by James Spurr
“Your name again, Sir?”
“Oliver Williams.”
Lieutenant Fleet entered the offices and sat by the door. Captain Roberts wondered at the almost obsessive interest Fleet seemed to exhibit with Friends Good Will and all connected with her.
Lieutenant Dunlap, who Colonel Pye correctly noted to Captain Roberts before departing Fort St. Joseph as showing some promise, was seated off to the side of the room, conferring with a native ally chief. Captain Roberts shot him a disapproving glance to suggest he quiet the murmuring. Dunlap offered an apologetic expression but could do nothing else. The native seemed to care little for military courtesies or protocol and was adamant in making some point about the need for British red coats. Captain Roberts had requested Dunlap’s presence so to advise as to particulars of taking merchant ships as prizes while he interviewed the former Masters. The Chief rather took the occasion to speak with one of the few white men on the island who understood a little of his native tongue and advanced his demands for clothing as trophies.
Oliver spoke over the background din, “Captain, I am a civilian and my property has been seized. I wish to be freed and allowed to proceed on my way.”
Captain Roberts considered Oliver no fool; merely naïve. “Sir, I have summoned you, not to hear your complaints, but to determine your fate.”
He let his words sink in, witnessed them dampen Oliver’s powder and continued. “I have the captured documents from…” Oliver’s heart sank as he thought Captain Roberts would finish the sentence to the effect, from Captain Lee. Instead, Captain Roberts finished, “…Lieutenant Hanks. Clearly, your ship was under charter, carrying arms and soldiers. You cannot deny it.”
Oliver, having watched his own attorney in Detroit, Mr. Walbridge, earn a living at making fine distinctions, offered this as his own, “I have no need to deny anything and have nothing to hide. Captain, the charter was concluded at Fort Dearborn. Once our anchor was up, we were homeward bound and once again a private vessel. The cargo in the hold upon our arrival confirms the private nature of our voyage.”
Captain Roberts thought this American merchant had a strong point. The evidence captured from Lieutenant Hanks made no mention of a government purpose to the return voyage. Captain Roberts looked for some assistance to Lieutenant Dunlap, who seemed uncertain, but then Dunlap, abandoning the native Chief in the middle of a particularly strenuous demand, ventured from the shadows, “Mr. Williams, I have reviewed the Manifest issued in Detroit. There are serious irregularities.”
Oliver turned, peered at Lieutenant Dunlap in the darkened corner and challenged, “Of what type or nature, Sir?”
At that moment Fleet stood, parchment in hand, and approached Captain Roberts with a determined stride, his boots upon wide plank adding to the drama of the interruption. “Sir, if I may.” Roberts was uncertain, but to have Fleet show even the slightest hint of initiative, with respect to anything, was itself of some interest. Despite Lieutenant Dunlap’s frustration, Captain Roberts nodded for Fleet to continue.
“Mr. Williams, your sloop… this ‘Friends Good Will’, listed on its Manifest posted from Detroit a ‘chest’ while failing to specify its contents. That is the equivalent of ‘failing to declare’ and under English law raises the presumption of contraband, or smuggling.”
Oliver was about to protest the application of English law but for two facts, dawning upon him instantly: first, with the simple change of the flag on the halyard, the legal system had instantly changed as well and, second, he reminded himself that while the legal system had changed, the law really had not. The law, in this instance, was the same even were the stars and stripes still flying high above. All he could do was argue the facts, “But you have the chest. It was empty! You have found no contraband.”
Captain Roberts was less familiar with the intricate rules applicable with respect to ships, smuggling and prizes at sea. He let Fleet continue, “The crime of sailing under a false manifest requires no such proof.”
Oliver protested, “Your reasoning is entirely circular. The Manifest was not false unless the chest was a container for something else, which as of yet you have failed to show. The fact that it was empty, indeed, supports the truth, not the falsity, of the Manifest!”
Fleet continued, undeterred by logic, “In addition, your Master—this William Lee—has avoided his legal obligation to declare the cargo, has disappeared, and is perhaps wanted by the crown as having deserted the Provincial Marine under the command of a Royal Navy Master and Commander.”
