Isaac and his now greatly enlarged group emerged from the forest, ghostly figures floating out of the fog – an aftermath of the storm – and onto the dock; he noted the preparations for the destruction of the pier and mill with satisfaction, and hurried his charges along the dock to the waiting sloop.
“Get them men below, for now, Davies. Put ‘em in the hold. Tom, you have any trouble gettin’ out? I thought I heard a passel o’ shootin’ that sounded like it might be comin’ from your direction.” Isaac spoke to the second as the latter cast off the British boat and watched as it drifted with the tide into the dark ruffled waters of the Northwest Arm. A few of O’Mara’s men had rigged a single whip to the sloop’s mainyard and were just about ready to hoist onto the deck the cutter which they had towed astern of the larger British boat as they made good their escape.
“I reckon that Brit lieutenant what run down the hill from the officers’ house musta swum across to the other side and run to the fort there in Halifax. If not him, then some son-of-a-bitch got a whole host o’ so’diers what turned up at the water’s edge just after we got the sail up and headed fair down the Arm. Chased us on foot ‘long the shore for maybe a mile ‘til they realized we was outstrippin’ ‘em and they was just wastin’ they’s lead. Don’t reckon I ever seen that much lead fallin’ – all around us, it was, by God. Caught a few o’ the ones already wounded and Simmons took a ball right through the head. Killed him on the spot, I’d warrant. One o’ the other lads took one through the leg when he stood up to help Simmons, damn fool. An’ the boat ain’t worth much but cuttin’ loose like Hardy wanted. Cutter likely can be patched up; bein’ it was astern of us, it only took a few shots what holed her some. You have any trouble?”
“Let’s get them lines in, lads, lively now. Be light right quick, an’ if’n you want to see your wives an’ sweethearts again, best be quick about it. An’ man them guns.” Hardy was anxious to be gone. The privateersmen moved around the decks of the Bermuda sloop, stepping over the rescued and wounded Navy men who had not found room in the small hold. Most were quiet and after a few were shushed by their shipmates, all were. Except for a whispered curse or command and the click of the pawls on the capstan as the anchor was claimed, Dancer made a ghostly image indeed as she slipped away from the pier and out of the fog that clung like a hang-over to the wet shoreline. She left a legacy; the eerie glow of the powder train burning up the pier toward the oil-soaked sacks would soon tell all and sundry that the Americans had been a-visiting.
The men with no duties watched the glow as it grew and crept toward the mill. The fog caught the tiny fire and magnified and softened it as the powder train was consumed. The sloop, clear of the cove, was now headed south and down the Arm toward the battery at Point Pleasant. Suddenly the sky behind them lit up as the gun powder reached the oil soaked bags; they burst into flame which raced hungrily toward the mill structure. As it began to burn, the sky brightened as the flames from the growing fire reflected off the fog and low clouds.
“Looks like they won’t be usin’ that mill for a spell, Hardy. Your lads did a fine job o’ settin’ that blaze.” Isaac smiled appreciatively at the prize captain. “Reckon all we got to do now is get past them two batteries and join up with the Gen’l.”
Tom O’Mara joined the two on the little quarterdeck, having supervised the stowing of the cutter amidships. “We still got a little surprise for them Brit bastards at the Point; Jeremiah, where’d you stow that rocket I give you? Time’s gonna be right pretty quick now to be shootin’ her off.”
“I got it right below, Tom; left it right where I said I would. You think it’s gonna be real smart to announce ourselves like that? It’s still pretty dark and there might be fog out at the point like they was back yonder; them coves might not even see us. They didn’t when we come in – or you, I’d reckon, either.”
“After I shoot that rocket, I’d wager them Brits at that battery gonna be so busy they won’t even be lookin’ this way. Leastaways, that’s the idea, ‘cordin’ to Cap’n Rogers, anyway. Reckon it just might work.” The prize captain and the privateer’s third mate watched as O’Mara’s dim form slipped down the scuttle to the sloop’s aft cabin. Moments later, he emerged with a bundle wrapped in oiled cloth which he carried to the taffrail at the stern.
