by Tim McGrath
Soon the Burford was within musket shot, her forward guns peppering the Reprisal. Seeing both the proximity of the enemy and the accuracy of her gunners, Wickes sailed his ship directly before the Burford, a master mariner’s trick that kept his ship as small a target as possible. From his high poop deck Bowyer saw the rebels heaving barrels, chests over the side—getting rid of anything of weight to speed them along.
It was past eight p.m.; dusk was giving way to darkness. The coast of Brittany beckoned, and there was enough daylight to make out storm clouds approaching. Just then, Wickes struck his British ensign—not to surrender, but to raise his Grand Union on a ship now defenseless, save for the captain’s will, and one last act of cunning left in him.
As some Reprisals kept one eye on their labors and another on the mammoth ship on their heels, they heard an odd sound from below—the sawing of wood. Wickes had ordered the carpenter and his mates to saw through several of the ship’s beams. This lessened their resistance to the sea, enabling her to sail a knot or two faster, but it also imperiled her: if the coming squall was strong she would break apart and sink within sight of the land she had been racing toward for these twelve hours.23
One last time the Reprisal shot ahead of the Burford. To the great relief of the Americans and Frenchmen aboard, the Burford changed course. The ships were already close to shore and the Burford had no pilot aboard: the risk of the coming storm and dangerous rocks was not worth the prize. Bowyers saw no choice but “to relinquish the certain prospect” of taking the Reprisal.24
Wickes nursed his frail ship along the coast until morning, when he met with Nicholson. The Dolphin had escaped the Burford only to run into an armed snow that chased her for four hours before Nicholson lost her. The two ships put into Saint-Malo in Brittany, twenty miles east of Mt. Saint-Michel. For centuries, Saint-Malo had been a haven for French privateersmen; seeing two American ships made the town’s residents forget they were at peace with England. “We are received by [the] Governor and all the Officers of this port with open arms,” a jubilant Nicholson wrote Jonathan Williams, Jr., Franklin’s grandnephew and America’s agent at Nantes. French sailors were blasé at this outpouring of camaraderie, but the American sailors were taken aback by such a welcome. Nicholson and Wickes soon learned that Johnson had safely arrived in Morlaix, eighty miles to the east. Wickes’s circumnavigation of Ireland had been a rousing success, having sailed into the British lion’s den and returned safely. Further, he had not only twisted the lion’s tail, but in the personification of the immense Burford, he had escaped the lion itself.25
And, while Wickes had captured prizes and put the fear of rebel ships in the hearts and minds of everyone in Great Britain from coastal villagers to insurance brokers to King George himself, where he really succeeded was in tearing down the flimsy curtain of neutrality between France and England, something he and the American commissioners—particularly Franklin—had sought to do in the first place. Wickes left a sea of consternation in his wake. As with Conyngham, insurance rates soared: up 28 percent by year’s end, the highest increase since the French and Indian War.26
An incensed Lord Weymouth wrote to Lord Stormont in France of their king’s great displeasure over France’s routine assurances of neutrality while supplying—and now manning—American ships. Desirous as George III was to “maintain the present Harmony subsisting between the two Crowns,” France’s pledge of neutrality while providing the rebels with shelter, supplies, and quick sales of their prizes was galling. “Scarcely more could be done if there was an avowed Alliance betwixt France and them, and that We were in a state of War with that kingdom,” Weymouth concluded.27
From Ireland came word that the “Linen Fleet” required convoy out of Dublin. The linen traders were losing money daily, and the great fair at Chester, a staple of their revenue, had been canceled. Lord Sandwich was forced to redirect naval cruisers to protect the Irish coast. British warships now began hovering off French ports. On July 8, Stormont made the king’s feelings known to the Comte de Vergennes, coming as close as one diplomat can to calling another a liar without using the word.28
The implacable Vergennes replied that nothing was closer to him than the desire to maintain peaceful relations with England. His subsequent actions sought to prove this: he ordered the sequestration of all Continental ships and privateers in all French ports. He lectured the three American commissioners that Wickes’s activity “affects the king, my master” and “offends the neutrality which his majesty professes.” Franklin and Deane promised that the ships in question would return immediately to America.29
King George was pleased; upset as he was over Wickes’s exploits, he now believed “the gang of Pyrates will soon be driven off.” Stormont remained skeptical, convinced that there was a “Clear Contradiction” in everything Vergennes said and did, certain that the Frenchman was lying.30
And Stormont was right.
