by Diane Carey
“You’re always hungry,” Boyle said. “Good to see you, Paul. Thomas—you’ve gotten skinny!”
“Maybe I’m hungry too,” Coward said as he took Boyle’s handshake.
“What’s in these boxes?” Dieter asked.
“Mementoes,” Boyle told him. “I took Comet’s halyards and docking lines.”
“Won’t she miss them?”
“They’re selling her, so they’ll be refitting anyway. The halyards are spliced and sprung anyway, but we’ll weave mats or baggywrinkle out of them. Actually, they offered to give to me, but I bought them honestly.” He smiled. “I want no hints of collusion.”
“Surprised you didn’t win ’em in a bet.”
“Also pins, small ropes, some brass fittings, lamps, gantline hooks, hemp, four deadeyes, ten blocks, robands, the main gaff tops’l—”
“What are we going to do with her tops’l? Won’t fit the new ship.”
“I’ll cover my bunk mattress with it if I have to. Or make a new pair of breeches. But some of Comet is coming with me.”
“Sailcloth hats,” Coward suggested. “Ditty bags.”
“Sounds like work,” Mooran complained.
Dieter got a thoughtful expression. “Wouldn’t you rather honor Comet in some way? Have a little ceremony and drop this stuff somewhere out at sea?”
Boyle shrugged at the sentimental idea and pretended to give it some thought, but he knew what he was going to say.
“The sea honors nothing, John.”
The others remained quiet, recognizing that Boyle was engaged in a moment of reverie with his lost schooner. Lost . . .a word that means something to sailors and captains. When a ship was lost at sea, sunk in battle, taken by storm, there was a story to tell in one’s old age and a memory to hold as if the ship were still there, just a few thousand feet of water away. But when a ship outlives her working life and is broken up for parts or sold, the ignoble end warrants no story of heroism and sacrifice. It is just lost.
Breaking his own moment, Boyle hopped into the wagon and took an uncomfortable seat on the edge. “Drive on. Let’s have a gander at this new barge.”
By the time Dieter pulled the wagon into the shipyard marina, the rain had stopped. The dock was busy, but still less than if the rain had not drenched the morning’s activities and driven as many people indoors as could do their work under a roof. They would come out now in droves, but for a few minutes Boyle and his officers would have some quiet.
They pulled up directly abeam of her. They paused without speaking or even getting off the wagon.
She was a black-hulled banshee, strong and young, furious and waiting to be run out. Like a raven-haired woman she hovered at her dock, looking dangerous. Her profile was sharp, her bow deeply angled, not like the round bow of Comet, an arcane and new design. Her masts were wildly raked, high into the sky with their topmasts still raised, her sprit, jib-boom, and flying jib-boom spearing far out from her bow with a bright new net spread on her whisker stays. Her main boom hovered well over her stern, boasting of an enormous sail plan. All her sails were bent on, every line belayed, coiled, and hung. The pin rails and belayed lines were well appointed, mystically looking the way he himself would have arranged them. How could that be?
And she was big—seemed very big—compared to Comet. Would she be fast? Would she be able to spin on a pin and come back almost into her own wake as Comet had?
Boyle scanned the schooner forward, then aft, then forward again. Somebody had done a great deal of what he would have done himself. She was more than ready to sail. She was ready for him.
Dieter stood up. “Looks like she’s going ten knots standing still.”
No one else spoke.
The ship was clean, but even more she was new. Her fir deck wasn’t soaked with filth and saturated with ocean salt as was Comet’s. The black paint on her hull had no chips, her channels no splintered edges from cannon shot. Her shrouds gleamed with coats of fresh tar and the ratlines were so new that they were still white, and all the same shade of white, probably recently replaced. She wasn’t a patchwork of repaired parts. Boyle was suspicious of the sparkle. What were her weaknesses? What were her quirks? What would crack under strain and what would hold up beyond expectation?
“They said there’d be an agent here to meet us,” Mooran commented when the silence became too uneasy to bear.
Boyle hopped off the wagon and stepped to the edge of the dock. The schooner was now only inches away—a silly concept, but somehow significant.