“Where you reckon we are, Hardy?”
“’Bout half a league or so from the entrance, I’d guess. This wind holds like it is from the east, it won’t be but a few minutes ‘til that point’s abeam.” Dancer was making a nice turn of speed through the protected water and her wake showed dimly behind them as a trail of white speckled with the glow of some surface-dwelling phosphorescent creatures.
“Isaac me lad, would you be so kind as to find me a lit linstock so’s I can prepare this little present for our friends yonder.” O’Mara was ebullient with the anticipation of what was about to happen. Biggs caught his mood and responded in kind.
“Why of course, Mister O’Mara. It would be a pleasure. One lit linstock comin’ up.” He left the quarterdeck to return moments later with his hands cupped around a glowing slow match. Hardy watched the two with reserve; he was not yet sure whether announcing their presence to the marines manning the battery at Point Pleasant was such a great idea.
O’Mara propped the rocket up on an upturned bucket and held the slowmatch to its fuse. The powder soaked hemp glowed and gave off a small shower of sparks as it caught the fire. With a great whoosh, the rocket left the deck and soared aloft; the men watched as it climbed leaving a fiery trail, then burst in a brilliant display of light.
Almost immediately a dull boom thundered out from the land to larboard, followed by an audible splash, fortunately some distance to wind’ard.
“Well now you’ve done it, O’Mara. I tol’ you firin’ off that rocket wasn’t real smart. Them coves sure hadda see that – an’ now us. Musta been one o’ them marines that was shootin’ at you run down an’ tol’ ‘em to watch for us.” Hardy was not happy and could not rid his mind of an image earlier he had thought of: his handy little sloop being blown to matchwood as they attempted to make good their escape. He bellowed forward. “Davies, Dunn. Get them carronades aimed at th’ point. Give ‘em something to think on ‘stead o’ shootin’ at us.” Hardy would not go down without a fight.
Moments later the sky to the east took fire, silhouetting the trees on Point Pleasant, the point itself, and the Marine battery. Streaks shot through the night, as rockets went off indiscriminately and explosions echoed off the water and nearby land.
“Well, I guess that oughta ‘give them bastards something to think on, ‘sides shootin’ at us!’ Them rockets I hung in the riggin’ o’ that little boat went off just like I figgered they might.” O’Mara was practically dancing with glee at display he had arranged.
“That was the bomb ketch, I’d reckon, eh, Tom?” Isaac watched appreciatively as some of the rockets and the burning shards of the explosion landed ashore. “Too bad it rained so hard last night. Mighta started them woods burnin’ were it a little drier.” Biggs clapped the second on the shoulder in congratulations of a fine job setting the ketch in the right place. Even Hardy overcame some of his reserve and was catching the spirit, smiling broadly, but still cautious and not about to give in entirely to the celebration until they were safely back at sea.
Boom! All eyes squinted into the still bright light, trying to see the fall of shot. “Guess them Brit marines ain’t as dumb as you thought, O’Mara. Looks like they’s still shootin’.” The captain’s doubt was apparently justified.
“Aye, they’s shootin’ but not at us. Looks like them guns is trained around toward the other side o’ the point – where we put that ketch. Must think they’s gonna get invaded. God alone knows what they’s shootin’ at; cain’t be much o’ anything left of that little vessel we put on the hard.” O’Mara was quite right; no shot splashed in the water anywhere near Dancer and the Bermuda sloop, her reef shaken out and under a press of canvas, conti
nued unscathed past Point Pleasant and into the more open water of the outer harbor.
Hardy brought Dancer closer to the wind, easing the vessel to the east toward MacNabb’s Island and a rendezvous with the General Washington which having seen the fireworks, should even then be coming around the north end of the island to escort the sloop out to sea.
“One down, one to go.” Hardy muttered to himself as he strained to see the outline of the privateer against the slowly lightening eastern sky. Aloud he said, “What you got planned for the battery yonder, O’Mara, up on the York Redoubt?” His tone provided some insight to his concern.
