Sworn for Mackinaw

by James Spurr

  Dunlap smiled, “Perhaps with all possible difficulty imagined!” He shook his head as he recalled and continued. “I had negotiated the purchase of a merchant schooner from the Northwest Company to the Crown. The Caledonia. Eighty-six tonnes. Well found and serviceable. We unshipped ballast, rigging and all spars, sent them down ahead by bateaux. We then floated her largely stripped hull down the rapids, reducing her draft while controlling her and adding to her stability from barges, bateaux and canoes alongside. It was a wild ride for a few anxious moments, but we made calm water, much to our relief, and rigged her as a snow from St. Joseph’s Island. I sailed her as Master and Commander to Green Bay then back to Ft. St. Joseph where she is now trimmed, rigged and ready.” For what purpose, exactly, the enthused Lieutenant was unsure.

  The Commodore looked to the Colonel, who, equally impressed, joined with him in congratulations. Dunlap blushed, but continued, “It was in Green Bay that I encountered Robert Dickson, a Scot, with considerable connections among the natives. I am certain we can align our strategic interests with his economic ones. He seems most anxious to further a long standing dispute with the Customs House at Mackinaw involving their tariffs and taxes upon his fur trading.”

  The Commodore, drawing from his knowledge from years ago while Deputy Superintendent of Indian Affairs, inquired, “Tell me, Lieutenant Dunlap, do you believe we could presently form close relations, if not alliances, with tribes such as the Potawatomi, Miami, Kickapoo and Wyandot?”

  Before Dunlap could answer, Colonel Pye asked, intrigued with the specificity of the Commodore’s question, “Why those particular tribes?”

  The Commodore seized upon the question to further test Dunlap, “Why, indeed. Lieutenant?”

  Dunlap walked to the window, observed an approaching Naval Officer, thought for a few seconds and wheeled about. “Because, Sir, the first two could easily mobilize against Ft. Dearborn, the latter two against Ft. Detroit.”

  “Mr. Dunlap is correct, Colonel,” smiled the Commodore. “Those tribes reside and control territory ‘among the branches’ very close to some critical ‘limbs’.”

  Dunlap added, “Those in particular could be, or are, I understand, influenced by Tecumseth, brother of the Prophet, who is rumored to be planning to winter outside Fort Malden at Amherstberg.”

  Both the Commodore and Colonel Pye recognized opportunity and nodded to each other. The Commodore added, “His Majesty’s representatives, however, must above all, move slowly, carefully, and with uncharacteristic subtlety in these next weeks and months. We need to move through those who are already familiar to and with good reputations among the natives without appearing we are intent upon fomenting trouble for our southern neighbor.” The statement was a veiled suggestion, made while looking at Colonel Pye.

  “Mr. Dunlap,” the Colonel dropped his voice an octave, obviously intending to speak with some formality and official capacity, “I have the authority from—” A loud knock on the front door interrupted their deep discussion.

  Atticus interrupted moments later, “Excuse me again, Commodore, but I have a note from the Port Captain, delivered by another Navy Lieutenant.”

  The Commodore read the note, looked bewildered at Colonel Pye. “The Port Captain sends us, it seems, another Lieutenant.” He then asked Dunlap, “How many has he like you? Show him in, Atticus.”

  Lieutenant Fleet entered the room and while he cursed his bad luck at seeing Dunlap, his reaction was minor compared to Dunlap’s shock at seeing the former Captain of the ill-fated H.M. Schooner Hope. Dunlap, with considerable discipline, remained composed, though his concentration was destroyed.

  After a brief interview, it was not apparent to the Commodore nor Colonel Pye why the Port Captain would want them to devote any of their attention to Lieutenant Fleet. Still, they allowed him to remain.

  The Commodore addressed Colonel Pye, reminding, “Colonel, as I mentioned some time ago, my other chief concerns are supply routes; ours and those used by the Americans. For instance, we need to improve and expand ours, while learning about and developing a capability of interfering with theirs. The balance of power in the Northwest Territory could be determined by something so mundane as logistics. We need more intelligence. I am afraid that those persons who know best what we need to know currently shy from all authority and certainly would from ourselves.”

