Reflections in the Wake

by James Spurr

  Just about dusk, Trove took the deck, although not on duty, to watch subtle course changes made to remain out of range of the guns of Fort Erie. The fort had changed hands at least twice during the Erie campaign and Captain William admitted, at the binnacle, “Honestly Trove, I do not know which flag she flies.”

  Trove nodded, raised the flap on his coat of what he sensed may be a diminishing wind and assured, “Well, we don’t really need to be ducking iron.”

  James came up from the waist, for once that day no longer regularly drenched with solid water crashing across from windward, reminding, “We have had enough of that for a season, to be sure.”

  Bearing off slightly for but an hour or more, Captain William then ordered, “Let us sail further up river. We may, even with the adverse current in this wind, make Black Rock. We can set off for Erie tomorrow.”

  James saw to the trimming of the staysail sheet, Trove to the mainsheet. In ever smaller seas, Friends Good Will heeled, put her shoulder to the work and Trove felt the windward side of the quarterdeck lift and the sloop respond well.

  Less than a glass later, Trove dropped his soup in the mess bucket below and took the deck as quickly as possible. Captain William rose from his bunk and nearly pushed Trove up the companion way ladder, his call to the helm unheard from the roar of the wind.

  James, Trove noted, had just taken the helm and was struggling, for some moments, with too much force to brace himself; the next with all slack. The sails, though still reefed, shook with violence not witnessed by Trove anywhere but the reefed t’gallants of U.S.S. Constitution, out on the open ocean on a particularly unkind day.

  All three understood the situation instantly. The wind had shifted and well more than doubled in strength. It was yet shifting by more than two points every few seconds, from north to north by northwest. Given the lay of the shore, the two flags flown between them and the adverse current, Friends Good Will even with an experienced helmsman that was nonetheless, not clairvoyant, was having difficulty making way without first coming into irons.

  They were, however, within sight of the yard at Black Rock and in the fading light, the American Naval Establishment called out like a siren to the exhausted Captain and crew.

  There was a time, Trove knew, when Friends Good Will could have bore off and sailed safely back into the open waters. But he remained silent as Captain William took the helm from James and steered her into ever narrowing waters.

  Suddenly, the wind rose to a low moan, growing, Trove estimated, half again as strong. It shifted again without notice and the sails were alternatively, within minutes, either entirely slack or overpowered. Still, Trove watched Captain William steer with skill that he had never seen involving such a small ship in such a monster storm. Friends Good Will slipped slowly up river, without grace or trim as would win any awards, but with skillful hands on her tiller and sheets.

  The sharp cracks, almost explosions, were heard over the wind. First the starboard staysail sheet block, followed an instant later by the pin to which the sheet then exerted instant overwhelming force. The staysail shuddered violently, warning of the inevitable. Without a headsail with which Captain William had for some time skillfully threaded a needle of wind, Friends Good Will could no longer sail so high into the wind. Circumstances, or bad luck, dictated the first tack was straight for the American shore, giving the crew much less time to react.

  Captain William began to shout while there was yet time to avoid running ashore, “Wear the sh—”, when the larboard middle stay parted. Trove knew to have attempted to wear the ship without the ability of the stay to take the load would be to invite disaster by way of dismasting.

  The crew had hauled down the staysail and Trove was approaching the wildly swinging parted stay with line enough to attempt a temporary repair. But the strength of the wind rendered the errant stay difficult amid a moving platform such as a deck to retrieve and it would, Trove knew, take some minutes before the larboard side could take the load of maneuvers. James was at the mainsheet, working closely in conjunction with his father to save the ship and perhaps themselves.

