by Michael Aye
The fire popped and crackled and at times there was more smoke than the group would have liked but it did make the little burrow more comfortable. Dagan fixed a pot of coffee and the men made a meal from cold fried chicken and biscuits. As Caleb ate, his mind was more on the cook than the food. Kitty had made the meal the night before they left. It amazed him she would occupy his thoughts so and wondered if she thought of him as well.
The group slowly made their way out of their little nest at sun up and after a quick breakfast they fastened together a make shift raft. Stripping, they piled their belongings on the raft and following Kawliga’s example waded into the water. Each holding a rope fastened at the front and back corners of the raft, made their way across the swollen river.
Once on the other side, they dressed again in wet clothes as the rain had started again. Making their way overland, they were a miserable lot, with each man silent. Dagan continued to worry about Gabe, but did not fail to notice how Kawliga watched over and guided Jubal. His ‘little shaman’. Dagan could sense Jubal had the “gift” and was glad someone was there to guide the boy, someone who understood.
For two days they marched from sunup to sundown and on the third day they made the little arm of the Yadkin. The rain had been an off and on companion and was now back again.
A makeshift sawmill, a gristmill, and a trading post sat on the banks of the river. A stoop off the side of the sawmill was empty and offered some relief from the rain. Setting down their packs, Dagan could see a rowdy looking group of men sitting on the porch of the trading post, which was just slightly up the hill. The group was a ragged lot. Most had on moccasins or were shoeless. Their britches not much more than dirty tattered rags and their coats had gaping holes. What was visible of their shirts wasn’t any better.
“A motley group is it not?” Caleb volunteered.
“Aye,” Dagan replied. “I don’t like the looks we’re getting, but when the rain stops I’m going to see about getting some coffee. That’s the only thing we’re short on and it might be a long time before we find another trading post.”
The sky had darkened with the heavy rain. However, a bolt of lightening lit up the sky so that Dagan could see a sullen man with a battered hat and matted unkempt beard leaning on a porch post, staring at their group.
Kawliga had moved up besides Dagan. “He looking for trouble, maybe want packs,” the Indian said. Dagan nodded. That had been his thoughts as well.
The two groups of men sat staring across the opening at each other. The store sat on higher ground and as the rain fell it made little rivers that made their way down the slope. Areas where the ground was low filled up then the overflow ran on down past the sawmill into the river. The clouds, though dark, were moving fast and soon the thunder and lightening had moved on. The rain slowed to a drizzle and then stopped.
Dagan had just finished a bowl of tobacco and was putting his pipe up when Caleb said, “Here they come.” The fragrance of tobacco hung in the air but the musty odor of unwashed bodies became very strong as the group of men approached.
“There’s five,” Caleb whispered. “One’s still on the porch.”
“Probably the owner,” Dagan replied. “Jubal!’
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to keep your musket ready, and stay slightly over to the side. Make sure we aren’t flanked. The rest of us will meet them head on. Follow my signal; we have to have surprise on our side. They’ll think because we’re outnumbered we’ll try to talk.”
As the ragged group approached the sullen man said, “Ya’ll strangers here about ain’t you?”
“We are,” Dagan replied.
“Well, we don’t take ‘ta strangers,” the man said, “Specially Britishers.”
The man had closed to within two feet of Dagan by that time. Dagan’s action was as swift as a striking snake. Dagan drove the butt of his musket into the man’s chest. The force of the impact knocked the breath out of the man’s lungs and he cried out as his knees buckled. Before the man hit the ground Dagan brought the barrel of his gun down across the man’s head, felling him. When Dagan struck his man, Caleb and Kawliga joined in the battle, Caleb fighting two men. One had been hit so hard his eyes refused to focus but his partner landed a punch that felt like a lightening bolt had struck Caleb, causing his jaw to pop and immediately ache.
One man had pulled a knife and slashed at Caleb but Kawliga charged him and put the man down with his tomahawk. Caleb wobbled awkwardly for a moment before recovering his wits.