  “What do you mean, Commodore?” asked the Colonel.

  “As you know, over the past several years Acts of our Parliament, and Executive Orders issued by the former United States President, did little but teach those on the Lakes how to smuggle. Clandestine routes and practices were prevalent. These skills still reside among most of our mariners and those who transport along public highways. These are clever practices, intricate networks, names more often whispered than advertised. I do not know much about it first hand, but we need to learn much more. The first to secure these routes while causing havoc among the enemy’s may well win the day.”

  The Colonel had never given the matter a thought. Nor, did he suspect, had his superior, General Brock. It occurred to him that this was precisely why he had been sent hundreds of miles to meet with a very senior Alexander Grant; strategic vision, perception and the ability to see essentials far from the field of battle. The Colonel looked at the Commodore, nodded, thought for some moments and then wondered if perhaps that was the purpose for Fleet having been ordered to Government House. He asked the Commodore, “Did you speak of this concern at dinner last evening?”

  “Yes, and I was encouraged to receive much support.”

  The Colonel directed the next question to Fleet, suspecting he had gleaned the purpose of the Port Captain in sending to Government House a person otherwise appearing to offer so little merit. He had no way of knowing that the appearance of Fleet was in fact an accident. “Mr. Fleet, do you know anything of supply routes on these Lakes and of smuggling in particular?”

  “Sir, I sailed these Lakes from 1799 through 1805, having been entrusted with the responsibilities of command.” While true, the statement was a subtle dodge. Fleet knew nothing of trade routes and cared even less. More important to Fleet at the moment was to impress, intimidate and outshine Dunlap. He continued, “Further, I am well acquainted with smuggler’s practices, tricks and, in general, their ways from my time spent along the Cornish Coast from Plymouth to Penzance.” That of course, was true. Fleet simply omitted the details revealing he most often aided the night men against own His Majesty.

  Colonel Pye asked a few more questions, formulating a plan in his mind while the Commodore’s thoughts uncharacteristically wandered. Lieutenant Fleet. The name seemed familiar and he wracked his memory. Upon Governor Hunter’s death in 1805, Grant had become administrator of Upper Canada. It had been a busy time, but still, something nagged. He tried to remain detached from the discussion for just a few moments to allow himself to concentrate, but alas, could not recall.

  “Do you agree, Commodore?” asked the Colonel.

  “I am sorry, Sir. I was lost in thought.” The Commodore did notice, however, whatever he had missed had caused Fleet to go very pale.

  “Well, then, let me read to you the orders I have just penned, with all appropriate introductions, qualifications and authorization, etc., etc.” Colonel Pye skipped to the operative language, “… in company, one with the other; throughout the remaining months of this year, through the winter and reporting by regular letters back to myself, firstly, by all means and ingenuity, to affect positive relations with…,” looking up from the text to the Commodore, “those native tribes you mentioned,” then back to the text, “… for the purpose of allying His Majesty’s forces with them should hostilities ensue and, secondly, learn all that is possible of the American network of mariners and overland haulers, both legal and not, both obvious and clandestine, so to enable the utmost confusion and interference should conditions later warrant.”

  Again Colonel Pye looked up from the text to Lieutenant Dunlap, for he knew
the last sentence by heart. “Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril. Signed and sealed this day, at Kingston, 14 August, 1811.”

  The Colonel looked now at both Lieutenants, “Any questions?”

  Fleet coughed, then ventured, “Sir, as my appointment is senior, I assume I will command?”

  The Commodore suddenly recalled. Lieutenant Fleet. The loss of a ship; perhaps Hope, amid allegations of inebriation. Later, was there not a return to England for inquiry and a Court’s Martial?

  He was just about to intervene when the Colonel responded in his most authoritative voice. “While you make a point as to general seniority, Mr. Fleet…,” having been far more impressed and comfortable with the intelligence and resourcefulness of Dunlap, the Colonel continued, “… Mr. Dunlap is senior on this station and has more recent experience in these waters and with the natives. He will command until the both of you report to the Commanding Officer, Ft. St. Joseph. Should you ever part company, I expect regular reports from each of you and from you to each other. Is that clear?”

