by James Spurr
“Free trade and sailor’s rights?” Bemose asked cynically.
James admitted, “It sounds cliché, perhaps, now, oversimplifying that which was nonetheless, at the time, true.”
Bemose shrugged, “It all would have been unnecessary had we just waited some years as Oliver at the time suggested.”
Marie nodded, understanding that with the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo in 1815, as she took refuge in a farmhouse in Belgium, the battle raging around her as she trembled in fear, England would have soon not felt so threatened and pressed to act with such little deference to American interests on the high seas.
James sensed he was now in some sense outnumbered at the helm of his own command. But he was in command, nonetheless and pressed home a point with those he loved, in a voice of authority as he suspectted might help win the point, “You cannot judge the actions of people or nations with what later unfolded, unbeknownst to anyone at the time. Oliver had no idea Napoleon would soon be defeated. He was all too willing to live in a world where Britain dominated these inland seas because of a tyrant thousands of miles away who had no interest in this region.”
Marie walked away, looking to the stars, to the waves, to anything, James suspected, to take her from the topics discussed at the tiller.
James also felt some despair. He knew, as he suspected did Bemose and Marie that they were getting all too close to the reef everyone knew was threatening their course; a rift between uncle and nephew, between native and white, between men and women as divided a very small and unimpressive crew contending with a large and powerful sweetwater sea.
St. Clair should have stayed on her ways for some weeks. For the next several days, snow squalls cleared in just enough time for fresh warm winds from the south to bring forth thunder and lightning and wind enough to blow out the first reef in the foresail and spring the jibboom.
The reduced sail was not the concern, however. The square feet of torn canvas were likely to have remained lashed and unused in any case, with the jibboom damaged or not, given the strength of the wind. Nor were the seams, still weeping as the old hull worked, anything but a nuisance which gave each watch full purpose.
The true concern, Captain James knew, was what was remaining unsaid among the men. Bemose’s letters stowed below in the satchel and Marie’s probing questions, put to all while on deck, forced James, Oliver, Trove and Wasebitong to face what each represented to the other; unforgiveness amid hypocrisy, compromise forgetting sacrifice, guilt from obligation abandoned and racism inviting genocide.
Halfway up the Lake Huron, the men withdrew and remained apart, quiet so as to keep the peace among family and lifetime friends. Captain James had never seen a crew challenged by weather grow more distant while serving a ship. Personally, he had never been so tense as caused him to withdraw from so many topics as would among family and friends typically bring the best of reflection and satisfaction.
St. Clair neared the approach to the Straits. She was now sailing just two points north of west, with the mainland to larboard and Bois Blanc Island lying off the starboard bow. Captain James risked what had been ignored too long, if for no other reason than boredom and regret that he had not given the topic far more time as Lake Huron would have allowed, so many miles of miserable weather astern.
From time to time, Oliver and James admired a small schooner off the starboard quarter with their respective long glasses. Oliver was on the foredeck with Captain James, by the stack of the galley stove on what was likely, hopefully, the last morning of their voyage to Mackinaw. Oliver commented, “So petite, but fast!”
Captain James nodded, “Fine lined; flying the Union Jack.”
“Where do you think she is bound?” asked Oliver.
James shrugged and offered, “Perhaps Mackinaw, maybe Green Bay. I understand British vessels haul a lot of fur from the region, even now.”
Oliver thought were her destination Mackinaw he may well know her Master. He tuned the optics on his glass, but her distance was still well beyond what his glass would reveal by way of detail and confirmation.
Captain James offered, “Have no concern for the flag, uncle. She can carry no guns, of course.”
“I am not concerned,” explained Oliver, but did not offer any reason for his curiosity.
Captain James noted, “No, what with the Rush-Bagot treaty, we see very few guns amid so much valuable trade and commerce.”
Oliver lowered his glass, considered the comment and asked, “And does the lack of guns suggest to you that something is amiss?”
Captain James hardened his tone, but spoke as a nephew, not a superior in command, “We fought so hard and lost so many. We earned recognition and respect as a nation. Why are we now denied our rights to protect and defend our livelihoods and cargoes?”
James walked to the rail, observed the British schooner and glanced back to the helm, calling, “Trove, take the helm from Marie if you would. This Brit is gaining.”
Trove relieved Marie after offering her a slight shrug. Captain James caught the gesture and resented it. The gesture, from his good friend, seemed to suggest that neither his crew nor his wife was intent on preventing this British schooner from passing to windward. Captain James suspected Trove realized full well the speed sacrificed from Marie’s slightly wavering course and he flushed with anger at the small display of indifference.
Oliver thought the command rather odd and followed his captain to the rail. He asked, “So having once fought for these causes, we must continue?”
Captain James shook his head, “Of course we need not keep fighting, but I see little to be gained and all honor to lose in withdrawing, forgetting and inviting the same fight yet again by pretending such sacrifice was never made.”
Oliver offered a look of disappointment and shook his head, “You say precious few guns are found among so much commerce.”
James nodded, as though Oliver could not possibly defend that which he could not deny.
