Banners

by Diane Carey

  Perhaps they didn’t need any information from their guests. They seemed to know quite a lot already—the lay of the land, the shape of the fork in the Patapso, and the two bodies of water formed by that fork. They spoke openly of their eight bomb ships with powerful thirteen-inch mortars, whose explosive shells could be flung from two miles out, and of hollow shells packed with the incendiary ingredients of powder, salt petre, pitch, and sulfur. They could set fire to Baltimore from a distance.

  The macabre conversation was so interesting that when another officer entered, wearing a fairly plain uniform, nobody gave him much attention.

  The handsome cinnamon-haired newcomer, carrying himself with a naturally graceful bearing, sat next to Key, greeted him only with a nod and accepted wine from the steward. Key looked at Skinner, but the agent paid no attention to the quiet officer, so Key gave him not a second thought. He would have to get accustomed to this, seeing British officers and sailors of war all around him, and knowing it was their obligation to destroy his nation, his home, and perhaps his life. He would be respectful, but there was a fine line to be crossed into fawning, which he knew must be avoided. Somehow he would have to be polite without being obsequious. They must see him in a certain respectful light if he were to be successful when his one chance came.

  “I’ve found these eastern tracts to be quite similar to our midlands,” Admiral Cochrane was going on, finishing a sentence Key hadn’t heard as his mind wandered. “Before I came here, I was rather expecting deserts and jungles. Of course, your humidity here is brutal. I don’t know how you breathe.”

  “It can be a struggle,” Skinner said. “Of course, with exposure, it’s possible to become acclimated. They say that in the South, natives hardly sweat at all.”

  “I can’t imagine. Not quite as soggy here as Ireland, though. What do you think, Ross?”

  Skinner snapped around like a weathervane and almost broke his neck. He gaped at the silent officer sitting next to Key.

  Key took a few seconds longer to realize what had just been said.

  Ross!

  “I think,” Ross began, trying to swallow, “that I’m too hungry to have an opinion.”

  His accent was clearly Irish, but not the guttural mumble of the lower class. This was a man who had always been privileged, supremely educated, and understood his obligations as an aristocrat. His reputation preceded him. Key knew he sat beside one of the most purely courageous military leaders of the age, a man not only willing but eager to lead his soldiers from the front of the brigade, who had many times proven his gallantry, so much so that even the American commanders admired him.

  “Pardon me,” Admiral Cochrane said. “I’ve been neglectful. Major General Robert Ross, please welcome Mr. John Skinner, prisoner exchange agent, and Mr. Scott Key, a barrister from—I’m sorry, where was it?”

  “Georgetown,” Key rasped.

  “There you are.”

  “Exchanging prisoners?” Ross began. “Which ones?”

  “One of yours,” the Admiral told him.

  His heavily shadowed eyes wide, Skinner now stared at Key and made a small nod.

  Steeling himself as he did in those first few moments before standing to make his case in a courtroom, Key was careful not to clear his throat. He simply turned in his seat and placed his hands in his lap.

  “Dr. William Beanes.”

  Ross made a sour growl, then opened his collar and pressed a folded cloth to what appeared to be a neck wound from some previous encounter. “Beanes! I’ve already dealt with this. Upon my arrival in Upper Marlboro, Dr. Beanes surrendered to me. He himself carried a white banner! By surrendering, he gave his pledge that he would not raise arms against us. He then went about an elaborate ruse of entertaining us, which I have since concluded was drummed up to stall our attack upon our next targets. And you think you can pacify me?”

  “You released the other two prisoners to Richard West when he made his appeal.”

  “The other man had not made a pretense of surrendering. The boy carried no weapon. After his declaration of neutrality, Beanes betrayed his word and behaved in a hostile manner. The case against him is sealed. He is clearly Scottish by name and by his manner of speech, and as a citizen of Britain he owes fealty to the Crown.”

  Careful not to speak at this, to bring more attention to the fact that Beanes had been faking the Scottish identity and was in fact a third-generation American, Key let the detail pass, unable to calculate that the truth would help at all.

