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

by William White

  “Hands to the larboard rail. She’s comin’ alongside. Lively now, afore them bastards start shootin’ again.” Hardy saw exactly what Captain Rogers was about and correctly positioned his men to receive the lines from the brig.

  With a rending crunch and a jerk that caused the men on the sloop to grab hold of something to keep their footing, the privateer drew side by side with the wallowing sloop; lines were passed and secured. Rogers bellowed, louder than necessary given the proximity of the two vessels. “Hardy, get your men aboard quick as ever you can. If you got any powder left, set a keg in her bilge and blow her bottom out. No sense in givin’ ‘em back they’s sloop, even as hurt as she be.”

  The men didn’t need to be told twice; that lee shore was still looming, and the marines would begin shooting again any minute. The wounded were handed across the bulwarks to willing hands on the General; the others jumped across to the decks of the privateer. Soon her decks were crowded and hands were sent below to allow the General Washingtons to fight their ship should it again become necessary. Hardy watched his men and the Chesapeakes leave Dancer and when all but the mates had left, he grabbed the two and they disappeared below.

  Biggs was first back on deck, only to disappear again down an aft scuttle. O’Mara and Hardy emerged moments later expecting to see the third waiting for them. He was no where in sight.

  “Musta gone over to the Gen’l, Tom. Better get our own selves over. Them ain’t the longest fuses I ever set. Not by a long shot, they ain’t.” Hardy and O’Mara made for the bulwark and climbed across to the waiting deck of the brig.

  “Cast off them lines. Fuses’re lit.” O’Mara bellowed to his men on deck, and hands rushed to obey. As the last line was hauled back into the privateer, Isaac emerged from the aft scuttle, smiling. In less than a heartbeat he took in the scene before him, hearing shouted orders to make sail. And the smile vanished.

  “Braces haul. Man your sheets. Loose the tops’ls. Lively now.” The gravelly voice of Starter Coffin accompanied by some pushing and cursing moved the crew to work quickly in getting the brig underway from the doomed Bermuda sloop. He did not see his third mate on the deck of Dancer. Hardy however, did and yelled.

  “Isaac. Jump for it, lad. Fuses’re lit. Come on son, you can make it.” Hardy’s shout caused the others on the brig to look up from their work and they saw the popular third mate running across the doomed sloop’s deck, headed for the bulwark just abaft the stump of the mast. Without hesitating, the young man mounted the waist-high bulwark and threw himself across the widening expanse of water between the two vessels. Eager hands reached out from the privateer and caught him as he half fell across the brig’s bulwark and hauled him roughly aboard.

  “Damn near didn’t make it, lad. What ever the hell was you doin’. Hardy and me both thought you’d already left, comin’ topside afore us as you did. Where did you go?” O’Mara’s concern was hardly masked by his gruff manner with the third mate and his grip of Isaac’s shoulder didn’t slacken as he waited for an answer.

  “Figgered to set another charge back aft, Tom. Didn’t reckon that one we set for’ard’d do the job. When she goes off now, they won’t be nothin’ but matchwood for the Brits to make use of.” Isaac smiled and gently removed his superior’s hand from his shoulder.

  “By the eyes o’ me sweet saintly mother, ye’ll never learn to let them what knows ‘andle that sort of job, will ye now? A job for a gunner, if ever they was one.”

  At the sound of the Irish accent, Isaac turned and stared wide-eyed at his old shipmate. Then with a smile that lit his whole face, he grabbed the gunner by both arms.

  “Conoughy, you rascal. I heard from a couple o’ your mates you was in Chesapeake; just couldn’t stay put could you. Glad to see you alive and well. I seen Robert on the island. Who else was in that crew?”

  “Clements’ ‘ere ‘s’well, Isaac. And Jake Tate too.” At Biggs’ blank look at this last name, Conoughy paused, then continued. “Reckon you won’t know young Jake; he joined the Constellation frigate in Baltimore last winter and come up with us to Boston. Got ‘isself assigned into Chesapeake, same as the rest of us. Lost an arm, ‘e did, against Shannon. Clements ain’t got but one ear now. Don’t know where ‘e’s got ‘isself off to; seen ‘im only just now, I did.” The Irish gunner looked around the deck, seeking his friend. Then he continued. “But it sure is a wonder to see you, Isaac. I’m given to understand you was the cove what got us out o’ that pest ’ole, an’ if’n you was, you’ve saved me sorry arse yet again, ye have, lad. I for one am mighty grateful to ye. By all that’s ‘oly, I am that, indeed.”

