Flashman and Madison's War

by Robert Brightwell

  Only the second schooner that had approached with the Lawrence was close enough to fire, but guns mounted in the bows of a ship are notoriously hard to aim. While I heard its cannon banging away I did not see a single shot hit home. The guns of the Detroit and Queen Charlotte pounded the Lawrence, over the next few minutes, but despite our efforts her crew gradually managed to cut away the wreckage and slowly the ship turned towards us again. We set to once more focussing on the bow of the ship coming towards us. Still the Niagara showed no sign of entering the fray and the other smaller American ships were also staying out of range. In contrast the British fleet stayed in a line with the Queen Charlotte now close behind the Detroit. Some of the smaller British ships, where they had guns with the range, were now also opening a carefully aimed fire at the Lawrence. The American ship was taking a dreadful punishment, but still it ploughed slowly towards us. Closer and closer it got until finally it was no more than half a mile away. Gradually the shape changed again as the ship turned, this time presenting her undamaged side towards us with the black muzzles glinting ominously in the gun ports.

  “Now we are for it,” muttered one of my gun crew. I fired our cannon and then throwing naval discipline in the scuppers, I ordered the men to lie flat on the deck. Well I could not lie down on my own with any dignity, and at any moment I expected a shattering impact and lethal splinters to scythe across the deck. I looked up and several gun crews had done the same, although Barclay and his naval lieutenant still stood proudly upright on the quarter deck. There was a dull roar as the Lawrence fired its first broadside, my muscles tensed waiting for the crash of iron into the ship… but there was nothing.

  “He had double shotted his guns,” called out Barclay. “It shortens the range.” I sprang up and was just in time to see the remains of a row of water spouts falling back into the sea some hundred yards short. Already the Lawrence was turning again to close the range further; I had a nasty feeling that Commodore Perry would not make the same mistake again.

  We threw ourselves into the gunnery with renewed vigour, even more conscious of the need to stop the American ship before it stopped us with its huge ship-killer guns. I am sure that I hit the Lawrence twice in the next few minutes. Its sails were little more than a collection of holes now but still the ship kept some momentum. Then there was an almighty crashing sound and tearing noise and I looked through the gun port to see the Lawrence’s mainmast start to fall down the length of the ship.

  Rigging and sail remnants crashed over the side, pulling the ship round again as it had with the top mast. I was relieved to see that it was the already damaged side of the Lawrence that would be facing us again. It was a feeling that was short-lived, though; as the first of its carronades crashed out. The Detroit rocked with the impact of the huge cannon ball smashing into its hull. There were screams and shouts from the deck below where the ball must have hit. My gun crew were already running our gun out again. There was no lying on the deck now; this was a duel until one side destroyed the other and everybody on that deck knew it.

  My gun flew back on its traces, the smoke obscured my view but as it cleared I saw a hole in the Lawrence’s side near the gun port I had been aiming at. Three more of the Lawrence’s guns fired and this time there was a shriek of agony from the quarter deck. I looked around to see Barclay was down and his lieutenant was holding on to the mast for support, also clearly wounded.

  “Keep firing,” yelled Lieutenant Davis. “Aim for their gun ports.” I looked along the side of the American ship for a gun that was still firing and gave orders for the gun to be shifted a point to the left. Only half of the Lawrence’s guns still seemed to be in action, but I knew that those gunners would also be aiming at our gun ports, possibly one lining up on mine at that very moment.

  “Heave!” shouted one of the soldiers on my crew as they hauled on the rope that pushed the muzzle of our gun out of the port once more. Carefully I lined my gun up on the gun port of the American ship. I could see flickers of movement as they completed their reloading. I had to focus, check alignment and wait for the down roll. Then I saw the muzzle of the American gun start to move forward but I was acting almost automatically now. Stand back and start to count… place the pistol over the touch hole… fire.

