, beaten. Maybe seeing that, she’d offer terms. The young woman now stood over him, ignoring his mates at the table, while the publican retreated to his cage, watching from the safety of the bars he stood behind.

  “Chauncey Tate, you ran off on me! Never would I have thought you’d go and join the Navy. Why, we had plans to marry – and you were going to stay with me in Baltimore. What got into you? Why’d you disappear on me like that?” The woman paused for breath, and Tate looked at her, and suddenly the fearless topman was transformed into a boy caught up by his parents in a tale. He smiled hopefully at her.

  “Charity, darlin’, I had planned on comin’ back to you, soon’s I got some prize money together. Then I’da stayed ashore with you, just like you wanted me to. But I had to get to sea to get me some money, and they wasn’t no merchants what could get out, what with the blockade an’ all. Now it don’t look like I’m gonna be getting outta here to catch some prizes anytime soon, neither. You shouldn’t have come all the way down here. Ain’t no place fit for you here, an’ I’m on the frigate Constellation. I don’t know…”

  “I know very well where you are, Chauncey; I’ve already been to the ship. It was the men on the ship who told me where I’d likely find you – an officer, I believe it was to whom I spoke. However, it was not he who told me you’d be in this dreadful place; I recall a Mister Conoughy it was who mentioned it to me. I had a most difficult time understanding him at first, so strong was his accent, but eventually he made me understand I would likely find you and your friends in this place. Fortunately, the little boat which sailed me out to the ship waited and brought me back to the shore, then I made my way here. I have gone to a great amount of trouble to find you, Chauncey, and am most disappointed that you do not appear happy to see me.

  “It ain’t I’m not happy to see you here, Charity, it’s just that this ain’t no place for a lady like yourself, an’ I got to be gettin’ back to the ship. It’s likely that we’ll be leavin’ Gosport right soon, and I cain’t take you back up to Baltimore as I got to be aboard the ship an’ you don’t want to be stayin’ here without no one to look after you an’ I cain’t be doin’…”

  “You said that already, Chauncey – several times in fact. I think you have made it quite clear that you are running off like a coward from obligations that any real man would certainly face up to. I shall return to Baltimore by the same conveyance in which I arrived and I am sure that Papa will have something to say to Secretary of the Navy Jones about your most disagreeable conduct.” Her green eyes shining, Charity whirled about, tossed her glorious auburn mane and, without so much as a backwards glance, flew across the room and out the door, securing her muffler over her head and shoulders en route, and slamming the door behind her.

  In the ringing silence she left in her wake, the men, including sailors who each had seen their share of terror, and a publican who had stopped more brawls than he cared to remember, could only stare at one another and blink. Finally Coleman let out the breath he had been holding – apparently for some time – and spoke. His delight at his shipmate’s discomfort readily apparent.

  “So that’s Charity. Well…Chauncey, I’d warrant there’s more to this story than we just seen…Chauncey. ‘Ow ‘bout it, you gonna tell us the whole tale now? I reckon you ain’t gonna be able to keep the lid on this one for long.” Coleman was clearly enjoying the moment as much as Tate wasn’t. The other men laughed – as much in relief as amusement – and sat back to listen.

  The tavern keeper had returned and with the prospect of a good yarn, was standing again by the table, brimming tankards in hand for each of the men. As he set them on the table, the door slammed open yet again, causing him to start and, in the process, upsetting both. The spilled ale seemed to be forgotten as the men braced for another onslaught from the severely vexed Charity. But it was not her.

  It was Tim Conoughy, petty officer and gun captain of the U.S. Navy frigate Constellation. He stopped inside the door as had his predecessor, his eyes adapting to the gloom of the room. He visibly brightened as he saw his mates at the table and headed toward them.

  “Jake, you got to be gettin’ yerself outta ‘ere lad; they’s a young miss what’s ‘eadin’ right ‘ere lookin’ for ya. I got ‘ere quick as ever I could, but I’d warrant she’ll be blowin’ in any minute. Get yerself outta that chair, lad, and I’ll take ya back to the frigate.” Conoughy grabbed Tate by the arm and started to pull him up. Coleman stood and spoke to his friend.

  “You’re late by ‘alf a glass, Tim. She’s already fired both broadsides at poor young Chauncey ‘ere, and at the rate she was movin’ I’d reckon she’s ‘alf way to Baltimore by now.”

  “Chauncey? It’s young Jake I’m lookin’ to save. Who’s Chauncey?” He looked from Coleman to Tate and the other topmen to the tavern keeper. Suddenly, his face split into a grin and he grabbed Tate’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Chauncey. Knew a young fella looked sorta like you what went by ‘Jake’. Could be your brother, I’d reckon.”

  The expression on Jake’s face never changed; it gave no indication that he even heard the gunner – or his fellow topman. He sat, still stunned. Finally he looked at the new arrival, then the smiling faces of his mates including Coleman, and then the tavern keeper. He stood up. “I got to get meself outta here right quick.” He seemed oblivious to the ale which was all over the front of his trousers and shirt.

