A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy

by William White

  USS Constellation proceeded through the outer harbor of Baltimore, passing occasional floes of ice, nudging others out of the way with her copper sheathed forefoot, and headed for the Chesapeake Bay, leaving the shoals inside Bodkin Point a wide berth. After turning the Point, she would turn south to make her run to Cape Charles and then the Atlantic Ocean, and whatever the Fates had in store for her and her crew.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Struggling against the flying spray and the pitching and rolling of the ship, the men climbed up to the fore topmast and out onto the lower yard. Everything they touched was slick with a coating of ice. As they moved crab-like on the footrope under the yardarm, the ice broke off it from its flexing under their weight, and what wasn’t blown off to leeward by the gale, landed on the men below, adding to their misery. The men aloft all knew that one misstep would likely be their last, and worked their way cautiously further and further out from the relative safety of the mastcap, where the remnants of the tops’l had become flailing strips of ice-hardened canvas ready to knock the unprepared sailor off the yard. Hands became numb almost at once; faces froze in the icy wind, and even taking a deep breath was painful.

  The heavy weather canvas was stiff with the cold, and handing it into some semblance of control took the combined strength of the sixteen men balanced below the sail on the foreyard, as the haulers on deck sixty feet below lowered what was left of the tops’l yard, and the flogging rags of sail with it. Captain of the foretop, Ben Stone, yelled encouragement and instructions to his men; the words, whipped away by the wind were more for his own benefit than theirs, as none could hear him, and it was only through their individual skills and seamanship that the task was completed without disaster besetting any one of them. After the sail – or what was left of it – was stripped off the two pieces of the tops’l yard, the yard itself had to be unrigged and sent down to the deck, a job of work not made easier by the coating of ice and rolling of the General Washington as Captain Rogers bore off to take the heavy seas on his quarter and ease the strain on the rig.

  The wildly swinging larboard end of the yard approached the deck, marginally controlled by the heavers amidships, struggling to keep their footing on the treacherous deck. Two men, directed and assisted by Third Mate Isaac Biggs, tried to catch the spar as it came within reach of their outstretched hands. The yard swung crazily, whipping around behind the men as the wind, combined with the rolling of the brig frustrated the three.

  Seeing a disaster in the making, Biggs yelled for them to wait; his words were blown away to leeward and unheard by the men. As one stepped toward the flailing timber, he looked away to check his footing, and never saw the lethal missile responding to the roll of the ship. With a dull thud, heard only by the unlucky seaman who experienced it, the broken end of the yard hit him full in the back, knocking him to the deck and continuing on unchecked. Biggs and a seaman dove for the injured man, catching him before he slid across the ice covered deck and through the break in the bulwark to the sea. Watching his chance to avoid the still unchecked yardarm, Isaac signaled his intention to the sailor helping him hold their injured mate, and when the yard swung clear, they dragged the man into relative shelter and safety under the lee of the chocked longboat.

  “Get him below to the gundeck, Mister Biggs. I’ll be down directly to have a look at him.” Biggs had not noticed Captain Rogers’ arrival at the waist and at first didn’t react. Rogers grabbed the third mate’s arm and pointed at the hatch, receiving a nod from Biggs in acknowledgment.

  Staggering under the weight of their injured shipmate as they manhandled him to the safety of the lowerdeck. Biggs and the man they called The Prophet could hear the broken spar still flailing around topside. Suddenly, a flurry of muffled commands issued in a gravelly voice, some yelling, heavy footfalls, and then nothing but the howl of the wind screaming through the rigging. The spar had been secured under the guidance of First Mate Coffin, and the men below could feel the ship ease up and settle into a more gentle and predictable motion, as the helmsmen brought her back onto the northerly wind, and she continued her easterly course.

