Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  The man ahead of him in line turned to ask, “New in camp?”

  “Just arrived.”

  “From where?”

  “Boston. I haven’t seen a Massachusetts flag. Hope you don’t mind me being in your mess line.”

  The man shrugged. “Don’t matter much. Some of our boys are over with the Kentucky bunch right now, in their mess line.”

  Billy asked, “Where are our ships? Where’s this big battle to take place?”

  The man pointed due north at Lake Erie. “Our ships are right out there at Put-in-Bay in the Bass Islands. Can’t see ’em from this side of the lake. On over on the British side, Barclay and his navy is about starved out. He’s got to do something, and it looks like tomorrow is the big day.”

  The cooks didn’t even look up when they shoved a piece of hard brown bread into Billy’s hand and dumped a large dipper of odorous, brown, steaming stew into his bowl, and he moved on. He returned to his saddle and blankets to sit with his back against the tree while he gingerly poked at the steaming stew with his wooden spoon, then blew on it before he took the first taste. He could identify possum, wild turkey, raccoon, and wild boar in the mix, along with strong turnips and cabbage, and the bread was stale and unsalted, but he ate it all and it stayed down.

  With the stars coming alive overhead, he checked the horse, then sat down with his back against the tree, working with his thoughts.

  What day is this? He paused to count from the morning he left Boston. Thursday. September 9. How long will I be here?—no way to know—big battle on the lake tomorrow—is Adam there?—will he be all right?—where’s Eli?—how do I find him?—Indians over there starving—is Tecumseh there?—will he talk with Eli?

  His thoughts came to Brigitte. When will I see her again?—when will women be spared seeing their men go off to war?—they’re the ones who pay the real price—at home—not knowing if we’re alive or dead—or crippled—how do they bear it?

  The great, sprawling camp slowly settled and quieted, and lanterns inside tents began winking out. In the solitude, Billy sought his blankets and for a time lay on his back studying the vastness of the heavens and the stars overhead, and drifted to sleep awed, humbled by his own smallness.

  He was up at dawn to feed the horse the last of the carrots, rubbing its neck while he listened to it grind them between yellow teeth and bump Billy’s chest with his head for more. He led it to the stream to drink, then back to hobble it on a picket rope in the grass. He stood in the line for morning mess of mush and burned sowbelly and was washing his wooden bowl in the stream when the shout came high and excited from near the lake.

  “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

  Within minutes, the lake shore was jammed with men standing tall, hands raised to shield their eyes against the morning sun as they peered north across the still waters of the lake, straining to see sails that were not there. The officers came among them, giving commands.

  “Back to your companies. Back to your duties. There’s nothing to see. The British ships are on the lake but you can’t see them from here.”

  Reluctantly the soldiers turned back to their campsites, talking, pointing, turning to peer back at the lake, anxious, apprehensive. Billy waited, then stopped a captain who was returning to his command.

  “How many British ships?”

  “The message said six. Against our nine.”

  “Where?”

  “Last seen moving south from somewhere around Fort Malden, towards Put-in-Bay.”

  “How much time before they meet? Ours and theirs.”

  “Soon.”

  Billy walked back to his campsite and leaned his rifle against the tree, then sat down on his blanket cross-legged, with his elbows on his knees. Is Adam out there? Will he be in the fight? He stared north, knowing the Bass Islands and the ships were too far away to be seen, but unable to stop looking.

  Out on the lake, under clear morning skies and bright sunshine, a light wind was quartering in from the southeast to ruffle the dark waters as it moved from the American shore northwest, past the Bass Islands and Put-in-Bay, on to the British shore. The American fleet lay anchored just north of the islands, rocking gently on the slow swells, waiting, with men and extended telescopes in every crow’s nest, intently scouring the north horizon, waiting for the first fleck that would be a British ship leading a squadron from Fort Malden harbor to do battle. Neither side had illusions of the stakes at risk. Both understood only too well that control of the entire northern waterway, from Lake Superior to the Atlantic Ocean, was to be decided that day; and whoever controlled that waterway held the fate of the war in their hands.

