by Ron Carter
The smoke from the muzzles reached halfway to the Esther, and the shock waves from the deafening blasts struck the white-faced crew on the schooner and they involuntarily hunched and took one step back to wait for the cannonballs to rip into them.
Matthew turned his face upward and watched the hits. Four whistling cannonballs punched holes through the mainsail, two more ripped through one jib, and one grazed the varnish on the starboard rail. The others whistled overhead through the rigging and touched nothing and raised geysers of water three hundred yards to starboard.
“Hard port!” Weyland shouted, and the helmsman wrenched the wheel back while the men on the yards strained to change sail direction, and once again the schooner dug into the dark waters in a violent left turn until she was directly behind the high stern of the British ship and closing fast.
“Does she have any stern cannon?” Weyland shouted, and Matthew shouted back, “No, sir. None.”
The crew slowly understood they were no longer under the muzzles of British cannon. They had outwitted and outsailed the man-of-war and had taken half a broadside that only punched six holes in their canvas. The holes meant nothing; they could be repaired in fifteen minutes. Relief spilled out in talk and nervous laughter, and they all resumed their duty posts and waited for orders.
“Steady as she goes,” Weyland called, and the bow steadied, with the stern of the huge warship dead ahead. At fifty yards Weyland shouted, “Hard starboard,” and once again the little schooner darted right for one hundred yards before Weyland again shouted, “Hard port,” and she turned back towards the heavier ship, coming in at an angle too far astern for any British guns to come to bear, and fully capable of outmaneuvering the big ship no matter what she did.
“Hold her steady,” Weyland shouted, and the schooner bore down at an angle on the rear starboard quarter of the man-of-war.
The stern of the British ship was high, a full fifty feet above the water and twenty-five feet above the bow of the Esther. Delicate hand carvings of leaping porpoises and sea nymphs graced the hardwood backside, where two decks of nine windows each opened into the officers’ quarters. Beneath the overhang of the bottom row of windows, the heavy, ironbound oak rudder, ten inches thick and two feet in breadth, ran from the superstructure down into the ship’s wake. Above the window banks, between two carved sea nymphs, a craftsman had carved the name of the ship, Stafford, in beautiful English scroll.
The Esther was forty yards from the rear of the Stafford when the crew saw the first British seamen set a swivel gun in its socket in the stern rail and ram the powder charge home.
“Clear that rail,” Weyland shouted, and every available man grabbed his musket. The British were seating three pounds of grapeshot against the powder in their swivel gun when the first musket volley blasted from the Esther, and every British seaman on the rail staggered back.
“Keep that rail clear,” Weyland ordered, “and if they appear in those windows of the officers’ quarters, shoot them!” The Esther crew reloaded their muskets and stood with the muzzles upward, ready. Twice more British seamen rushed the rail with swivel guns and muskets, and were driven back by the blasting volleys from the Esther.
“Sir,” Riggins exclaimed, his voice high, excited, “we’re going to ram!” He was white-faced, pointing.
Weyland raised his hand to quiet Riggins while he calculated distance, angle, and speed. “Starboard cannon, prepare to fire. We’re going right under the stern and dump all wind from our sails. When your cannon come to bear, shoot the rudder.”
Suddenly the reason for Weyland’s confused maneuvers became crystal clear, and every man aboard the schooner jabbed a fist into the air, and from every throat rolled a resounding shout.
“Hard port!” Weyland cried, and the bow of the schooner veered left and started across the high stern of the Stafford, barely fifteen yards away. The rigging on the Esther mainmast was less than five yards from the Stafford when Weyland shouted, “Spill the sails!” The men released the yard ropes and the sails fluttered free, and the Esther instantly slowed, coasting slowly past the high stern of the man-of-war, whose rudder was exposed to the nine cannon on the starboard side of the schooner at point-blank range.