Instead, Oliver again shook his head, his eyes meeting James’ in sympathy, as for one who did not understand. Oliver turned to the small schooner, the Union Jack blowing from its main gaff to leeward as a small squall line engulfed her. The black hull, brown spars and tawny canvas grew indistinct amid subtle shades of gray caused by clouds, fog and rain meeting the Lake upon which both vessels swam. He gestured to the entire breadth of the horizon, symbolizing all traffic as would soon be evident come the warmer weeks and more favorable weather. Oliver emphasized for Captain James, “Don’t you see; the very absence of guns! That was the point.” He walked off and went below.
Captain James was left alone to ponder at the starboard foremast shrouds.
Bemose stood, yet again, at the bow. Captain James wondered whether she still yearned to see William to the north, or took a stance closest to that part of the ship as would arrive first at Mackinaw and allow her to disembark before all others aboard.
Captain Lee suspected Bemose watched him as he considered Oliver’s admonishment. He did not understand Oliver’s point, however, and wondered if the confusion showed on his face. Bemose approached, stepped over the jib sheets and leaned back against the fife rail at the mainmast. Captain James asked, “You have had happier landfalls?”
Bemsoe looked in his eyes, her expression revealing some pain, but she did not seem overly concerned. “I was just thinking, the last time I made Mackinaw on the deck of a ship was with you, on Friends Good Will, with William in command. We were blissfully ignorant of the problems we faced. We were at war and did not even know it. We were happy, for certain, as often are fools.”
James smiled at her kindness and sensed she was perhaps in some small measure trying to make him feel better.
Bemose continued as St. Clair drew abeam of the western point of Round Island. “Every year since, I have come to Mackinaw by canoe. Much humbler craft than was Oliver’s beautiful sloop, but we were each time much better prepared. On all of those occasions, we knew in what waters we were sail
ing. We were at peace.”
James considered if St. Clair were to come up onto the wind whether she could lay the harbor of Mackinaw before the squall overtook them.
Bemose then asked, “Which is more comforting, the assurance of peace or the ability to respond in war?”
James motioned for her to remain, not meaning to interrupt, but the time had come to command, once again, “Hands to topsail halyard, sheets, clewlines and bunts. Strike the topsail.”
Some small bit of exercise later on the part of all, Captain James called once again, “Hands to sheets. Trim as we harden up.” He then turned to Trove at the helm, nodded and gestured that he put St. Clair on the wind and steered for Haldimand Bay.
As the crew coiled and made off lines and St. Clair heeled to the work yet remaining, Captain James brought his attention yet again to Bemose.
She continued, as though uninterrupted, offering softly, “Oliver worked for peace after the war. You, it seems, want to assure our ability to respond in war.
Captain James declared, “They are often one and the same.”
Bemose replied, “James, the victories you won, with your father and Oliver… such feats, while heroic, did not make these inland seas safe for navigation. No. It was the realization by those on both sides of these lakes that each are as capable as the other of the fight which allows us a sense of security that we sought for so long and now enjoy.”
James sensed the wisdom in her point, while subtle, but still protested, “If we are regarded as capable as our enemies in the fight, why would they keep the peace were we to discard our very ability to resist?”
Bemose nodded, “Perhaps both sides began to realize the folly of relying upon their capacity for violence. Maybe men such as Oliver and others came to hope that, if mutual, a sense of security would be met with peace and trade, even as the display of weapons is met with uncertainty and distrust.”
Captain James went silent, considering those words and concepts and knew he would have to allow more time for thought. But at that moment, a petite British schooner required his full attention. She emerged from the squall behind St. Clair and to windward, crossing St. Clair’s bow after her course change much too closely to fall within the realm of prudent ship handling
Captain James strode swiftly back to the helm, cursing under his breath as he passed Marie. He and Trove exchanged glances of disbelief at a reckless intruder. Trove was about to shout some insult, if not profanity, when Oliver, much to their surprise, raised his arm tentatively and acknowledged a friendly call from the Master of the British ship. The wind allowed only Oliver to hear the call, with the words carried to leeward before reaching the others.
Everyone aboard looked at Oliver. Captain James asked the question for all, “You know this ship?”
Oliver hesitated but under the circumstances had little choice but to admit, “I believe I do… yes.”
Captain James and Trove looked to each other in surprise. Captain James followed, “Who is he and what did he call out to you?”
Oliver offered, with some reluctance if not embarrassment, “I think he greeted us as friends and invited us to dine this evening.”
Captain James, incredulous, demanded yet again, “Well, who the hell is he?”
Oliver explained, “Lieutenant Owen Dunlap, Royal Navy, although I have no idea why he is not in uniform. I wrote and invited him to join us.”
Captain James glanced around from Oliver to the starboard bow, not yet having fully comprehended Oliver’s surprise or its implications. He watched the British schooner, sailing fast and smartly handled, round up into the wind and slip into the precise spot as he had intended to anchor St. Clair.
French Map of Lake Superior and Lake Huron (Courtesy of Clements Library, University of Michigan)
Chapter Eleven
Captain James walked casually to the foredeck and advised Marie, “No need for further pumping, my dear.”
