Which occurred as eight bells, signaling the start of the morning watch, sounded the next morning. The two frigates, Loire and Narcissus were caught unawares and heavily damaged by the initial cannonading. The British were unable to elevate their cannon sufficiently to return the American fire, but they recovered and launched a rocket boat to return the fire. While the frigates’ gunners struggled to fire back, the ships’ crews were busy trying to get out of range.
But they soon had more problems than the American shore guns; Barney’s gunboats and barges were racing down the creek under sails and oars and managed to get to within four hundred yards of the already wounded frigates. The American boats opened fire and chaos ensued.
Barney noted with pride that iron shot was falling with accuracy around the British frigates. But so was it also falling around the barges. He knew for certain that the frigates had not yet fired a shot and, horror-stricken, realized what was happening.
“My God Almighty. Wadsworth’s shot is falling short. Get that boat overboard and get in there. Tell him to cease firing.” Barney looked wildly around for someone to send. The smoke around the American boats was so thick that there was no chance of Wadsworth seeing signal flags, even had Barney raised them.
Suddenly, as if on command, the majority of the American shore fire stopped of its own accord. “Ain’t got time to deal with that now. Thank the Lord he’s seen us and stopped.” He raised his voice, now hoarse and cracking from the acrid smoke and his own shouting. “Keep firin’ at them frigates, men. We’re hurtin’ ‘em.”
“Commodore. That boat’s settin’ Marines ashore yonder. You want we should get over there?” Talbot’s rumbling bass voice cut through the noise and confusion of the battle like an approaching thunder squall, even though he was several boat lengths away. The gunboat captain was paying attention to more than just the frigates.
“Keyser or one of them ashore gonna have to handle ‘em. I can spare not a single boat. Keep firin’ men. We’re going to carry the day!” Barney was delighted with the efforts of his gunners and the damage they were inflicting on the two frigates. He whooped his encouragement, his joy and enthusiasm at the Americans’ success overcoming his normally reserved demeanor.
And then the frigates began firing back. If they couldn’t elevate their guns far enough to hit the shore positions, the boats close at hand – barely a musket shot distant – were another story entirely. Both British ships turned their attention to the barges and gunboats and the Americans received a heavy weight of British metal.
Splinters flew as round shot smashed into the boats bulwarks and sides; the masts of two went overboard, their shrouds shot away, dragging the boats to leeward. The screams of the wounded and the shouts of the now confused American sailors penetrated the din of battle. How quickly the tide had turned.
Barney, realizing he had lost his shore support, was in a quandary. He had but one choice if he were to save his flotilla and men. He climbed half way up the wind’ard ratlines on his gunboat and shouted as loud as his scorched throat would allow. “Captains: separate yourselves. Don’t bunch up. Be ready to pull back, should we need to.”
His voice carried to the nearby barges and the order was passed along to the others. Isaac and Jack Clements, on the flank of the action, had maintained some room to maneuver and saw a change in the battle, and the error the commodore was about to make. Both turned almost as one to their quartermasters, signal books in hand, and ordered a series of flags which they hoped would communicate to Barney their discovery.
“Hay: get them flags up. Look lively, man. Commodore’s about to pull back. Jack,” Isaac bellowed across the water to his friend. “Bear off and follow me. We got us an opening.”
Barney saw the flags whipping in sloops’ rigging. He looked around, and a smile, unseen by but a few close by, crossed his face. He saw quickly what the alert sloop captains had seen, but due to his different perspective, had initially missed. He shouted again at the boats near at hand. “They’re pullin’ back men. We got ‘em on the run. Looks like they’s headin’ back down the river. Keep firin’.”
Gradually, the frigates withdrew to the shelter of Point Patience, and Barney led the undamaged units of his flotilla out into the Patuxent. The British saw, but were powerless to stop him; they needed to tend to their own badly damaged ships.
With a fair, but light wind, though fighting the tide, Barney and the flotilla didn’t stop until they reached Benedict, fifteen miles and more up river. The sloops led the way and the row barges and gunboats followed along. As the town hove into view, Isaac spoke to Tate.