“Fire when you come to bear,” Weyland ordered, and every eye on the little vessel watched as the first gun came on line with the rudder. The cannoneer touched his match to the touchhole, the cannon jumped and roared, and the ball raked a two-inch groove in the right side of the massive rudder. No one spoke or moved as the second cannon came on line and blasted. Wood splinters flew as the ball struck on the left side. Number three struck and wood shattered, but the rudder remained in commission. Numbers four and five were the heavy thirty-two-pound Demi-Cannon, and Matthew held his breath as number four came on line. The Esther was at a near standstill in the water, and the gunner stood directly behind the big gun, sighting down the barrel. He touched the match and the gun blasted and the huge ball smashed into the rudder dead center and ripped a groove eight inches deep. Three seconds later the second thirty-two-pounder jumped and roared, and the heavy ball split the rudder lengthwise and it sagged at an angle. The last four smaller guns fired in turn, and on the last shot, half the rudder fell into the sea, with the other half shot off its moorings, hanging at an angle, useless.
The Stafford was rudderless, adrift, at the mercy of wind and currents and of the Esther.
Matthew heard the triumphant shout well from his chest and then realized everyone on the Esther was shouting, unable to believe they had engaged the huge man-of-war and fatally crippled her, with only six harmless holes in their canvas. Matthew turned to Weyland, elated, grinning.
Weyland looked at Matthew and wiped sweat from his face and rounded his lips and blew air before he turned to the crew. “Hold your fire. She hasn’t struck her colors yet.”
He turned his face back to the warship. “Hello, Stafford.” He waited but there was no reply. “Hello, Stafford,” he repeated. “Will you strike your colors?”
There was no reply from the silent Stafford.
He shook his head and turned back to his cannon crews. “Can you elevate your gun muzzles to the officers’ quarters in the stern?”
“We can try, sir.”
Weyland waited until the stern of the big ship had moved two hundred yards away, so that the Esther was out of effective range of any British muskets, before he ordered his cannoneers to fire. The first volley ripped into the lower deck of windows, and glass shards and wood splinters flew. The second volley caught the upper deck of windows and some of the carved images in the heavy wood and blasted them into splinters. Inside, the officers’ quarters were a shambles.
“Hello, Stafford!” Weyland called. “Will you strike your colors?”
Again there was no reply, and Weyland shook his head, hating the necessity of chopping a helpless ship to pieces. He smacked his fist on the rail and turned to his cannon crews once more. “Reload.”
“Sir,” Matthew called, and pointed. Aboard the Stafford, the Union Jack was coming down, and a white flag was going up. While they watched, the first mate appeared on deck above the wreckage of the stern. He snapped to attention, his official En-glish naval officer uniform gleaming in the sun, and they heard his shout. “Sir, we strike and we surrender.”
A roar erupted from every voice on the Esther. Weyland removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his face and forehead. “Sir, are you disabled?” he called.
“We are disabled.”
“I’m coming alongside to board you.”
Twenty minutes later Captain Soren Weyland led Matthew and his bosun and thirty of his men, armed with muskets and pistols, onto the gently rolling decks of the Stafford and faced her captain while the British crew stood at attention, faces contorted and fists clenched as they struggled with their deep anger and resentment.
“Sir, I am Captain Soren Weyland of the Esther, authorized by letters of marque from General George Washington. In the name of the thirteen co
lonies I declare this vessel and all her stores to be a prize of war and the crew to be prisoners of war. What is your name, sir?”
“I am Captain Philip Edwards, His Majesty’s Navy. I command the Stafford.”
“I offer my ship’s surgeon and medicines for your wounded, if you wish.”
“It will not be necessary. We have sufficient.”
“Very good. I will require your log, your navigation charts, your inventory of all stores, your octant, and your compass, sir. My bosun will accompany your first mate now to fetch those items.” The bosun stepped forward and followed the ramrod-straight back of the first mate to the stern of the ship and disappeared.