His officers came up behind him and together they studied the schooner with experienced eyes. Dieter immediately went forward, leaned over, and looked at the shape of the bow.
“Sharp-built,” he said, “like a hatchet blade. Keel’s probably deeper farther aft. If there’s no half-model aboard, I’ll take a swim later and have a peek.”
“I’ll go with you.” Somehow Boyle restrained himself from diving in and having a peek right now.
It was the hull form upon which speed and balance depended, and of course maneuverability, packaged with the rig—the masts and their placement, the engineering of the shrouds and deadeyes, blocks and lines. The myth of the Baltimore privateers and their unnatural speed was tied to all these elements, although by far the most striking characteristic to the untrained eye was the rake of those masts.
No one knew for certain the history of the deep tilt of those masts, for it had been an organic development rather than one sudden invention, but Boyle had his own ideas after years of merchant trade and now privateering in the Indies and South America, where there were ample trees but scarce land for farming rope materials. Masts with larger diameters had come from those virgin forests on the islands and if they were set with a pronounced rake, they could hold themselves up and resist wind, while Europeans, after a thousand years of culling out their own native forests, used narrower masts set vertically with lots of rigging to hold them up. Dramatically raked masts still required shrouds, but those supports could be dropped vertically from the mast top to greet the hull farther aft of where the mast was stepped into the deck. The resulting triangular formation made for extra strength and prevented the masts from tipping forward, giving them support while needing less tension on the stays. A larger fore-and-aft-rigged ship like this one, with stout masts, that triangulation of light rigging, a V-shaped hull with lots of drag to the keel, and a big sail area, could be easily driven forward and turn quickly indeed.
Well, that was one theory, anyway. The one he liked, in the elements he saw before him. Size changed everything about the way a ship moved. How would she really handle in open water? In light winds and heavy? In big seas? With an enemy biting at her heels? When he asked her to twist herself around like a dancer on a toe shoe? Was she too big?
“Ahoy!” he called, and stomped twice on the dock.
Almost instantly the fore hatch slid open and an unexpected face popped up, a bearded face with rosy cheeks and clever eyes, peeking out of the forward hatch like a cuckoo out of a German clock.
“Ah,” Boyle uttered. “Mr. Yambrick, the agent of everyone and no one.”
“Who’s he?” Coward asked.
Boyle sighed. “I can honestly say I have no idea.”
“Captain! You’re early!” The unlikely presence climbed the rest of the way up the companionway ladder and extricated himself from the hatch, managing to carry a leather satchel under one arm.
“Permission to come aboard?” Boyle requested properly.
“Oh, my! Yes, yes, please do! It’s my honor!”
Putting one hand on the larboard shroud, Boyle stepped over the gap of slimy water between the dock and the ship, onto the ship’s rail, and dropped to the deck.
The portly Frenchman met the newcomers at the fore shrouds.
“Welcome to the Chasseur, Captain Boyle.”
“Many thanks. Allow me to present my chief mate, John Dieter, and lieutenants Paul Mooran and Thomas Coward.”
“Ge
ntlemen, as Captain Boyle’s associates, you have my deepest respect. Your chambers are ready for you. There are fresh blankets aboard the boat, and provisions for—”
“It’s a ship,” Boyle said, “not a boat.”
Yambrick stammered a bit, then nodded. “Forgive me.”
“Let’s get to business, Mr. Yambrick.”
“Certainly.” He pulled a paper from his vest pocket and unfolded it for reference. “You probably already know that Chasseur is the largest privateer ever built in Fell’s Point. Her hull is one hundred fifteen feet, she’s eighty-five feet at the keel, twenty-seven at the beam and she draws sixteen feet into the water.”
“So much for the shallows,” Dieter commented.
“Something called ‘sparred length’ is one hundred sixty-four feet and six inches. What does that mean?”
“Means she’s big,” Coward commented.
Paul Mooran pointed forward, then aft. “It means measuring from the point of the jib-boom to the end of the mainsail’s boom.”