“You don’t reckon them coves is expecting us, do you Jake? Looks like they turned out all hands to greet us.”
“I’d say we might have a problem, Isaac. That looks like militia, to me. A hatfull of ‘em, too, it ‘pears.”
Isaac glanced aloft at the truck of his mast, allowing himself a small smile when he saw the Stars and Stripes waving limply in the light breeze. “Reckon they’ll be some relieved – mayhaps even happy – when they figger out who we are.”
A boat pulled out from the shore, obviously making for the black sloop. As it drew near, a figure stood up in the stern sheets, steadying himself on the shoulder of an oarsman.
“We thought you was the British. Been told they’s headin’ up river. Mighty glad to see you flying that flag, Cap’n. Might you be part of Commodore Barney’s flotilla?”
“Aye, that we are and far as I know, the British are still down off St. Leonard Creek or Point Patience. And ain’t but a few ships o’ sail at that.” Isaac stood on the bulwark, his hand resting lightly on the larboard leg of the backstay. “Come aboard, if you care to. Commodore ought to be showin’ up right quick, be my guess.”
And he did, in fact, show up within the hour; his gunboat anchored close aboard the sloop and a few of the local dignitaries were rowed out to visit with him. As was Decius Wadsworth, the Army colonel who provided artillery to assist the flotilla in making its escape from St. Leonard Creek. He remained after the townsmen had taken their leave and, that night, after the men had eaten their fill for supper, the commodore called his captains onto his gunboat.
As Jack Clements came alongside the gunboat in what he jokingly referred to as his ‘gig’, Barney glared down at him, an order ready on his lips to leave the big dog in the boat; the dog was not in evidence, and the Commodore allowed himself a secret smile. That damn dog was discomfitin’ at best, by all that’s holy.
The others followed quickly and they all stood or leaned under the canvas Barney had had rigged over the deck of his vessel in an effort to provide some shelter from the heat of the sun. Even with only the last rays of the setting sun shining on them, the temperature under the awning rose quickly, but except for a quick pat with his handkerchief, Barney seemed not to notice or acknowledge it. He began by praising the men lavishly for their performances and gunnery skills, and he thanked Colonel Wadsworth, who acknowledged his words with the slightest inclination of his head. “Perhaps, Colonel, you would care to tell my captains of your travails ashore and how we might be of help to you now, if you find you need our assistance?”
“I’d reckon to give a quick sketch of the battle from our view point, Commodore, but I doubt it’ll make any of your men sit up an’ take notice. Pretty ugly, it was, but I ain’t going to cast disrespect on any of my officers, as I don’t yet have all the particulars from them. But, the fact is, someone in the infantry unit decided on a retreat afore even a single man was killed – or even wounded. The Royal Navy was trying to get around to our rear, rowing their barges up the Creek after you men had got out. Before I knew it, I was left with only enough men to work one gun, which I had turned to the rear, hoping to keep their damn barges in check.
“After a bit, I reckon we did ‘em some dirt, on account of they were gettin’ themselves underway and retiring down the river. But I found I was left with no alternative but to spike the guns that remained to prevent them from being
useful to the enemy, should they get hold of them. I should add that the infantry, even in retreat, acquitted themselves with honor, leaving the field as they did in perfect order, though without my instruction. And they did return when I was able to halt them and bring them back. Course, the fightin’ was all but done by then.” The Colonel paused, wiped the sweat from his face and neck, and removed his jacket. His account had obviously provided him with some discomfort.
He leaned back against the bulwark again, and added, “I do hope that given our lack of preparation, the excessive fatigue the men experienced, and the heat of the day, we will not be judged too harshly; after all, we did achieve the release of your flotilla. I have not determined how much damage we inflicted on the enemy as I was not in a position to judge the fall of our shot, being enfiladed as I was behind a rise. From the haste of his retreat, however, one might infer it was considerable.”
