“Not a word have I heard, and we only left Salem a matter of days ago. The news must have come in after we sailed. What can you tell me?” The men on deck stopped what they were doing to take in the response.
“Aye. I guess it wouldn’t have made it to Salem yet. I got the news in Newport just as we were makin’ sail. Seems we sunk another one of their frigates – down off South America it was. Word has it Commodore Bainbridge on Constitution caught HMS Java and they wasn’t enough left to sail into a neutral port – had to burn her where she lay, he did. An’ young Jim Lawrence – he’s got the Hornet you recollect – got some Britisher bottled up in one o’ them ports down there. ‘Sposed to have a load of specie on board. Now that’ll make a right plum prize, you ask me. Only a matter of time afore he takes her into the bargain.”
The men around them made no secret of their eavesdropping, and suddenly, one shouted out, “Let’s have three cheers for Old Ironsides, boys. Looks like she done it again.” A chorus of “Huzzahs” went up, and when it died out, another sailor yelled, “How ‘bout three for a New Jersey boy, Cap’n Lawrence and Hornet!”
“Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah” came the somewhat weaker response from the few New Jersey men in the crew, and the two captains, smiling, disappeared below.
After the two captains had taken their ease below, and eaten some of the dinner Rogers’ steward had prepared, they returned on deck and Captain Leighton nodded to a few of the men on deck as he waddled to the waist and clambered over the bulwark to his waiting boat. The privateer captain leaned over his quarterdeck rail and shouted to his friend below.
“Jack, a safe voyage to you, my friend. And thankee most kindly for the news – both about the Constitution’s success, and the British fleet out of Halifax. We’ll get together when next I return to Salem.”
Rogers watched as the boat landed alongside Salem Lady and turned to Starter Coffin, standing by the wheel.
“Mister Coffin, We’ll get under way now. Make all sail to the t’gallants, and make your course north a half east. There’s some British merchants need our attention, maybe a day and a half’s sail. Less if the breeze holds sou’westerly and picks up a trifle.”
“Aye, sir. Mister Biggs you may take the quarterdeck. I’ll see to gettin’ some of the hands aloft and some sail on her.” With that, the mate stepped to the waist of the ship and began bellowing at the sailors clustering there. “You lubbers heard the captain. Let’s get some sail on her. They’s a bunch o’ Britishers out there, askin’ for us to take ‘em as prizes. Topmen, get your lazy arses up aloft and shake out some canvas. You heavers, clap a hand on them halyards and stand by to take a strain. Look like you been at sea more ‘n’ five minutes.” Each command to each group was accompanied by a vicious swing from the hemp starter which landed athwart the slowest of the men. The starter and the mate’s words had the desired effect.
General Washington leaned her shoulder into the diminishing seas and, responding to the trimmed canvas aloft, leapt ahead, seemingly as eager as was her crew, to pursue the potential prizes sailing from Halifax, Nova Scotia.
* * * * * *
“Deck, there, deck ahoy. I kin see a light a p’int an’ some off’n the larboard bow. Could be more ‘n one vessel.” The lookout hailed from the foretop and was rewarded with a shouted but unintelligible response from Constellation’s quarterdeck. Within minutes, the midshipman of the watch was beside him at the mastcap. Together they peered into the blackness of the pre-dawn night, unable to discern where water ended and sky began. No stars shone to aid their search, and after several minutes of straining, both the young mid and the seaman saw the glimmer simultaneously. And then another, and still another.
The midshipman panted out his report when he returned to the quarterdeck, and was summarily sent to announce the discovery to the captain. Moments later Stewart was addressing the ship’s third lieutenant who had the watch on the quarterdeck.
“Mister Martinsen, even though this breeze appears to be dyin’ off some, we’ll do well to shorten down and hold a position here until the dawn shows us what it is we’ve got out there. I would reckon they’ll be British, but until I know the strength of my adversary, I’m not inclined to engage.” Captain Stewart looked at his pocket watch, holding it to catch the dim glow of the binnacle light, and went on. “We can expect to have the first light of day in not more than two hours, and they will be silhouetted against the lightening sky. We’ll bring her up some, and shorten down to tops’ls and jibs, if you please.” The orders were being passed on even as Stewart turned and left the deck.
The dawn showed low clouds and only a gradual easing of the darkness: ugly weather threatened. The watch had Constellation once again headed toward Cape Charles and the open sea. But there was no sign of any vessel, hostile or friendly. Captain Stewart was not about to rush headlong for the relatively narrow opening, and maintained the shortened sail set during the last hours of darkness. The ship was at quarters, guns loaded, run out and slow matches lit to back up the untried new firing locks on the twenty-four-pounder cannons. The men peered out the gun ports and over the spardeck bulwarks, looking for the enemy. Some, mostly the landsmen, faced the unknown in grim silence, at the same time realizing that they likely could be facing death. Others chattered about the capabilities of the Royal Navy, its ships and its gunners, and, with perhaps some false bravado, came to the conclusion that Constellation, even with its less than capable crew, would prevail. All however, asked each other repeatedly, “Where are them bast’ds? Whyn’t they show themselves?”