Dagan was facing another of the men who was breathing heavily now. The fight had already lasted longer than he would have thought. Dagan’s foe had pulled his blades and the two men circled, each looking for the advantage. Dagan’s foot hit a slick muddy spot on the wet ground. Seeing his opponent slip the man slashed out, ripping Dagan’s shirt and drawing blood. With the man off balance, Dagan sent a crashing left to the man’s face. Blood started to drip from the man’s lips and nose as he struggled to keep his feet under him.
At that time, the man who Caleb had first encountered jumped Dagan from behind. Dagan lurched his body trying to loosen the man’s grip. The two men struggled and finally they both hit the ground, rolling, wrenching this way and that, before scrambling back on their feet. As Dagan gained his balance, he gave a sudden forward lunge flipping the man over his back and into the rushing river. The man’s screams were heard as the swift current swept the man downstream. Turning back to the melee, Caleb and Kawliga were holding their own. With three of the rogues down, the numbers were now on Dagan and his group’s side.
Kawliga and his opponent circled one another. Kawliga’s foe charged and the two hit the wet ground rolling over. Kawliga was much smaller than his man but was quicker. When the man rolled over, he pulled a large wicked knife from his boot. Seeing the blade, Kawliga grabbed a hand full of mud and slung it into the man’s face and eyes causing the man to spit and sputter. As the man tried to wipe the mud from his eyes, Kawliga picked up a knife Dagan’s foe had dropped and gave it a throw. The blade sunk into the man’s throat. With a face full of mud and blood gushing from his neck, the man sunk to his knees then fell face first into the mud Kawliga had just used to his advantage.
Caleb had just landed a blow to his man. It was a vicious left hook. The force of the blow knocked the man backward onto his buttocks. The man felt paralyzed and limp. It suddenly dawned on him the fight was over. His friends were all down. Sitting in the muddy shallows good sense prevailed. The exhausted man used the last of his strength to jump up and run. Kawliga quickly picked up a musket to bring the man down but Dagan intervened.
“Let him go. Let’s get up to the post and dry out and maybe get a hot meal.”
Jubal had kept his attention on the man on the porch. The man had kept seated all during the fight. As the victors approached the trading post he stood up.
“Glad I am to see ‘em gone. Trash. Trash is what they be. Been here three days drinking up my corn squeezing and eating my food without paying a cent. Yes sir, I’m glad to see ‘em gone. Supper’s on the stove and if you’ve a mind, a warm bed for the night.”
The group was more than willing to accept the man’s hospitality.
Chapter Six
The lanthorn hanging off Warrior’s stern gave a yellow glow through the fog. The lanthorn would swing larboard then starboard with the gentle roll of the flagship. The wet fog bit through the clothes of the men on watch. Like a ghost, patches would drift through sections of the ship making them invisible for a time, then visible again. On the larboard side loomed the rocky shoreline.
“I don’t like it,” Oxford said as he approached Captain Moffett and Lord Anthony. Both agreed with the master. Above, the faint slapping of cordage against the mast seemed to get on Moffett’s nerves.
“Mr. Herrod!”
“Aye, captain.”
“Can you not hear that infernal racket?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then dammit, man. Do
something about it.”
“Aye, sir, right away.”
“Good, I hope I don’t have to remind you further to take care of your duties.”
“No sir, I’ll see them done.”
Lord Anthony felt clammy as he wiped the moisture from his face. Droplets of moisture had gathered in Oxford’s beard and dripped to the deck.
“I can smell the stench of the shore,” Oxford sounded distressed. “Not a fit place for a man-o-war if you ask me.”
Anthony had to agree. The Bay of Bundy was narrow and the coast treacherous. Anthony’s squadron was escorting a convoy to St. John’s, New Brunswick. If Oxford was right the Grand Manan Island was just to larboard.
Privateers had considered this area their personal raiding grounds. It was rumored they had captured from these waters enough powder and shot to keep Washington’s army supplied for a year. Small gunboats would dash in and cut out a supply ship before the convoy escort even knew something was amiss. Anthony had hoped to prevent this from happening to supply ships under his protection. It took daring and experienced captains but Anthony was sure of his captains. Most had been with him for several years. Drakkar was off on independent patrol but Anthony had the rest of his convoy sail in a diamond formation.