  “This is a point of honor,” Ross abruptly added.

  Key remained silent, a skill of timing learned in the courtroom. Across the table, Skinner plainly wanted to say something and was watching him, egging him on with a glare. The agent received no satisfaction.

  Ross picked up his wine, then instantly put it down again without drinking. “He betrayed my trust. It is an insult. A personal one.”

  Now that Ross had vented his anger, Key coolly began. “Dr. Beanes is a cherished friend of mine. He retains my friendship by his most constant devotion and purity of character. I have come not to make a legal appeal, but a moral one.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Holding his hands still in his lap, Key raised one hand without lifting his arm, in a gesture that was, for him, almost wild. Pliantly he asked, “Would you compare the caprice of an elderly doctor to the rigorous scrutiny of martial obligation? Rather than conceiving of any deliberate insult, can we not agree that whimsy was more at work? That poor judgment and bad timing are often misinterpreted?”

  Ross narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

  “Is it possible,” Key went on, “that Dr. Beanes, lubricated by a good bottle, was simply overcome with bravado in front of his guests? This man is a surgeon, not a soldier. He is the quintessence of a non-combatant. His is a hand of healing, General. His talents show themselves in the aftermath of battle, not before, at a time when enmity is set aside and kindness rules if we are to remain above the savage. If we remove men of the gentle arts, like William Beanes, from the panorama of our disputes, all that remains is brutality.”

  With a tucked chin, Ross scowled. “I think you are not in a court, but on a pulpit, Mr. Key.”

  “It is a failing of mine. Please, let me present my evidence.”

  He reached for the leather satchel Skinner held on his lap, drew from it several papers of varying sizes, and directly handed them to Ross. “These letters are from British prisoners of war left wounded on the battlefield at Bladensburg. As we speak they are resting in field hospitals. They write of the gentle, dignified treatment, indeed lifesaving treatment, dispensed to them by Americans, and one American surgeon in particular. William Beanes.”

  Calculating the general’s expression as he read the letters, Key had a theatrical sense of when to go silent and let other factors speak. At the head of the table, Admiral Cochrane was once again scanning the nautical chart that he had put aside before the meal, pointing something out to Codrington. Across the table, Skinner didn’t look as if he were breathing at all.

  Robert Ross flipped through the letters, then read two of them over again.

  Key and Skinner waited.

  The famous leader took his time reading. He then read over the letter from the fallen soldier yet again. At the table there was nothing but tension, except for Admiral Cochrane’s taking a loud slurp of his wine.

  Ross dug a little bit of dinner from between his teeth.

  “The doctor deserves much more severe punishment than he has received,” the general finally said. “Your representations of his character are strong, Mr. Key. I am bound to return kindnesses shown to our wounded.” Dropping the letters on the table in front of Key, Ross bluntly told him, “On that premise, I shall parole him.”

  Skinner started breathing.

  Holding back his shock, Key quietly said, “You’re a man of integrity in a time of chaos, General.”

  “Integrity, integrity. That’s the whole thing, isn’t it?�
� The general’s chair rasped as he stood up. “If you’ll pardon me.”

  Had that happened?

  Key was afraid to move as the irritated Ross exited the cabin. Key couldn’t clap or even smile, shake hands with Skinner or in any way betray his composure. Years of courtroom practice served him now. Judges didn’t care for gloating. Neither did admirals.

  “Mr. Key,” Admiral Cochrane began again, “you’re a barrister, yes?”

  “I am.”

  “In Baltimore?”

  “Yes, sometimes.”

  “Do you happen to know anyone at this little Fort McHenry?”

  Key paused, but could not divine any reason to keep secrets about that. “My brother-in-law is second-in-command.”

  “He is married to your sister?”

  “One of my wife’s sisters.”

  “Most opportune.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Would you be considered, do you think, as an intermediary?”

  “In what capacity?”

