The young landsman returned with the American flag he had been sent to fetch and stepped to the halyard, looking over his shoulder at Dickerson. Ezra looked at the frigate, the General and his own position, and waved at the sailor; the British flag started down to the deck and, within a few seconds, was replaced by the American flag, whipping tautly in the strengthening breeze.
“Wonder what them coves be thinkin’ now, Isaac. They’s surely between the devil and the deep blue sea now, they are by the Awmighty.” He studied the positions of the various elements in this ballet of ships, then turned forward and raised his voice. “Mister Hogan. Stand by your matches and make your shots count. You ain’t gonna get but one try at this; I aim to tack away almost at once you’ve fired.”
The gunner waved from the ship’s waist, and Biggs and the prize master could see a lit slow match in his hand. The men at the guns were peering over the bulwark and through the gun ports, watching the stern of the frigate grow larger as Hopewell bore down on her. What they couldn’t see was the privateer about to cross the British bows at rifle shot range. Dickerson eased his helm a trifle to close the distance at which he would fire his puny broadside.
“I think they’ve noticed our colors, Ezra.” Isaac had the glass trained on the quarterdeck of the frigate and the flurry of activity there seemed to him a clear indication that the officers on Tenedos had realized that they were about suffer a raking fire from both forward and aft.
“Aye, I ‘spect they might have. I aim to tack quick as possible after we fire, Isaac, so git your men aloft soon as they ain’t needed at the guns. This could get a trifle ugly here in a moment or so.”
They watched the General Washington as she closed on the frigate; their courses clearly about to merge. Tenedos’ captain tried to bear off some when he realized what Asa Rogers was about, but Rogers countered his move so as to obviate any benefit that might derive to the British ship; the American privateer was unquestionably about to fire a raking broadside into the frigate, a bold move in anyone’s book.
“He’s gonna be firing right quick now, Isaac. Mister Hogan, stand by.” Dickerson wanted to fire simultaneously – or as close as he could – and he held Hopewell firm on her course; they would cross the stern of the frigate in seconds now, and at pistol shot range. No longer was a glass necessary to see the horror and frustration on the faces of the officers on the British quarterdeck. An arm, holding a cutlass, waved, and simultaneous crashes roared from the British quarterdeck and foc’s’le, filling the air with lavender-tinged smoke.
Almost immediately, Hopewell shuddered as the British iron hit home; one eighteen-pound ball landed squarely between wind and water, holing the hull as easily as matchwood and, although no one on deck saw them, creating a shower of splinters that could easily drive through a man. The other ball cut through the larboard bulwark and imbedded itself in the foremast, six feet above the deck. This ball also created splinters from the bulwark and, unlike the one taken in the hull, there were men close by; injuries and death were common shipmates, and the men noted the carnage and went on with their efforts to prepare their response. The dead would be removed and the injured cared for as soon as time permitted. Fortunately, only two of the Tenedos’ guns would bear astern, and their crews were evidently not well-trained, as it took some long minutes for them to reload and, at a range of two hundred yards, the relative positions of the ships changed rapidly.
“Fire, if you please, Mister Hogan.” Dickerson’s mouth was unspeakably dry, as were several others on Hopewell, and his command, though easily heard, seemed to him more a croak than a shout. Eagerness to inflict hurt on the enemy mixed with dread of the likely retaliation infused the minds of most of the crew, but their training to duty held sway and the words were barely out of Dickerson’s mouth when the guns erupted in a rippling broadside – if ‘rippling’ can be ascribed to only four guns, and six-pounders at that. As the smoke blew to leeward, Dickerson and Biggs watched the frigate for signs of hits from their ‘broadside’. Almost at once they were rewarded with screams and chaos on the Tenedos’ quarterdeck; the home-made canister shot had done well, wreaking havoc and confusion in the British sailors and officers standing aft. As they watched, the Americans saw General Washington fire, and were again rewarded with the sight of the fore topmast on the frigate falling, and then hanging by some halyards, as the privateer’s chain shot did its job.
