At this, Ben Stone and Tight Fisted Smith nodded sympathetically, both notoriously parsimonious. Isaac continued.
“But when they wasn’t no barn I could fetch up in, seemed like a fair course. Sometimes bein’ in a tavern wasn’t the safest place to be neither an’ I recollect one time when I’da been better off, damn sight better off, if’n I’da stayed away.” Biggs paused in his narrative to take a drink from his coffee cup.
“What happened, Biggs. The Brits catch you up?” Ben Stone couldn’t resist another opening to interject a comment and steal the attention of his mates; it backfired.
“Let him tell it, Stone. ‘Course the Brits didn’t catch him up, else he wouldn’t be here spinnin’ out this yarn for us. Don’t pay him no mind, Isaac; just go on with the story.”
Biggs continued. “Well, on this particular night I was sittin’ in a tavern – The Whistling Pig, I think it was – likely in Pennsylvania somewhere – mindin’ my own business – don’t pay talkin’ to the likes o’ what’s inside most o’ those places – when this cove comes over and sits hisself down like I’d invited him, an’ without so much as a ‘howdy do’, says “that your horse out yonder?’ Well I said ‘aye, he’s mine, bought and paid for’. ‘Well’, he says, ‘I’ll give you five dollars for him right now’. ‘Why would you want to buy my horse,’ says I? ‘I’m in a bit of a jam,’ he says, ‘an’ I need to move along. What about it?’ ‘No’, I decide. ‘I can’t sell you that horse or how’ll I ever get myself to Marblehead?’ The fellow gets up without another word and sets full sail for the door. Movin’ smartly he was. I didn’t think nothin’ of it right then. Next thing I hear is a horse runnin’ down the road, an’ I dash over to the door; I can just make out someone ridin’ a horse hell-bent down the road, and my horse ain’t tied where I left him. In fact, ain’t no horses at all tied to the rail. Clear as a West Indy dawn it was, I was afoot, and most o’ my slops gone in the bargain! I figgered they wasn’t nothin’ I could do ‘bout it right then, since I couldn’t chase him down afoot, and went back inside to finish my supper, and enjoy the bed I’d already paid half a dollar for. Which I did, and come the morning, I had a word with the innkeeper. He didn’t seem like he was much interested in my problem, an’ I didn’t hold much hope in findin’ either that plug of a horse or my gear.
“Innkeeper mentioned they was a stage stop ‘bout fifteen miles up, but I could take the troddin’ path and save myself some miles, if’n I had a mind to. Course, he said, I could tarry there – eatin’ and drinkin’ up more o’ my cash money should I desire, an’ maybe the bastard what stole the horse might come back. I surely didn’t think that would happen, what with him bein’ in a hurry an’ all, so I set out afoot.
“After I’d been walking a ways, I realized, all of a sudden, that this was the first time since I sunk Fells Point astern that my arse wasn’t hurtin’ me. By now, the weather was mostly bad and it was while I was hoofin’ it that it really turned against me, and wasn’t fit for walkin’ or much else – snow ablowin’ around and causin’ one to squint down they’s eyes like Starter Coffin just to see the road a few feet in front of me. Some kind o’ ugly, it was.”
“So what happened, Biggs? Do you catch that cove or walk on up to Massachusetts?” Stone was becoming impatient to hear the rest of Biggs’ tale before they had to take the watch at eight bells.
“Well now luff up, there, Ben. Don’t go gettin’ ahead o’ me here. I got to tell this the way it happened.”
“Aye, but don’t make the story take as long as it did for you to get yourself to Marblehead. We got only three or four months for this cruise! Way you’re headed, we ain’t gonna hear the end afore we’s back in Salem; spread some canvas on this tale!”
Ebenezer Stone was not known for his patience, something most of the old hands on General Washington were well aware of, having felt the brunt of his impatience both aloft and on deck when tasks were performed less quickly than he felt appropriate. This trait was encouraged by both Captain Asa Rogers and Starter Coffin, to the continuing dismay of the hands, and many of them felt an accident was inevitable.