Stephen Earl was in temporary command of SeaWolf and sailed at the head of the formation. Warrior was further astern of SeaWolf and Pigeon and Audacity were on the flanks with Buck bringing up the rear in Merlin.
In the middle sailed the convoy. Anthony had held a meeting with all the convoy’s captains and laid out specific instructions and sailing plans for the rest of their journey to St. Johns. From Maine, most had already at some point been witness to the raiders and therefore were willing to comply with the Admiral’s orders.
Anthony had been looking towards the invisible coast, sensing the nearby dangers he couldn’t see.
“Not a fit day ‘ta my way of thinking, sir.”
Anthony had been so engrossed with the dangerous coast he’d not been aware Bart had approached. “I think it’s a prime day for privateers,” Anthony responded. “They could be on us before we knew it with this damn fog.”
“Aye,” Bart answered. “I brung yew a cloth to wipe ye face. Maybe ye glass when the fog lifts.”
Looking at his thoughtful cox’n, Anthony asked, “You getting a case of nerves?”
“Nerves? Nay, my lord, it’s a belly full of Silas and that damn ape I’m getting. Do you know my lord Silas asked me to take the damn ape to the head so’s he could shat. Damned if I will.”
Anthony couldn’t help but smile to himself. Bart’s anger was more to do with Mr. Jewells downing a tankard of rum Bart had made the mistake of setting down on the table while he opened a stern window.
“Think the little bastard can swim?” Bart had asked angrily. “I feel like drowning the bugger.”
It was the first time Anthony had ever heard Bart and Silas have words. “You shouldn’t ‘na left it to tempt him,” Silas had flung back at Bart. “He doesn’t know any better.”
“I’ll be glad when Caleb gets back and gets his damn ape,” Bart had said in a raised voice as he’d stormed out of the pantry.
Well , Anthony thought, I’ll be glad too, more so if Gabe is with him.
A slight breeze stirred, and then the wind picked up from the south. It rolled back the fog and only small patches remained, and then the remnants thinned and disappeared.
“Gunboats, gunboats to the larboard,” the lookout called down.
“Luck,” Bart said, “Iffen the wind had held they’d been among us ‘fore we knowed it.”
Moffett was quick. He’d already given the order to beat to quarters, however, Earl on SeaWolf had already picked out targets and was firing.
The raiders were using galleys, not unlike those the Spanish or Algerians used. The boats carried two short masts and lateen sails with a minimum of canvas and cordage so they could be easily handled by untrained men. They were also pierced for sweeps which gave an added benefit for maneuverability. Each gunboat carried two great guns, one in the bow and one in the stern. Each could be elevated, lowered or transversed. Most of the guns were thirty-two pounders, some even carried several swivels. Even though the vessels looked clumsy, they handled easy enough and each carried ninety to one-hundred men. More when needed for a cutting out expedition, such as in the close quarters as the Bay of Bundy.
Upon the sighting, Bart had rushed down and got Lord Anthony’s weapons. “Here’s your sword and pistol,” he said, “Looks like we’s in for a bit ‘o ‘citment.”
“A hot bit it appears,” Anthony replied as one of the gun boats thirty-two pounders cut loose at close range. “Pigeon and Audacity will never stand up to that. Captain Moffett!”
“Aye, my Lord.”
“How many gun boats are attacking?”
“The lookout has made out six, my Lord. Two forward, two astern and just forward of Merlin and two abeam. They’re low in the water making our gunnery difficult.”
“A hit by gawd,” this from the masthead lookout.
“Two to one the gunner laid that himself,” Moffett exclaimed.
A sudden explosion and Warrior seemed to shudder. Aft a large section of the taffrail had a huge gouge where the thirty-two pound ball had torn its ugly path.
“Luckily, no one was injured. He fired at extreme elevation,” Moffett said. “He’d have done better shooting at the rudder instead of the mast.”
“Don’t give the bugger’s no ideas,” Bart cried.
“One’s twixt SeaWolf and the convoy,” the lookout cried down.