  “Reckon leavin’ now won’t be much ‘elp to you, lad, since your lady friend’s already been and gone. So sit you down, and listen to what I got to tell you. Might be just what you need to set you righty-oh again.” Conoughy had pulled up a chair and grabbed a tankard from the fresh ones brought by the publican. He grabbed young Tate’s sleeve and roughly sat him down again.

  “Earlier this afternoon, afore your young miss come aboard an’ raised the ruckus, Mister Clements come to me and a few of the lads tellin’ of a plan what Cap’n Stewart cooked up. We might get you and us outta this place right under the noses of them Royal Navy bastards out there.
Clements said the cap’n been ordered by the head cove o’ the Navy to get hold of a pilot schooner – we could get us one o’ them sharp built vessels like ol’ Glory – and get through them frigates and third rates out there. ‘Sposed to warn any American vessels we spy that the entrance to the Bay’s closed up tighter than a whale’s arse, an’ to make for somewhere…I forget where ‘e said, but somewhere up north, it was. ‘E asked me if’n I wanted to go an’ who else might be in the crew. Word aboard is that Constellation ain’t goin’ nowhere an’ Clements said he ‘eard Lieutenant Lyon talking ‘bout transferrin’ most o’ the lads off.”

  Jake looked at the Irishman, his face completely blank. It didn’t seem to signify. Then the impact of what he had been told hit him; his face lit up like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “When do you think we’ll get us outta here? Did you tell Mister Clements I should be on that schooner? What if Charity’s still here…her Papa’s important up yonder in Baltimore and could make me come back up there. Tim, you gotta get me into that crew. It’s my onliest chance to get outta here.” Jake’s words ran together like an unbroken line of waves crashing one after another on a shoreline. The Irish gunner laughed.

  “Ye’ll be wantin’ to ease your sheets some there, Chauncey me boyo. I’d reckon Mister Clements’ll ‘ave room for you. But ‘e ain’t gonna be in charge; nosiree, he’s only a warrant. Mister Midshipman Blanchard, ‘e’s gonna be skipper o’ the vessel, but I’d collect that Mister Clements’ll be busy as ever ‘e might be tellin’ ‘im what to do!”

  “We got to get us back aboard right quick and…oh, lordy, what if she’s out there awaitin’ on me to come out? Robert, poke your head out there and check for me. Gettin’ on that schooner looks like the onliest way I got to save meself from…” Jake didn’t finish the sentence; he just shook his head, clearing an unpleasant image.

  “Aye, Chauncey. I’ll just ‘ave me a looksee out yonder. Course she might be ‘idin’ round the corner, she might. Just waitin’ to grab you as we walk by, an’ drag you off to Papa and ‘Secretary of the Navy Jones’!” Coleman laughed and stood to leave, followed by Conoughy, who hastily threw down the remnants of his pint of ale. Cautiously, Tate brought up the rear, but stopped short of the door as Coleman opened and peered into the gathering dusk.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The storm was ferocious and would be remembered by the locals as one of the worst of the decade. The wind drove the tops of the powerful waves into the air, giving the horizontal rain a curiously brackish taste as it stung the faces of anyone unfortunate enough to be outside. The low sky filled as racing, heavy clouds roiled and tumbled in from seaward, its tone matching that of the sea and Chesapeake Bay. Waves crashed on the shoreline, their white spray and foam the only bright relief in the monochromatic gray of the late afternoon in early March.

  As the surf pounded Cape Henry and spilled huge rollers into the entrance of the Bay and beyond into Hampton Roads, a small schooner-rigged vessel, shortened down to a few scraps of canvas, staggered out from behind the lee of Cape Charles and into the maw of the storm.

  “I don’t reckon them Brits’ll be any too anxious to be out here lookin’ for the likes of us’n, Mister Blanchard. You likely can set your mind at ease ‘bout that.” Warrant Bosun Clements smiled as he shouted through the storm into the face of the young midshipman who clung desperately with both hands to the windward main backstay. The water, a mix of rain and salt, dripped off his eyelashes and nose; wiping them would require him to let go of the backstay. A deluge of the same mixture was pouring down his collar, adding cold and wet clothes to his misery. Jonas Blanchard had been the senior midshipman on the Constellation and was now in command of this pilot schooner, commandeered by Captain Stewart to sail out and warn any American vessels they saw about the tightened blockade. The bosun’s words, if indeed the young captain even heard them, did little to ameliorate his abject fear; never in his short career as a sea-going man had he experienced anything like this. It would be only through divine intervention if they survived this holocaust of raging seas and wind. Never mind the British; they were the least of his worries now. Blanchard remained mute, but it did register in his mind that Clements and some of the other men on this little cockleshell seemed unconcerned about the weather; in fact they seemed to welcome it as a guaranty that the British ships which had effectively closed the Bay would be off station, allowing the American ship to slip through the cordon unnoticed. The storm, along with the rapidly falling darkness, would cloak the little schooner in invisibility, and it seemed likely to most of the seafaring men aboard that as long as this worst of Mother Nature didn’t sink them, it was reasonable that the British blockaders wouldn’t.