Biggs, having just signed the articles only a few days before sailing, when his predecessor had summarily signed onto a Navy frigate as a warrant officer, had yet to learn the personalities of his shipmates, and even though he technically “outranked” all but a few on board, there was on most privateers a casual camaraderie which, except in times of crisis, put most of the men on an equal footing, always excepting the captain, of course. In the fo’c’sle, one earned respect with his fists, and his ability to hand, reef, and steer; Biggs, while not a resident of the fo’c’sle due to his status as third mate, had early on shown his natural leadership, and the men were not the least grudging in their respect and liking for their new shipmate. Isaac, well seasoned for his barely twenty-three years, knew that the real test of his leadership would come when General Washington faced enemy cannon fire, something many of the new men aboard, unlike Isaac, had yet to experience.
As he was about to continue his tale, the ship, without warning, heeled well over, responding to a sudden blast of the arctic gale, and the men heard a sharp booming report followed by a crash over their heads. “All hands to shorten sail. Foretops’l’s blown out!” was shouted down the hatch almost immediately by an unseen voice, punctuated by a torrent of icy water driven below by the rising gale. The half dozen snatched up their oiled tarpaulin coats and hats, donning them while they moved together to the ladder. A blast of cold hit them as they emerged from the confines of the galley and immediately one of their number, Tight Fisted Smith, slipped on the ice-slick deck and slid to the lee rail before he could catch a safety line. The ship had momentarily regained an even keel as the helm was put down to ease the strain on the rigging, and it saved him from being washed right over the side to a certain death in the winter Atlantic. Smith staggered to his feet, holding the bulwark and the leeward safety line for support, and looked at his mates, his face ashen. There was no time to blow and fuss; Starter Coffin was right there, using the short hempen quirt which gave him the nickname, urging the men aloft to salvage what was left of the foretops’l and bring the shattered yard to deck before the rest of the rigging was destroyed by its flogging.
* * * * * *
“Stand by to up anchor. Let go the foretops’l. Mister Clements, you may bring her to short stay, if you please.” First Lieutenant Jervis Lyon, second in command of the United States’ thirty-eight-gun frigate Constellation, craned his neck to ensure that his new warrant bosun could handle this simple responsibility. They had not sailed together yet, and a new man, particularly one not brought up in the Naval Service, bore some checking before receiving complete the confidence of the officers, most particularly, First Lieutenant Jervis Lyon. Clements had come aboard just as the year ended, and between the ice in the harbor, a lack of orders sending Constellation to sea, and a delay in the completion of her refit at Baltimore, there had been no real opportunity to check his bona fides. He boasted service as second mate on a rather successful and recently notorious privateer, Glory, and seemed, so far anyway, to be what he claimed.
Aye, safely to anchor he’s all he claims, thought the first about his new bosun. Some sea time and the first engagement, with all its thunderous noise, chaos, shot, and splinters’ll tell the tale, not only about Warrant Bosun Clements, but also the dozen and more new hands we shipped, ‘specially those Britishers. It’ll be a cold day in Hell afore I’ll give those coves my confidence. He glanced aloft at the men working on the foretops’l; one was a former Royal Navy topman who came aboard with Bosun Clements, and Lyon included him in his short list of uncertains.
Captain Charles Stewart, on the other hand, was grateful for the additional crew, and was of the opinion that most any man could be shaped into a worthy addition to his ship. And if a man was English, that could not be helped; at least he had had the wisdom to “see the light” and sign the Articles of War in an American fighting ship.
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br /> “Anchor is hove short, sir.” Clements’ voice carried easily aft the one hundred forty feet to the break of the poop where Lieutenant Lyon stood. Lyon again glanced aloft and, seeing the foretops’l yard two-blocked and the sail itself out of the brails and ready to drop, bellowed forward to the sailing master.
“Mister Warren, you may drop the foretops’l, if you please. We’ll be getting under way directly.” Raising his voice slightly – he wanted to be heard on the fo’c’sle – he waved at his bosun. “Bring it aboard, Mister Clements, quick as you please.” He turned aft, and in a lower voice, ordered the crew at the stern to “Haul out the spanker and trim for a larboard tack.” Then, “Helm, put your wheel to starboard.”