“Get those men aloft…stand by to come about…Bosun, mind your trim and keep an eye on that foremast. Mister Biggs, let’s get some sail on her, if you please. We need to stand clear if we’re not to take some punishment which we can ill-afford.” Dickerson had made his statement against the English and now, realizing there was little else to say, wanted to get clear as quick as ever possible.
Hopewell tacked around, passing smoothly through stays, and cleared to the west on the larboard tack, her crew crowding on as much sail as they could hang on the yards, and the devil take the wounded foremast. The bosun was doing his best to get some planks nailed on the mast to support it where the ball had entered, and every man knew that his very life depended on the repair holding until they were in the relatively safe waters near Massachusetts.
Ben Stone, having finished with his men on the mainyard, stayed aloft to watch General Washington. After he had fired a raking broadside, Captain Rogers held his course and then tacked, again crossing the frigate’s bow. In the course of opening his other broadside to the British ship, he exposed himself to another volley from Tenedos’ bow chasers; this time, he was not as lucky, and Stone could see the privateer take the several shots aboard. One dismounted a cannon. Another seemed initially to pass clear; then the jib boom on the American ship sagged and went by the board, taking with it the foremast stays, jib, and stays’l. General Washington slowed perceptibly with the loss of canvas and the timber hanging over the side, but continued on.
Tenedos, in the meantime, had her own problems and, in the confusion on deck, Stone could see even the red-coated marines lending hands on lines and sheets. The hanging fore topmast threatened to foul other rigging, and a crew was busy trying to clear it along with its yard and rigging. The American guns, puny though they were against the might of a thirty-eight-gun frigate, had taken their toll, and Tenedos bore up, heading for her fleet, instead of coming after the two American ships. A cheer went up from Hopewell as they watched the frigate and was echoed from across the cold Atlantic by the men of the General Washington.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Two days later, on the first of March 1813, an American private-armed brig and her prize sailed into Gloucester and dropped anchor in the protected harbor there. The war was still young enough to cause the townspeople to turn out to witness the event; some were vocally thrilled and delighted, while others were equally vocal in their pro-British attitudes. Needless to say, altercations between the two factions were loud and frequent but, fortunately, none were fatal. None of this mattered to the men and officers on the two wounded ships sailing slowly under greatly reduced sail into the inner harbor; in fact, most of what was going on ashore was unknown to them. It was not until the privateersmen showed up in the local waterfront ale houses that these political differences manifested themselves.
“I see you coves had a successful commission. It must have been miserable out there in that storm what passed through here not long ago.” A sympathetic patron of the Fouled Anchor Tavern was buying tankards for his new friends from General Washington, and seemed interested in their doings. He was rewarded with a detailed, if somewhat garbled, version of the cutting-out of “not one, but two” British merchants and the subsequent challenge by “not one, but two” British frigates.
“They coulda had us, they kept on. But after Cap’n Rogers showed ‘em his metal, they run off, like a bunch o’ dogs run off by some birds.”
“Lost a few men on both ships, we did, and make no mistake. It wasn’t without its cost to us. Some good men, indeed.” Davies, late acting bosun’s mate on th
e Hopewell, raised his tankard, managing to spill only a little in the process, and continued his lament. “Here’s to some good men – even ol’ Jenkins wasn’t a bad sort, you keep him outta the galley. Weasel too. I reckon we’ll miss even the Weasel. Not his whinin’ though; I don’t reckon no one gonna miss that noise. He’s probably chasin’ after the Prophet up there in Heaven whinin’ that he ‘tor you I was the one gonna get kilt…’ an’ the Prophet, he’s jest lookin’ at Weasel and strokin’ his beard an’ thinkin’.”
“Aye, Davies, you’re probably right on the mark – ‘bout Weasel anyway. Don’t pay to speak ill of the dead, though.” Ben Stone was, like most of the General’s crew, not overly fond of the Weasel, but he was a shipmate, killed in battle, and as such, deserved a certain amount of respect. “Strange how he was kilt though, you ask me. What he was doin’ down in that storeroom when the ball from that frigate hit us I surely got no idea. Wa’n’t he ‘sposed to be in a gun crew?”
