Reflections in the Wake

by James Spurr

  Dunlap added, “I cannot believe Henry would make such a mistake.”

  James added, “Perhaps not personally, but this chart is flawed, and in precisely the area in which we are searching.” Looking at Oliver in the hope of keeping his revelation in perspective, “And you could really stand some lessons with your dancing!”

  Oliver shook off the attempt at levity and asked, “So what could this mean?”

  Dunlap gave a knowing glance, but let James finish his point.

  James, ever the Captain, shrugged and assured, “Well, let us consider this in perspective. We have a flawed chart, but we are not lost and are not using it for navigation, so we will be fine. It could mean Invincible, if that was the ship observed, is not on the beach but lying some distance off shore. Often, wrecks can be seen from vessels, in calm seas and with the sun at just the right angle. We do not know if she will be accessible to us.”

  Bemose reminded, “Which was our assumption when we departed Detroit… that she was on the beach.”

  Marie added, “I have never considered someone confusing one ship for another.”

  Dunlap admitted, having walked to the fire and lit his pipe, “A real possibility, if a wreck is seen below the surface. But if on the beach, I suspect we can trust the identification, if not the location.”

  James nodded, turning to take a seat by the fire, on and against gear forming a comfortable seat. “We will know both soon enough.”

  The party was social after a lighter day at the paddles and a roaring fire that promised to burn well into the night. After some time, Bemose asked, softly with some trepidation in her voice, “When will we depart tomorrow and how long until Whitefish Point?” Her tone, combined with her expression as illuminated by firelight suggested she was not so much in a rush as needed to understand how much time she would have to prepare.

  James offered, “Four hours, a bit more perhaps if there are seas.” He thought of Mrs. Perry and understood Bemose’s need.

  She explained, “I have thought for years I need to find William, put him to rest but now, so close, I am not sure I have done the right thing.”

  Marie offered, “Your desire is perfectly understandable. Have no doubt.”

  Shaking her head, Bemose turned to James, “But sending you those letters and bringing everyone so far…”

  Trove spoke casually, lying back after enjoying some drams from a brown jug, “Have no concerns about me. Glad to do it. Would do it for William again and for you, more than twice.”

  James sighed, not sure whether to ask. But the evening was not yet late and he had held his question for many thousands of miles, “Why did you send the letters?”

  Not all knew to which he referred, but they remained quiet.

  As the wind confused the column of smoke rising from the fire, signaling perhaps a change in the conversation, Bemose thought, looked at James and confessed, “I had no idea you and Marie would actually ever meet, but I did in my heart harbor a hope for your return to the Lakes. Not to find William, no,” she assured, “others have offered over the years, even some of the Saulteurs.” Everyone in the camp remained quiet, encouraging her to finish her explanation, “But I needed to impart to you what transpired during those years that you may not have fully understood.”

  James nodded and seemed entirely satisfied.

  But she continued, “With your father gone and you with no relationship with your brother, someone, it seemed, needed to illuminate who you are, as defined, I believe, by those who loved you.” Bemose lowered her head, as though a great burden was lifted.

  James looked at Marie and they exchanged glances of mutual understanding. “The letters have changed my life,” he admitted, “helping me make a decision I was already contemplating, but with no real reason, except a profound loneliness.” He then joked, “And you could not have picked a better messenger!”

  But then James looked at Wasebitong and asked Bemose, “Have you shown my brother the note you gave me just today?”

  Bemose shot James a glance by way of admonishment and shook her head, suggesting a change in subject.

  But James persisted and stood. Addressing Bemose, he walked round the fire, “You fear my brother will feel guilt for the death of his father? I tell you woman, I know him well enough to know he understands that no three year old child ought be blamed for anything.” James handed Wasebitong the note and declared, “He needs to know why our father took that voyage; why in doing so, my brother has not had the benefit of his guidance which I enjoyed.”

  Bemose witnessed the look of mutual respect in each of their eyes. The look was reason enough for the voyage, perhaps only miles from complete irrespective the outcome.

