Third Mate Biggs, who supervised the work, could not help but compare the effort of the men with that which he had experienced on both the British frigate and the privateer in the West Indies; working a ship in warmer climes was definitely favored. In a few short weeks, however, the cold would break and the occasional pleasant day would be a harbinger of the coming spring – a better time for all, with ample shipping from which to select prizes, and mild weather in which to operate.
“Deck there. I have the top hamper in plain sight now, no other vessels around.” The lookout had been changed frequently during the forenoon watch to maintain the sharpest eyes possible aloft. Captain Rogers, on the quarterdeck since finishing his breakfast responded instantly.
“What do you make of her, lad? Does she show any colors?” What’s her rig?”
“’Pears to be a bark, sir. No colors I can see. She’s under a press of canvas – looks like she’s set to her t’gallants and flyin’.”
Rogers wasted no time in heading for the main rigging and, with an agility born of years and years of sea time, climbed quickly to the main topmast cap where he hooked a leg around the t’gallant jack stay and trained a glass on the stranger. The wind whipped through his hair, giving him the look of a wind-driven white-capped wave on the cold gray Atlantic. After several minutes of study, he yelled down to the deck, and specifically, Second Mate Tompkins standing by the brig’s wheel.
“Mister Tompkins: bring her off another point, if you please. And we’ll set our own t’gallants now.” Having satisfied himself that the selected course would close the other vessel, and that General Washington would easily overtake her with sufficient canvas, he returned to the deck smartly, though not by the topman’s favored route of the backstay, choosing instead to use the windward ratlines. When he stepped onto the quarterdeck, he instructed Tompkins to have the crew fed early, as “I ‘spect we’ll be seein’ some action early in the afternoon watch.” The work aloft continued apace, and the additional canvas was shaken out, adding a noticeable increase to the already nice turn of speed shown by the brig. The excitement and anticipation of action and a potential prize spurred the crew on, and even before the men were piped to their dinner, preparations were being made to clear for action.
* * * * * *
“We ain’t seen but a few vessels since we left Baltimore, Coleman. And they was headin’ out like us. I’d reckon them schooners we seen was private, an’ nary a single warship – not even a brig or a sloop; nothin’ save them two gunboats headin’ out from Baltimore. I’da thought they’da bin a few ships headin’ in, up to Baltimore or mebbe into the Potomac up ta Washington. You s’pose they’s all gone in at Norfolk? Don’t seem likely to me. Don’t feel right.” Jake Tate and his fellow topman Robert Coleman were standing in Constellation’s foretop, having been ordered, along with their fellow topmen, to unfurl the big sail after the determination had again been reached that ice would no longer be a worry; the two remained behind after the dozen others had headed back to the deck.
“’Ow d’you expect me to know; I ain’t ever been in this water but once, last November comin’ up from the Capes in the ol’ Glory, with Clements and Conoughy. Mebbe them coves think it’s still iced in out ‘ere, an’ are afraid o’ comin’ out to ‘ave a look. You seen what that ice done to us just yesterday; you was down there peelin’ off what was left o’ the sheathin’. I’da thought ol’ Clements woulda sent a carpenter’s mate down there, or done it ‘is own self, ‘stead sendin’ the likes o’ you. Seemed ‘appy to ‘ave your arse hangin’ over the forefoot ‘stead o’ ‘is though – ‘specially with Cap’n Stewart not ‘eavin’ to or nothin’. I’d reckon the Cap’n’s right keen to ‘ave a shot at me countrymen, an’ ain’t gonna let a wee bit o’ ripped up copper slow ‘im down none. Aye, an’ the quicker we get the barky to sea, and ‘eaded south, the ‘appier this cove’ll be, I kin tell you, Jake, me boy. I am lookin’ for’ard to gettin’ warm…and gettin’ some prize shares.”
“You ‘spose Cap’n Stewart’ll go into Gosport down yonder afore we head out, or just leave that copper gone?” Tate, for all his experience at sea, had virtually no experience with the ways of the Navy, and was relying on Coleman’s long time in the Royal Navy.