Oliver could not resist pretending not to know the identity of to whom he referred, “From what I hear, the Schooner Hope’s Captain was drunk, then kidnapped mere children to effect his own rescue, too late for one of his crew!”
Fleet flushed with as much anger as embarrassment, Dunlap smiled with great, though concealed, satisfaction, and Captain Roberts wondered at Fleet’s near lunge for what seemed a docile and nonthreatening prisoner.
Captain Roberts intervened, determining to learn the details at a later time. “Take the prisoner outside” he ordered, gesturing to the soldiers, “while I discuss and consider this matter.”
Oliver walked with his guard at his side down the length of the porch, across the front of the south gate and up the steps to the gun platform overlooking the straits and harbor. He had been kept indoors for more than two days and the sight of his sloop, Friends Good Will, yet tied to the dock alongside a somewhat smaller sloop brought a pang of yearning and regret. He noted work going on upon her deck and he could not make out nor understand the purpose for the activity.
At that moment a native brushed up alongside him subtly gaining his attention. He appeared an athletic young man, absent all paint and ornamentation of war, one of the few it seemed yet left on the island assuming at least a neutral posture. He spoke softly. “Bemose…,” he began with ease. Then with more difficulty with words rehearsed though perhaps not understood, he pronounced stiffly, “… safe with Captain.” He looked at Oliver plaintively, questioning if he understood. Oliver smiled, nodded and placed his hand to his heart in a gesture understood, it seemed, among all who cared for others. The man turned and walked calmly out from under the south gate.
After watching him depart, Oliver turned to consider the parade ground and determine if he could catch a glimpse of James. He last saw James just briefly the day before from the window of his tiny room. The two were kept apart and had not spoken since their hushed whispers as they trudged up the steep path to the south gate just after their capture.
Oliver was worried about James; not so much his health but state of mind. James was ashamed at what he perceived had occurred. He whispered, bitter and angry, “How could father have run?”
Oliver tried to convince James that was hardly the case and that there was much more to what James witnessed. Oliver assured, “Your father did nothing of the sort, you do not know—” but James would have none of the defense. He interrupted, raising his tone and earning a rebuke from the guards. “Of course he did. He could not even face the British on the deck of his own ship. He abandoned us and his command!”
Oliver was unclear which James thought was the more grievous offense, but somehow he had to convince James he was wrong and judging unfairly. It was important now for James to know the truth. Unfortunately, the truth was a long story with but moments at hand of relative freedom. Oliver did not know when he would next be able to talk at length and most wished to merely share the news that at least William and Bemose were safe.
Captain Roberts stepped out on to the porch and gestured for the guard to bring Oliver to him. Flanked by the two Royal Navy Lieutenants, he informed Oliver, “Federal charter or no, the fact appears to make little difference. Yours was a merchant ship flying the flag of a declared enemy. Your ship is a prize.”
Thinking Captain Roberts was done, Oliver grasped for some consolation that might yet save him from financial ruin, “Surely, my cargo, Sir, has no value to you in time of war. May I
keep my furs?”
Captain Roberts was sympathetic, considered for a moment and began to answer, Oliver believed, favorably when Fleet objected, “Good heavens, Captain, the value of the furs split between us as a part of the prize is a windfall and cannot be overlooked!”
Captain Roberts looked at Dunlap and asked, “We are paid for the cargo as well?”
Lieutenant Dunlap confirmed, “That is the nature, it seems, of taking merchant prizes. Senior officers grow quite wealthy, although you may have to share the total sum with many.”
Captain Roberts was incredulous. In the army, such a practice seemed but crude plundering and would most often result in execution; while with the Navy, such piratical traditions were entirely legal. “I am afraid not, Sir,” he replied to Oliver, suggesting almost guilt.
“This is quite a calamity,” Oliver observed. “I do not know how I will face my creditors.”
Fleet laughed aloud, which both Dunlap and Captain Roberts thought in poor taste. “Face creditors? Sir, you are a prisoner. You will not have to worry about honoring your instruments for some time!”