The second just looked at Hardy, his lips a thin line, and said nothing. He turned to weather to see if he could spot the familiar rig of the General.
The eastern sky was light enough now to show clearly the silhouette of the island. The storm clouds were breaking up some, allowing the rays of the rising sun to peek through. It should be easy to spot the privateer with the brightening sky behind her. All eyes, not just those on the quarterdeck, scanned the far shore beyond the north end of MacNabbs watching for the brig to appear.
“There…on deck…there she be. Just now roundin’ the end of that island yonder.” The seaman hanging in the larboard rigging was first to spot the ship and the others quickly picked up the sight.
Under reefed tops’ls, a forecourse and spanker, a bone in her teeth and her guns run out on the starboard side, General Washington rounded the northern end of MacNabb’s Island and bore down from windward, a vision that caused all hands to smile and some to laugh in glee.
“We’re as good as outta here now.”
“What a sight she is!”
“Would you have a looksee at that! Ain’t that just beautiful!”
The comments flew around the deck. What could possibly go wrong now? The men shared with each other the joy of seeing the powerful brig with her significant weight of metal bearing down to accompany them out, knowing it would now be a matter of minutes before she was close aboard and an hour, give or take, until they were safe in the broad reaches of the North Atlantic. Even if the Brits could get a warship under way from the Dockyards, it would be too late; General Washington, given the headstart she had, could outrun virtually anything that might come after them. They were as good as home!
Boom! Heads swiveled to starboard seeking the source of the shot, as a hole appeared in the mains’l just below the peak. The marines manning the battery at York Redoubt were awake and Dancer was silhouetted against the eastern sky, making her just as easy to spot as had been the General Washington.
Boom! Another shot thundered across the water. The aim was just as true as the first shot; the ball went through the mains’l slightly higher, ripping away the top foot of the mast and with it, the main halyard. The sail came down with a crash, enveloping the midships area of the sloop in heavy canvas, lines and blocks. Confusion on deck was rampant and Dancer slowed noticeably without her primary canvas, providing an even easier target for the guns ashore.
“Man them carronades, damn your eyes!” Hardy’s bellow spawned instant action and the starboard side guns fired almost at once. To little avail; the guns could not be elevated high enough to land their shot above the cliff and the balls thudded harmlessly into the earthen face well below the British position. Isaac and O’Mara ran forward. Captain Hardy headed the sloop higher in an effort to increase his distance from the guns of the York Redoubt.
Without warning, the forward carronades thundered again, belching fire and smoke and a pair of twenty-four-pound iron balls. They hit higher on the cliff, but still frustratingly below the battery on its top. And the British battery responded. Hardy, from his position on the quarterdeck, could see the flashes as two of the big guns fired almost simultaneously. He cringed, waiting for the fall of shot. He saw the splash from one, but before he could even let out the breath he held, the second round plowed into the forward bulwark of the sloop; had it been two feet higher, it would have dismounted the forward carronade, likely killing both mates and the gun crew. As it was, a two foot hole opened in Dancer’s side and the spent ball still had enough carry to lay waste to the forward part of the hold, killing or wounding a half dozen of the Chesapeakes sheltering there. Dancer’s other starboard carronade spoke now and again, the men could see a gout of wet soil leap out of the cliff in the weak morning light.
“Bear off! Head straight for the shore.” Booming from the weather side came what could only be the voice of God. Hardy started, then turned and looked to wind’ard; there was General Washington bearing down on them, the captain standing on the bulwark by the mainmast, a speaking trumpet held to his mouth. Hardy didn’t react and Rogers repeated the order.
“Hardy. Head straight for the shore; get under their guns. Now man. Do it!” Realizing it was probably his only chance to escape the accurate fire, Hardy threw his weight into the tiller along with the two men already there. The sloop, her square sail forward and two jibs billowing in the still favorable breeze, bore off, picked up speed in spite of the lack of the big mains’l, and raced for the cliffs. General Washington followed, her forward guns firing at the clifftop, but with only slightly more effect than Dancer’s had had earlier.