“I ain’t Cap’n Stewart, Tate. Ain’t for me to say. But I surely wouldn’t. ‘Ave to ‘eave ‘er down to do it, an’ that’d mean liftin’ out the guns an’ topmasts…probably ‘alf the stores inta the bargain. You ever bin inta Gosport? They even got the sheers there that could ‘andle th’ job?”
“I reckon they likely do. That’s s’posed to be a yard there like Baltimore. Ain’t bin in there my own self. That’s just what I heard. Reckon we gonna have ta wait. Cap’n ain’t likely gonna share his plans with either of us’n. You had ‘bout enough o’ this cold? I’m headin’ down.”
The two arrived on deck as the bell tolled announcing the change of the watch, and headed below to the gun deck where it was warmer.
“Wot you two bin doin’ up there? Your messmates bin down this ‘alf an ‘our an’ more. What, it’s too warm for the likes o’ you down ‘ere?” Tim Conoughy, gunner’s mate, and late of the Royal Navy and the privateer Glory, was sitting astride a twenty-four-pound long gun with the unlikely name Momma’s Kiss emblazoned on its carriage. He was fitting a new firing lock on it, and stopped his work to greet his former shipmate and their new friend.
“It’s all the ‘ot air from some Irish cove a’spoutin’ off what makes it so warm down here. Give me the open air and fresh smells you kin get aloft anytime. I’m gonna get your lazy Irish arse up there one o’ these fine days, Tim, an’ you’ll never want to come down again, I’ll warrant.”
Coleman maintained the good-natured rivalry between not only the Irish and English sailors, but more common between the men who worked aloft in the dizzying heights of the upper masts, and those who stayed on deck, dodging the bucking, dangerous, and deafening guns, the real teeth of a man-of-war. The friendly banter was interrupted rudely; they all heard the insistent beat of the drum as it reverberated down the hatches, and were already moving before the disembodied voice followed, yelling, “Quarters, man your quarters stations you lazy louts. Get your arses out and up. Lively there. Quarters!”
The sailors tumbled out of the hatches – those with battle stations on the gun deck remained below. The experienced hands went quickly to their stations whether at guns on the main deck or below on the gun deck, or for some, including Coleman and Tate, aloft to shorten the ship to battle sail. The others, landsmen who had not before heard the ship beat to quarters, initially stood dumb and rooted to the deck, looking around wide-eyed. Then almost as one, they began shouting and calling to one another.
“Oh good Christ…the damned Brits are attacking us…”
“Jack, where’re we s’posed ta be…? Whot’d that fella tell us?”
“Hey, mate, where’s gun three?”
“Gunner said I should be ahelpin’ him in the magazine…where’s that ‘sposed to be?”
The gunner, a warrant with service in the American Revolution, stood on the forward end of the gundeck and watched as the landsmen ran in confused circles, bumping into everything from each other to the masts and gun carriages. He calmly discussed with Bosun Clements just how long they should allow the confusion to reign before they waded into the melee to help the sailors find their stations for quarters. Finally, Gunner Jackson could stand it no longer. He stepped into the middle of the gundeck and grabbed a sailor by the back of the collar.
“Where’re you ‘sposed to be, sailor? I don’t think Cap’n Stewart had in mind for you to just stand here an’ not help out your mates.” The growl emanating from Jackson’s throat did nothing to calm the sailor’s confusion. Indeed, the implied danger from the gunner briefly struck the sailor dumb, and it was only when Jackson gave the man a hearty shake did the words come out.
“Ah don’t rightly know, sir…cain’t recollect what was told me.”
The gunn
er gave the man a shove in the direction of the number one gun, and before he was out of range, followed with a vicious kick aimed at the departing sailor’s stern. This was accompanied by “I haven’t time to be nursemaidin’ you lubbers. Get your arse up there to number one and do what the gun captain tells you to do.”
By now, Clements was helping sort out the confusion and handled the confused landsmen much in the same way as his colleague. Between the two of them, and with the help of two lieutenants and three midshipmen who oversaw the confusion on the spardeck and aft on the gundeck, Constellation eventually came to quarters for the first time since going into her refit in Baltimore well into October, 1812. It was a long and painful process.
