Remnants of the British prison still exist at Melville Island, today the home of the Armdale Yacht Club. Parts of the wall, the storage building, and one of the barracks can be seen; the latter is used today by the sailors at Armdale Yacht Club for storage and is well maintained as an historic site. The bridge has been replaced by a causeway and the warden’s home on the hill now serves nicely as the warm and comfortable club house and a repository for some marvelous photographs of the prison as it looked early in the twentieth century.
In the story, McNab’s Island, named for Peter McNab of the Scottish Highlands who settled there in 1754, is referred to as MacNabb’s Island in conformity with the navigational charts of the early nineteenth century. Hosterman’s Mill and pier did exist at the time of the story and were not, of course, burned by the Americans. The York Redoubt and the Battery at Point Pleasant can still be seen today, complete with some of their guns. National parks have been built around these sites, favorites for locals and tourists alike for picnicking on pleasant summer days.
Licensed trade between a variety of northern New England merchants and the port of Halifax did exist in large measure; indeed, records indicate that in 1813 alone, one hundred seven American vessels entered Halifax to trade under license agreements. They became a quite routine sight for the Royal Marines guarding the entrances to Halifax Harbor. As the blockade tightened, and more of the New Englanders supported the American war effort, this number fell precipitously; in 1814 there were only twenty-eight, and in 1815 (even though the war was officially over) there were none.
On August 7th, 1813, George Crowninshield, a dominant Salem merchant and captain, did sail the brig Henry into Halifax under a letter of truce signed by President Madison, returning to Salem with the bodies of James Lawrence and Augustus Ludlow, First Lieutenant of Chesapeake, on August 22nd. They were interred there the following day. Sometime thereafter, Lawrence and his first lieutenant were again exhumed and their coffins taken to New York City, where they rest today at the foot of Broadway in the cemetery at Trinity Church, not far from the water.
While not mentioned in the story, the Derby family of Salem were, in fact, the dominant merchants of the period and built piers, warehouses, and other buildings, many of which can still be seen today in that charming and historic town.
Naval historians debated the action taken by James Lawrence for years. Early “whitewashing” and hero-worship, coupled with his death in the action, served to cover his massive blunder and turn it into an act of “desperate heroism.” His two surviving officers, Acting Lieutenants Budd and Cox, became scapegoats and were court-martialled for their imagined fault in the loss of Chesapeake. More current opinion is justifiably harsh toward Lawrence; many senior officers of the United States Navy maintain, albeit quietly, that had he survived, he should have been court-martialled and shot.
Regardless of which camp one might favor, it is undeniable that Lawrence did become a symbol for courage in the face of overwhelming odds. And he gave us one of the greatest and long-lived slogans in history, “Don’t give up the ship!”
William H. White
Rumson, NJ
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William H. White is a maritime historian, sailor, and former Naval officer with combat service. He lives and sails in New Jersey.
A Fine Tops’l Breeze, his second novel, was born out of his love for history and the sea.
Visit seafiction.net to view additional information on the author and his books. Follow Mr. White on twitter @1812war.
Photo by Tina/Visual Xpressions
Following is a selection from
The Evening Gun
Volume Three in the War of 1812 Trilogy
by William H. White
© William H. White 2001
The black-hulled sloop ghosted around the point and into the small bay; the men on deck were silent, unmoving. In fact, they were barely breathing. Standing next to the man at the tiller, Isaac Biggs strained his eyes through the Stygian darkness. Even though he had cut the point as close as he dared, few aboard had been able to make it out any details of the land; it was merely a dim smudge darker than the surrounding night. Those aboard took comfort in knowing that they in turn would be as difficult to spot, should someone be looking. Now they had to find the object of their late-night foray without themselves being seen. A whispered voice, hoarse with excitement, floated aft.