“Mr. Herrod?”
“Aye, cap’n.”
“See if we can get a shot with the bowchaser.”
“Directly, sir.”
“Mr. Foxxe, Mr. Foxxe to the bow,” Herrod called the gunner as he made his way forward.
“Look,” Anthony cried, “Looks like Merlin has a hit.”
“Aye, Mr. Buck’s done for that bugger, he has,” Bart said as he turned toward Anthony. “`Hit don’t seem right, do it sir, ‘usuns being by-standers and the like.”
“Got a touch of battle lust do you, Bart?”
“Aye, sir, guess I does. It’s hard to be a sight-seer.”
“Don’t fret my friend, you’ll get your chance and with this fog and smoke it may be sooner than you think.”
“My Lord!”
“Yes, captain.”
“Foxxe hit the gunboat but they boarded the supply ship and have cut her out to starboard. Audacity has taken chase.”
“Very well, captain, by my count we’ve sunk three of the raiders. Where are the other three?”
“I’m not sure my Lord, between the ‘fog of war’ and nature’s fog visibility is poor. The master swears he can hear the waves on the rocks to larboard so he’s edgy.”
“Well, I’d like to not get any closer myself,” Anthony said. “No telling what else they got waiting on us.”
Moffett’s fog of war was the gunsmoke. The raiders thirty-two pounders gave off a tremendous amount of smoke. The heavy smell filling the air and burning one’s eyes.
“Deck there, Pigeon’s grappled with one of the raiders.”
“Damme,” Moffett shouted. “Can you see the other raider?”
“No sir,” the lookout called down.
“Should we send Merlin to assist my Lord?” Moffett asked.
“No, not without knowing where the other raider has gotten. The gunboat will not likely be able to traverse its cannons before it has to repel boarders. Let’s just hope Mr. Kerry has his wits about him today.”
While visibility was difficult, the din of battle was clearly heard between Pigeon and the raider. Musket shots, men’s cries of anger turned into cries of pain. At moments the gleam of metal could be seen as a blade flashed through the air only to rise bloody.
“Captain Moffett? As we are almost on Pigeon send a couple of boats to assist Lieutenant Kerry. I’m sure Captain Dunlap would be more then wi
lling to contribute a squad of marines.”
“Aye, my Lord, I’ll see to it.”
Looking down from his flagship, Anthony could see the dirty chop of a wave against the hull. Mangled bodies and debris was all about, some of it thumping again and again against Warrior as she moved slowly ahead. The battle was all but over but he received no pleasure. How many of the Americans and British lives had been lost? It seemed different when he had been in the thick of battle but now… now! Bart was right, being a sight-seer was difficult.
“Captain’s compliments, sir, but Merlin has signaled they’ve cut off escape by the raiders and Audacity has boarded and retook the ship.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dewy. Any word on the other raiders?”
“No sir, but we’re still searching. The master thinks they took wind.”
“Well, we’ll see if the master is right.”
“Aye, my Lord.”
“Looks like they’ve took the other bugger sir, they’ve put up a flag,” Bart volunteered. “Brave man that Mister Kerry is, not the smartest block I’ve known, but he ain’t no coward, sir.”
“Bart.”
“Aye, sir.”
“You’re talking about a King’s officer.”
“He won’t be long, sir, ‘iffen you don’t teach ‘em some smarts. Likely get himself and half his crew kilt. `Scretion is what ‘e needs ‘ta learn.”
“You mean discretion.”
“Aye, sir, `scretion and plenty of it, I’m thinking.”
Chapter Seven
Skirting the usual wagon path, Lum worked his way toward the slaves’ quarters that sat scattered among the oak trees behind the main house. A haggard looking outbuilding had started to lean and was in danger of falling. This building sat in such a way it blocked the view of Lum’s small cabin from the rear windows and back porch of the main house.
It was here that Lum halted the mule. “Whoa… Whoa now Bessie.” As soon as the wagon stopped the mule immediately started cropping grass and swishing flies with her tail. Helping nanny down the two slaves went to the back of the wagon to help with Gabe.