  The next moment I was flat on my back, my left arm numb with an impact. My hearing seemed dulled for a moment and I remember gazing up and seeing Barclay being carried below with his normally white breeches crimson with blood. Shaking my head I looked around. The second gun along from mine had taken a direct hit. The ball must have hit the front of the gun truck, which had disintegrated. Splinters had killed or wounded most of the crew and some of those on the next gun. Of the heavy cannon barrel there was no sign, but judging from a smear of gore on the deck behind and a hole in the bulwark on the opposite side of the Detroit, it had been smashed overboard.

  “Come on, men,” I yelled, my voice sounding distant in my own ears. “Don’t just stand there, reload!” If that sounds like Flashy being surprisingly brave in the face of the enemy, it wasn’t. It was simply a matter of survival. If there is one thing that concentrates my mind, it is preserving my own precious skin. As I watched the pools of blood running into the scuppers, it was abundantly clear that we had to completely disable the Lawrence to survive. I felt my left arm, it was sore but nothing was broken. I flexed my fingers to get some feeling back as my hearing gradually returned and the noise around me got louder. The crew were already sponging out the gun and then a cheer went up from someone near the stern of the ship

  “They have struck,” called a voice. “They have only gone and bloody struck their colours.” I looked up over the bulwark. The American flag was still flying from a half broken mizzen yard but the commodore’s pennant was definitely being deliberately hauled down.

  “Cease fire!” called Lieutenant Davis, “but keep your guns loaded until their other flag comes down.” I slumped down to sit on a grating while most of the men crowded the rail to anxiously watch the American ship. Screams and yells from their wounded could clearly be heard in the relative quiet that followed such a prolonged spell of gunfire. There must have been the odd groan from our wounded too as they were carried below, but I do not recall any. We just stood and watched in silence until finally the rope holding the American flag was cut and it came fluttering down.

  There was a deafening cheer then and men were embracing and slapping each other on the back. Against all the odds we had beaten one of the big American ships and our fleet should be more than a match for the remaining one. It meant that we could protect our supply route on Lake Erie once again. I wondered if Barclay was still alive. If he was, he should be told that his great gamble had paid off. I was just turning for the hatch when a voice called out in indignation.

  “Look, their commodore is making a run for it.”

  I turned around in surprise to see a small cutter appearing behind the Lawrence and rowing hard for the rest of the American fleet. There were only five men aboard and judging from the pennant held by the one who was not rowing; it seemed that Commodore Perry was indeed getting away.

  “He can’t do that – they have struck their colours,” shouted one gunner.

  “Given the distance he is behind the Lawrence,” called Davis, “I suspect he left before the ship struck.”

  A gun banged out from the Queen Charlotte behind and a water spout appeared alongside the rowing boat. Two more guns fired from the Queen Charlotte, both missing and then the stern most gun on the Detroit fired.

  “Cease fire!” ordered Davis. “You could blaze all day at a target that small and not hit it.” There were groans and shouts of indignation at this but Davis was not moved. He caught my eye and with a nod of his head gestured to the far side of the deck where we could talk in private. “We have used three quarters of our gunpowder,” he murmured. “We cannot afford to waste it. We just have to hope that the commodore tries to preserve what is left of his fleet and takes it back to harbour.”
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  “Surely he will,” I offered. “He has just seen us destroy his flagship.” As I spoke I looked around our deck at the damage. We still had all but one of our guns, although we had taken a fair few wounded. The area around the quarter deck was the most smashed. The first lieutenant had also been taken below for his wounds to be tended. Now a nervous midshipman from the provincial marine seemed to be the naval commander of the British flagship. He was gazing anxiously aloft where Black Eagle and a handful of other sailors were trying to repair some of the damaged rigging. One yardarm hung at an alarming angle, half pointing at the deck, but there was not too much damage to the sails as they had been side on to the enemy. “I will go down to Barclay,” I told Davis. “He should know that his fleet has been victorious.”

  “Let’s hope you are right,” muttered Davis as I disappeared down the hatch.