“I think I got her, Isaac. Lookee there, just off’n the wind’ard bow. Looks like there might be a light showin’ for’ard on her.” Jake Tate was hunkered down at the butt of the slender bowsprit, just inside the bulwark. Even with only the scant light from the few stars peeking through the overcast, his shaggy straw colored hair seemed to glow, disembodied and suspended in the dark. He had the sharpest eyes aboard and, though he had but one arm, had made himself indispensable on this little vessel, contributing the knowledge gained through his many years sailing the waters of the middle and northern Chesapeake Bay.
Biggs strained his eyes to penetrate the darkness, wondering how Jake managed so effortlessly. Standing as tall as his five-foot-four-inch frame would allow, he peered resolutely into the night straining to see what the young Bayman had spotted. He pushed a hand through his curly hair and with his sleeve mopped the beaded sweat off his narrow forehead. The Bay’s oppressive heat had begun early this year and even nightfall did little to cool the air or ease the heaviness that almost made it hard to breathe.
As the sloop eased into Tavern Creek, the air became still; the breeze seemed to be caught and held by the freshly-foliated trees lining both banks. A faint glimmer caught his eye.
“I got her, Jake. Good eyes.” In the next breath, Isaac whispered instructions to the helmsman to “bring her up a point” and felt, rather than saw, that the black-dyed sails were trimmed properly as the sloop made her way silently toward a cove about halfway into the creek. He knew that there was little chance of any but the most alert watchman on the British frigate noticing them; the arrogance of the Royal Navy and their knowledge certain that they had successfully cowed all the inhabitants of the region virtually assured him that the watch would be sloppy at best. More likely would be someone hearing them, and he had admonished his men to “be quiet as the dead, or we stand a fair chance of bein’ dead.” The only sound was the gentle rush of water as it parted before the rakish sloop’s hollow bows.
Within a few minutes, the shoreline suddenly appeared, and Isaac, having taken over the tiller himself, stood on, easing the sloop into a spot Jake had described to him before they left Kent Island. He brought her head to the wind, now barely a whisper of a breeze, and the crew handed the big mains’l silently at the first sign of a luff. The sloop, barely moving now, coasted less than a length and stopped, and the anchor was eased carefully into the still, black water. Any who might have heard the splash would have surmised a fish had jumped. The stays’l and jib dropped noiselessly and were lashed down on the deck. The square tops’l had been furled to its yard even before they entered the creek.
“Everyone below, now quick as you please, and not a sound.” Isaac knew he didn’t have to remind his crew how critical was complete silence now; mostly Maryland watermen, each was more than familiar with how easily sound carried across the water, especially on a still night. They’d been through this drill quite a few times now, and the American sloop was building an enviable success record harassing the British. With each little triumph, the British became more determined to catch this embarrassment to their might, but so far, Biggs and his small crew had managed to disappear in the confusion they caused.
The six men crowded into the small hold and waited silently for their captain to join them. A few shifted their feet, leaning on the bulkhead or the mast. One or two mopped their faces but, for most, the sweat ran down their necks unnoticed in the close quarters. The shirts of those who still wore them were soaked, dark with sweat. The hatch closed over their heads as Isaac appeared on the ladder. The heat built instantly; so
meone lit a small lantern which cast long shadows and a dim yellow light reflected on the glistening faces of the men. It gave them an even more sinister look than they already had.
“I ain’t gonna tell you how important what we’re doin’ is; you all know that since we started doin’ these little raids we been drivin’ the the Royal Navy crazy. Commodore Barney ain’t got no plan to stop, an’ gettin’ caught up by them surely wouldn’t be part of anyone’s plan. Less’n a mile into the creek there’s a British frigate. ’Cordin’ to the commodore, it’s the self same one what’s been sending parties ashore to burn farms and steal livestock. I don’t know that we can stop ‘em, but we surely can let ‘em know we’re here. And mayhaps get us a little payback for the trouble they been causin’.” He then outlined the plan again and after putting out the light, climbed up and opened the hatch. The night air, hot though it was, flooded into the hold cool, smelling like the woods so nearby, and the men silently followed their captain onto the deck.