  Boom! All conversation stopped and heads turned back toward the privateer’s wake as the charges set in Dancer went off; the little ship raised herself up in the middle as the first keg of powder exploded. The deck lifted and while she was up, the after charge, the one set by Isaac, detonated. It separated the stern from the rest and a cloud of splinters filled the air. When the smoke cleared, nothing but loose timbers floating in the rising chop was visible; there would certainly be nothing left for the Brits to salvage.

  “Mister Biggs. You did a fine job with them explosives, lad. And I’d reckon you’ll have ample time in Salem for catching up on your mates doin’s; right now we need to get some sail on her so’s that frigate standin’ out don’t jest sail right up to us an’ invite us to join ‘em in Halifax.” The unmistakable voice of Captain Rogers, even as gruff as it appeared to be, was a welcome sound to Isaac’s ears.

  “Aye, Cap’n. We’ll get the Gen’l flyin’, by the almighty we will.” He started forward, rounding up his topmen as he went and occasionally casting a wary eye astern where the entire rig of a Royal Navy frigate passing Georges Island could be seen easily in the full light of morning. Under other circumstances, it would have been impressive, set as she was to the royals with stu’ns’ls aloft and alow. Right now, it served to galvanize the third mate and his topmen to get sail made as quick as ever they could.

  And quick it was; within minutes, the brig was fairly flying, heading for the point at Chebucto Head and the open Atlantic, her stays and shrouds groaning under the strain of the enormous press of canvas she carried. The buntlines were stretched across the bellies of the billowing sails and the chop hitting the wind’ard side of her bow sent a stinging spray half the length of the ship, making a standing rainbow as the sunlight shone through the drops. The ship heeled further to starboard as she gained the more open water and the full force of the easterly half-gale was felt. Two more men were added to the wheel just to keep her head down. The brig was in a race for her life when she turned the point at Chebucto Head and bore off. And she was winning it.

  The mood on deck was jubilant; faces were wreathed in smiles. A few of the Chesapeakes remained topside to help the privateersmen handle lines and sails, grateful to be at sea again – and as free men. Clearly, General Washington was outstripping the English frigate, which, still in the lee of MacNabbs Island, would not feel the strength of the breeze for some time yet.

  “Well, Isaac. Reckon you done it. A fine job o’ work it was. Davies tol’ me all about it.” Starter Coffin’s eyes were squinting more than ever, a sure sign he was smiling. His beard hid his mouth almost completely, thus there was no indication of his joy in that quarter. There was, however, a trace off jealousy in his voice; young Biggs would be drinking on this tale for some time to come. But his praise for the former Royal Navy topman was genuine. He walked with Biggs aft where the third had the watch.

  “Reckon I got the watch, Cap’n. I can take her if you want.” Biggs looked at his captain, realizing suddenly how tired he was. He swayed slightly, standing there, and noticed that suddenly, his eyes felt as if they were full of grit. His wiped a hand across them and shook his head. Rogers noticed.

  “I’ll take her for a while, Isaac. Why don’t you get yourself below and get some sleep while you can. If’n that frigate catches us up…” Rogers didn’t need to finish the thought. Isaac s
miled, mumbled “Aye, sir,” and turned from the quarterdeck to go below.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “I heard what you done, Asa. Word’s all over Salem. Musta been quite an adventure, getting those men out of that prison. Did you suffer many losses?” George Crowninshield had asked the privateer skipper to join him at his table in the American Coffee House. He couldn’t help but notice when the tall man entered; a murmur went through the room as the other patrons recognized Rogers as the man who did what the Navy wouldn’t – or couldn’t. The senior Crowninshield and his crew of masters had successfully retrieved the bodies of James Lawrence and Augustus Ludlow from Halifax under a letter of truce. The Henry’s return to Salem with its prestigious crew and esteemed cargo had created a stir, albeit somber. But yesterday, when the privateer General Washington sailed in and made fast to the pier, it took no time at all for the word to race through Salem that she was back and what she and her crew had accomplished. The whole town lined the streets to welcome back the men of Chesapeake as they left the dock in an impromptu parade. Cheering and shouting, waving and flags; it was a sight to stir the heart of even the most jaded. And the General Washingtons found that people gathered ‘round to hear the tale again and again in public houses and coffee shops. They gloried in the notoriety and drank deeply at the wellspring of fame. Rogers, however, remained taciturn and outwardly unaffected.