The guns were run in, loaded, and run out. Then they were fired. Had not the captains at each gun been experienced hands, God alone knew where the shot would have gone; likely not at the flotsom and jetsom drifting by, and while none of the guns scored hits, some were close. Tim Conoughy, experiencing his first taste of American gunnery, was grim in his determination to have his gun be the first to hit the target, but the lack of coordination and teamwork created havoc with his plan. And he couldn’t do it all himself, though it seemed he tried.
The surgeons and their mates were given the opportunity to exercise their own skills, and not in “dumb-show”; the steady stream of casualties from the great guns ranged from smashed fingers to, in one case, the need to amputate a lower leg from a sailor, a landsman, who slipped and fell right behind a gun carriage just as it fired. The recoil rolled the man’s leg nearly flat between the hard wheel of the gun and the unyielding deck; his screams could be heard over the cacophony of the gundeck, and many of the grimy, sweating and tired sailors momentarily stopped in mid-action what they were doing – until the gun captains brought their attentions back to the task at hand, and none too subtly at that. Attrition on the gun crews was high in this first drill, and it was a grim-faced Captain Stewart who silently took the reports on the quarterdeck as the midshipmen came aft to tell of mishap after mishap. His only response was an occasional shake of his head and a deeper frown.
They kept at it until dark. Captain Stewart delayed supper, determined to build some fighting capability into his ship. Tomorrow they would clear the Virginia Capes and it was certain that the British would be just beyond, lying in wait for any who dared attempt the run to open water. The letters he had received from both his fellow captains and the Secretary of the Navy warned him of the ever-tightening blockade at the mouth of the Chesapeake, and those same captains went on to warn him of the legendary proficiency of the skilled British gunners and expert ship handlers fresh from the war with France. A meeting with them would be disastrous unless he could bring some level of proficiency and fighting trim to his ship.
“Those fools in the rendezvous’ ought to be drawn and quartered, Cap’n. This crowd they sent us should be plowing their fields or joinin’ the militia, not trying to fight an American frigate. I am loath to admit it, but it appears to me that the best of the new men were those Brits we shipped in January. They act like they know what they’re doin’. Bosun Clements’ll work out’s well, I’ll warrant. If you are plannin’ to put into the yard at Gosport before we leave the Bay, we might pick up a few hands there with some sea time. Might be a vessel in ordinary there.” Lieutenant Lyon spoke as strongly as he dared to his commanding officer; as hard as he was on his subordinates, he maintained an air of concern to his superiors.
“I told you already, Mister Lyon, we are absolutely not going into Gosport; I aim to get Constellation to sea as quickly as ever possible and get her, and us, into this scrap. I can not let Constitution and United States do all the work; they need our help.” Stewart became incensed every time he read about yet another victory by the young American Navy. Not because he didn’t want to win this war – to be sure, no one had ever questioned his patriotism. He was consumed by his own need to fight ship to ship, and lived in daily fear that the war would end before he could realize his need, and achieve a crowning victory, assuring his rise to commodore. Just before sailing, Stewart got news of the brilliant victory won by the USS Constitution over the HMS Java off the coast of Brazil just prior to the turn of the year. Word had also been brought into Baltimore with the news that the hot-tempered James Lawrence had trapped a British sloop-of-war in a neutral harbor. The consensus was that it was only a matter of time before he lured her out to battle, and a likely victory for his little Hornet, which could easily lead to a greater command and accolades from his superiors. Stewart seethed at the unfairness of it all; he was a captain, commanding a thirty-eight-gun frigate, and as yet had not even seen a British ship. Neither a minor bit of damage nor some ice would hold him back, now that he had orders to sea. And he’d have a crew that could shoot into the bargain. Or kill them in the process.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Fire a gun to windward, Mister Coffin. Let ‘em know we mean business.” Hardly had the words cleared Captain Roger’s lips than the air was rent with a thunderous roar from the forward carronade. The crew had been at their action stations, with shot and powder at hand well before the order to clear for action had been given. Dinner, piped early, was fed and cleared in the space of half an hour. General Washington still carried full sail to her t’gallants, in case their quarry decided to run, and Captain Rogers had his topmen aloft ready to clew up the unnecessary canvas and reef the forecourse in the event of a fight.