With practiced, economical moves, they quietly launched a boat and Isaac and five of his raiders nestled themselves in between the casks of powder and other supplies needed for their mission. Oars, their mid-sections wrapped where they rested between the thole pins, were wet, and a hissed command from Biggs moved the boat away from the sloop and toward the British frigate.
Jake Tate, now alone on the sloop, waved unseen as the boat quickly disappeared into the night. He listened intently, straining to catch the splash or creak of an oar; the silence of the middle watch hours was broken only by the rustle of the trees and the cheeps of the peepers which had emerged from the mud to fill the night with their rhythmic sounds.
Good luck, men. This one ain’t gonna be easy as them others – not against a frigate, by God. Jake thought about the task his mates had before them, and wished he were with them instead of minding the sloop. Well, reckon I couldn’t be much help to ‘em anyway. That surgeon on HMS Shannon took care o’ that. Course, I could be dead or settin’ with Charity an’ her folks at the farm. Ugh! The one-armed sailor shook his head at the thought of being stuck ashore, and worse, with those high-minded in-laws of his who thought this war was all a waste of time and money. And it interfered with their importing business. Bad business indeed to be on the “outs” with England. Tate spat over the side, and sat on the hatch top to wait, a pistol and cutlass in easy reach of his good left arm. He had managed to become adept at handling both weapons adroitly with what had been his ‘off-side’. In fact, in the almost twelve months since he caught the ball that led to its amputation, his missing limb had become little more than an inconvenience to him.
The sloop had been swallowed by the darkness within moments of their shoving off, and Isaac now steered up the creek keeping close to shore; a dark, broken backdrop would make it more difficult for anyone watching to notice the small craft as it crept toward the British warship. Isaac concentrated with part of his mind on keeping the boat headed fair, watching for low branches and stumps as the shore slipped past; the other part of his consciousness reviewed their plan and, more importantly, their escape back to the sloop.
Satisfied with the plan he and Jake had worked out with Commodore Barney, whose local knowledge was as great as Jake’s, that part of his mind turned to the recent past and how he and Jake wound up here in the Chesapeake sailing small boats against some of the best of the Royal Navy.
Shortly after Oliver Perry’s September triumph in USS Lawrence on Lake Erie, the Navy recognized a greater need existed for sailors inland than on the coast. Hundreds were detached from blockaded frigates, brigs, and sloops and marched to New York state where their services were in desperate need. Isaac’s two mates,Robert Coleman and Tim Conoughy, formerly Royal Navy and now seamen in the American Navy, had been included in the group sent inland. Biggs had remained with the Salem privateer General Washington, under Captain Asa Rogers, for another successful cruise after their harrowing rescue mission to Halifax.
Jack Clements, a former Navy warrant bosun who had been with Captain James Lawrence aboard the Chesapeake frigate in June of 1813, had been released from further obligation to the Navy in recognition of the injury he received when the Shannon had boarded and taken the American man-of-war. His ear had been cleanly, almost surgically, removed by a cutlass stroke during the brief but fierce hand-to-hand fighting on Chesapeake’s deck, and his wound had been treated by the British surgeon while they were en route to Halifax and the Melville Island prison there.
There was little chance that any shipping could escape the tight stranglehold the Royal Navy now maintained on the entire coast from the Carolinas to northern Massachusetts; if a vessel was in, it stayed in, and, if offshore, her master had to find another port from which to operate. Trade suffered, and with very few exceptions, the deep-water Navy and most of the privateer fleet remained harbor-bound.
This was the driving force that drew Clements and Isaac, accompanied by Jake Tate, back to the Chesapeake. Jake had also been in the Navy and, like Clements, had been released from further service due to the wound he received during his service on Chesapeake. He was headed, reluctantly, for married life ashore, feeling as he did that there was little chance of his finding a berth afloat.