  Chapter 19

  The bottom or orlop deck of a ship after a battle is a miserable and depressing place. Below the waterline it is relatively safe from gunfire, which is why the ship’s surgeon has his station there, but this also means that it is damp and poorly lit. As I entered the gloomy interior, lanterns hanging from the low ceiling revealed more than a dozen wounded men waiting to be treated. Christie the surgeon was standing over a prone figure lying on an operating table made up of canvas tied over several sea chests. The lantern above this improvised stage shone dimly down on the patient: it was Barclay.

  As I approached I was amazed the man was still alive. His right leg looked mangled and a huge splinter of wood was still sticking out of his left. His remaining arm had also been wounded and hung lifeless at his side. Despite his injuries, Barclay’s eyes glittered with interest as I approached. “For God’s sake tell me what is happening. I can’t find out anything down here.”

  “You have a victory,” I told him, smiling. “The Lawrence has struck.”

  “We did it then,” gasped Barclay quietly, a satisfied smile crossing his face. “At least I have not died in vain.”

  “You’re not dead yet,” grumbled Christie. He gave a wry grin before adding, “Others would be insulted by your lack of faith in my abilities.”

  Barclay smiled weakly. “Well you took off my left arm so I should know what you are about.” With a grunt of effort he managed to raise his head to look down at his mangled limbs. “You might as well ease up, John,” he gasped. “I do not appear to have a working fin left. No point in living like that. I should go out at my moment of triumph like Nelson.”

  “Get away with you,” growled the surgeon. “I should be able to save your left leg and I have not even properly examined your arm yet.”

  Barclay looked up at me, “You see, Flashman, I am destined to be buried in instalments.” He tried to laugh at his own joke, but I saw a tear run down his cheek before he gritted his teeth at the pain he was suffering. “Tell them to let Perry keep his sword,” he gasped. “He fought bravely. Why the Niagara did not keep up I will never know, but I will be forever grateful that it didn’t.”

  I hesitated, about to tell Barclay a lie, but it just didn’t seem right. “Perry escaped,” I told him.

  “Escaped?” Barclay’s eyes were instantly open and staring sharply at me. “What do you mean escaped?”

  “Before they struck, he took off in a boat with four seamen, rowing furiously for the shelter of their fleet.”

  Barclay closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. “I fear then we might have been celebrating prematurely.”

  “He won’t attack again,” I proclaimed with more confidence than I was now feeling. “We smashed his first big ship and he will know that we could do the same to the other.”

  “He is a brave man, aiming to make his reputation,” said Barclay quietly. “If he knows as much about our affairs as I have tried to learn about his, then he will know we are short of supplies. Do we have much powder left?”

  “Not much,” I admitted, wishing then that I had not told him about Perry after all.

  “I am going to have to saw now.” Christie looked down at his patient. “Do you want me to put the leather pad between your teeth?”

  “No,” grunted Barclay, as sweat started to glisten on his brow. “Hold my hand will, you Flashman?” he whispered, but he held up the stump of his left arm.

  Unsure what to do I looked at Christie, but he just nodded and gestured at the stump before he turned his attention back to his grisly work. “I’m holding it,” I told Barclay and then rested one hand on his withered arm muscle. A few seconds later and there was the awful grind of the bone saw doing its devilish work. With a slight groan Barclay fainted, slumping unconscious on the table. One glance at what Christie was doing to the captain’s leg and I nearly joined him.

  “Sit down on that spare chest if you are unsteady,” ordered the surgeon. “I don’t need you falling down and getting in my way.”

  “Thank you,” I gasped taking the offered seat.

  “Do you think the Americans will attack again?” asked Christie.

  “I have no idea. I wish I had not told him about Perry now. You know, in case….” I left the sentence hanging.