“Aye, that he was, Ben Stone, that he was. Hogan didn’t have time to go lookin’ for him afore we fired them little cannon, but he surely was ‘sposed to be on deck. Reckon if he’da been at the gun, he wouldn’t caught that ball between his own wind and water. Holed the Hopewell and holed ol’ Weasel Watkins as well.” One of the men had joined the group a bit later and, as a result, was still moderately sober. “Where do you coves reckon is Hardy and Dobson? Kinda figgered they’da been in by now. Biggs tor me we gonna be gettin’ the Gen’l back to sea right quick. Soon as the knottin’ an’ splicin’ gets done. Wouldn’ta been in even two days if Cap’n Rogers hadna wanted to ship the rest o’ the crew. We still got another two months an’ more in this commission. Cain’t take prizes swingin’ to a hook in some harbor somewhere.”
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til I can lay yardarm to yardarm with some young miss, and get me some…well, you coves know what I’m say in’ – don’t need to be drawin’ it out for ya…though I think I mebbe gonna draw it out my own self, or better, let the young miss draw it out for me.” Davies laughed heartily at his crude play on words, joined by a few of the others at the table. He clearly had more than a drink on his mind, and his own words must have sparked his memory, because having spoken, he stood, albeit unsteadily, and tacked toward the establishment’s front door, leaving rocking tables with spilled drinks overflowing the tops and at least one fallen chair in his wake. He almost made it to the door when one of the tavern’s patrons took exception to Davies’ rowdy behavior and stood up, wiping the ale off his waistcoat and blocking Davies’ way to the door.
“Just who do you think you are, sailor? Spillin’ me drink like you did makes me think you should be standin’ me to a fresh one, it surely does. You got no call to be comin’ in here and braggin’ of your exploits against His Majesty’s ships. Your kind is what gives us Yankees a bad name. Probably from down south somewhere, ain’t ya? Stirrin’ up trouble and bringin’ Mister Madison’s war up here where we don’t want it or your type.”
Davies looked at the man through bleary eyes; he rocked slightly on his feet, as if he were still at sea, and remained mute. Not satisfied with this response, the pro-British patron redoubled his efforts.
“Don’t they teach you coves to talk down south? Didn’t no one tell you it ain’t po-lite not to answer your superiors? Or are you so drunk you cain’t talk?” With each question, the patron moved closer to Davies, finally placing a hand on Davies’ chest and pushing him. Davies reacted.
Without a word, he stepped back from his antagonist and visually measured the distance between them. Suddenly his arm flashed across that space, much faster than one would expect from his drunken state, and his fist landed squarely on the man’s nose; the crunch of the bone audible at the table occupied by Davies’ shipmates. They stood, ready to join the fray should one develop. None did; the British sympathizer crumpled backwards to the floor, the blood from his broken nose mixing with the ale on his waistcoat. Davies, without a look back or left or right, stepped over him and staggered on his way out the door. He muttered “Stuff that’” as he stepped over his fallen antagonist.
The General Washingtons remaining at the table roared with delight and revisited the scene throughout the remainder of the night until it had taken on a life of its own, making Coxswain Davies larger than life in the process. By the next morning, a legend had been born.
Also by the next morning, news flashed through town that a British-built vessel was making the point, but showing American colors. Those General Washingtons whose heads would permit came on deck and peered painfully through the bright morning sunshine at the ship’s top hamper, visible over the point. Breathing deeply of the still frigid air was akin to choking down knives, but as their heads gradually cleared of the rum and ale-induced fuzz, they saw the stranger gradually round the corner and make for the inner harbor and the anchorage. Captain Rogers and First Mate Starter Coffin watched from the taffrail on the quarterdeck.
‘‘I’d warrant that’s them, Cap’n.” Coffin growled his thought, pointing with his chin at the now visible bark-rigged ship. “Can ye make out any faces there on her quarterdeck?”
Rogers studied the ship thoughtfully through his long glass, saying nothing in response. After a moment, he snapped the glass shut and looked at his mate. “Reckon you’re right, Mister Coffin. Looks to me like Mister Hardy standing there at the wheel, and Dobson for’ard. Don’t ‘pear they had any trouble from the look o’ their rig ‘n’ hull. Lookee there, Hardy’s easin’ her up toward us; reckon he’s seen us and will drop his hook nearby. Then we shall find out where they’ve been. Seems to me they shoulda been in afore us, not three days after us.”