“It damn near was ‘considerable’ to our boats, Colonel. Your shot from where you was set behind that rise was fallin’ short by a hundred and more yards; your men couldn’t see us, but it was only by the Grace of God none of my boats was sunk by American guns. Don’t know what caused you to stop firin’ but, by the Almighty, I was right glad of it.” Joshua Barney hid none of his disdain for the land units – whether under Colonel Wadsworth or anyone else. “But we’re pleased to be out of that Creek and, for your help in that endeavor, I thank your, Sir.” The commodore smiled thinly at the Army officer, who had the good grace to appear somewhat ill at ease.
Barney quickly moved the conversation to other aspects of the battle, and then he began to ruminate on what they had left behind.
“I have no idea what Miller and Keyser’s doin’, or even if they’re still fightin’ the Marines who came ashore from the Loire.” Barney paused, then he nodded, almost to himself as though he had just reached a decision. “Isaac, you’ll take your sloop down river and find out what’s actin’ with ‘em. And salvage what you can from the two gunboats we left behind. Put everything else to the torch; no point in lettin’ them damn Redcoats have anything what might help ‘em.” He added, as an afterthought, “and scuttle them two, after you burn ‘em.”
“Aye, Commodore, we can do that. We’ll get out on the tide in the morning.” Isaac’s relief at not being sent right out was clear; he was looking forward to a full night’s sleep for himself and his crew.
“And you’ll take the surgeon with you. Might be them Army coves at St. Leonard be needin’ his services and I reckon he’ll be finishing up with our men any time now. Plumm’s his name, Jeremiah Plumm. Does his doctorin’ here abouts ‘round Benedict. Local coves seem to think he knows his business. So far, I cain’t disagree; I watched him take the leg off’n one of our men what took a fair sized splinter in the action this morning. Did it quick as I ever seen it done and claims the cove’ll live. Didn’t think the wound would turn putrid at all. Course, bein’ ashore, he ain’t got any of the same problems the surgeons at sea got, but I reckon that acts to our favor.”
Barney nodded his head in silent affirmation of his decision to send the surgeon down river to St. Leonard Creek. Several lanterns had been lit by a seaman as the dusk grew into full dark, and the yellow lamplight flickered and shone on the commodore’s sweat-beaded face. As if he had suddenly noticed the heat, he stood and gestured to his guests. “You men got things to tend to, I’d warrant. Best you get on with ‘em. We’ll be here a few days at least.” And he left.
CHAPTER NINE
Even as the sun broke the horizon the next morning, Jake burst into Isaac’s diminutive cabin. “Isaac: they’s some cove lookin’ for you topside. I ain’t never seen a wild man, but I’d reckon to recognize one now, seein’ that one yonder. An’ he’s got a white eye!” Tate was clearly in awe of the stranger waiting on the sloop’s deck for Isaac. The one armed sailor hung back a trifle as he accompanied the captain topside to greet the fellow.
“You are the captain? I was expecting a man of greater years. Indeed, the commodore gave me to understand…” The man’s voice was a combination of the howling of a dog who didn’t quite make it over the fence and the sound of a rasp on hardwood. Listeners frequently winced on hearing his first words. He was quite tall – maybe something over six feet, Isaac thought as he craned his neck to look up into the man’s face. Which was frightening in its own right; high cheekbones gave way to a black beard shot with white. Presiding over it was a long pointed nose, it’s length emphasized by the sunken eyes and bushy brows. A great shock of black hair, also shot with white, hung unbound to the man’s shoulders, but on the top of his head, the hair seemed to have a will of its own, pointing in all directions. He did not wear a hat.
Isaac, for all that he tried, was unable to take his gaze from the man’s left eye; it was, as Jake had foretold, white. There was no black pupil nor any ring of color. And the rest of the eye was spidered with red veins.
Biggs noticed that the other eye appeared quite normal and had fixed him with a hard gaze. Isaac thought, with an unseen smile, that the eye appeared to be looking through a hole in a plank, so deep was it set in the man’s face.
Finally, Isaac was able to find his voice. “I am the captain. Isaac Biggs, sir, at your service. And you are…?” He let his voice trail off, a questioning look in his own eyes.
