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

by William White

  Almost all of the nearly six hundred French prisoners on the island knew of the supposedly successful runners: names, dates, and where each wound up. No one knew for certain that any had made it, though some certainly must have and struggled across Nova Scotia to the Acadian settlements where they were accepted and protected. Some, the Frenchmen related, had stolen boats and sailed across the Bay of Fundy, with its dangerous currents and riptides, to America. The American prisoners listened attentively to the tales and mentally made their own corrections in each failed attempt – corrections that would enable them to succeed.

  “I’d reckon that water right there’ll get a body into the Atlantic, easy as kiss my hand, on an ebb tide. All you’d have to do is steal a boat and you could even drift out.” An American prisoner had already formed a plan, but he had no idea of the tides or the length of the Northwest Arm, or how he’d secure a boat, or get past the various batteries along the shoreline which were always manned with Royal Marines. The two French with whom he spoke merely shook their heads and said in French, “Another tenant for the Black Hole”.

  Elsewhere in the yard, other Frenchmen shared survival hints with the American sailors. There were few Frenchmen who spoke English with any expertise and none of the Americans spoke more than a few words of very bad French. Conversation was difficult at best, with both sides raising their voices in the hope that by so doing, understanding would come. Arms flailed, heads bobbed, and some even resorted to drawing pictures in the mud in an effort to make themselves understood.

  Clements and young Jake Tate, his arm now almost healed and only occasionally painful to him, had been fortunate in meeting with a French prisoner who had been on the island since it was a fish factory and had learned English from a guard during that time. He leaned carelessly against the stone wall of their barrack, staying out of the rain by staying under the overhang of the roof; the Americans stood facing him, standing in the rain.

  “…You catch zee rats and moles, you must eat zem quickly, or zee guard come an’ take zem from you. Eef zey catch you wit’ zee rats, zey cut your rations zee next day. Also, zave the bones for using in zee sewing, you are un’erstan’ me?” Georges Fragard watched his new friends expectantly and smiled when they nodded.

  “I sailed with a cove, back in the year two it was, what had been caught up by the Brits in the fightin’ in ’79. Spent nigh onto four years in some pest hole. He not once got hisself flogged though. Said the Brits only flog their own sailors, not prisoners. What about that, Georges?” Clements cast a glance at Jake, who was listening attentively.

  “Zees ees verité – I mean, ‘ow you say – trut’. Not once ‘as zee prisoner ‘ere been give’ zee lash. Eef you try to escape and zay catch you up, after you come out of le cachot – zee ‘ole, as you say – zay take zee clothes and you wear zen only zee blue suits wit’ POW on zem all over. Zere, you see ‘eem zere.” Fragard pointed to a group of French prisoners, all attired in faded blue denim trousers and shirts, much like purser’s slops, but each labeled “POW” in scarlet on front and back and on each leg of the trousers. There would be no mistaking someone off the island in those clothes as anything but a prisoner.

  “Zee turnkey, Major Gilpatric ees very, ‘ow you say eet, proud? Oui, I t’eenk zat ees it, proud, zat no prisoner has ever escaped from zee island. But ‘e ees not a bad man; he arranges for zee butcher een Alfax to save for us zee bones of zee beefs – for zee carving, you know?”

  “I collect that’s how the coves here amuses their selves, eh?” Tate was beginning to take an interest in the conversation.

  “Non, eet ees ‘ow zay make zee money for zee extra food an zee vin – wine, you know? Zee store. Some of zee men make zee little voiliers – model bateaux – an’ zay sell zem to zee peoples from Alfax who come to zee bazaar, which ees on Sundays. Zay pay many dollar an’ zen zee mens, zay don’ ‘ave to eat zee rats, you know?” Fragard smiled at his students, obviously relishing his role as their mentor. He went on. “Other of zee mens, zay make zee knitting of wool, you know? An’ others make zee ‘ats of straw. But zee biggest is zee knitting – zay make all t’ings, from la chemise – excuse, I mean zee shirt, to zee gloves an’ stockings. Zee people from Alfax pay moneys, an’ we eat from zee turnkey’s store. Ees better zan zee merde from zee galley, you know?”

  Several of the Chesapeakes had joined the group now and had been listening attentively; all nodded enthusiastically. Some quiet talk among themselves identified various areas of expertise and several were mentally counting their profits already.