  There was not a lot to say. Each of them knew their duty well and more. But what Trove witnessed for some minutes, he would never forget. With no words spoken, in the middle of an early winter storm with a disabled ship and adverse current, Captain William sailed Friends Good Will back down the Niagara River stern first. Using the reefed main as a wind vane, he steered to put just enough power into the sail so to, when James made it off the sheet to his precise direction, she would before making way, turn slightly into the wind, lose power, while still pointing up river. The current and windage allowed Friends Good Will to back them down the Niagara River. All hoped the delicate maneuver would allow enough time to effect repairs in time and make open water.

  For some minutes, it worked. Trove called back jubilantly to anyone who might hear him on the quarterdeck, “I have the bastard!” referring to the broken stay. Captain William and James were calling to each other with intense concentration and slowly the ship slipped backwards from whence she had come.

  Daylight had all but abandoned them, as did luck. The darkness hid the change of direction, which was signaled, Trove supposed later, by the fits and shifts in direction they had endured on the river. When the westerly gust hit, it did so without mercy.

  As strong as any they had so far survived, the gust tore the half repaired stay from the hands of the crew assisting Trove. It buried the starboard rail instantly. James lost his footing at the mainsheet cleat and remained on board only by hanging onto the sheet, but unable to release or give any slack. Captain William lost his footing, even with the braces on the quarterdeck and slid, for a critical moment, under the tiller.

  Friends Good Will rounded up to the northwest, then west and with so much momentum, she put herself on a larboard tack. A larboard tack for which all knew she had not the stays to sustain the loads.

  One again, it was a testament to Captain and crew she did not lose her mast. By the time the wind dictated in which direction their ship would be driven, Captain William had but one last trick so to cheat the storm. Without a word, he put the helm hard over to starboard and kept it there while James let the mainsheet all but run off the cleat unimpeded. The mainsail eased quickly, the sheet flying through the blocks.

  The mast stood, raked well aft and with two side stays and the backstay taking the load. She was now heading near dead down wind, due east. Friends Good Will had a mainsail full of wind, however and her bowsprit pointed to a very near shore.

  Within moments, Captain William felt her keel part sand, the vibrations and resistance announced through the rudder post and tiller. Sensing the only option was to, as with the Brig President Adams near Squaw Island adjacent to Black Rock the year before, Captain William turned into what little current may yet assist to slow the ship, ordered James “Let the main flog” and to Trove, “Prepare the crew for the beach.”

  Two lengths more and the deck canted sharply to starboard, Friends Good Will lost way and she ground to a halt. The seas were not large, but the storm had pushed the water on the eastern shore much higher than normal.

  All were safe. Captain William sent some ashore in the boat, launched from midships in the relative calm of the lee created by the canted deck of the ship herself.

  But Trove, James and Captain William remained aboard that night.

  The storm blew itself out by midnight and the three waded ashore at dawn, with their knees yet dry; the water having receded to its typical level.

  Captain William gestured to both to where just a mile down the beach a second navy sloop, Trippe, had also taken the beach sometime during the night and looked to be in far worse shape.

  * * *

  James finished Trove’s account, with everyone near the campfire utterly silent and mostly in awe, “Friends Good Will was hard aground; ‘high and dry’ as Perry later described.”

  Trove nodded and added, “With not a damn thing an
yone could have done better. These lakes are hard, come November.”

  Marie said respectfully, “They appear none too easy in April.”

  Dunlap smiled and held up a mug with what was left of Trove’s ration from his jug.

  James shrugged, “Friends Good Will was just one casualty of a ranging November storm, despite the preparation, skill and leadership of one of the best mariners I ever knew.”

  Trove assured the others, spellbound by the tale he told, “And that is why I am here, searching for that man.”

  Wasebitong shot him a glance, touched deeply by the comment.

  Trove threw some logs on the fire, sprawled out as near as he dare and covered himself with a rough wool blanket.

  The following morning, after a long first day, the party rose late from a cold night, hard ground and thin wet blanket of snow. Oliver had already heated coffee before many stirred. Still, all were anxious to make the Sault and there was no grumbling when James rousted, “Come, all, stow the gear and let’s launch!”