“Mr. Plumm,” the wild man stated, as if it should have been obvious. “Jeremiah Plumm, surgeon and practitioner of the art of restoring the balance among the humors of mankind. I collect I am to take passage on your…” He paused, looking around the deck as if seeking a word suitable to his impression of the sloop, and continued, albeit disdainfully. “…vessel down to St. Leonard to offer what succor I can to the American troops recently engaged in mortal combat with the Royal Marines.” The voice did not appear to fit the appearance of Mr. Plumm. He should have a deep voice – like it was comin’ outta the grave. Aye, that would be more fittin’, Isaac thought.
“Well, I’m pleased to have you aboard, sir. We’ll be gettin’ underway just as soon’s the tide turns. Wind’s fair now and buildin’, it is. Might get a taste of some weather as the day develops. Reckon be about another hour an’ more afore we’re ready to get loose of the dock. If you got dunnage to get aboard, I’d be pleased to send a man with you to help, should you need it.” Isaac smiled and offered his hand to the surgeon. He was surprised at the strength of the grip from this man of the healing arts.
“I’ll be taking my leave then, sir. And a man to fetch my belongings would be most welcome. You may expect my return in one hour’s time, I should think.” He pulled a large gold watch from the pocket of his black vest and consulted it at length. Then Plumm turned on his heel and, without a backward glance, raised first one long black clad leg over the bulwark and then the other. He paused for a moment, then dropped to the dock and strode off, assuming the sailor assigned to help him would follow. Isaac had had his sloop moved to the dock after the commodore’s meeting last night in anticipation of loading some stores.
After assigning Sam Hay to accompany Jeremiah Plumm and watching while the stocky sailor hurried in his rolling gait down the dock, Isaac turned to Jake. The one-armed Bayman was struggling to contain his mirth and, when Isaac faced him with a smile, he gave up and burst out in full-throated laughter.
Tate drew himself up as high as his five-and-a-half-foot stature would allow and pushed his hand backward through his blond hair. He pitched his voice to mimic the doctor. “ ‘I am Jeremiah Plumm, surgeon and practitioner of the art of restoring the balance among the humors of mankind.’ Isaac, I ain’t never heard nothing like that cove afore. What’d you make of him?” It was an effort to get the words out between fits of laughter.
Isaac, also laughing, shook his head. “Not in all my life have I seen the likes of that afore! I reckon we’s stuck with him, though. Commodore told me we was takin’ him back to the Creek, so I’d warrant we’ll be doin’ just that. Prob’ly oughta be makin’ some space for him and his gear below.”
/> He noticed that the other men on deck were enjoying a laugh at the medico’s expense; one of them had ruffled his hair so it stood out from his head and was strutting around the deck in a poor imitation of Plumm. Another – Isaac saw it was Clive Billings – had managed to get his already noisome voice into a close rendition of the doctor’s and was entertaining his messmates with a running commentary on how he might go about ‘restoring the balance in the humors of mankind.’ Apparently, thought Isaac, the shoulder wound Billings suffered in Tavern Creek six weeks and more back was no longer a distraction for him. Isaac watched them for a moment, amused. Then he became serious.
“All right you men, get on with your work there. Ain’t time to be prancin’ around and skylarkin’. We got a pair of six-pounders to get aboard and shot and powder for them and the swivel. Look lively, now.” His words were sharp; his tone was not. But the men returned to their work with a will.
He turned to Jake. “I’m going to see ‘bout them cannon. And maybe find us another swivel for the stern. You keep the watch here and have someone rig a piece of canvas or something below for the good doctor. Cain’t have a man of his stripe livin’ out in the open with us common coves!” He smiled broadly at the mental image and climbed quickly over the bulwark to the dock.
Commodore Barney, standing on the shore just off the dock, was waiting for him.
“Isaac, I’d guess we’re lookin’ at a spell of some weather comin’ in right smartly. Best you get you gone quick as ever possible. Wind’s fair now, and I’d reckon the tide’ll be turning fair in a trice.” Barney paused and looked beyond his sloop captain at the black-hulled vessel tugging none too gently at her lines as the river’s chop flowed by her sleek sides. He watched the men preparing for sea and saw a double whip being rigged at the single yard on the mast.
The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy Page 7