In the space of three hours the two ships had closed, with General Washington coming on with rail under and a bone in her teeth. Now they paralleled the bark’s course, about a cannon shot off to weather and waited to see what reaction their gun to windward would bring.
“Looks like she’s fixin’ to show her colors, Cap’n. There they go…my God! She’s run up the American flag. Do you think it’s a ruse?” Starter Coffin stared intently at the bark as indeed, the Stars and Stripes whipped out at her mizzen peak.
“No, Mister Coffin, I don’t. I think it might be one of George Crowninshield’s ships headin’ for some port in Europe. Lookee there. On the foremast…isn’t that the Crowninshield’s house flag they just put up. I believe it is.” He watched for a moment, then ordered the colors hoisted on General Washington. “We’ll hand the t’gallants, now, Mister Coffin. Quick as ever you please, and let us ease her up and back the fore tops’l. Just in case I should be mistaken, however, we’ll remain at action stations with the leeward guns ready.” Asa Rogers was known to smoke a ruse from the best and he was taking no chances that the bark might have been captured and manned by a British prize crew who showed American colors and the Crowninshield house flag to confound the privateer.
Even as General Washington slowed from the reduction in sail, and the backed fore tops’l, the bark was backing her own tops’ls and brailing up fore and main courses, having already dropped her t’gallants. The two ships closed slightly, and the men on the privateer were disappointed that there would be no prize – and a rich prize indeed she would have made. A sizable figure could be seen stepping into the lower rigging of the bark’s mizzen with a speaking trumpet.
“That you, Asa? Thought you was still in Salem. Jack Leighton here.” The voice carried to windward with nary a word swept away, testimony to Leighton’s considerable lung power, consistent with his vast bulk.
“Good day to you, Jack. If you’ve the time, come aboard for a bite.” Rogers bellowed back to his friend, then lowering his voice, turned to his mate. “We’ll heave to, Mister Coffin. You may prepare to receive a boat alongside. I must be gettin’ old. I should have recognized Leighton’s Salem Lady. Been a Crowninshield ship since she was built back in the year eight. Jack Leighton’s a good friend and a solid seaman. Tried to get him to sail for me, few years back, but he wouldn’t have none of it. Came up from the deck in Crowninshield vessels; guess he figures he owes George and is going to stay. Hard to find that kind of loyalty in these times.” Rogers glanced aloft to satisfy himself that sails were being furled and
backed as appropriate to bring his vessel to more or less of a standstill. “And you may secure the men from quarters, now, Mister Coffin.”
The bark and the smaller brig lay hove to, rolling easily in the now gentle Atlantic swell, about a rifle shot apart. The General Washingtons watched as a boat was lowered and set off from the merchant ship carrying its captain, and made its way across the water. It occurred to Isaac that Captain Winston of Orpheus would have had the boat crew flogged for their sloppy oarsmanship, make no mistake; the British captain would not tolerate so much as a missed stroke in his cutter crew and whether out of fear or pride, it was rare indeed for the Orpheus boat crews to look less than sharp. The boat soon was bumping alongside and, after the man ropes were lowered, Jack Leighton’s round head, covered by neither hat nor hair despite the cold, appeared over the bulwark. His ponderous frame followed more quickly than one would expect and the merchant captain stepped onto the deck of the privateer. Rogers was there to greet him.
“I see you’re still taking your meals regular, Jack.” Asa smiled, knowing his friend would not take his jibe as an insult, but merely as the continuation of a long-standing joke between the two men.
“Aye, that I am. What surprises me is that you’re still takin’ ships to sea. A man your age ought to be settin’ on his arse in front of a warm fire this time o’ year, sippin’ a tankard and yarnin’ with his mates. Hardly fittin’ for an older gent such as yourself to be out here afore the warmth and easy breezes of spring.” Leighton laughed, and, the friendly banter over, followed Rogers aft to his cabin for dinner. As they neared the quarterdeck, the men standing aft of the main mast heard the visitor say, “Have you heard the news of the Constitution takin’ another British frigate?” Rogers stopped in his tracks, raising his bushy white eyebrows questioningly, as he turned to face his guest.
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 5