  They cleared the Cape and, as the full fury of the storm-driven seas met their sharp bows, Clements again put his face close to his captain’s. ‘‘I’d suggest that mebbe a lookout aloft for’ard might be a worthy pursuit, Mister Blanchard. No tellin’ what we might find out yonder, an’ surely better to see them afore they see us’n. I can take care of it for you if you wish, sir, seein’ as how you’re a mite busy right now.”

  The midshipman’s only concern at the moment was ensuring that no one or nothing caused him to release his grip on the windward backstay. He looked at Clements, at firstnot comprehending his words. Finally the words sank in and he nodded, opening his mouth to speak. Unfortunately, his dinner rather than words came out and, since Bosun Clements was directly to leeward of the young man, he received most of Jonas’ offering. Clements’ face darkened briefly, then split into a grin as he wiped the front of his tarpaulin coat with his sleeve.

  “You just stay here, sir. You might consider moving to the leeward side ifn you feel that comin’ on again.” He smiled and added, “or you might go below,” knowing that the smells and close atmosphere of the lower deck would surely inspire the midshipman to even greater levels of seasickness. Blanchard nodded again, but remained stationary, and Clements left the quarterdeck, following the lifeline forward.

  No sooner had a lookout taken up a tenuous position in the fore crosstrees than a hail faintly reached the deck. “Deck…two p’ints ta wind’ard…one…this way…” The words blew away before they reached the deck, but Robert Coleman, topman, heard most of them and waved at the quarterdeck to get Clements’ attention. He pointed to windward and jumped into the weather shrouds, heading aloft himself.

  “Looks like it might be a brig, but ain’t no flag I can see. She’s makin’ ‘eavy weather of it, like us. Looks like she’s lost a fore topmast and the yard. She’s runnin’ off afore it, ‘bout a league off. Likely she’ll pass astern, and busy enough so’s they might not even see us.” Coleman thought for a moment, then added, “And if’n they did see us, I don’t reckon they’s much what they could do ‘bout us. ‘Pears they got they’s hands full without addin’ a little schooner to they’s worries.”

  Clements nodded and ordered the schooner hardened up some, taking the waves more on the bow, but hopefully lessening the likelihood they’d be seen by the brig. He grabbed the rail to steady himself as a green wave rushed down the deck, knocking two men off their feet and continuing on to the quarterdeck. The water swirled around the feet of the watch before running off the leeward side of the deck taking with it anything loose. Midshipman Blanchard groaned and tightened his grip on the backstay.

  The brig, still showing no colors and shortened to a reefed main tops’l. was now visible from the deck and, true to Coleman’s report, her fore topmast and the tops’l yard swayed drunkenly over the leeward side of the vessel. There were men aloft obviously working as best they could at freeing the dangerous spars before they did more damage to the ship. It was apparent she was running for the protection from wind and seas offered by Cape Charles and had no interest in the schooner heading out, if indeed the brig’s crew even noticed it, being as busy with their own problems as they were. The unknown vessel passed comfortably astern of the Americans, and they continued on into the deepening night and t
he raging storm.

  By morning, most of the worst had passed, and while a large sea was still running, the wind had abated and the schooner was showing jibs, a reefed fores’l, and a full main. They had made some southing and tacked at sunrise to gain a further margin of open water between themselves and the British blockade. And Midshipman Blanchard was over the worst of his seasickness. He had not left the deck all night, knowing that to be below would be more than his heaving stomach could stand. Jack Clements handed him a pewter cup half filled with strong coffee.

  “Drink this down, sir. It’ll likely fix you up jest fine. Gonna be a fine day, good breeze and once she backs around to the nor’west, we’ll be seein’ flatter seas.” The acting first smiled at the young man. The color had returned to Blanchard’s face and he no longer found it necessary to maintain his grip on the backstay.

  “Thank you, Mister Clements. I’ll expect I’ll be able to get a sun line presently and work out a latitude for us. We must have made a fair piece to the south during the storm. I collect you have sent lookouts aloft?” A nod from the former bosun indicated he was still ahead of the younger man, but his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at the midshipman’s return to command. Clements turned and headed forward to oversee repairs to the minor storm damage the schooner had sustained in the early morning hours. He passed the gunner, Tim Conoughy, checking the vessel’s single four-pounder cannon lashed down amidships.

  “Everything righty-oh with your toy gun, Tim? Surely glad that little fellow was lashed tight last night; woulda made a hell of a mess she’da broke loose.”

  “Aye, Mister Clements. ‘Pears she weathered that recent bit o’ unpleasantness just fine, by me lights. I was just awonderin’ now we’re out, where’re we gonna get us back in? I mean, if we’re out ‘ere to tell other vessels ‘bout the blockade, what’re we tellin’ ‘em ‘bout where to go?”