  Taking his seat again, James finished his thought, “If there is blame, it is mine. Had I been on the Lakes instead of parading around with Perry, thinking only of myself while you struggled with the privations of a ravaged village just free of occupation, he would never have taken that berth.”

  Bemose made to dismiss his indictment of his own conduct, “James, you were, what, only twenty one and were serving your country. Besides, why wouldn’t you have let him sign aboard Invincible?”

  James looked at Dunlap, who was fully attentive to what, by way of relationships affected by war was unfolding before him. James answered, looking straight into his eyes, “Not because the season was late, although it was. And not because that rogue Lord Selkirk, while needing to be shown the weight of authority, was England’s problem, although he was. And not even because Metis children were at risk, hell, there are children suffering all over the world and I may have even told Father not to take that deck, so as to care for his own.”

  No one moved through the camp. Even Trove had awaken from his near slumber, intrigued by the conversation. Coals scattered and the fire crackled as James threw on another log.

  “No,” James continued, still staring at Dunlap. “I would not have let him go,” he explained, “because I would not have allowed him to sail with the enemy, under a Union Jack which not long before we had hauled down from the peaks of so many vessels on these Lakes. No, I would have reminded him of Lawrence and Scorpion and Friends Good Will and I guarantee he would not have stepped foot on that deck, with you in command.”

  Not a person breathed around the fire. Oliver and Trove had witnessed men called out for less. Bemose felt badly for Wasebitong, not yet having a chance to even so much as read the note and likely not fully understanding what he was witnessing. And she felt badly for Owen, whom she knew William liked and respected very much.

  Oliver stood and came to stand between them, expecting the situation to erupt at any moment, hoping to keep the peace. Trove stood just after and stood by James, still seated, declaring his allegiance.

  James then admitted, more softly but his tone colder than the waters in which they paddled, “And if all that would not have worked, all I would have had to do was remind my father of your Lieutenant Fleet or of Admiral Fleet, who like my brother without a father, left me without a mother.”

  Strangely, the two men with the most reason to grapple, one with the other, as the result of words spoken and the implications and insults as many would reasonably take from them, remained seated. Their very calm was disquieting to the others, given the topics raised.

  Dunlap sighed and said, by way of reply to James but as if addressing a jury, gathered round the now diminishing fire, “I assure you, he is not ‘my’ Lieutenant Fleet and I never so much as even met the Admiral. But I have thought about these topics as we have paddled and while remaining silent, I heard your hints and suggestions. I offer up now what I know; perhaps it is time.”

  Dunlap then looked at Trove, and asked, “I rather hope you stood to pour me a dram from that jug. I will need one to tell you of an ending, or rather two. I can tell you of the end of Lieutenant Fleet and of Friends Good Will. I was there for both.”

  Trove looked to James, who simply nodded with satisfaction. The most recent note given him
by Bemose, just now read by Wasebitong, answered some questions. His strong statements to Dunlap, calculated to force the answers to others, appeared to have their desired effect. Trove poured the dram and took his seat again, as did Oliver. James noted his uncle looked the very picture of dread.

  * * *

  30 December 1813

  Buffalo, New York

  Lieutenant Dunlap near whispered to his men in the bateax, “Upon our landing, muskets at half cock.”

  He looked to his left as seven other like vessels maintained an admirable line, given the swift winter current. The oarsmen strained and while the distance was not great, the hard work had already caused sweat to break on their uncovered brows and foreheads. The wind was stiff, blowing the heavy flurries of snow nearly horizontal.

  It was a good night to invade the United States.

  Dunlap heard splashing to his right. Two bateaux were falling behind, one having rowed too close to the other, causing noise and confusion. As he expected, the errant vessel was commanded by Lieutenant Fleet. Since the Battle of Put-in-Bay, some months before, Fleet was held in an unofficial state of disgrace and would never command a proper vessel again. But Colonel Arbuckle relented and allowed him a square box with oars, filled with soldiers, thinking it simple enough to be virtually foolproof. Fleet was already proving him wrong.