By the summer of 1777, Vergennes was sure that entering the conflict on America’s side was in the best interests of France. But France—that is, Vergennes—needed time to make preparations; thus he continued his crackdown on Americans while letting them do what they and he wanted in the first place, even if it meant getting into hot water with Stormont. On July 23, he wrote secretly to King Louis: France must either abandon America or “aid her courageously and effectively.” After all, the British were already certain that France was on America’s side, and after Wickes’s cruise, Vergennes saw war as not only inevitable but winnable. Lambert Wickes had succeeded even better in the drawing rooms of Paris than in the Irish Sea.
As Wickes, Johnson, and Nicholson sailed from France on their remarkable cruise, Gustavus Conyngham and his men were walking the streets of Dunkirk, just released from jail.
As before, William Hodge was looking for a ship for Conyngham. Before long he had one: a cutter, the Greyhound. Cutters were built as much for speed as endurance, and she was no exception: more than 100 tons, 64 feet long with a 23-foot beam. She carried square and fore-and-aft sails, including a great mainsail for her single mast. She was black all over save for her yellow markings.31
Hodge went to work getting her guns and supplies while Conyngham, needing more hands than he did for the smaller Surprise, sought sailors of any nationality in Dunkirk to ship with him. British spies soon saw him at the local foundry, proving guns.32
News that Conyngham and Hodge were in cahoots again reached Stormont with gale-force swiftness, and he added this information to his lengthening list of complaints to Vergennes. The Admiralty also sent word to the cruisers in the channel: the “Dunkirk Pirate” was looking to make a comeback, with the Greyhound manned “by a gang of desperadoes.” From Dunkirk, British captain Andrew Frazer wrote Lord Weymouth that Conyngham’s crew were “about entirely English & Irish outlawed Smugglers” save one from Ipswich, whom Frazer intended to enlist in the king’s service as a spy.33
The game of duplicity between the Americans and the French, along with the one played between the French and the British, continued on July 3, when Frazer watched Conyngham’s guns brought aboard, but stowed in the hold. At the same time, Hodge was assuring the French that “no Depredations shall be committed by his Vessel on the high seas.” As a further sign of compliance, Hodge sold the Surprise. She was returning to the smuggling business under her new owner, a French widow. But not all went peacefully that week: Conyngham’s crew got into a donnybrook with some British tars at a Dunkirk tavern. They resolved to finish it with cutlasses the next morning and met to do so, but Dunkirk gendarmes stopped that brawl.34
With the Greyhound under so much scrutiny from both English and French officials, it looked impossible to get her and her captain out to sea. The solution was simple—a reprise of the Surprise. Hodge gave it an additional wrinkle by selling the Greyhound to one Richard Allen, who also received a privateer’s commission to command her. Allen renamed her Pegasus. The only issue with this
deal was that there was no Richard Allen. That would be Gustavus Conyngham.35
In the meantime, Vergennes sent word to Dunkirk officials that the Greyhound was not to sail, as Franklin and Deane were lobbying hard in Paris for exactly the opposite. She would sail, they promised, straight for America, and sent orders to Conyngham to do just that. “The smuggling vessel of Mr. Hodge” left Dunkirk with the evening tide on July 17, escorted out of the harbor by two French ships. Prior to her departure, a French official wrote Vergennes that he found no Frenchmen aboard but, he added, “if in the country, or the coast, or in the dunes during the night any Frenchman has been hidden”—well, “that is impossible for me to anticipate or prevent”: music to Vergennes’s ears.36
Once clear of the harbor, “Richard Allen” came aboard, had the carriage guns mounted, the bulwarks pierced, and the gun rings and bolts secured. Then he headed north, with 66 Frenchmen among his crew of 106, most of the others being veterans of the Surprise. The Greyhound, he told them, was not the Pegasus but the Revenge, and their destination was the mouth of the Thames River—the entryway to London. Conyngham was ordered not to attack a British ship, but if he was attacked, then he was “at Liberty” to “Burn—Sink & destroy the Enemy.” That was music to his ears.37
He had learned there were transports of Hessians heading downriver for the North Sea and, from there, to America and Howe’s army. Fate intervened in the form of a British frigate. Although armed to the teeth, the Revenge was no match for this confrontation. Instead, Conyngham sent the cutter flying, allowing her to show off her speed and excellent sailing capabilities.