  Captain Asa Rogers had followed the two and their burden into the gloom of the lowerdeck, and now watched as they eased the injured man to the deck between a pair of nine-pound long guns securely lashed to the bulwark. Biggs and the Prophet stepped back, and Rogers knelt down beside the man, who was beginning to regain consciousness. He came to, and seeing the Captain beside him, tried to sit up. Rogers put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  “Just hold on son. Let me have a look-see and get a damage report.” The Captain gently felt around the man’s neck and shoulders, noting that there was no visible sign of serious injury. “Don’t look to me like you’re any the worse for wear, son. Go ahead and sit up. You’ll be right as rain – no need to worry. Mister Biggs here likely kept you from gettin’ serious hurt. You get on up, now, go on ‘bout your work.” Rogers was not about to let a knock on the head put him down a man this early in the cruise. Having satisfied himself that no serious damage was done, he stood up as much as his height would allow and nodded to Biggs. Then he headed aft for the quarterdeck in the comfort of the lowerdeck, between the double row of nine-pound cannon, six to a side. It was most unusual for a privateer to be armed with two decks of guns – the more expected armament was six to twelve nine- or twelve-pounders carried topside on the main deck. General Washington was an unusual vessel fitted out much like a U.S. Navy brig, but somewhat more heavily armed. Her owner and master was equally unusual.

  Asa Rogers had a reputation as a successful man; between 1795 and 1810, he had turned a single ship merchant operation into a thriving fleet of vessels carrying goods between Charleston, South Carolina and Salem. He and the Crowninshield family pretty much controlled the merchant shipping business in Salem, and Rogers’ operation was structured similarly to that of his large competitor. One son ran the shore side in Salem, and another the operation in Charleston; a third son had learned the art of seafaring, and just before the war with England was declared, had sailed in command of his own ship.

  Linda Rogers, the captain’s wife and a strong woman in her own right, was not content to merely sit at home, and had run the office in Salem with an iron hand until her untimely death in 1811. Asa, at sea at the time, returned in time to bury his wife and close down the Salem operation for a month of mourning. He briefly ran the Salem office himself, but realized that his disposition called for him to be at sea, dealing with men, wind, waves, and stout ships, and it was not long before he found a suitable director to take his place, returning to sea on the General Washington.

  When the war began, even though heartily against it, Rogers had seen an opportunity and acquired letters of marque and reprisal for most of his ships, sending out several strictly as privateers and the remainder as letter of marque traders. These latter continued in the cargo trade, but were armed and, should the opportunity arise, they could and did occasionally take a prize. Quiet and generally soft-spoken, Captain Rogers had a commanding presence not just due to his over six-foot frame and great shock of white hair, but because of the aura of control he fairly exuded. He was known as an outstanding seaman, and more recently as a clever privateersman, successfully outsmarting the British warships and stealing their merchant charges from under their noses. To secure a berth on Asa Rogers’ brig General Washington was considered a stroke of good fortune, and he enjoyed the luxury of picking only the best to crew his ship.

  Biggs returned to the deck; the sun had come full out – just in time to set, he thought to himself – and while the wind was still up, its scream had diminished to a moan, and somehow he thought it seemed a trifle warmer. He heard the ship’s bell faintly striking 3:30, and moved aft to the quarterdeck to talk with Second Mate Jared Tompkins, whom he would relieve in a half hour, at eight bells.

  “This surely ain’t for the faint hearted, Isaac. Bet you’re glad you ain’t sailin’ down in the Indies – why you’d be missin’
all this pretty weather and these nice, warm, sunny days!” Tompkins, for all his years at sea – or perhaps because of them, was always cheery, and rarely took anything too seriously. A finer seaman couldn’t be found aboard General Washington, nor a faster wit. He always seemed to find the amusing side of most situations, and had more than once broken the tension of a potentially ugly situation with a droll remark. The men liked him, followed his leadership, and looked to him to intercede with Starter Coffin on their behalf.

  Catching the second’s mood, Isaac laughed. “Aye, Jared. It surely would be a shame to have to sail down there what with the fair breezes, warm days, an’ whole fleets of British merchants to chase. Course, most of the time I got recently in them waters was aboard a Royal Navy frigate, so the prizes I was chasin’ was mostly Frenchmen.” His face lost its smile, and his eyes took on a distant look as he recalled his nearly two years as a pressed seaman in the British Navy. “Had me a pretty fair prize share on Orpheus, I did, but never collected on it, seein’ as how Cap’n Smalley and them other privateers catched the prizes we was sailin’ to Antigua. But I reckon I can make up for some of that here with Cap’n Rogers. As to the weather, it don’t bother me none. I grew up in these waters and fished more ‘n once with my father up here on the Banks in the cold months. Now that’s some real cold – workin’ nets and lines when the weather’s up. Ice all over, and days with nothin’ hot for the meal.” Biggs looked hard at the second for a minute, and then smiled. “‘Sides, another month or so and we oughta be seein’ a real improvement and hopefully a flock of British merchants comin’ in with the spring replacements and supplies.”