Yambrick nodded mechanically. “Oh … charming.”
“It means how much space she takes up of the dock,” Dieter explained. “The length overall.”
“Oh! Of course! Thank you.” Just as he started stammering, Yambrick actually blushed. “I’m sorry. I am infatuated with these vessels, but I know shameful little about them, speaking technically. I cannot seem to retain the details.”
“You would if you worked ’em.”
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt.”
“Want to join the crew, Mr. Yambrick?” Boyle asked.
“In my younger days and my older dreams!” the round man accepted. “I shall boast always that Captain Tom Boyle himself attempted to recruit me!”
He was rewarded with laughs from the four sailors. They seemed to be more at ease with the big schooner by the minute. Dieter and Coward were now on the fore shrouds and halfway up the ratlines on each side.
Aware of himself, Yambrick turned back to business. “Extra spars and canvas are coming which will allow you to rig her as a …” At this he had to consult the paper again. “Pardon me. As a foretopsail schooner, a double-topsail schooner, brigantine, or a brig should you desire to do so. A brigantine, is that the one with the two—”
Boyle sharply said, “Two masts, squares on the fore, gaff on the main.”
“Oh, later perhaps you can draw me a picture?”
Dieter laughed. “Coward likes to draw, don’t you?”
“An artist, I am,” Coward responded, distracted. “Flowers and kittens.”
Yambrick nodded merrily and went on. “Last year she carried fifty-two men on her first voyage, eight carronades, and two long twelve-pounder guns—well, here is her log from that spring and summer, for you to examine.”
Boyle and Yambrick paused to watch Dieter and Coward climbing down again. The two men jumped down from the shrouds almost simultaneously. In a matter of days, they would be rushing up and down and all over like squirrels in a new tree.
Coward recovered from a clumsy landing. “What’s the name mean?”
Yambrick seemed happy to answer that question. “It’s French. It means ‘raptor.’ Like an eagle or an owl.”
“Like chaser. Like chasing something.”
“Yes, like that.”
“Good name for us,” Boyle approved. “We’re in the chasing business.”
“We didn’t paint it on the hull yet. Best that decision should be yours.”
“Paint it on. I’m not hiding.”
“Where’s she been?” Dieter asked.
“At first, she attempted to go to France,” Yambrick said, “but the voyage was cancelled—some conflict between the captain and crew. She spent most of last year docked because of that, I’m afraid, but in December she was re-commissioned as a privateer. Her new captain was a man you know. William Wade.”
“Wade!” Boyle exclaimed. “That explains it.”
“Explains?”
“Why so much of the rigging looks familiar.”
“Does it?”
“Is Wade here?”
“No. He went home. He had quite an active winter in the Caribbean and took five prizes.”
“Has she been out in the Atlantic yet?”
“Yes. Wade took her to the coast of Portugal and took six more prizes. When he returned, he couldn’t push through the blockade to reach Baltimore, so he came here to New York instead. When your syndicate purchased her, he prepared the boat for you. The ship. She is beautiful, isn’t she? It’s not just my wistful imaginings?”
Boyle nodded, still studying the manner with which the blocks and halyards had been run. “If she performs stretched out, she’ll be a good scamp.”
Yambrick didn’t seem to know whether that really complimented the ship or not, but he said, “Captain, I think if we had a fleet of her, we could take the war to England as they have brought it to us.”
He paused over his own sentence and stood silent while Boyle breathed in the new ship. Then Yambrick put the paper he was holding into the satchel and handed it to the captain.
“Here are your Articles of Agreement, Chasseur’s letter of marque, and her log book. Oh—and a copy of the Instructions for Private Armed Vessels of the United States, which I’m sure you know by heart. As of now, you are her captain and can set sail at your discretion.”
“Just the four of us?” Dieter mentioned, now examining the gathering of hoops at the foot of the main mast.
Yambrick was proud to be ready with an answer. “Downstairs I have a list of potential crewmen who want work, including carpenters, sailmakers, a surgeon, surgeon’s mates, an armorer, stewards, experienced gunners, master’s mates, several qualified prize captains, two cooks, and a long list of seamen. And several boys.”