  Perry was ready. He had taken command of his largest man-of-war, the Lawrence, and had given command of his next largest ship, the Niagara, to Lieutenant Jesse Elliott. Behind the Niagara, at the request of Captain Adam Dunson, came the Margaret, the volunteer commercial ship converted to a gunboat, and behind the Margaret, in order, came the smaller, flat-bottomed gunboats with but one deck, that Perry had built during the summer under the direction of Noah Brown, master naval architect. Perry had spent months scavenging for ship crews, and had gathered an odd, rag-tag assembly of ex-soldiers, civilians, Negroes, and a few trained seamen.

  In the dark hours of early morning, when the message reached him that the British squadron had left Fort Malden during the night, sailing south, Perry had divided his men among the ships and ordered them to spread sand on all decks to avoid slipping when the decks were drenched with water or blood. Then he ordered every gun to be loaded, with the gun crews at the ready.

  And he had given clear, emphatic orders to his captains that he, Perry, commanding the Lawrence, would lead them into battle, with the Niagara right behind, the Margaret following, and the lesser ships in order. Under no circumstance were they to break the battle line.

  With hands shading their eyes against the bright morning sun, the American crews crowded against the railings, peering north, nervous, anxious, quiet, waiting through the morning. It was approaching noon when the man in the crow’s nest of the Lawrence shouted, “Sail. Due north. Two . . . three. . . . six sails! Looks like the whole British squadron!”

  Perry barked orders to his first mate, and instantly he ran the prepared signal flags up the mainmast with the message: “British approaching. Follow me.”

  Perry turned to shout commands to his crew. Seamen threw their weight against the windlass, and the anchor chain rattled as the anchor left the bottom of the lake and started to rise. Barefoot sailors scrambled up the ladders to the overhead arms to walk the ropes outward. They jerked the knots loose, and the sails unfurled to catch the wind quartering in from behind. They billowed and popped, and while the deck crew secured the anchor, the ships became as living things, falling into their places in the battle line, gaining speed as they moved north, directly toward the oncoming British.

  Adam stood in the bow of the Margaret, telescope extended, his view partially blocked by the two ships ahead of him while he watched every move of the British ships as they tacked into the wind, moving into their battle line.

  Our nine against their six, and we have the wind in our favor. What’s going through Barclay’s mind? He’s got courage, but the odds are strong against him.

  On the quarterdeck of the HMS Detroit, the flagship of his command, Captain Robert Barclay counted the sails of the approaching American squadron, then studied the build of each of the ships.

  The first three—men-o’-war—heavy guns—but the last six—only light schooners—few guns—single deck—if we can disable the first three, the last six are ours.

  He ran the signals up his mainmast. “Wait for my command to fire, then broadside the first three when you can.”

  As in a dream, the distance between the two enemy fleets was suddenly half a mile, then six hundred yards, and Barclay ran the signal high on his mainmast.

  FIRE!

  The heavy, long-range British guns blasted, and the white smoke w
as swept away by the wind to reveal most of the cannonballs raising fifteen-foot geysers in the sea around the first three American ships. A few punched holes in the sails; one or two hit the railings to blow them to kindling.

  Instantly, the long-range guns on the Lawrence and Niagara and Margaret answered. With the deafening roar of the cannon and the smell and sight of the white smoke and the whistling of incoming cannonballs, the crews on both the British and American ships moved past their frayed nerves and fears into the strange world of calm precision, loading and firing mechanically, without thought.

  The lead ships were less than three hundred yards apart when suddenly the Niagara, just ahead of Adam on the Margaret, began to slow, then angled to port, leaving the battle line. Ahead of the Niagara, Perry held the Lawrence at full speed dead ahead, on a collision course with the oncoming Detroit.

  Stunned, Adam’s thoughts raced. What is Elliott doing leaving the battle line—abandoning the Lawrence?