  Their pace was slower; their speed made good against the current slower still.

  Mid morning, the party encountered a large native canoe, of the type renown for carrying cargo, paddling swiftly down river, presumably with many goods intended for Mackinaw. Without much warning from a bend in the river, the two parties passed swiftly, with whoops and cries of recognition between Wasebitong and those of the native canoe. He clearly knew them from the summer and one cried out to Bemose, but he was beyond them too quickly in the current for her to recognize his name or face.

  The day passed without other incident, the party enjoying a pleasant lunch on another small island. The snow melted by noon and the day warmed nicely.

  Wasebitong grasped the gunwale of James’ canoe as it pulled up alongside by mid afternoon. His brother asked, with both canoes yet keeping the stroke on the unencumbered outboard sides, “You know this river well. How much longer to the Sault?”

  Wasebitong was taken by surprise and almost glanced to his mother for confirmation. But he checked his movement, looked instead to his brother, thankful for the question and gesture of respect, and offered, “We are just more than halfway.”

  He noted James’ frustration and explained, “Swift current from the spring runoff.”

  James nodded and asked, “Do you know of a good place to make camp short of the Sault?”

  Wasebitong confirmed, “Yes, there are several.”

  James directed, “You select the spot so that we can go just long enough to set up the camp yet in daylight.”

  Wasebitong just nodded and let loose his grip on his brother’s canoe; his all white half brother, who had just warmed his heart by entrusting to him a decision requiring superior knowledge and mature judgment.

  Neither saw Bemose smile at the sight.

  The second day was hard work. It was marked with less progress, blistered hands and sore joints.

  But for Wasebitong, it was glorious. He was returning home to a land he loved, inspired by a story he had never heard about a man he could not remember. As the landing approached and dusk began to settle, he held out his arm and called to a party he was leading by delegation of his older brother, “There, ahead, on the left; the island.” Wasebitong selected for their camp Sugar Island, upon which he had been born; formerly George’s island, for which he had been named. He would the following day visit the people who knew of his mother, and he would tell stories, for the first time among them, of his father.

  The party slept well and hard, without stories but ample dreams. One of those was of a difficult time, fifteen years before. When Dunlap rose, he seemed tired and sullen. Oliver approached with coffee and held out a cup, but Dunlap replied, “I am not crippled.”

  Trove asked Dunlap, “Care to help with this dunnage?”

  Dunlap complained, “We have far too many supplies. Why are we hauling all of this weight?”

  Dunlap walked over to his canoe to be alone. He saw James approach, who likely having heard his gruff comments, was intending to confront him, he suspected. He noted Oliver was watching them carefully, but so far, stood off some distance.

  “Help Trove with the dunnage,” James ordered, but then softened his tone a bit, “if you please.”

  Dunlap made to comply, but announced, “I am not of this expedition and participate only by my leave.”

  James wheeled ‘round, intending to extend an invitation, “In that case, Mr.—”

  Oliver interjected, having covered half the width of the camp in but an instant, “Owen, what is it?”

  The two looked at each other, as men, former enemies, and for years thereafter, friends. Few ties bind more tightly.

  Marie in the meantime approached James, cautiously, seeming more to support than intervene.

  Dunlap sighed, looked down at the ground and after a few seconds, looked up and offered, “I am sorry, truly. I am out of sorts. Bad dreams, or rather, memories.”

  James sought to understand, softened his tone and asked, “Of what?”

  Owen made to launch his canoe, gesturing for Wasebitong to join and leaving Trove to paddle with Bemose. He explained, as he made to board, “June, ’14. Come, I need to get off this damned island and these waters,” gesturing to the west channel along which they camped. With that he pushed off.

  Bemose walked over and Marie asked, “To what is he referring; ‘June of 1814’?”

  James and Oliver indicated by expression they did not know.

  Bemose said only, “The raid.”

  Trove asked, “What raid?”