“You men, there. Look alive! Stop standing around like you was sleepin’. Get a boat in the water for the Cap’n.” Coffin minced no words in his orders, and even though they were growled in that gravelly voice, they were loud enough to cause several of the men to wince in pain. But the boat splashed into the water a few minutes before the new arrival’s anchor did and Captain Rogers was over the bulwark and into the boat before all the sails had been clewed up.
Isaac Biggs stood with the first in the waist of General Washington and watched as the captain climbed aboard the prize. Hardy and Dobson greeted him at the rail, smiles and good cheer written on their faces. Biggs and Coffin could tell how the conversation was going, even though they could hear not a word, just by the expression on the prize master’s face. Obviously, Captain Rogers had asked after their whereabouts. All they could hear was the incredulously explosive retort from Rogers; “Portsmouth?”
Later, Rogers, his mates and prize masters dined at the American Coffee House on the Gloucester waterfront. Over dinner, Hardy told their tale.
“Aye, sir. We had no trouble at all taking the barky. Seems like they was so surprised to see us, climbing over they’s rails in the middle of nowhere, and in a blizzard on top of it, that they just quit. Didn’t have no problems roundin’ ‘em up and lockin’ ‘em into the hold. Turns out we was well to the leeward of the escort ship – that was the Shannon, in case you lads didn’t know, and we was glad not to have made her acquaintance – and when the wind come up, we just bore off and later wore around behind ‘em all. Headed right for Gloucester, like you said, Cap’n.” Hardy paused to swallow some ale, and Coffin leapt into the silence.
“So how’d you wind up in Portsmouth? Lose your way, Hardy? You been sailin’ in these waters most o’ your life. You ought to know better.” Coffin stopped his gravel-voiced jibe and smiled; his eyes, slits only, sparkled with glee. “Wait’ll this gets around the waterfront in Salem. Won’t nobody hire you on. You’ll be runnin’ punts out to the fleet at anchor while all the real sailormen laugh and point at you.” Starter couldn’t resist the opportunity to gain the upper hand in the good-natured competition that existed between himself and his shipmate.
“Nah, Starter, you got it all wrong. We was comin’ right along toward Gloucester when we spotted a sail comin’ up on us from astern.
Figgered it might be one o’ them Royal Navy ships lookin’ for us, and bore off to get some speed out o’ that old bucket. A day later, we sailed right into Portsmouth pretty as kiss my hand, figgerin’ that was good’s Gloucester, but the good folks there, why they just threw us out, lock, stock, and barrel. Claimed they didn’t want no part of ‘Mister Madison’s War up here in these parts’ was the way they put it. Said they had no beef with the English and wouldn’t be a party to stealin’ they’s ships. I didn’t have no choice but to cut ‘n’ run and skeedaddle out of there. I don’t know if they’d astarted shootin’ at us, but I didn’t want to find out. So we got out, and come here, like you said back on the Gen’l, Cap’n. I didn’t figger to find you here, though; figgered you’da already gone back to sea, or down Salem way.”
“Aye, here it is we are, and we’d be makin’ sail by now had you not shown when you did. I will wait only until my agent acknowledges that we brought him another prize to get condemned and sold, then it’s back to sea. This cruise’s got itself another couple o’ months to run, and they’s more prizes out there askin’ for our attention.” Asa Rogers smiled at them, enjoying the early success of his cruise, and the company of good men, and fine sailors.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Late April, 1813
“Aye, that be so. And I’ve heard it said HMS Orpheus has been seen more’n once offshore towards Block Island. Wasn’t that the vessel you was on, Robert?” Jack Clements leaned back in his chair and took a deep draught from his tankard. The table was small, the tavern crowded and loud with sailors and workers from the Charlestown Navy Yard. The three shipmates who gathered ‘round it leaned forward, both to avoid being jostled every time the publican or a barmaid went past and to better hear the answer from their companion, formerly of the Royal Navy.
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 14