Showing a deliberate majesty consistent with her class, Constellation paid off, and with her dripping anchor safely secured to the starboard cathead and the foretops’l and spanker drawing nicely in the frigid early February breeze, headed for Fort McHenry and the open bay.
“Mister Warren, we’ll have the main tops’l and the fores’l now. And trim for a close-hauled larboard tack.” The sailing master nodded and made a half-hearted attempt at a salute to his superior, accompanied by a contemptuous look.
“Him tellin’ me what tack we’re paid off on – why I got more time passin’ through stays ‘an that little pop-in-jay’s got at sea.” Mr. Warren muttered aloud, turning to execute his orders. While he directed the heavers in the waist and motioned the topmen aloft, he warmed to his anger and continued, though more under his breath. “By my lights, Cap’n oughta give me that piece of weevily sea biscuit for a couple o’ watches; I’d teach him about bein’ a sailor-man, aye, that I would.” The thought delighted the sailing master, and his crusty, sour face split onto a grin – short lived though it was. His pleasant thoughts were over-ridden by the incompetence of the landsmen in his crew, and he directed his full attention to their activities.
The sailing master’s lack of regard for the first lieutenant echoed the low esteem most of the officers and warrants felt for the man. Lyon’s orders rarely received the response one would expect on a trim and well-respected frigate in the American Navy, and Lyon, acutely aware of his general unpopularity in the wardroom, let it be known that he was unmoved by it. He knew his job – he had learned it at the side of then Lieutenant Stephen Decatur, when, in the year four, they had sailed a captured Tripolitan ketch into Tripoli harbor and successfully destroyed the American frigate Philadelphia which the Bey’s limited navy had taken. Decatur was jump-promoted to captain; Jervis Lyon, a midshipman, received some cash reward, and a promotion to lieutenant. Aye, he thought, I cut my teeth fixin’ the messes caused by others, and learned from the best. These bastards don’t appreciate that it’ll likely be me that pulls their chestnuts from the fire.
He attributed his subsequent success and promotions to his unswerving attention to duty and the demands he placed on those subservient to him. A constant source of annoyance to him was the relative lack of flogging as punishment in the American navy.
Those Brits got it right, he thought as he watched the debacle of sloppy sail handling and seamanship taking place in front of him, seemingly in spite of the best efforts of Sailing Master Warren. A good layin’ on of the cat’ll straighten out a bunch o’ lubbers quicker ‘an kiss my hand.
The fact that he was hard on both the officers and men did not signify for First Lieutenant Jervis Lyon; he felt sure it would pay off with a faster and more precise response when the splinters started to fly. He also was convinced that he had to be tougher than most because of his diminutive stature; he stood barely five feet two inches in his shoes, and had a natural dislike for anyone who was significantly taller. This included a large majority of the officers and warrants on Constellation. A grudging acceptance, not to be confused with friendship, was accorded to those who were taller, but had proven themselves as capable seamen in Lyon’s somewhat close-set eyes.
Seeing that the vessel was headed fair, he turned the quarterdeck over to a junior lieutenant, the ship’s third, and a midshipman, and headed forward to ensure that they were ready for sea with no loose articles on deck, and all of the thirty-eight cannon and four carronades properly secured in their breechings. And to check on Bosun Clements as well, who should have seen to securing the deck already, but who Mr. Lyon could see chatting with a sailor – who he couldn’t yet make out – at the foot of the foremast.
“Well, Robert, here you are back to sea, and in a vessel suitable to your talents. We could have been back in the Indies by now had we stayed where we was on Glory, ‘stead of freezin’ our arses off here in Baltimore.” Jack Clements tightened the muffler he had tied around his hat and under his chin and shivered as he spoke to the British topman, late of the private armed vessel Glory, and prior to that, the Royal Navy frigate HMS Orpheus. The two had stopped to gam for a moment – Clements on his way to ensure the ship was secured for the potentially rough water they could encounter in the Bay, and Coleman just down from the foretop.