  “Wal…that’s the way it’s s’posed to be, ‘cordin’ to Cap’n Rogers. I can tell you they wasn’t much to chase two months ago when we come in from these very self-same waters. Don’t bother me none, though it would help if we got lucky this time out. Things gettin’ a little lean at home and some prize shares would truly be a wonderful thing.” He changed tacks abruptly, looking squarely at Biggs. “We gonna continue close-hauled to th’ east here – likely through your watch – now the wind’s startin’ to haul ‘round to the nor’west somewhat. Cap’n thinks this’ll calm down some and we can set some sail afore supper’s piped down. Reckon he’ll let you know – he ain’t shy ‘bout lettin’ us know, or spreadin’ as much canvas as ever he can.”

  “Aye, Jared. We’ll handle it. You go down an’ warm up some. You’ll be back in no time at all to take her while I get some supper.” With that, the second mate knuckled his forehead in a mock salute and stepped off the quarterdeck, dancing a little hornpipe step as he did just to show the treacherous deck didn’t bother him a whit.

  Isaac stood at the leeward bulwark, watching the water rush by only a scant few feet from the deck. She surely don’t move like one o’ them sharp-built schooners, he thought, and then chastised himself, adding, Course, Glory’d a been rolled on her beam ends in this weather, so don’t go thinkin’ about what mighta’ been. You had to get home to see your folks, an’ you done that. An’ here you are back at sea in the same business you fell into down south. ‘Sides, from everything you heard, ain’t no one gettin’ out of nor into them southern ports; Brits got ‘em sealed up tighter an’ ever you please. You’d be standin’ on the beach, and not much to do either. His mind continued to wander, but he was subconsciously aware of every subtle change in the ship and the wind. He returned in his head to the firstfew days of his arrival in Marblehead, and his parents’ home.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was cold; the snow under foot squealed in protest with each step, and his breath made a white cloud in front of his face, hanging there momentarily in the frigid, windless air as Isaac stood at the open gate of the neatly shoveled walk to his home. He looked appraisingly at the house; his father had continued to keep the shingles replaced as necessary, and the paint on the trim did not show as much the effects of the harsh Marblehead winters as many other did. A feather of smoke rose into the cloudless sky from the stone chimney, etched sharply against the bright sky, and he recalled the great central fireplace and hearth with its cheery fire, a throwback to the last century when his father had built the house, and which his mother would not let him replace with a new iron stove. A picture of his mother tending a pot hanging on the crane over the flame rose in his mind, and he stepped through the gate. He noted a figure pass in front of a window near the door, and suddenly the door opened, framing his father squinting into the bright morning light. Isaac thought his father had aged beyond his years, and looked like an old man.

  “Isaac? Is that you, boy?” The incredulity in the senior Biggs’ voice quickly gave way to excitement as he realized that, indeed, his son was not only safe, but standing on the step in front of him. “Liza, come here. Isaac’s come home. Don’t tarry, woman – it’s your son, back from the dead!” He turned momentarily into the house as he yelled for his wife, quickly returning his gaze to his son, as if afraid that the mirage would disappear if he looked away too long. Some of the years his son had noticed on first glance faded from the old man’s countenance and the worry lines and creases smoothed out as he beamed at this vision before him.

  Isaac reached for his father and the two men embraced each other. After a moment passed, Liza Biggs appeared, wiping her hands on the ever-present apron tied around her ample middle. As she saw her son locked in embrace with his father, her hands flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Tears immediately appeared in her eyes, and she threw her arms around her son’s neck.

  “Oh Isaac. We’d given ya up for dead, lad. Not a word did we hear from ya for all that time. And what with this dreadful war now…well we just never…oh, son, you’re finally home…oh thank God for your deliverance…let me look at ya, now…” She stepped back from her son and wiped the tears from her cheeks, giving him an appraising look. Suddenly she realized they were all standing in the snow and cold of a Marblehead December, and in a motherly voice that would brook no nonsense, said, “Come inside and get warm. It’s much too cold to be standing out here like a bunch of fools. You look like you’ve been starved. And you must be cold with just that canvas coat on. Look at you. Let me get you some hot food.” She led the group into the great room where a fire glowed and a wonderful smell emanated from the iron pot hanging over the flames, just as he had pictured in his mind’s eye only moments ago. Isaac’s mouth immediately began to water, and he realized he had not eaten more than a few pieces of biscuit and some jerked beef in two days.