  The Colonel expected some objection from Fleet. He heard none. That fact alone, in his mind, reinforced his decision and caused the Commodore to sigh in relief. Fleet went from pale to scarlet red, but offered only a choked, “Aye, Sir.”

  Colonel Pye made a few more notations to the written orders and soon Lieutenants Dunlap and Fleet were dismissed. The Commodore and Colonel Pye continued their discussions well into the afternoon, inventorying and budgeting the few assets of the present Provincial Marine and wrestled with the question of whether the trouble on the horizon was near enough to warrant increasing their altogether thin ranks. Lastly, they listed vessels that could be made serviceable—most significantly, without thought or regard to whether at that time such vessels were privately owned.

  Unbeknownst to either, not far from Kingston across the United States border in a naval establishment located at Sackett’s Harbor, Captain Woolsey, U.S.N. was at the same moment drawing for his own purposes a similar list, which also disregarded the fact that most ships available were not launched as the result of his government’s preparation or foresight. The chief difference between the two lists was the flag under which they were drawn.

  Lieutenants Dunlap and Fleet walked from Government House to Navy Hall and exchanged words that would characterize their next several months and their relationship throughout their mission.

  “Hear me Dunlap,” threatened Fleet. “No army Colonel can change the order of nature. Cut me a wide swath and stay well clear if you want no trouble. I am not about to take orders from a Provincial Marine, logcabin Canadian. I don’t give a damn for your heathen native politics, so just leave me to the trade routes and smugglers; that’s the action for real naval officers.”

  Dunlap had waited years for his retort, “As we all know, Fleet, if you are setting the course, we better damn well stay clear. Only God knows which shore you will run up on next!”

  The looks of hatred and anger were mutual. As they walked on in a near explosive silence, Dunlap had to admit that the division of duties as Fleet had suggested made some sense. Fleet only thought, given precious few drinks these past weeks since his departure from Halifax, that having now been ordered to answer to Dunlap was cause enough for the saints to find the nearest public house. He lost all appetite for dinner and his primary complaint was suddenly only of thirst.

  Chapter 7

  Oliver leaned his considerable weight back against the windlass bar forward of the barrel and, together with James who was to larboard pushing against another, took two more clicks on the pawl. The stiff wind dried the perspiration upon his forehead near instantly and cut along every limb of his body. His cotton shirt rippled and snapped even as a stronger gust blew his coat off the knighthead where he had placed it and onto the deck.

  The anchor rode gave way a few inches further through the hawsehole to larboard, the chain now well above the surface in the shoal water. William called, “That’s well!” as he adjudged the alignment from the dock. James carefully unwrapped the rode from around his bar acting as a tail for their effort, slipped the turns off the end of the windlass and made it off to the sampson post. Trove in the ships boat turned a near circle just off the larboard beam and called, “She looks in line from here!” Oliver un-shipped the windlass bar, caught his breath, combed his fingers back through his reddish brown windswept hair and studied the sky.

  The clouds were low on the western horizon, a combination of low slung sheets of gun metal blue with billowing tops trimmed in brilliant gold cording. A pink and purple backdrop well above their tops grew gradually darker until the planet Venus stood out in the southwestern quadrant. Bright yellow shone between the low clouds and the dark green tree line below. A winter sky, Oliver thought, in only late October. An occasional snowflake, though more often leaves, swept the deck. Oliver cooled quickly, slipped on his coat and sighted between the slipway, bowsprit and mast. Trove was correct. The alignment was perfect.