“Aye, it’s off to sea again we are. And if’n you be thinkin’ you’re cold down ‘ere on deck, scamper aloft yonder to the foretop, and see ‘ow you like it there. ‘Twill be warm soon enough, I’m thinkin’, if it’s the Indies we be ‘eadin’ for. By my lights, I reckon I can stand a few more days o’ this numbing cold with the Indies just over the ‘orizon.” Coleman smiled at his old shipmate, thrown together quite by accident when Clements’ privateer Glory took as a prize a merchant vessel which itself was a prize of Coleman’s Royal Navy frigate. The two men, along with another Royal Navy crewman, a gunner named Tim Conoughy, and pressed American topman Isaac Biggs had become great friends during the balance of the Glory’s commission, and try as they might, the three had been unable to convince Biggs to join them in signing onto a Navy frigate. Coleman looked around the frigate, sizing up her sailing qualities, and making the inevitable comparison to both the sleek Baltimore schooner, and the British Navy frigate, Orpheus. Remembering both ships reminded him of their shipmate.
“What do ya ‘spose ol’ Isaac’ll be doin’ ‘bout now, Jack. Do ya think ‘e’s gotten ‘imself onto a ship up there in Massachusetts? If’n ‘e ‘as, I’d warrant it’s a damned sight colder there than ‘ere. Mayhaps ‘e’s froze in somewhere, warmin’ ‘is backside by a galley camboose, yarnin’ and drinkin’ coffee.”
“Knowin’ Isaac, my guess is he’s either at sea or headed that way. Said he was gonna visit his kin for a spell, but I’d reckon he ain’t gonna stay on the beach any longer ‘en he has to.” Jack Clements was reasonably certain their friend would not swallow the anchor, and while he didn’t say it, thought it likely that Isaac had signed onto a Navy ship in Boston. “Mayhaps we’ll cross tacks with young Isaac out on the blue – or down in the Indies, should we be headed there, as some have said.” He looked sharply at the British topman who claimed to have an early insight as to the destination of their new home; over the man’s shoulder, the bosun noticed the First Lieutenant heading their way, and under full sail. He gestured surreptitiously, both with his hand and his eyes, to his friend, using Coleman’s bulk to shield his motion from Lieutenant Lyon; his efforts were too late.
“If you two have nothing more pressing to do than stand around like a couple of landsmen chatting over a fence, I’ll see to it that you’re given more jobs of work. This vessel is bound for the war, and there’s plenty to do afore we find the enemy. Look lively there, now and get on with it.” Lieutenant Lyon was not pleased to have found two of the new men, especially this Brit, visiting when there was work to be done. He expected more of a warrant bosun, and said as much.
“Mister Clements, time for socializing is after the work is done and you are off watch; unless you have instructions for this man, I would suggest you let him get on with his duties, and you with yours.”
“Aye, sir. I was just on me way to the quarterdeck to report the vessel is secured for sea, sir. I guess you bein’ here saves me the trip. I reckon we’ll be encounterin’ some
ice gettin’ out o’ here. I’ll mention to the carpenter he might keep an eye on the well in case she starts makin’ water.” Clements had handled officers like Lieutenant Lyon before, and was not put off by this one. His response caught the first lieutenant all aback, and he looked at his bosun in silence for a moment before he blustered a retort.
“I’ll worry about issuin’ orders to the carpenter, Mister Clements. You mind your own duties here on deck.” Lyon turned on his heel and stepped off briskly – right into a fores’l sheet block which took him completely by surprise, and full in the face. He staggered some, brushed his hand across his eyes as if pushing away cobwebs, and collected his wits, drawing himself up to his full, but still diminutive, height; then he stepped off again, keeping a wary eye out for recalcitrant deck and rigging blocks. The color rose in the back of his neck, the only acknowledgment of his undignified departure. Clements and Coleman smiled at the officer’s discomfort, and with a wink, the bosun turned and headed back to the bow. He intentionally tripped over the breeching tackle of a forward carronade, and turned in time to see Coleman laugh aloud at his antics.
USS Constellation proceeded through the outer harbor of Baltimore, passing occasional floes of ice, nudging others out of the way with her copper sheathed forefoot, and headed for the Chesapeake Bay, leaving the shoals inside Bodkin Point a wide berth. After turning the Point, she would turn south to make her run to Cape Charles and then the Atlantic Ocean, and whatever the Fates had in store for her and her crew.
The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy Page 35