  “Hell’s teeth!” exclaimed the surgeon. “Does no one on this damned boat think I can save him? He will be up and dancing again, you will see.” I sat back and closed my eyes. Christie was mercifully quick with the saw and I felt the sense of nausea subside as he carried on with his work, humming quietly to himself. I am not sure how long I was there but when I opened my eyes again he had finished bandaging the stump of Barclay’s right leg and was now working on the left.

  “Did you really amputate his other arm?” I asked.

  “Yes it was at Trafalgar, damn bloody day that was.”

  “You did not operate on Nelson as well did you?”

  Christie laughed. “No I am far too junior to lay hands on an admiral. Commodores are my limit and anyway we were not on the Victory. There now,” he declared straightening up. “That should save one of his ‘fins’ as long as it does not get infected. It is the arm I am worried about. There are no bones broken but he says he has lost all feeling in it. I can cut and stitch, but there is not much I can do about things like that. We will just have to hope that it comes back in time, these things often do.”

  “Well I suppose I had better get back on deck,” I said getting to my feet. “With luck Commodore Perry is now sailing his fleet all the way back to Presque Isle.” No sooner were the words out of my mouth than there was a violent crashing sound and the whole deck canted to one side. Christie threw his body over his patient to keep Barclay on the table, but I was sent sprawling to the floor.

  “What on earth was that?” asked the surgeon. “Have we run aground?”

  “We can’t have done, we were several miles from the shore.” Then I heard a crashing noise above my head, the snapping of spars and ropes. “Another ship has run into us, we have been rammed!” I called as I got to my feet and ran for the ladder leading to the deck above.

  As I emerged onto the sunlit upper deck, blinking in the bright light it was not hard to see what had happened. The side of the Queen Charlotte was still embedded in the starboard rail of the Detroit, with the rigging of the two ships hopelessly entangled above my head. I looked to my left, struggling to get my bearings. Where the American fleet had been visible over the port side there was now only the shore of the lake a mile or so away. For a moment I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and then I heard a voice calling me from above.

  “Little Father,” shouted Black Eagle, “come and help me.” I looked up and there was the big Indian halfway along one of the yard arms, hacking furiously at ropes with his tomahawk to try and separate the ships. He seemed in a desperate hurry and for a moment I did not understand. Then I realised that the gun crews and everyone else on deck was rushing about. It made no sense – the American fleet had gone. Then the sick realisation dawned. The impact of the Queen Charlotte had twisted the ship around. The port side, which had been facing south, was now facing the lake s
hore to the west. With a sense of foreboding I ran up the quarterdeck steps to look astern, to the south. There in the strengthening wind came the Niagara, white water breaking at her bow as she ploughed towards us. Gazing up I saw Perry’s wretched flag flying from her masthead. Beyond the Niagara, the rest of the American fleet followed on behind.

  A string of profanities escaped my lips. It did not matter that we had little ammunition, for most of our guns would be dismounted and wrecked long before we would have the chance to use them. The Niagara was already less than half a mile away but it was coming closer, much closer. Perry probably could not believe his luck: the two strongest vessels in the British fleet helpless and tangled together with their sterns pointing helpfully towards him. We were virtually begging to be raked by his big ship killer carronades. The heavy balls would smash through the stern windows and carry away everything and everyone in their path before they smashed through the bows.

  “Little Father,” called the familiar voice again from above, “I need your help.”

  I hated going aloft on a ship and rarely went higher than the sturdy maintop, but suddenly high in the rigging seemed a surprisingly safe place to be. It was certainly preferable to drowning on the orlop deck with the surgeon or being pulped on the main deck.

  “I’m coming,” I shouted and checking that my own tomahawk was still tucked into my belt I ran for the ratlines and started to climb. I swiftly reached the maintop but then had to climb the steeper rope ladder to the next yard arm. I knew that the Niagara must be getting closer but I dared not look down. Eventually the ladder stopped at a small platform, with the yard arm just in front of me. I stretched out one foot onto the rope that was suspended under the yardarm for the crew to walk along. It wobbled alarmingly as I gingerly reached out a hand for the huge wooden spar.