For several days, British warships of all sizes sighted, chased, and lost the Revenge. They also prevented Conyngham from “a Glorious Opportunity” of capturing a host of German-speaking mercenaries. His next challenge came from his French sailors. The Revenge was soon in one of the great shipping lanes of the world, but Conyngham began bypassing British merchantmen, still hoping to play possum until those transports showed up. The French tars complained; they had not signed on to watch easy prey glide by on a daily basis. Soon their disgruntled attitude spread to the American sailors as well. British intelligence was correct: they were a gang of desperadoes. Conyngham called his officers into his cabin to discuss options. In reality, he had none—bucking his crew could lead to mutiny, or worse. The next day, Conyngham informed the crew of a change in plans. Since they had been chased by the enemy, they were, therefore, attacked by the enemy. The Revenge was about to live up to her name.38
Her first prize was a Scottish smuggler loaded with grain; Conyngham had her goods and crew transferred to the Revenge before burning her. Next came the merchant brig Northampton, loaded down with timber. Conyngham identified himself to the brig’s master as “Captain Allen” and his ship as “the Pegasus” before turning her over to one of his officers, Benjamin Bailey, with orders to make for Bilbao, a port in northern Spain. Twenty-one sailors made up her prize crew, sixteen of them French. The ships split up, the Revenge heading north for more action, the Northampton ostensibly for Spain.39
She never got there. A change of heart overcame Bailey and some of his men. He decided to head for Lynn, England, and return the Northampton, attesting to officials that he was “Enforced, through Necessity” to act in so piratical a fashion, while actually being “Leije Subjects” of King George. Once in British hands, Bailey turned in his orders from Conyngham. The British now knew the “Dunkirk Pirate” was prowling the waters again, and that Allen and Conyngham were one and the same. As for Bailey’s crew, just listening to them speak told the British how many were French.40
Unaware of Bailey’s betrayal, Conyngham chased two more ships, the Maria and the Patty, and captured them both. He burned the Maria, as she was in ballast. The Revenge no sooner overtook the Patty than a British warship came over the horizon. Conyngham was not about to let her go; nor could he escape this cruiser with the Patty in tow. Instead, he ransomed her for six hundred guineas, placed his prisoners aboard and sent her as a cartel back to England with orders to remit the ransom to the American commissioners in Paris.
After escaping his pursuer, Conyngham sailed up the North Sea, turned east at Scotland, and headed south towards Ireland without sighting a potential prize all that way; Wickes’s earlier cruise had been so successful that British merchants refused to send their ships out of harbor. Instead, they were loading their goods into the holds of French and Dutch ships, much to the embarrassment of Parliament and Lord North’s government. Conyngham’s next prize came on August 4, off northern Ireland: the whaler Venus, which he sent across the Atlantic to Martinique.