  While Adam watched, Captain Elliott spilled his mainsails. The ship slowed and came to a near stop, with its long guns still blasting. Adam held the Margaret behind the Niagara with his cannon firing, torn between a compulsion to break away to support Perry and the Lawrence, and his direct orders to maintain his place behind the Niagara. Heat waves were rising from the gun barrels, and frantic crews were throwing buckets of lake water on them to cool them enough to keep them from igniting the gunpowder while they were ramming it down the muzzles.

  In the next minute, the Lawrence disappeared in the thick cloud of gun smoke hanging between the Detroit and the Queen Charlotte, and the sound of the cannon became one continuous roar, echoing to both shores of the lake as the lone ship traded broadsides with both of the British ships, one on each side.

  Adam stood horrified. He hasn’t got a chance! They’ll cut him to pieces!

  He could take no more. He pivoted and shouted to the helmsman, “Hard to starboard!” He used his horn to shout to his first mate, “Make all sail! Now!”

  Men leaped to the rope ladders and scrambled up the three masts to the arms, and out on the ropes to release the sails. They caught the wind and snapped tight, and the Margaret surged ahead in a hard turn to starboard, breaking from behind the Niagara, directly toward the British ships that were pounding the Lawrence into rubble.

  Adam shouted to his gun crews, “Fire when you come to bear!”

  Behind him, Elliott stood on the quarterdeck of the Niagara, startled to see Adam and the Margaret break from the battle line and set all sails to close with the British ships, cannon blasting as she went.

  What is Dunson doing? He knows his orders! What’s he doing?

  Then Elliott stopped short. He suddenly realized that, for reasons he could never explain, he had suffered a mental lapse that had sent Perry and his ship and crew into the heart of the British squadron alone, without support. He had broken the battle line! He had sent Perry into a death trap! Shocked, sick in his heart, Elliott shouted his orders. Within minutes the Niagara was in a hard turn to starboard, all sails unfurled and full, following the Margaret straight at the British men-of-war.

  The Margaret swept past the bow of the Detroit, with every cannon on the port side of the Margaret raking the British ship in order, and Adam saw the Lawrence for the first time since she had disappeared between the two large British warships. Her masts were shattered, her spars on her deck, her sails shredded and dragging. Her railings were blasted to splinters, her quarterdeck strewn with wreckage, and her hull showed more than twenty black holes where British cannonballs had smashed through.

  For ten seconds Adam searched through the smoke and wreckage before he saw Perry. He was there on the quarterdeck, with the blood and carnage of his dead and wounded all around, still shouting to his gun crews to load and fire. Adam groaned and then shouted to his own helmsman, “Hard to port!”

  The Margaret leaned hard to starboard as she made her turn to port, coming in between the Queen Charlotte and the Lawrence, all nineteen guns on her starboard side loaded and waiting, and as he came alongside the British ship, fewer than forty yards to his starboard side, he watched the British crew frantically reloading their guns.

  In the instant before the British crews seized the ropes to pull their cannon into the gunports, Adam shouted to his gun crews, “Fire!”

  All nineteen of the heavy cannon bucked and roared, and the white cloud of smoke hid the British ship for several seconds as the American cannonballs and canister shot hit broadside at point-blank range. Two of the masts on the British ship slowly tilted and then toppled, and the broken spars and riddled sails hit the wreckage that littered the deck, among the dead and dying British seamen. The smoke cleared as the Margaret passed the crippled Queen Charlotte, and Adam saw the quarterdeck on the British ship, shot to pieces, with her captain down, not moving.

  Instantly he turned to find the Detroit, off his port stern, on the far side of the Lawrence. Beyond the Detroit, he saw the Niagara coming under full sail, closing with the British ship, and Adam shouted orders to his helmsman.

  “Hard port! Come about between the Lawrence and the Detroit!” Then he turned to his gun crews. “Reload! Stand ready!”

  Again the Margaret leaned as she came hard to port, around the bow of the battered Lawrence, on toward the Detroit, yet three hundred yards distant.

  Onboard the British ship, Captain Barclay saw the Niagara coming from his starboard and the Margaret coming hard on his port stern, and gave the command he thought would avoid the trap.

  “Hard to port!”