  “Guess I’m gonna be eatin’ ‘zee merde from zee galley’ – whatever that is. Ain’t much carvin’ or knittin’ I kin do with but one arm. Mebbe I kin sew shirts an’ such. Any o’ the coves doin’ that, Georges?”

  “Oui. Zere ees a – how you say – tailor. ‘e was zee corsaire, you know, zee…em…privateer. ‘E makes zee shirts an’ trousers, but ‘e ees always busy. Maybe ‘e needs zee ‘elp, an’ ‘e shares with you zee moneys.”

  “All righty now, Georges – you been here long enough – how’s a body get out o’ here…off’n this island?” Clements voiced what many had on their minds. Furtive glances bounced around the yard, taking in the stockade fence and walls and noting the location of the few guards in evidence.

  “From zee work parties only, mon ami. One can not get from zee island because of zee sharks. An’ from zee work parties, you will be catch, an’ then eet ees the cachot – zee ‘ole, an’ zee blue shirts.”

  “What sharks? Ain’t sharks up here in this water. Too cold by half for ‘em this far north. Who told you they was sharks yonder?” Johnson, just joining the group in time for the ‘sharks’ comment, wasn’t convinced a bit.

  “Oh zee guards. Zay feed zem zee meat, you know? I ‘ave nevaire seen zee shark wit’ my own eyes, but I ‘ave ‘eard zem splashing in zee waters of zee cove – when zee guards, zey feed zee meat to zem. I would not try to sweem from ‘ere, my frein’, eef you value your ‘ide.” Georges was certain of the existence of the sharks, right here in the cove at the end of the Northwest Arm.

  “I was watchin’ one o’ the guards fishin’ – jest the other day, it were – an’ he was pullin’ in fish right smart. They was sharks yonder, there wouldn’t be no fish gettin’ caught – leastaways not without gettin’ et in the pullin’ in.” Clements agreed with Johnson’s original thought and was as certain of their absence as Fragard was of their presence. The other Americans nodded in agreement. And the conversation endured, until the ringing of a bell called the men to their evening meal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Captain Rogers’ concern grew. The strange ship was making an obvious effort at maintaining the weather gauge and now was closing. And they were staying just beyond the range of Rogers’ nine-pounders.

  “Mister Coffin we’ll go to quarters, if you please. And break out the arms chest. Battle sail now, Mister Biggs. Mister O’Mara, take over the conn.” The captain stepped forward to the rail of the quarterdeck to watch the progress his crew made as some of them unlimbered the main deck carronades and the primary battery below. Others of the crew were already in the rigging to furl t’gallants, royals, and reef the courses. Reports flowed into the quarterdeck indicating readiness for battle, as Rogers thought about the fine crew he had and hoped they could survive yet another meeting with the British. Their last, while profitable for the Americans, had taken its toll and now the prizes he had in company were a liability rather than a help. He turned to a quartermaster.

  “Show a signal to the prizes to bear off downwind and make all possible sail. Rejoin upon hearing my gun, or head for Salem independently tomorrow.”

  As the flags fluttered to the cro’jack yard conveying his orders, he watched the now closing stranger, still to wind’ard and bearing down even sharper on them. His intentions were clear.

  “Open the gun ports larboard side. Pass the word for Mister Coffin.” Rogers gave the orders without shifting his glance from the larger b
rig bearing down on them from wind’ard. He put his glass to his eye and studied her intently. The two ships were separated by just over a cannon shot and Rogers knew they would open fire – at least with a ranging shot – sooner than later.

  “Sir?” Starter Coffin was at his elbow, a pry bar from one of the long guns in his hand, the other scratching his beard. He too watched the approaching vessel, his eyes squinted down more than usual as he looked toward the late day sun. Rogers turned away from the rail.

  “Mister Coffin, since we’ll be firing to weather, I want half the battery loaded with…”

  Boom!

  Both men turned as one in time to see gray smoke drifting over the closing brig’s bow. They watched the water for the splash. None came.

  “Cap’n, I think that gun was fired to wind’ard. He either wants us to heave to, or he’s lettin’ us know he’s gonna engage us.”

  “There surely was no splash that I could see, Mister Coffin. As I was about to say, load chain and bar shot in the after guns; since we’ll be firing high anyway, we might as well try to wound his rigging. Have the larboard battery stand ready to fire on my command.”