The Revenge headed into Broadhaven Bay in northwestern Ireland so Conyngham could refill his water casks, repair his damaged bowsprit, and drop off the captured whalers. He docked in the small fishing village of Kinehead. The apparent calm among the villagers belied a deep panic: here was the dreaded Conyngham, walking free on their streets. But their fellow Irishman had no intention of firing on the town or mistreating its residents. Instead, he paid their price for supplies and kept his men from committing any untoward acts. Then he set sail for America. Orders were orders, after all.41
Once in the Atlantic, the Revenge was buffeted by a terrific gale, damaging her rigging and masthead. Conyngham took his bearings: the ship was injured, her bottom was foul, and supplies were low. He decided to make for Spain instead. Just before entering the port of El Ferrol, the Revenge took the British brig Black Prince and sent her on ahead. The next day, as the Revenge approached land, she was met by another British warship. Conyngham sent his cutter towards El Ferrol as fast as she could sail, the enemy right on his heels. The British captain fired several shots at the mouth of the harbor and then sheered off, lest he—and not Conyngham, for a change—create an international incident.42
Conyngham soon learned that his reputation as well as his prizes had preceded him into El Ferrol. The Spanish government was neutral regarding the Revolution; and unlike France, Spain meant it. But on this day, the Spaniards of El Ferrol were not so inclined. Their celebration at Conyngham’s arrival was led by the provincial governor, Don Felix O’Neille. One British observer wrote Lord Weymouth that Conyngham not only received “the kindest reception” but was allowed to purchase any supplies—except “warlike stores” within El Ferrol or the nearby port of La Coruña.43
But supplies were not the reason Conyngham paid his first visit to La Coruña. He went to claim a deserter, James Macgrath, an Irishman who had jumped ship in El Ferrol and sought the protection in La Coruña of Herman Katencamp, the British consul there. Conyngham confronted Katencamp with papers from O’Neille’s office; as Macgrath had signed articles in Dunkirk to sail with Conyngham, Katencamp’s offer of sanctuary to Macgrath was in violation of Spain’s neutrality. Katencamp watched Spanish soldiers escort Macgrath to jail. The next day, Conyngham had Macgrath released, another example of his willingness to take the high road in diplomatic situations.44
For the next four months, O’Neille did what he could to assist Conyngham in refitting the Revenge and arranging the sale of the American’s prizes. Conyngham still had to deal with keeping his crew, whose enlistments were coming to an end.
The political storm clouds that broke after Wickes’s cruise were nothing compared to the maelstrom in both England and France created by Conyngham’s recent adventures. Seeing Stormont even more apoplectic than usual, Vergennes realized that his mild platitudes would not be enough this time. A scapegoat was required—preferably American. With Conyngham in another country, Vergennes seized the perfect sacrificial lamb. On August 11, William Hodge was arrested and sent to the Bastille.
So many more English merchants joined their colleagues already shipping their goods in the “neutral bottoms” of French, Dutch, and now Spanish vessels that Arthur Lee happily wrote Sam Adams that this alone “will prevent [England] from continuing the war.” In just two months, Gustavus Conyngham, in his 64
-foot ship, had become the most feared man among Englishmen—and the most hated, because he wounded their pride.
While the small ships Reprisal, Lexington, Dolphin, and Revenge sent the mighty British Empire into fits of temper and hand-wringing, their larger sister ships, the Continental frigates, did little of note during the summer of ’77.
As summer ended, the Boston had returned to her home port, where Captain Hector McNeill found himself under a darkening cloud of suspicion similar to the one that hung over Abraham Whipple after the Gaspee affair. Most Bostonians blamed McNeill for the capture of John Manley, the Hancock, and her crew—Manley might have been unpopular with his fellow captains, but he was a hero in New England. “I find my Self included in a chain of difficultys by [Manley’s] blunders & misconduct,” McNeill wrote to the Marine Committee in August. Weeks later, he requested a court of inquiry to review his role in the Hancock’s loss.45
In Baltimore, James Nicholson had smoothed (somewhat) his ruffled feathers after his failed attempt to impress Maryland sailors had sullied the captain’s reputation with politician and mariner alike. In truth, Nicholson had so many hands to man the idle Virginia that shorthanded captains sarcastically asked to borrow them. He interrupted his demands for more men and money to do something rare, for him. Under brilliant blue skies, with fresh breezes filling his sails, Nicholson sailed his frigate out of Baltimore and down the Patuxent, accompanied by two galleys and a brig. By July 4 they were in the York River, just miles from the Virginia Capes, and entering at long last the war the frigate had been built for.