  “You didn’t get none of my letters, I reckon. I wrote any number of times, but I guess the post from the British frigate weren’t any good. Well, it don’t signify; I’m here now, and I can tell you all that happened to me. I am sorry you was worried ‘bout me, but I didn’t come to any harm, as you can see.” He spread his arms and turned in a circle, showing his parents that, indeed, their son was intact.

  “Cap’n Smalley wrote to us – musta been just before that fool Madison decided to go to war against the English that we got his note. Said you and some other men’d been pressed off’n the Anne by a British frigate down there in the Indies. Had no idea where you were or what would happen to you, but wanted us to know you was at least alive, far’s he knew. Thought it was real decent of him to let us know. ‘Course that set your ma a worryin’ ‘bout whether the frigate was involved with their war with the French. An’ then when we didn’t hear a word from you nor anyone else, we began to think the worst, but we had faith you’d find your way home sooner or later, though, and with the help of the good Lord, here you are. Praise God.”

  The older man began a torrent of questions that flooded the air, not even giving his son the chance to answer, let alone eat the thick aromatic mixture of venison and potatoes his mother had ladled into a dish for him. He held his spoon at the ready, his mouth watering as he patiently began to answer his father’s questions. Liza Biggs looked sternly at her husband.

  “Now Charles, let the boy sit and eat his vittles. Don’t make him answer
a bunch of fool questions until he’s got some food in him. Eat your stew, Isaac, then you can tell us everything.” Liza Biggs was back in charge, and nobody was going to argue the logic of her instructions. Isaac smiled, and took up his spoon again. He watched his parents beaming at him as he ate; their joy at seeing him not only alive, but here in Marblehead, showing on their faces. He was home!

  Charles Biggs sat grinning at his son, his weathered face aglow and his still sharp eyes sparkling, the edges crinkling as the reality of his son’s return struck home. He brought a hand up occasionally to wipe away a tear that trickled unbidden from the corner of his eye and course down the craggy lines in his face. He let his son eat in silence for a moment, but not content to sit idly while there was a story “what needed tellin”, he began again to press his son for his tale, and Isaac, around great mouthfuls of stew, began to tell of his odyssey, starting with his impressment from Anne, the ship on which he had sailed from Boston in 1810 bound for St. Bartholomew with manufactured goods and produce under Captain Jed Smalley.

  “When that frigate, the Orpheus, stopped us out there in the middle of nowhere, we knew we was goin’ to have trouble. We’d all heard tales of them stopping and stealing seaman from American ships, but I guess no one ever figgered we’d be seein’ it our own selves. A British officer an’ a midshipman come aboard the Anne with a bunch of marines all dressed up in they’s red coats and shiny black boots. Had guns, they did, and as it turned out, wasn’t afraid to use ‘em.” His mother gasped audibly at this revelation, her hand again flying unbidden to her mouth. Isaac continued. “Anyway, they made Cap’n Smalley line us all up in the waist and then this officer, his name was Lieutenant Burns, an’ I come to know him better later on, walked in front of each man and asked where he was from. I tol’ him I was from Marblehead an’ was American, but it didn’t signify. He picked me and Tyler and Pope from the line and made us stand away. Then he told us to get our slops and had a pair of his marines watch us while we did. When we come up deck, they was a scuffle of some kind – I didn’t see just what started it – but one of the marines fired into the Annes and I reckon killed one of ‘em. Lieutenant Burns made us get into the boat alongside and we was rowed over to the frigate – Orpheus she was named. I never seen so many men on one ship, and guns pokin’ out of ports up and down the main deck and even a few on the one above it – called the spardeck. Well, off we sailed, an’ me an’ Tyler an’ Pope was in the Royal Navy. Cap’n Winston was the captain, and it seemed like ever’ day he had two or three sailors flogged – a dozen an’ more stripes each. More often ‘an not, it was more. Tyler got into a difficulty with one of the British sailors and was brought up for a floggin’. He fooled ‘em all; he jumped right over the side of the ship and we never saw him again. That really got me riled up, I’ll tell you, and I began right then to figger a way off’n that ship.”