  “Not too bad, George. A few in the fighting on the island and a few when we was leavin’. Had a few more hurt and lost that pretty little Bermuda sloop I brought in a few weeks back. But she served her purpose well, and my lads did themselves proud.” Asa smiled as he recalled how the two crews had blended together to get the best speed out of the General and outrun the British frigate that chased them for two days out of Halifax. “General Washington done right fine, ‘s’well. An’ that French Cap’n, Jean Faitoute turned out to be a real asset to the endeavor, he did. Knew them waters right well and, more important, knew right where the Brit batteries was. Hope he makes it back to France all right like he said he was gonna do. Aye, a fine fellow, he was.”

  Meanwhile in a tavern much less distinguished and catering to the lower-level denizens of the waterfront and fo’c’sle hands, a noisy table of sailors were bringing each other up to date on their lives over the past ten and more months. A young man at the table smiled, but kept his own counsel; he had his sleeve cut off at the elbow and roughly sewn closed. He had experienced many of the tales being told by the Irish gunner and English topman. But the realization that that part of his life was over was beginning to hit home and silently he pondered what the future would hold for him now.

  “Isaac you surely did miss some ‘igh times, by all the saints. But I reckon you ‘ad some your own self, chasin’ around on that brig like you was. Jack, ‘ere was talkin’ ‘bout goin’ back to the private navy just t’other day. Reg’lar navy cost ‘im an ear, it did. Righty-oh, Jack?…Jack?” Conoughy was unable resist poking a little fun at the former bosun, still somewhat sensitive about his disfigurement.

  “Aye, Tim. I heard you the first time. Just payin’ you no mind, is all. He’s right though, Isaac. I don’t aim to go back aboard a Navy vessel; most of ‘em bottled up somewhere and cain’t get to sea anyway. Be just like bein’ on the Constellation down there in Gosport. Figgered I’d head back down towards the Bay and see about a berth on one o’ the private vessels still sailin’. Reckon you was the smart one way back in November, stayin’ in the privateers.” He paused, a thoughtful look on his face; it gave way to a smile. “You know, I just thought o’ something. Ain’t Mister Blanchard gonna be some surprised when next he comes to visit us over to Melville Island. We ain’t gonna be there! Mebbe ain’t no one gonna be there, ‘ceptin’ a bunch o’ Brit guards what ain’t got nothin’ to guard!” Clements laughed.

  “Aye, reckon ‘is face’ll be a picture, all righty. Too bad we couldn’a brought ‘im out with us. For an officer, ‘e ain’t a bad sort, an’ I’d reckon to sail with the cove again.” Coleman smiled at his former shipmates who knew the young lieutenant; they nodded in agreement.

  “I heard when we come in yesterday that the officers was bein’ traded for some Brit officers we got here; that or given they’s parole and sent back to America. Reckon they likely take more care with the officers than you common seamen on an enlistment.” Biggs hadn’t thought he knew any officers in the American Navy, and when he had heard the comment a day ago about trading the officers back, it didn’t signify. His friends brightened visibly at the good news.

  “Jack, I’ll likely regret sayin’ this, but maybe they might find a berth for a topman and a gunner on those wee ships. I reckon you’re righty-oh ‘bout the Navy not goin’ to sea, an’ I don’t know what else I’d do. ‘Sides, like Isaac says, they care more about the officers than us fo’c’sle coves an’ I don’t reckon I want to get locked up again.” Coleman looked hard at first Tim Conoughy, then at Jack Clements. They broke into smiles simultaneously and Isaac laughed.

  “You coves just cain’t be satisfied with where you are. They’s privateers sailin’ right here – Salem, Marblehead, an’ on up towards Portsmouth now I hear. Whyn’t you just stay here. They’s berths aplenty right here. ‘Sides, what makes you think you can just walk away from the Navy? Navy might have something to say ‘bout that.”