  The British ship was far into its left turn before Barclay saw the Queen Charlotte, crippled, her captain and first mate dead, only one mast standing, less than fifty yards away, on a collision course with the Detroit. In desperation he shouted at his helmsman, “Hard to starboard—hard to starboard!” and the big man-of-war straightened, then began its turn, but too late. The Queen Charlotte plowed into the Detroit amidships, and her masts and spars and tattered sails caught in the splintered railings. The Detroit continued her violent turn to starboard, trying to break from the Queen Charlotte, but the ropes and the sails would not disengage, and Barclay felt the jolt as the Detroit was jerked to port and slowed to a near standstill by the dead weight of the crippled ship clinging to his port side.

  Adam saw it all, and beyond the two fouled British ships, he saw Elliott bringing the Niagara alongside the Detroit at less than one hundred yards. He turned to his own helmsman.

  “Hold your bearing, dead ahead.”

  Less than one minute later the cannon on the Niagara blasted a broadside to the starboard of the Detroit. The sound had not died when Adam shouted orders to his gun crews, and his starboard guns delivered a broadside that caught the Queen Charlotte and the Detroit on their port sides. When the smoke cleared, the two British ships were still entangled, and Adam turned once more to his helmsman.

  “Pass them and turn to starboard around the bow of the Detroit.”

  While he watched, Elliott circled the Niagara around the stern of the two British ships to come in on their port side. Adam was counting seconds in the hope that both the American ships would be in position before the British ships could separate and bring their guns to bear. With fewer than fifty yards yet to go, he saw the hawsers snap and the sails rip, and the two ships begin to drift apart. The British gun crews had their cannon half loaded when both the American ships came into position and their cannon fired. Solid shot and canister tore into the two British ships and their crews from both sides. Adam saw Barclay stagger back and topple over, then try to rise to his knees before he slumped forward, trying to support his body with his one arm. But even at eighty yards, Adam could see that it was shattered. Instantly four British seamen raised their captain to his feet and carried him to the nearest hatch and disappeared below decks.

  For the first time in half an hour, Adam turned to peer at the Lawrence, less than one hundred yards over his stern. She was a battered hulk. Her masts were cut in two
, her spars broken and lying on the decks, her sails ripped and torn by solid and canister shot, almost of all her crew down, but she had not struck her colors. She was still in the fight. He searched for Captain Perry, but he was not there, and then Adam gaped at a sight that would remain with him forever.

  Captain Perry was lowering himself into a longboat with six oarsmen waiting. The moment his feet hit the bottom of the boat the oarsmen threw their backs into it, and Perry wrenched the rudder around to set a course for the Niagara. Some of the smaller British gunboats believed that the Lawrence must be sinking and that Perry had surrendered her, and made ready to attach hawsers to claim their prize. When they saw Perry in the longboat trying to reach the Niagara, they brought their ships around to fire on him. With cannonballs and grapeshot raising geysers all around the longboat, Perry remained on his feet, holding the rudder, pointing, while the oarsmen set their oars deep and pulled with all their strength.

  Adam found himself muttering, “Pull—pull—you can make it—pull!”

  No one in the fight could believe it when Perry’s longboat slammed into the side of the Niagara, and he leaped to catch the netting thrown to him and pulled himself up and onto her deck. Seconds later he was on the quarterdeck, in command, and the ship came around the bow of the Detroit to rake her from bow to stern, while the Margaret came in from the stern to blast both the Detroit and the Queen Charlotte.

  The four lesser British gunboats made a brave attempt to rescue the two heavy ships, but the seven small American gunboats met them head-on. For three minutes the cannons roared before the British realized it was hopeless. The captains and first mates on all six of their ships were either dead or totally disabled. Their two largest gunboats were shattered, floating hulks. Barclay was below decks in delirious, fever-ridden pain while his ship’s surgeon futilely worked to save his one arm, then conceded it could not be done.

  Four of the British ships struck their colors, and the Americans came in beside them to claim them. Two of the smaller gunboats turned north, trying to run with the wind to escape surrender, but Adam was there, ahead of them, broadside, waiting. The fleeing ships slowed, then turned back, struck their colors, and surrendered.