  “Cap’n, signals on that ship, sir. Showin’ an American flag now, too.” The quartermaster was studying the brig through the long glass. Again, Rogers turned to the rail and raised his own glass to his eye.

  “By the Almighty, you’re right, sailor. And he’s comin’ around. Helmsman, bring her up two points.” He faced forward and raised his voice. “Mister Biggs, we’ll be hardenin’ up some. Mind your sheets and braces.”

  “Sir, them flags is in our book. Says ‘heave to and identify’. Shall I put up the flag, sir?” Davies had his hand on the halyard and Rogers noted that the American flag was already bent on.

  “Hold on a moment, son. I’ve seen this ruse afore. Brits’ll show the American flag and maybe even the right signals from some captured signal book. By the time we smoke what’s afoot, it’s too late to do anything and they got ‘em a prize without firin’ a shot. Lookee, they’ve got their ports open and the battery run out. I’d warrant they’re ready to shoot quick as kiss my hand.” He studied the brig, now almost within range of a musket shot, with the glass.

  “Cap’n, I am sure as I can be that she’s Crowninshield’s Henry. I’d reckon he just wants to make sure who we are afore he decides we’re friendly.” O’Mara watched the brig close. She had not shortened down as had the General and, the American brig, now under her battle sail plan, stood little chance of outsailing their antagonist should she prove unfriendly.

  “All right, Mister O’Mara; we’ll show our colors now, if you please.” Rogers continued to keep his glass on the other ship. He was aware of the snapping of the American flag as it whipped to the gaff. He half expected to see the other ship replace its own flag with the British battle ensign and open fire. He bellowed forward to the first mate in the waist.

  “Mister Coffin, stand by the larboard battery. I will bear off to open the after guns as soon as I see what this cove is about. Mister Biggs, men to sail-handling stations, if you please.”

  As the idlers picked up braces and sheets, ready to trim for the eased course, the stranger bore up herself, backed the main tops’l and with a speed that impressed even Asa Rogers, furled her other sails and hove to. A figure climbed into the lower mizzen shrouds with a speaking trumpet.

  “We are the Henry out of Salem. George Crowninshield, commanding. What ship are you?” The voice floated across the water easily, carried as it was by the wind. The response would have to be shouted to windward.

  “Asa Rogers, George. Private armed vessel General Washington. We are bound in with some prizes. Come aboard if you like.”

  “I shall Captain. I have some information that might be of interest.” As he spoke, the General Washingtons could see a boat being swung out on a double whip from the main yard. The Henry, hove to, but still making way, closed another one hundred yards or so, and then splashed the cutter.

  The crew was down the side of the ship and the boat away and pulling toward the General with military precision. It was only a few moments before it bumped alongside, and the waisters on the brig threw down the man ropes.

  George Crowninshield, the third, climbed the battens up the side of the brig, helping himself with the man ropes. His hollow cheeks, giving his face a pinched look, made Rogers remark silently “He looks even more like his Father than I had recalled.” The young man smiled, showing his teeth, but his eyes held no mirth. As he swung a long leg over the bulwark and landed on the deck, he took the proffered hand from Rogers.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Sir. I’d reckon the last time we met was in my Father’s office before the war. I had just taken command of the Henry and was about to leave for a cruise to the Indies. Father had her fitted out as a privateer in September of ’12. Took her out once and turned her back over to me.” His pride and an evident feeling of self-importance salted his words, and Captain Rogers bit back a leveling remark, instead greeting the oldest son of his main competitor cordially.

  “I trust you saw your father well when you were in? I missed him the past several times I was in Salem, though his presence was surely felt, and it was only some four or five months ago I crossed tacks with Jack Leighton’s Salem Lady outbound.” As he noticed the young Crowninshield looking around the General, it occurred to him that they were still at quarters. “Mister Coffin, you may secure the men from quarters now. I don’t think we need worry about Henry firing at us. Mister O’Mara: a signal to Dickerson and Hardy to rejoin, if you please, and fire a leeward gun. They’re still in sight.”

  “I apologize for causing you concern, Captain. Seeing that Bermuda sloop and the schooner sailing in company with you caused me some concern myself. Thought you all might have been British privateers looking for some opportunities. But I collect you took ‘em as prizes your own self.” Seeing the older man nod, the young Crowninshield smiled wanly. “Looks like a profitable voyage for you then, sir; I give you joy of your success.” An undercurrent of insincerity flowed just below his jovial tone.