  Oliver had not been aboard for some weeks but that morning boarded from the dock outside the stockade walls in Detroit. With a reefed main and staysail, Friends Good Will had slid down the short distance from the dock to the mouth of the River Rouge, the stiff breeze easily overcoming the moderate current and she made her way upriver. In just minutes, James put the helm hard to larboard and judged the cross current carefully so to lay up gently to starboard against Eckert’s dock, from where she was launched just six months before. Then all through the morning Trove and James were aloft, taking the brunt of the gusts, unreeving braces, halyards, clew and bunt-lines, slicing parrals and hanks, and later, from the deck, removing lacings and hauling sail temporarily stowed in the hold; downrigging for the impending onslaught of winter. In the next couple of days, with all but the lower mast removed and ballast unshipped, Eckert would have his crew haul the stripped hull up the slipway, braced and supported, to remain until spring. Soon a wood frame, what cladding William thought necessary, and tarpulins across the remainder would cover the deck and keep the ship dry through the winter.

  The topmast and yards were sent down and swayed across to the dock just two hours earlier, and the sun was now in those moments when late afternoon and early evening were difficult to distinguish, losing what little heat it generated. Oliver’s muscles ached but his spirits were high. His first season as a ship owner was coming to a close. He had learned much and turned a fair profit given the risk of his long term business plan. Besides, he thought as the sky played out its drama and he stared across the river over the transom, autumn was his favorite season. There may well be a few fair days ahead and he would savor every one of them.

  The ship’s boat had been lowered from the davits extending outward from the transom and Trove had earlier rowed it on an angle from the larboard bow and stern quarter and set the ship’s anchors. As the docklines to starboard were eased, the windlass took up on the anchor rodes set to larboard. Friends Good Will was slowly kedged off of the dock about fifteen feet but in line with the slip way running from the shore. The sand and soil were dug from around the slick wooden track, reducing the angle and minimizing the resistance and effort needed to haul a stripped hull.

  Oliver considered an ale at the Pontiac House but was interrupted when William stepped from the dock to the ship’s boat and then slung his lean frame up from the channels, Trove following close behind. William said with more enthusiasm than energy, “Alright, now let’s get the gaff off and over. James, slice that mousing on the throat halyard hook; Trove, the same for the peak halyard.” Oliver manned the throat halyard. They intended to bring it a few feet higher so to assist in dipping the spar over the side as the peak halyard was moved to the mid point, from which the gaff would balance momentarily, before swinging it outboard.

  “Haul away, throat halyard! Just a few feet now,” William cautioned. “Trove, slip the peak halyard blocks down to the midpoint.”

  Oliver was tired. With the mo
using off the hook, he should have checked to make certain the hook was securely enveloping the line tied around at the jaws of the gaff. But as he faced outboard, checking would have required him glancing backward over his shoulder before hauling on the throat halyard. He didn’t expend the energy. The gaff began its climb at the jaws. Trove began to slip the peak halyard to the mid point and William began to haul on the peak as well.

  The block and hook were slightly askew of the line around the boom. For the first pulls, the line balanced precariously on the very tip of the hook. The stiff wind blew the halyard at just the wrong moment. The gaff let go with a large crack together with the block and hook. The throat halyard went slack in Oliver’s hands. Within a split second, before Oliver had comprehended the sequence, the jaws of the gaff fell, first banging against the cargo hold hatch coaming. James had earlier removed the hatch cover and grates so to easily stow the sails and the hold was entirely open and accessible from the forward hatch. Trove had not, as yet, moved the peak halyard entirely forward to the midpoint and it tore from his hands with a downward and forward trajectory. It seemed controlled only by the peak halyard now propelling the gaff toward the mast even as it descended down into the cargo hold with the force of a battering ram.

  Oliver turned from the larboard pin rail just in time to witness the gaff glance off the hatch coaming. He heard the second, much louder, crash as it came to rest, Oliver assumed, against the floorboards in the hold. There was a moment when all on deck only looked at each other, assuring no injuries. Then together they approached the cargo hatch and peered over.

  Initially, Oliver was relieved there seemed only minor damage. Rather then landing on the floorboards, as he would have guessed, the gaff appeared to have glanced off the side of the mast leaving only a scratch before proceeding forward and smashing through a bulkhead dividing the cargo hold from the galley. Even Oliver recognized this location was not of structural importance.