  “To negotiate the fort’s surrender. When the time comes, of course. Unless, of course, you’d like to do it early, before lives are lost.”

  Was this confidence or temerity?

  Key fell back into his courtroom conditioning and thought he did a respectable job of not disclosing his true reaction. “I shall pray for divine guidance on the subject,” he answered.

  He was gratified when Skinner spoke up and rescued him from the moment. “I shall be honored to negotiate terms for an exchange of British prisoners for Dr. Beanes and—”

  “No need for negotiation, Mr. Skinner,” Admiral Cochrane spoke up. “There’s nothing to negotiate.”

  Skinner blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “You and your party are not leaving. You can’t stay aboard here, as the Tonnant will be active with many officers and such a presence would be indiscreet. You’ll be put aboard the frigate Surprise, commanded by my son, Sir Thomas Cochrane, along with the crew of your truce vessel, which will be taken under tow. Under a guard of Royal Marines, you will be detained indefinitely.”

  “Admiral, I protest this,” Skinner said, more loudly that he would’ve approved if Key had said it. “What is the precedent for detaining us?”

  “You cannot expect us to free you in advance of our movement. The squadron is on its way to rendezvous with us. You’ve heard us discuss our land assault from North Point and the armaments of our ships. And Mr. Key’s services may become helpful as events play out. It’s time to put an end to the ant-like shipbuilding that goes on here. You and your party will remain with us while we put the torch to Baltimore. I’m sure you will come to appreciate your vantage point. It should be quite a show.”

  The Biggest Gamble

  CHASSEUR

  THE WEATHER DECK WAS crowded. Usually Tom Boyle and John Dieter wouldn’t be awake at the same time, but neither wanted to miss the weekly wrestling match. A hundred men crowded the deck, laughing and shouting, betting and calling each other wicked.

  Chasseur crashed along on a larboard tack, beating into in an east-northeast wind. She was easy on the roll, but not easy to handle. Dangerous as any low-railed privateer, with an enormous thunderhead of canvas towering over her, she rode the waves like a dolphin heedless of a rider.

  “Sail!” Pierre Massu called from the bow where he was on lookout. “Forward of the larboard beam.”

  Letting the men go on with their wrestling match, Boyle pulled his spyglass from his belt and sighted down the new quarry.

  Twisted into a leggy knot with John Thompson, the bosun, Dieter croaked, “What is it?”

  “Schooner … running … pretty. I wonder why they’re not wing-and-wing.”

  Pretty, but awkward for the other ship. Both ships as they approached each other were sailing in their respective worst courses for their rigs, with now-square-rigged Chasseur trying to beat into the wind and the schooner running from it.

  Thompson took the opportunity of Dieter’s distraction to break the mate’s grip, get a knee under them, flip both their bodies completely over, and pin Dieter’s head to the deck with a meaty forearm. Instantly the match was over. Half the crew cheered, the other half hooted the loss of their bets, and money began to fly back and forth with varying degrees of joy or annoyance. Third mate Paul Mooran held them apart while he tallied the bets. He was today’s arbiter-in-chief.

  Gasping for air, Dieter got to his feet and joined Boyle.

  “The least you could’ve done was break his arm, you insect,” Boyle complained.

  “I sacrificed for the sake of my ship.”

  “Nobody likes you.”

  “Can’t break our bosun’s arm. What’ve you got there?”

  “You cost me two hundred and ten pennies.” Training the spyglass on the new sighting, Boyle worked to keep the target in sight while braced on the Chasseur’s bobbing deck. “Pilot schooner … are the guns ready?”

  “Gun crews, ready and stand by,” Dieter called, not loudly since most of them were right here.

  The crew wandered to their posts, so accustomed to this that they continued their banter and demands for a rematch.

  “Should we load?” Gunner Edward Vernard asked.

  “Load, but don’t run out,” Boyle answered. “I don’t see a banner. No national colors. Let’s close within long-run range. Hoist ‘stop and wait for my orders.’ Turn and head her off. Ready about.”