  “Ain’t the need for men now, Isaac. Ships ain’t sailin’ and I heard once you been captured, Navy’ll let you go if’n you’re of a mind. As to stayin’ put, we stayed where we was when we paid off from the ol’ Glory and look where it got us – locked up in some God-forsaken prison in Nova Scotia. You come north and done pretty good, sounded like. ‘Ceptin’ for the cold. Not sure I’d like that much. ‘sides, changin’ home ports might be lucky, aye, lucky like it was for you.” Clements had made up his mind.

  “But we’re ‘ere now, an’ mates once again. May’aps we oughtn’t to ship out separate, might be that’s the bad luck.” Coleman raised his tankard in a mock salute to his words and all followed suit. Including Jake.

  “’Ow ‘bout you, Chauncey Tate. What’ll you be doin’?” Tim smiled at the young man, encouraging him to join in the conversation.

  “Been thinkin’ about just that, Tim. You boys been good to me, takin’ care o’ me when I got hurt an’ all, but I don’t think they’s a place for a one-armed topman aboard any vessel, private or navy. Reckon I’ll head on back to Maryland and look up Charity. See if’n she’ll have me for a husband, even though I’m lackin’ an arm. Less’n she’s done run off with some other cove. So when you head back down toward the Bay, reckon I’ll ride along with you, you don’t mind. Aye, it’s likely time for me to swallow the anchor.” Tate smiled, almost as if hearing himself say the words had solidified the idea for him. “Aye, that’s just what I’ll do.” He repeated, just to hear the sound of it. Still pleased, he raised his empty tankard and his voice. “Another round, barman.”

  The End

  Author’s Note

  In the first nine months of 1813, privateers operated with impunity from the New England ports, as the British had not yet enough naval resources to blockade all of them as well as the southern ports. The General Washington, while a creation of the author’s imagination, is characteristic of the northern private armed vessels and her operations and crew, typical.

  The frigate Constellation, commanded by Charles Stuart, did get trapped in Norfolk/Gosport by the blockade at the Virginia Capes after completing her refit at Baltimore in February of 1813. Many of her crew were transferred to other Navy ships. Ultimately her commanding officer was transferred to USS Constitution as the frigate was completing her refit in Charlestown, Massachusetts in May of that same year.

  Of course, James Lawrence, fresh from his successful cruise in USS Hornet and feted as a hero by the American people, took out his new command, USS Chesapeake, who’s checkered past concerned him not at all, to meet HMS Shannon on that fateful 1st of June, 1813. He had been aboard barely two weeks. Lawrence’s eg
o demanded that he continually ‘prove’ himself and, to his mind, his less than glorious career would get a further boost from a successful meeting with the crack frigate of the Royal Navy.

  Conversely, Shannon’s Captain, Philip Broke, had commanded the British frigate for more than six years when she met Chesapeake and maintained a superbly trained crew. He was known for his innovations in gunnery. As Bosun Clements noticed when leaving Shannon in Halifax, some of Broke’s innovations included train marks on the deck around each gun and the iron sights he saw mounted on each barrel. It has been said that Shannon’s gunnery was fastest and most accurate in the Royal Navy.

  And so a desperately ill-prepared American frigate and the most capable one of the Royal Navy joined battle with an outcome that could only be pre-ordained. They met just a few miles off the coast of Cape Ann, Massachusetts, watched by spectators in small craft as well as from every high vantage point ashore. The ensuing battle is well documented by both English and American sources and the surviving American prisoners were, in fact, incarcerated on Melville Island, Halifax.

  Of the three hundred eighty two souls who went out in Chesapeake that day, sixty two including six of the eight officers died and eighty three were wounded. In Shannon, forty-three were killed and thirty-nine wounded, creating one of the highest butcher’s bills of the times; and all in a thirteen-minute engagement.

  There was no raid on the prison at Melville Island staged by an American privateer or any other vessel; that action is entirely the product of the author’s imagination. The Chesapeakes who survived the battle with HMS Shannon and were sent to Halifax, were repatriated in September of the same year. There actually were five British seamen on Chesapeake, but they were not to be so fortunate; in October of 1813, they were brought back to England in, ironically, HMS Shannon and court-martialled. One was hanged; the other four were flogged ‘round the fleet. The United States frigate Chesapeake was sailed back to England, but never saw action again. Ultimately, around 1820, she was broken up, and her timbers used to construct a mill, known as the “Chesapeake Mill.” It is reported to have survived well into the twentieth century.