Weyland gestured to the Stafford’s rigging. “My men will furl all sails at once and leave them furled while we tow you to Gloucester Port.”
Captain Edwards’s face reddened and he battled with control for a moment, then spoke through gritted teeth. “I am obliged to tell you, sir, that I cannot be responsible for the conduct of my crew. They consider the actions of your vessel to be high-seas piracy, and they may not be able to control their need to retaliate.”
Weyland thrust his face forward. “And I am obliged to tell you, sir, that my crew considers your blockades of our ports to be cowardly, and they have an overpowering need to punish any ship flying the Union Jack that they find in colonial waters!” He made no attempt to hide his bitter contempt for the cruel hardships the British had inflicted on the small, struggling colonies.
The bosun and the British first mate returned carrying a loaded basket between them. “Sir,” the bosun said, “I have the enumerated items.”
Weyland nodded and again faced Captain Edwards. “You and all your officers will accompany me on the Esther. I will leave my bosun and twenty of my crew to furl the sails and handle this vessel. Your crew will go to their quarters and remain there until we reach Gloucester Port. They will destroy nothing, and they will not harm my men in any way. If they do otherwise, I will hang you and your entire staff of officers from the mainmast yard of the Esther, and then I will sink the Stafford with every one of your men aboard. This ship is rudderless and there’s nothing your men could do to stop it. Am I clear, sir?”
Captain Edwards bit down on his temper. “Clear.”
“Tell your men what I just said.”
Captain Edwards turned and in terse, angry tones gave the orders to his men. For several moments there was murmuring, then open, hot, angry talk.
Weyland cocked his pistol and levelled it on Edwards’s chest. “Your men have two minutes to be in their quarters, except for your officers. Tell them.”
Edwards did not move as he barked out his orders. Slowly, reluctantly the talk dwindled, and then the crew turned and walked stiff-legged to the narrow gangways down to the lower decks and disappeared.
“Now you and your officers will take their places in the longboats while my crew takes charge of this vessel.”
At three o’clock p.m., beneath a blazing sun, Esther sailed past Eastern Point and entered the wide mouth of Gloucester Harbor, and southwesterlies kept her sails tight as she moved the huge warship steadily on a straight line north towards the town. At four p.m. the schooner shortened the towrope from ninety feet to fifty feet for better control, and at four-forty p.m. furled all but two sails as she crept into the port.
Matthew was at the bow with Weyland and Riggins. Captain Edwards and his officers were clustered at the stern.
The ancient port of Gloucester had seen ships and seamen from every country and port in the world, and the stories told by old sailors on the docks and in the pubs spoke of wondrous and miraculous sights, but seldom had Gloucester seen anything to compare with the startling apparition that now crept into port. The activity on the docks, and on the ships riding at anchor or tied to the piers, slowed and stopped as sailors stood still and squinted in disbelief at the sight of a small merchantman schooner towing a man-of-war twice her size on a short tether, with the man-of-war flying the white flag of surrender, and her stern and rudder blasted to pieces.
Old sailors scratched scraggly gray beards until they read the unmistakable facts, and buzzing began and then rose to a crescendo as the Esther dropped anchor, and the two great anchors on the Stafford plunged into the water and the ships stopped. Eager hands caught the hawsers to tie Weyland’s longboat to the pier, and men all over the docks shouted three great “hurrahs” for the crew of the small schooner as they wildly pounded Weyland and his officers on the back.
At nine p.m. Weyland called Riggins and Matthew into his quarters on the Esther, and they pored over the thick ledger of inventory of stores on the Stafford. At eleven-thirty p.m. Weyland pushed himself away from the small table and rose and stretched tired muscles. He closed the heavy ledger cover and glanced at the list he had dictated while Matthew wrote.