  “Ready about!” Dieter repeated.

  As the signal flags skittered up their halyard, Chasseur quickly became a machine of a million parts, each cog working in coordination with all others, though it had taken a couple of weeks to get the crew at ease with the square rig. Most were sailors already and took to changes with the sixth sense of those raised at sea from boyhood, and Boyle’s unremitting drilling had cemented their skills. Every movement of rig, tiller, and crew was well rehearsed over many aggressive conquests and several good runs for their lives. Many captures ago, Boyle and Dieter reached that magic moment at which they hardly had to deal with minute details of trimming in or slacking the sheets, of adjusting the topping lifts or fine-tuning the tiller heading, backing the heads’ls or bracing the square tops’ls, as the crew had become so familiar with Chasseur’s quirks and movements that they were almost a part of her. The commanding officers had only to give the helm a few little commands, and the changes would be sensed by the sail-handlers, who would keenly adjust the trim. They had grown a depth of confidence in themselves and an intimacy with this madcap sea-monster beneath them.

  The bow bobbed and swung around, the bowsprit drawing circles on the sky. The sails pivoted, the wind struck and filled them, and the ship leaned on her larboard shoulder, losing remarkably little speed during the maneuver. Chasseur stretched out on a beam reach. Her sharp hull cut through the flickering water.

  Their hair was blowing and they held on to the shrouds or gun trucks or each other, and drove down on the schooner.

  “He’s not turning away,” Deiter noticed, watching the other ship. “Oh—there he goes.”

  As the other ship turned to her starboard, cooperating with the signal flag order, the two vessels ran broadsides to each other and the expanse of water between them shortened. Boyle no longer needed the scope. “Fore-and-aft rigged … fore square tops’ls … gray privateer hull with gunports. I recognize that ship, don’t I? … That’s … isn’t that the Atlas? Privateer out of Philadelphia?”

  “Didn’t Atlas get captured?”

  “Did she?”

  “Maybe I’m wrong.”

  “If the Brits got her, she wouldn’t still be rigged that way. They’d have messed her up. That’s an American rig.”

  “Maybe somebody’s using her as a packet. Can you count the crew?”

  Boyle used the scope again. “Emm … one … two, three … looks like maybe six on deck … a man in the tops … captain’s aft wearing a straw hat.”

  “Clothing?”

  “Ordinary work clothes … I like that ha
t. Run out two twelves.”

  “Two twelves, aye.”

  “Fire a warning shot.”

  “Starboard battery, one warning shot!”

  “Warning shot, aye,” came Ed Vernard’s response. He aimed the starboard gun that was already run out.

  The starboard forward gun made a throaty poom, loaded not with a ball but with powder and wad, which reduced the sound but put the message across.

  “Better to starboard. Prepare to close on her. Run up our colors.”

  The crew fell silent, anticipating another capture, letting the captain’s orders be heard clearly. On the flag halyard running down from the spanker peak, the American flag climbed and unfurled itself behind them.

  The unknown schooner turned more to its own starboard, slightly away as Chasseur closed the distance between them. Boyle met the eyes of Steven Sigsby and made a hand signal with his hands equally apart.

  Chasseur changed course to keep parallel with the schooner and a boat-length behind. At every plunge of the bows a huge spray of foam rose in the shape of gulls’ wings to erupt over the decks, drenching the men and rushing aft to the scuppers. The two ships pounded along in a duet of industrial pageantry with such flourish that Boyle, even after his entire life at sea, wished he could capture and save the moment, relive it a thousand times, show it to his children.

  Dieter took the scope from Boyle and fixed it on the stern of the other ship. “Says … St. Lawrence. Is that the name of the ship or her home port?”

  “The St. Lawrence …” Boyle tasted. “Never heard of it.”

  “Out of the Carolinas, maybe?”

  “Trice the courses. Take some speed off this vixen before we overtake her.”

  “Trice the courses!” Dieter ordered, and the sail handlers called the order back.