She cautioned, “The bilge is not yet clear.”
He nodded but assured, “She will be alright. Lying to anchor and without the stress of sailing to a stiff wind, the seepage will slow and we will attend to her later this evening.” Captain James was beginning to wonder whether St. Clair’s planks would ever swell sufficiently to render pumping the bilge at most an infrequent task.
Marie glanced over at the British schooner. It swung to her anchor in occasional gusts, in the preferred position within the Haldimand Bay, Port of Mackinaw.
She looked beautiful, with sails just then furled, hatches open for ventilation, a crew member wiping spray from the larboard bow rail and the late afternoon sun breaking through dark thunderclouds.
But Marie also understood her Captain; her husband. James preferred, as a matter of pride, that she pump St. Clair at night, concealing the faults of his command if at all possible from their near neighbor in a less than crowded bay.
Marie stopped pumping and for the first time since dropping the anchor looked about at the spectacular scenery. She unbuttoned her coat, having warmed to the task just abated.
A flood of affection washed over James. The stress of command and making landfall now much reduced and he looked lovingly at his wife, rather than a novice crew. “Look, let me show you around before we go ashore,” he offered. He walked to the larboard rail and began with the island itself, “Behold, the ‘Great Turtle;’ I suppose named for the humped back, best viewed from seaward, but the heights behind the fort are rather impressive and we shall walk there and take in a rare view of the straits.”
Marie smiled and admitted, “That sounds enjoyable; tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Why not?” promised James. “I shall have Trove attend to offloading the cargo with Oliver and we shall explore the island.” Guiding her to starboard, he offered, “Across the narrow channel, there is Round Island and there,” indicating with his arm, over the starboard quarter, “is the mainland and the ruins of the original fort, which the sand and beach have almost fully overtaken.”
“I can see no fort or evidence of any man,” noted Marie.
James nodded, “It was built, I believe, more than a hundred years before and has been abandoned now for decades in favor of this island for defense. That may not sound ancient, by European history, but the original Fort Michilmackinaw is one of the earliest European settlements in the Old Northwest; carved out of the wilderness by the French, following the Jesuits. You may need a long glass to see some of the stockade or building foundations.”
Oliver had come up from below and joined them, recalling, “Trove and I were just confirming, neither of us and, I suspect it true for you as well, have been to the island since the war broke out.”
James nodded and explained to Marie, “In July ’12, Friends Good Will brought a full hold of cargo to Mackinaw, with my father, Trove, Oliver, Bemose and I as crew. We went on to Fort Dearborn, at the Chegakou River, hundreds of miles from here, to the southwest.” Oliver indicated well beyond the supposed ruins of the original fort on the mainland.
He then sighed and continued, with some obvious difficulty, given the prolonged passage of time, “Upon our return, supposing the port still in American possession, we were taken by surprise at the dock,” pointing to shore and with Oliver nodding, “and taken prisoner.”
Marie nodded. She wanted to ask several questions, but would wait until she was alone with James
He recalled that he had told her of the incident now just a year ago, while dining in the cabin of John Adams. Their present circumstance seemed strange, viewing once again and discussing such a distant past not mentioned since their first night spent afloat on the Mediterranean. James took a moment and absorbed the curious twists of fate that brought him here after fifteen years, to behold the same scene as he beheld on one of the most fateful days of his youth.
Mackinaw Island had changed, certainly. The village was larger and more populated with buildings and small homes. Commerce had increased, with docks and warehouses constructed near the shore. The dom
inance of the native population was obvious and James knew their population would swell dramatically through the coming summer. Numerous canoes were scattered both on the beach and many were manned and engaged in fishing throughout all of the surrounding waters. The stone fort, high on the rugged cliff rising from the town, appeared in good repair, but few uniforms were visible along the ramparts.
A handful of soldiers were proceeding from the gate at the edge of the cliff, down the steep path, perhaps to offer a greeting to the two vessels from two nations having suddenly appeared in Haldimand Bay. But St. Clair and the British schooner were the only large craft in the harbor or within sight from the anchorage. James was not surprised. It was very early in the season to be rigged, ready and underway so far north on the inland seas.
James stopped reflecting and turned to Oliver. Assuming his role of Captain once again and in that voice that so intrigued Marie, indicating another man altogether, asked, “So what of this English Master who invited you to dine?”
Oliver corrected, “Actually, his invitation was extended to all.” Captain James indicated with a scowl that fact was not really of high interest nor the purpose of his inquiry. Oliver continued, “Lieutenant Owen Dunlap was a friend, or well, at least an acquaintance of your father. He was Royal Navy for many years.”
Captain James looked over at the British schooner, then just hauling her colours for the day. He would leave St. Clair’s flying until sunset, perhaps an hour or more hence. Baiting Oliver, Captain James noted, “How curious for one known to my father,” choosing his words carefully, not yet ready to admit his father was on friendly terms with British officers, “to be plying the same waters on the same day as we approach for the purpose of finding him.”