“Below, not downstairs,” Coward corrected, taking the precedent from Boyle’s correction.
Yambrick smiled. “Yes, below. Sorry. Oh, I should mention several of them are freed or escaped Negroes, and there are a couple of Spaniards, if that matters to you.”
“Can they work a ship? It’s all that matters to me.” Boyle then gave his first order aboard the stately vessel. “Have them line up over the next week and report to Mr. Coward for consideration.”
“I shall send the requisite notifications.”
“I have my own list of sailors whom I would like you to contact also. John, if you’ll board those boxes, you’ll find several pins from Comet, her compass, several of her sail ties, ratlines, and small ropes and ends. Go ahead and see if you can blend them into this big girl.”
“Good luck charms,” Dieter said with a grin.
“And I want more long guns.”
“Oh?” Yambrick looked surprised. “We thought you would want your usual carronades.”
“No, I want more twelve-pounders. At least eight more.”
At this, his three lieutenants turned to look at him but said nothing, only questioning him with their expressions.
Thus he answered.
“I may need to fight at long range. This cruise is going to be different.”
A Year on Guard
FORT MCHENRY
AUGUST 19
THE MORNING WAS PERFECT poetry. It would have to be, or Mary would not have been paddling her canoe across the outer harbor on the Patapsco River.
She enjoyed this kind of morning, a sapphire-skied morning, warm but not too hot, with just enough breeze to flip the lace on her bonnet and flutter the old groves of trees along the shores, but not enough to push her canoe in some maddening direction. She was able to breathe deeply and paddle occasionally, letting the birchbark craft skim along the river’s glassy surface.
The canoe was new just last autumn, to replace the old one that had seen its fill of service getting her around, and this was a good one. Vessels of this type were common conveyances for the citizens of Baltimore, made by a local Indian family of birch transported from their connections in the West. There was nothing as pleasant to the soul as
canoeing. Mary paddled, then rested, and lifted her face to the breeze, then paddled softly again.
There were things about the old canoe that she missed—its tendency to wander to the left, as if it secretly wanted to keep going out to Chesapeake Bay and the distant ocean far south at Hampton Roads. She had enjoyed fantasizing about letting it go, leaving her responsibilities behind, but everyone felt like that sometimes and the old canoe always let her turn it around without much struggle. This new one would have to develop its own quirks and she would get used to them, as if she had a quiet dog that always wanted to go for a stroll.
As she drew closer to the Whetstone Point peninsula, on the opposite side of the Patapsco from Fell’s Point, she began to hear voices. Men’s voices, of course. Snapping orders, crisp responses, bustling and muttering, the clop of horses’ hooves, the crackle of wagon wheels. McHenry was a small fort, tidy and well-placed, and from here on Whetstone Point it stood guard over the waterways into the Basin, Baltimore’s inner harbor. Along one of the outer paths and inside the walls along the barrack buildings, upright spires of Lombardy poplar trees created a soldierly attitude. Though she was down at the water’s level, Mary could see the tops of the trees over the fort’s straight brick curtain walls, and she could see the huge flagstaff that had been installed just inside the parade grounds area, more toward this side of the fort. The tall pine staff had been made like a ship’s mast, in three segments of gradually smaller diameter, to be strong and flexible as it carried the huge new flag. Today there was a standard-sized garrison flag flying up there, as it did every day, hoisted at reveille, struck at sunset.
She glanced like a mother duck at the two burlap-wrapped bundles at her feet. There was a lot of fabric wrapped and lying on the bottom of the canoe, quite a lot.
And every man in the fort knew the big flag was coming. They started to line up on the wall and were looking at her, while a quartet of them came running from the fort down the long stomped-down path to the shoreline. From here the fort looked like a blocky structure of angled brick walls, but Mary knew those walls formed star-point bastions much like the spikes of a snowflake, except with five points rather than six. Angled walls had been around since the first medieval wooden forts, so armed men along one wall could protect those along another wall, and no enemy could sneak around a corner without being seen.