One hundred twelve kegs of powder, eighty pounds to the keg, seventy-two cannon, thirty-six-pounders, over two thousand rounds for the cannon, two hundred twenty muskets with ammunition, twelve swivel guns and shot, seven tons of salt beef, six tons of salt pork, sailcloth, uniforms, medicines, utensils, over one thousand pounds in English coin, and more, much more. He stared thoughtfully at the ledger on the table. “We’ll unload the Stafford tomorrow and send word to General Washington. It should lighten the burden that man is carrying.”
He turned to Riggins and Matthew. “There are a few items he won’t need. We’ll sell them ashore and divide the money equally, officers and seamen alike. Agreed?”
Both men nodded.
“Mr. Dunson, the navigational charts and equipment are yours.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Weyland loosened his black tie. “We were lucky today.” He paused for a moment. “Either of you men superstitious?”
They shook their heads.
“Neither am I. But still, it flies in the face of what common sense I may have—the notion that we beat the Stafford.”
Neither man spoke.
Weyland stood still in the yellow glow of the two lamps, eyes narrowed, brow drawn down, bulldog face lost in deep thought.
“I’ve got to tell you men something.” He raised his eyes. “I didn’t know how we were going to fight that ship today until she turned and showed us her cannon. From there, it came to me clear, like I had known it all along.” His face was frank, open. “I don’t think I was in command out there today.”
His eyes bored into Matthew’s, then Riggins’s, and for long moments none of them spoke in the charged silence. Then Weyland heaved a weary sigh.
“Well, as I said, I’m not superstitious, but . . .” He stopped, and Matthew saw him consider his thoughts and change his mind. Weyland shifted his feet and looked for words, and tried to finish. “Nothing. Just a passing thought—nothing.”
“I’d like to hear it, sir,” Matthew said quietly.
Weyland stared at him intently. “If you think of it, you might mention it . . .” He stopped, and licked his lips, and did not finish.
Matthew said, “I will, sir. Tonight.”
Weyland looked away, embarrassed at sharing his innermost thoughts, and his tough New England demeanor rose and the moment was past. He untied his black tie and pulled it from his neck.
“Men, we have a long day tomorrow. Get some rest.”
“Sir,” Matthew said, “when we’ve delivered the stores, what is your plan for the Esther?”
“Go looking for another British ship. We will do that until we get a change of orders from General Washington.”
It was midnight when Matthew hung his coat on its peg in his quarters. He drew out his wallet and carefully removed and unfolded the small paper. The watch fob gleamed in the yellow lamplight, and he gently laid it in one palm and touched it with his fingertips.
Where is she tonight? Is she well? Is she well?
He refolded the paper and tucked it back inside the wallet and left it on the table. He turned to his bunk and dropped to his knees and clasped his hands and lowered his hea
d.
“Dear God, for the blessings of this day I thank thee and praise thy name. And I beseech thee, dear God, to shed thy grace and mercies on Kathleen and her family, and on Mother and the children, and Tom. May Billy heal from his wounds. . . .”
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Notes
General George Washington did grant letters of marque to privately owned American merchant ships for the purpose of sending them out under his authority to acquire munitions and other sorely needed supplies for his military needs. His orders to the captains of these small merchant ships included the directive to strenuously avoid engaging armed British vessels in favor of taking British merchant ships loaded with valuable cargoes, wherever possible. However, it appears that on occasion these American merchant ships, which had been armed with a few cannon on their main decks, may have found themselves having to engage armed British vessels. (See Knox, A History of the United States Navy, p. 10.) Hence the adventures of the Esther and her crew as depicted in the novel.
It must also be explained that the merchant ship Esther is a fictional ship and that her captain, Soren Weyland, is fictional. In the novel, the Esther participates in an amalgamation of events that are based largely on incidents experienced by other ships, captains, and crews of the time (and it should be noted that the Esther’s Revolutionary War career gets under way a couple of months before American merchant ships were actually engaged in such activities). This fictional ship was created to be representative of the great and often heroic service rendered by the ships and men who rose to the call of their country.