  “Two parties, each set out to attack the other,” she explained. “Americans paddled up river on the west side of Sugar Island. English and native allies paddled down river, taking the east side of the island. They sought to destroy each other’s villages and homes. This island kept them from discovering the other; passing at the same time on the opposite channels.” She indicated with her hands the ironic geometry and explained, “Each unaware of the other, both continued on their missions.”

  The remainder of the party began to understand. But Bemose offered the background, “The American’s raid was in retaliation for the attack on Fort Mackinaw, two years before. Many of the belligerents in that attack were from the Sault. The American party reached the Sault and… well, many homes were burnt, many suffered. John Johnston, who you shall meet this morning, had his home looted, his wife and children barely escaped. The North West Company had their warehouses burned, the lock they built destroyed, their vessel Perseverance burned. I do not know, but perhaps Owen cared for some of them who lost so much.”

  They stood on the banks of the St. Mary River, not far from the Sault. There was an uncomfortable silence at the realization they may not be entirely welcome in the very community which others like them attacked, following the same route, not so long ago.

  James wondered, “This Mr. Johnston, was he killed?”

  Bemose said, matter of factly and with no apparent appreciation for the irony, “No, he was in a canoe, heading downriver to make war on the Americans.”

  James shook his head, shrugged and took command, “No matter now. Let’s be off and try to catch up. As the rapids grow near, we should stay together.”

  Everyone moved instantly and paddled hard, closing the gap.

  James recalled while he paddled that his father and Oliver had years before commented that “Mr. Dunlap” as they called him in those days, had much history and likely many friends in the Sault and across Lake Superior. He considered while he paddled, for the first time, that Dunlap, among others, may have just as many reasons to doubt any cross border friendship as did James.

  By mid morning, the party put off on the American side, at the foot of the falls. A small village clustered on the banks, with Fort Brady, just a few years old, the most imposing government structure. The American Fur Trading Company had constructed warehouses on the banks and a native encampment was just upriver from the Fort.

  Soon after makin
g landfall, it was apparent that Bemose and Wasebitong were well known among natives and some whites and Dunlap had plenty of connections on both sides of the river.

  Dunlap, his dark mood well past, returned from a conversation with a fur trader and explained, “With the spring flow and fast water, I think it prudent to hire local pilots to take our canoes up over the falls. If we choose well, we need not unload.”

  James, showing no grudge, nodded and asked, “How long will it take?”

  Dunlap shrugged, “Well, by the time we find them and they get started, I would be surprised if we were back at our paddles by late afternoon.”

  Bemose nodded, but Wasebitong interjected, “Let me find my friends. We can have my canoe upriver by noon.”

  James was skeptical, but Bemose nodded, “Alright and if you see Mr. or Mrs. Johnston, tell them to seek us out.”

  Wasebitong was quick to be off, lest anyone reconsider.

  Dunlap was about to voice some concern, but Bemose assured, “He does it for others for pay; he may as well do it for us for free!”

  The party smiled and she suggested, “Let Owen and I find two pilots and you, James, with Marie and Oliver, stay with the canoes and rest.”

  Feeling rather out of control, yet nonetheless secure, James agreed and with Oliver, they pulled the three canoes up higher on shore and spread some blankets in the morning sun.

  Soon, realizing it took only one to guard the belongings within the shadow of Fort Brady, they took turns by the canoes while the other two explored the area. They observed the Indian Burial ground at the encampment, the canal first dug by the soldiers from Sackett’s Harbor, transferred to the Sault to build Fort Brady. They walked the dock of the American Fur Trading Company, rather busy with traders bringing in their winter catch. They marveled at the swift current and white water caused as Lake Superior spilled over limestone rock and fell twenty feet within just hundreds of yards of river length.

  But they were most amazed watching Wasebitong and two friends and then two unknown pilots, paddle and pole against the current, one or two standing in the canoe and maintaining balance as they slowly made their way upriver.