The three left Boston a month after their friends marched inland, arriving in Baltimore just ahead of winter. It had taken them no time at all to find useful employment with Commodore Barney’s small “navy.” Jake, anticipating a life ashore with Charity, was understandably delighted to find that his services would also be needed – even with only one arm. He and Isaac had been sailing this sloop together for close to three months, and Jack Clements, with a wall-eyed waterman named Frank Clark, skippered a similar vessel. So far, both the former privateersman and the navy bosun, late of the Chesapeake, had enjoyed only success and the two seventy-foot sloops and Barney’s gunboats, like biting flies around a horse, had become anathema to the ships of Captain Robert Barrie, who regularly sent out forces to find and destroy them. The gunboats, based further south in the Patuxent River, had almost been caught twice, but so far the sloops had operated unchallenged.
“Isaac! Lookee there. Ain’t no one watchin’ out.” Sam Hay, crouched next to Isaac and elbowed him sharply in the ribs as he whispered his observation about the Royal Navy frigate. Isaac grunted in surprise, and peered through the black night.
“Aye, ‘pears so, Sam.” Indeed, they could make out no watchmen or any other on the frigate’s deck. A dim lantern showed near the foremast, and Isaac could detect the faint aroma of tobacco in the still air. The watchmen must be hunkered down near the foremast having a smoke. “Easy now, lads.” Isaac’s whispered command took the boat alongside the towering sheer wall of the British frigate and the oars were silently boated. He steered to a position under her starboard main channel where it was unlikely they would be seen, and where they would set the first surprise for the Royal Navy.
A stout line was heaved ‘round the shroud lanyard and secured in the boat. One of the Americans silently stepped with bare feet over his boated oar and shinnied up to the channel; a small cask filled with black powder was handed up him which he placed carefully between the hull and the lanyards, affixing a length of slow match to its top. After a brief pause, the powder-impregnated cord flared suddenly, then dimmed to a glow. The sailor slid down the line and back into the boat. The forward starboard channel received the same treatment. All remained still.
Silently, Isaac moved the boat still further forward, until his men could reach the anchor cable. A hatchet was produced and made short work of the heavy hawser; it parted and, still unnoticed by the inattentive watchmen, the frigate was free in the confined shallow water of Tavern Creek.
“Isaac! What the hell is that?” One of the men whispered frantically, pointing ashore. A glow was building, lighting the blackness and outlining the trees. True to form, the British raiding party ashore had fired a building, likely belonging to some uncooperative farmer, and would soon be returning to their ship.
“We best be gettin’ ourselves outta here, lads. I ‘spect them marines’ll be headed back quick as you please now they done they’s dirty work. Reckon they’ll be some surprised.” Isaac smiled unseen in the darkness and, as the oars were shipped, steered the boat toward the shoreline and their sloop. A sharp crack, a musket shot, rang out from the deck of the frigate. And a cry.
“Alarm, alarm! Starboard side. Small boat ‘eadin’ off!” A watchman on the frigate had finally looked their way.
“Row, men. They’ve smoked us.” Isaac steered closer to shore, hoping the boat would blend in; but the light of the burning building behind them silhouetted the boat for the Royal Marines firing at them. More shots rent the night, then a crashing boom as one of the swivel guns mounted in the frigate’s fighting top fired. The water around the boat was pocked with falling shot and the oarsman immediately in front of Isaac sighed and slumped over his oar.
Isaac grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and pulled him to the deck. He then took the dead man’s seat and pulled his oar, his hand sticky on it from the man’s blood. An explosion lit up the darkness and covering the rig of the warship briefly in it’s flare.
“That’s the first of ‘em, lads. Keep rowing. It ought to take they’s minds off’n us!” Isaac was delighted to see that one of the charges they had only moments before planted on the frigate’s starboard channels had done its job. The other should be going off soon now and, as more British sailors and marines came on deck, someone was bound to notice that the ship was drifting with the ebbing tide. Still, the more determined of the Royal Marines maintained their fusillade of musketry and their misses pocked the water around the boat. The thump of balls hitting their hull kept the men rowing, not in a panic, but with the steady, rhythmic strokes of seasoned professionals.
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 31