  The landing went smoothly and quietly, assuring the British force was as yet undetected. The force landed just above Black Rock, their first objective. It was just after midnight.

  Dunlap went over the plan once again in his mind. It was too dark for maps and he suspected that within minutes, events would unfold very quickly. After burning the village of Black Rock, the force would split in two, each marching south to enter Buffalo in a two pronged attack.

  Dunlap assembled his men on the road and, indicating with his sword, began them marching to the south, encouraged by his softly voiced call, “Remember Newark!”

  The raid on Buffalo was planned to avenge a similar raid on the village which Dunlap used as a rallying cry. That same village, on the Canadian side of the Niagara River, was the victim of a similar, senseless raid some weeks before. Many homes were burned by American troops and many innocent civilians felt the cruelty of war for no good reason.

  Fleet accompanied a squad of soldiers, he having no official command or mission once his bateaux had landed. Dunlap was in command of his sailors, which had filled his craft and together, the mix of sailors, soldiers and in Fleet’s case, a man without orders, all prepared pistols with ball, muskets with bayonets and torches with oil to burn two villages.

  Dunlap had heard Fleet boast the evening before they took to the bateaux, over dinner, “The sloop Little Belt is mine; all of you, now, just leave her to me.”

  All at the table knew Little Belt had taken the beach weeks before and was high and dry. All knew Fleet had fled from her from the Battle of Put-in-Bay and seemed to carry a bitter grudge against the Captain of the former American merchant sloop.

  In light of his threat, Dunlap resolved to, amid his discharge of orders, keep an eye on Fleet through the coming day.

  Now, three hours after their landing, the element of surprise at Buffalo was lost to a column of fire rising to the north. Black Rock was ablaze and all was proceeding according to plan.

  Dunlap had deployed his men on three occasions so far. The New York militia melted with little resistance. Even the United States Army regulars under General Hall made a poor showing in the face of surprise, despite superiority in numbers.

  As they entered Buffalo on the Niagara road, Dunlap spied through his long glass a militia leader standing fast at an intersection, a 12 pounder trained on the advancing column. “Spread to each side and advance together, down the side streets.” His men scattered, hurrying to reach the piece and makeshift barricades before it did damage to his countrymen.

  But a sudden roar confirmed the readiness of the few brave defenders. In between buildings, as his squad grew closer, he could assess the progress of the gunners. “While not Royal Navy, their coordination is good,” he commented to a fellow sailor.

  “There sir, opposite side, our men are forming for a small volley,” one of the oarsmen informed, pointing with his musket.

  “Next house over, quickly, let us do the same,” Dunlap encouraged.

  Within seconds, men on each side of the street closely coordinated a volley just as the cannon fired a second time. Most Americans serving the gun fell, a few others fell back. Dunlap regretted the many casualties from the advancing column, but the second village that day appeared to have been won.

  While others torched the town, Dunlap hurried his sailors south to where two ships appeared aground. The near vessel was downrigged, with the top hamper lowered. He wondered if ballast had also been removed so to lighten and attempt a relaunch.

  Oliver, a Major in the regular Army, found himself miraculously alive after the flanking fire into the artillery battery. A comrade was wounded and two militiamen were killed. There was no time to reload and, in fact, he noted, not enough men to do so efficiently in any case. A squad of Royal Navy sailors approached from between the buildings on both sides of the street. His two surviving gun crew fled southward and Oliver determined it was time to go. He must rush to find William, who had devoted the day to preparing Friends Good Will to swim yet again.

  Oliver took the most direct route, using alleys and side streets, along the beach and finally paths over frozen dunes, with snow drifts blown atop the dormant long grass. The wind was stiff, but at his back. It churned up whitecaps on the Niagara River, with the counter current and the waves angled to the east, crashing upon the shore near the keel of his former sloop.