Oliver looked at Captain Roberts, hardly believing fate could be so cruel. Roberts assured, “I have elected not to press charges for espionage. However, for sailing under a false manifest you will be taken to Amherstberg and my superiors at Fort Malden will determine whether to exchange you at some future time.” Then, rather detached, Roberts added, “Consider your good fortune, for the moment. If the documents which Urastus Richards and Lieutenant Fleet claim exist are later found, or your Master should be captured and confess, you will likely be shot.”
Oliver thought of James and informed Captain Roberts, “I am traveling with my nephew.” He then asked, “Could we ship together? He is quite young.”
Captain Roberts looked out over the parade ground for a moment, considered and offered, “I will send him down with you and the other prisoners—aboard Salina, however, not your ship. Yours will be taken into the Royal Navy.”
“When will we depart?” Oliver asked.
Captain Roberts turned, looked out the south gate and down at the ships in the harbor, “I would guess a week, perhaps more. There is much work yet to be done.” Then, turning to Lieutenant Fleet, he ordered, “Take him back to his room and discuss with him and his nephew their parole. Record it well and make sure it is on board with the others.”
“Parole?” Oliver asked, unfamiliar with the arrangement.
Lieutenant Dunlap explained, “You have the option of giving your word in exchange for limited freedoms and privileges, extended you as an honorable gentleman. Mr. Fleet will take it all down in writing, should you desire.”
Oliver nodded, looked out the gate and down to his sloop lying at the dock. In a quiet voice hinting of defeat, he asked, “What are they doing with Friends Good Will?”
Lieutenant Fleet offered, almost with glee and while looking Oliver directly in the eye, “The Royal Navy is taking the ship of that traitor Lee and arming her with a nine pound pivot gun and creating some proper gun ports which will be filled with sixes from Malden, together with some stanchions and hammock nettings to increase the height of the bulwarks. She’ll soon be a proper man-o’-war. Come to think of it, I hope to God we change that name!”
Near three weeks later Oliver grasped the larboard bulwark of the flushed deck Schooner Salina just forward of the entry port. He became suddenly conscious that he was gripping with both hands with far more force and intensity than was warranted by the short chop, unrythmic roll, and increasing current setting with the north wind. The south end of Lake Huron was drawing nigh and in just another mile would surrender to the St. Clair River. Salina might well make Detroit the following evening.
The passage was marked with fair weather and foul spirits. The passengers, more than half of which were prisoners and he one among them, struggled with the manner in which their lives had taken a turn. He eased his grip, noticed the blood flowing back into his fingers and tried to relax. Captain Daniel Dobbins, a passenger aboard his former command although not a prisoner, approached yet again in attempt to engage in polite conversation. “Sorry to disturb, Oliver, but I hoped you may be interested in taking a turn ‘round the deck with Salina’s former Master.”
“I am sorry, Captain. I have been poor company these past days, I know.” The suggestion could not have come at a more opportune moment.
Captain Dobbins ignored the understatement in a sincere effort to ease what he viewed as Oliver’s troubled mind. Oliver in fact had rarely gone below day or night and most often just stared at the horizon, most likely, Captain Dobbins would wager, without ever really seeing it. “It is certainly a terrible blow; to lose one’s ship and its cargo,” he offered.
Oliver looked at him, considered for a moment that Captain Dobbins sounded most sincere, then nearly laughed. “Of course, Captain, there is no one who knows better, as indeed you have suffered the same!”
Captain Dobbins nodded and smiled as Oliver explained, “Of course, you are right, but the shock wore off long before we departed Mackinaw. No, that is not what distracts me so; not his evening.”
“Oliver, you remained on deck throughout yesterday’s squalls, drenched and sullen. I caution you are stirring some rumor, if not fear, among our few female passengers. They are beginning to suspect a serious malady; one for the priests to cure, not the doctors.” Oliver chuckled as they began their turn at the foredeck and as they reached the starboard cathead, Captain Dobbins asked, “How is your nephew?”