  “Well we ain’t in yet, George. And as you said, there’s a blockade hereabouts. If you’re just out, you might be tellin’ me where you think the Royal Navy’s sailin’ these days.”

  “Aye, sir. That’s exactly what I had I mind to tell you. We left Salem just the day before yesterday, it was, and we saw one o’ their frigates…” The two men went aft to the cabin, and their voices trailed off, leaving the waisters and idlers wondering just what was in store for the General when she returned.

  * * * * * *

  “Well, lookee ‘ere. Back from the dead, it ‘pears.” Coleman, sitting outside with his fellow Chesapeakes nodded toward the hospital building, and the figure, leaning heavily on a crutch, slowly making his way toward them. In Robert’s hand was a scrap of driftwood from which he was fashioning a passable likeness of a whale. The others with him, Bosun Clements, Jake Tate, Johnson, and Tingley, were likewise engaged in various pursuits that they hoped would become a source of income at the Sunday bazaars. Each looked up as Coleman spoke and their faces split into broad smiles all around.

  “’Bout given you up for dead an’ buried in one o’ them holes over to Deadman’s Island. Been a regular detail o’ the Frenchies, carryin’ the bodies from th’ hospital into the boat an’ then yonder to bury ‘em. Glad to see you wasn’t in one o’ them.” Clements set down his bit of wool and needles from which he was knitting a scarf and stood to greet the Irishman.

  “Aye, they tried, I can tell you, they did, but Mrs. Conoughy’s boy’s tougher than old leather. No English medico’s gonna put me into the ground, by all the saints.” His grimace with each step, the sweat beading his brow, and the pallid tone of his face told the men that his wound was still a source of considerable pain. But he bore it with outward nonchalance and bravado; wouldn’t do for his shipmates to know he still hurt something fierce.

  “Give you a stick to lean on, I see. T
hat was mighty kind of ‘em. Are you healed up then, Tim? An’ what happened to your clothes? Them prison slops s’posed to be only for ‘runners’…an’ God knows, you ain’t gonna run nowhere for a while.” Clements put out his hand and the Irishman took it, leaning more heavily on it than either of them expected; both staggered slightly, causing Tim to wince, immediately covering it with a smile. And then, keeping his still painful leg straight, sat down on the proffered stool which the bosun had just vacated.

  “Thankee for th’ seat. And ain’t the clothes grand, though, Jack? Just what I’d in me mind so as not to call attention to meself should I get the chance to take leave o’ this place. I reckon they likely burned me other clothes – cut and ripped they was, and not a little bloody, they held no special attachment for me. Wasn’t fit for wearin’ even by some bilge rat, I’d warrant. An’ as to the ‘ealin’, I reckon they figgered I was ‘ealed enough to give up me bed to some poor cove who’ll likely be dead sooner than later.”

  Conoughy, realizing that his friends likely saw through it, gave up the charade that his leg was not painful. He admitted, “Still ‘urts some powerful lot, though – ‘specially when I bend it. Feels like all the ‘ealin’ it done gonna come undone when I move it more ‘an a little. Reckon that’s why they give me the stick, so’s I don’t ‘ave to move it much, least for a while. But it sure is nice to get out o’ that hospital. What a misery that is – coves in there caterwaulin’ all night they are. Fever an’ dysentery, men dyin’ near every day. And the smell – powerful ‘orrible it were; putrefaction and morbidity and just wouldn’t quit. Hard to get a breath without near pukin’, I’d warrant. Reckon they musta took out more than a few this past month an’ more.”

  “Aye, that they did, Tim. Carried ‘em in a wee boat over yonder to that little pile o’ rock an’ dirt they call Deadman’s Island. A cove can see the trees on it from the second deck o’ the barracks. One o’ the Frenchies what always seems to go on the burial details told me they ain’t no markers an’ it’s a shallow grave for each load. Ain’t none o’ the Chesapeakes got picked for that detail yet; must be duty for senior men. I’ll tell you, though, I wouldn’t mind doin’ it, just for the change o’ scene from inside.” Tingley smiled at his comrade, glad as the others to see him alive and back with them.