  “William,” he called over the wind and waves, “Come along my friend; have you not heard the guns?” He climbed up the plank, crossing over from the crest of a small dune to the lee side of the deck, canted from the keel resting on the hard. Men had shoveled sand that day from along the keel and had begun to dig a trench some two boat lengths to the surf, but abandoned shovels scattered about told Oliver he was not the first to announce the news.

  Again from the deck, he shouted down the companionway, “William, are you aboard?”

  “Oliver, is that you?” William asked from below.

  Descending the companionway steps, Oliver replied, “Yes, and those behind me have English accents. Come, our lines are collapsed, let us get to the woods.”

  William looked reluctantly into the bilge, a small stack of ballast at his feet. He looked disappointed, “I have so few loads yet to go. Do you think they will come this far south?”

  “Believe me, some are sailors,” Oliver informed, leaning his head into the hold. A candle dimly lit the work and barely illuminated William’s frame. He completed his warning, “One glance at her cross trees from between the buildings and they will be all over us. Now hurry!”

  William dropped the small boulder back into the bilge atop others and grabbed his coat. But the jar they both felt, by way of vibration and the thud they both heard, aside from the ballast coming to rest, was overhead, on deck, to leeward.

  Other voices shouted from around the hull, “Think we can make ‘er swim, Lieutenant?” To which, came the reply, “Don’t be a fool, torch her upon my word!” Someone descended quickly down the companionway steps. A lit torch appeared before its bearer in the entryway to the hold.

  But no one entered the hold. Instead, the intruder went back on deck and demanded, “What are you doing here? I have things well in hand.”

  Another voice suggested, “Seems the Royal Navy are better suited to destroy ships, Lieutenant.”

  “Bugger off, Dunlap. Any fool soldier can set fire to wood.”

  Dunlap climbed the plank and took the deck, demanding, “Are any others aboard?”

  Fleet replied, with resentment in his tone, “I was just checking.” He turned to one of the soldiers on the foredeck and ordered, “Rip off that hatch and drop down your torch.” The
soldier did as ordered and Fleet descended down the companionway yet again, with a loaded pistol at half cock in one hand, a torch in the other. Dunlap decided to follow, having no confidence in his fellow officer.

  Fleet called back over his shoulder, “Well, lookee here! Two prisoners hiding like cowards!”

  Dunlap took his own pistol from his belt and poked his head into the hold from the wardroom. He noted the fire had taken hold in the forepeak. He urged, “Quickly then, let’s get them out and onto the beach. It looks like she’s stripped clean of anything of use.”

  But the fire grew and illuminated the hold. The light shone most brightly off William, and Fleet cried out, “Well, I’ll be damned! It’s that traitor Lee; deserter as well, from what I recall!”

  Dunlap turned back, as surprised as were they all at their strange reunion. Four men, three formerly of H.M. Schooner Hope, the fourth recalling Fleet from the surrender of his merchant vessel at Mackinaw in the opening days of the war, had returned to a ship with which they were all familiar to face one another yet again.

  William said rather calmly, “Hello, Mr. Dunlap. What an odd coincidence! How have you been?” Dunlap had not yet noticed, nor had Fleet, that William had a loaded pistol set on a barrel of ballast, ready to haul by block and tackle to the deck. The pistol was well within reach if given time from the slightest distraction.

  Meanwhile, the fire grew, finding canvas and line amid oil and tarred surfaces. Smoke mostly vented through the hatch above, but enough hung low and began to impair visibility and breathing. Fleet still held a torch in one hand, his arm over his nostrils; his other hand leveled his pistol at William.

  Fleet was careful and focused. He had waited for this moment, Dunlap knew, for years. To find William, trapped in the hold of his own ship, which Fleet had taken as a prize, only to lose it again to Lee, was a dream come true for a man poisoned by cruel revenge without purpose. Fleet called, “Leave us, Dunlap. Lee and this fellow will have a Viking funeral, even if on the hard; fitting for his own lapse in navigation, don’t you think?”