Oliver was troubled, indeed. James was foremost on his mind. While the exercise on deck was welcome, the conversation, at least to the extent Oliver might be required to reveal his thoughts, was not. Oliver ducked the question as he did the inner jib sheet, and looked very closely at the crewmember standing forward of the starboard shrouds at the rail in the lee of the foresail. Oliver feigned interest and asked, “Captain, what are your plans? Is Salina to be restored to you?”
Captain Dobbins sighed, considered and began to explain he did not think so, although apparently Salina would not be taken into the Royal Navy. The mention of such a fate caused Oliver to look up out over transom to consider the two sloops following close behind. Erie was off the starboard quarter less than three lengths behind with Friends Good Will just a length or two astern of Erie, although directly in line behind Salina. Friends Good Will proved the fastest of all three and again, it seemed, was slipping ever closer up under Salina’s transom.
As the sun neared the horizon, the two sloops made a beautiful sight. All three ships were sailing dead downwind on a larboard tack. The sloops had brailed their mainsails, struck their headsails and were sailing with courses and topsails. Oliver was still struggling with the fact that Lieutenant Fleet was in command of Friends Good Will. Oliver knew that were William to learn that distressing fact, the war would certainly intensify on the instant. Lieutenant Dunlap was in command of Salina, the largest of the three ships, and also in command of them collectively as a small squadron. Salina was sailing wing and wing with both jibs set, though blanketed and not actually drawing. With the current pushing from behind and the wind slackening as it often did on August evenings, it was difficult to tell just how much the wind, as compared to the current, was actually driving the vessels southward to the mouth of the river where the current would grow even stronger.
Captain Dobbins finished his long explanation, “… so, you see, I hope to make my way to Washington and impress upon the Secretary of the Navy the importance of the inland seas, perhaps even join and then make my way back to the Northwest.”
At that moment, James emerged from the companionway hatch and Oliver concluded their walk. “Thank you, Captain, for your company. I enjoyed our talk. James, pray, do you have a moment?”
Oliver and James proceeded to the larboard foremast shrouds. They were just then entering the St. Clair River and both felt the ship gain some speed with no increase in wind. “Tell, me James, how well can you swim?” Oliv
er glanced at the eastern shore. James’ eyes grew wide, his jaw dropped and Oliver cautioned, “See here young man, you best compose yourself and just whisper, if you will, the answer to my question.”
“Why, Uncle Oliver, … well enough, to be sure, to make shore, but for the two ships coming up from behind.” James sounded most willing.
“And the current, my boy? Can you contend with that current?”
“It will sweep me down the river and take me longer, for certain, but I could easily make shore—but for the ships.” The cook called from the galley that dinner was ready. Two of the crew and all passengers but for Oliver and James headed below. Of His Majesty’s subjects, only the helmsman, one crew aft and the fellow forward of the foresail remained on deck.
“Have no concerns for the ships,” assured Oliver. “Now, I need you to do three things. First, move to the larboard cat-head, where you will be unseen to the helmsman tucked up in the lee of the mainsail and boom. Second, be prepared to dive without hesitation and swim like you have never before. Try not to let the current carry you downriver even if you make little easting. Dive when you fist sense some confusion aboard. Third,” looking intensely at James who met his eye, “trust that while I have not the time to tell you all that I know, I have imparted to you the basic truth of your father’s actions and motives. Do not ever suspect his courage, commitment to the cause, or love for you.”
James nodded as to the first two requests, let his eyes fall to the third, whether for shame of his own doubt, or his father’s actions, Oliver could not tell and no longer had time to consider. Both knew they may never see one another again. James began to ask a question or perhaps voice his goodbye, but Oliver just squeezed his shoulder and insisted, “Go forward, now!’ in an urgent whisper.
Friends Good Will was now just a length behind Salina and was beginning to take up her course so to slow her speed in the narrow river. Oliver estimated no more than ten steps: four across the centerline around to the starboard side of the cargo hatch, then six steps forward to the starboard rail. He would need to duck under the foresail, trimmed to starboard. Ten steps, taken in mere seconds, during which he would once again consider, carefully, that which had occupied his thoughts and deprived him of sleep now for days. Ten steps represented his last opportunity to attempt to preserve the life he had built.