Boom boom! Two more shots thundered from the British battery. Hardy’s turn had not been quite quick enough to escape another salvo and both balls found their marks in the scudding sloop. One went home with a resounding crash in the side, abaft the beam, midway between wind and water, while the other seated itself firmly in the mast, head high. Splinters flew and the rent timbers complained convincingly, providing a higher pitched counterpoint to the screams and curses from the Chesapeakes in the hold. The mast wobbled, but remained upright, held aloft only by its shrouds and stays. More than half its girth was gone.
“Hands topside. Lively now.” O’Mara was yelling down the hatch into the faces of the Navy seamen sequestered there. They didn’t need to be told twice; with a rush, everyone who could walk piled out of the hold. Some of the more experienced men saw immediately what was needed and began cutting away the still billowing mains’l, part of which was dragging overboard to leeward. Others were helping wounded comrades up from the confines of the hold.
Boom boom! This time, the thunder came from astern, and Isaac and O’Mara looked toward shore in time to see the General’s iron find a home in the Martello Tower on the top of the cliff. Others saw it as well, and a weak cheer went up from the Dancers. Even Captain Hardy was encouraged; it looked as if the sloop was now close enough to the cliff that the British guns could not depress enough to hit them. Relief flooded through him with the realization that they were safe – for now anyway – from the devastatingly accurate fire. The privateer, having fired a final salvo with her forward guns, was heading for them, closing the distance quickly.
“Cap’n…that mast ain’t gonna…” Isaac never got to finish the sentence warning Hardy of the unstable mast. With a rending crash accompanied by the popping of shrouds and the back stays, the mast collapsed, falling forward slowly, as the nearly severed lower part failed, sending fragments and splinters flying. The majority of the spar remained aboard, but the larboard end of the yardarm went over the side, acting as a break and causing the sloop to round up, helpless and within a few hundred yards of a lee shore. The two men near the mast suffered in the extreme; one took a long leaf pine splinter through his neck and the other was lifted off the deck by the broken end of the spar as it fell forward, catching him just under the chin. Both were dead before their shipmates had time to contemplate what had happened.
“Cut that away. Get that yard free of us. Get it clear!” O’Mara’s voice overshadowed Hardy’s as both saw instantly what was needed. A further command from the quarterdeck: “Forward there, Isaac. Get some men on the anchor. Don’t let her go less’n I tell you, but get it rigged out.” Hardy was still in command and not about to let his ship go ashore.
Dancer had stopped; all her sails were gone and she wallowed slightly in t
he increasing beam sea rolling in from the Atlantic. She made leeway slowly toward the rocky shore as the waves and wind conspired against her. The men worked frantically to clear the mess on the main deck, Chesapeakes pitching in with a will alongside the privateersmen. Within minutes, the yard had been hacked off and was gone over the side. The sail was gathered and contained, lashed securely to the broken mast. Order was being restored and the four carronades were clear and serviceable; it mattered little as there was no chance of elevating them sufficiently to hit the battery on top of the cliff. To the good, there was no chance that the guns ashore could be depressed enough to hit the helpless sloop.
“Lookee yonder, lads. Here she comes, hell bent. That sure is…” The seaman crumpled and fell where he stood, his last vision that of the privateer, a bone in her teeth, coming to their rescue. A red blossom formed on his chest as the musket ball that had entered his back went through his heart and then his chest. The crack of the weapon had been so faint as to be unheard on the ship.
“Down! Everybody get down behind something. They’s come down the hill with muskets.” Isaac had been next to the hapless sailor and it took him a moment to figure out what had happened. The men responded quickly and ducked behind the starboard bulwark. Still the deadly lead balls thumped into the deck, the stump of the mast, and the outside of the bulwark.
And the brig stood on, now backing her reefed tops’ls and clewing up the forecourse. As she turned behind the sloop, a thunderous roar from her starboard broadside loosed a hail of grape shot into the shore line and the Royal Marine sharpshooters who had taken up a position there. The small arms fire stopped.
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 29