“Deck…deck, there! Sails to wind’ard. I got four…no five sail comin’ out from the headland to weather. Two p’ints they are off the weather bow.” Dead silence followed the lookout’s hail. Bravado with no enemy in sight is one thing; five enemy ships bearing down is quite another. Then bedlam broke out on the gundeck, and was quickly brought under control by the lieutenants and midshipmen in charge of gun batteries.
On the quarterdeck, the response was completely professional; Lieutenant Lyon grabbed a glass and sprang into the mizzen rigging, scrambling aloft. He perched at the mizzen top with the glass to his eye. Captain Stewart, waiting for his firstto return to the deck with an appraisal of the situation, worked on his options in dealing with certainly five and potentially more of the blockading ships. His ego and his common sense clashed. Lieutenant Lyon returned quickly to find his captain standing stiffly at the wind’ard rail, his long glass under his arm, and the knuckles on his hand white with the tension of his grip. He did not turn as the first lieutenant approached his back.
“Well?”
“Aye, sir. I seen five at about seven miles, by my estimate. At least two and quite possibly three of ‘em are line o’ battle ships; seventy-four’s, I’d reckon. The other’ll be a fifth rate an’ one – keepin’ a position closer in – appeared to be a schooner. One of the line o’ battle ships is showin’ a blue pendant at her main truck. They are headin’ about south, likely out of Hampton and could string out to Willoughby Bay easy as kiss my hand; I’d say we might have a problem.” Lieutenant Lyon’s report, for all its completeness, was delivered in a flat, unemotional tone that, while in keeping with his professional demeanor and calm exterior, masked his own inner turmoil. He kept a very tight rein on the uncertainty coursing through his mind, a natural blend of great anticipation and fear. The only action he had experienced personally was in Tripoli in the year four. This promised to overshadow that by a wide margin. And he knew well that Captain Stewart desperately wanted to fight.
Let it not be against these odds, he silently prayed, when first we do battle. These lads can barely get sail on her and run out the guns.
“I can not, in good conscience, attempt a running fight through that fleet. It would be suicidal,” the Captain decided. “We will come about, Mister Lyon, and set a course for Lynnhaven. And hope what little breeze we have will hold. You may make all plain sail, if you please.”
Lieutenant Lyon audibly release
d the breath he had been holding, and issued the necessary orders without delay. Prudently, the men were kept at the guns as the frigate tacked around and set more sail. Aloft, the topmen discussed the situation.
“Them Britishers gonna come in after us, Coleman, Jake predicted. “Lookee there, three of ‘em bore off already, and that schooner’s makin’ some time.”
“Jake, I reckon even this crew kin take on a schooner without worry. It’s that frigate what concerns me. I spent most o’ me life on fifth an’ sixth rate ships, and I can tell you, if that one gets her long guns close enough, we’re gonna be in for it, an’ make no mistake. We can only ‘ope that they ain’t got no better a breeze than we do in ‘ere. Likely Cap’n Stewart’s runnin’ for some protection somewhere; ‘ope we find it sooner than later.”
The two topmen were sharing their views with the other men hanging over the foreyard, each casting a wary eye on the hostile ships to wind’ard from time to time. The view provided inspiration for efficiency in setting additional sail, and all the topmen responded to it, praying all the while that the breeze, what little there was of it, would hold for Constellation, but abandon their British pursuers.
Their work done, the topmen stayed at their post aloft, and from time to time, announced to the deck what the British men of war were up to. They were first to notice that the schooner and the closest frigate, apparently a thirty-eight-gun vessel like themselves, were in fact gaining ground on the American frigate.
“This breeze is close enough to gone as to not matter a lick, Robert. And you watch them Brits, they’re still showin’ sails full. They’re comin’, and they ain’t a damned thing we kin do about it.” Tate voiced the concern that every soul aloft was feeling; no other had spoken it in the hope that, unvoiced, it their fears would not be realized. Indeed, the two closest enemy ships were gaining. The breeze further offshore, albeit light and shifty, was still a breeze and Constellation’s sails hung limply from her yards, slack and flaccid in the cold, gray, still Virginia morning. The safe haven of Hampton Roads, though in sight, might as well have been across the Atlantic.
“Mister Clements, we’ll have the longboat in the water, if you please. And have a kedge anchor prepared at the bow.” The first lieutenant’s voice drifted aloft, and the topmen watched as sailors were pulled from their stations at the guns to unlash and lower the boat at the bosun’s direction. Still others worked feverishly on the foc’s’le securing the heavy kedge anchor to a long cable which was led to the capstan amidships.
“We’re gonna drag ‘er with the anchor, Jake. I surely do ‘ope they kin do it quick enough to keep ahead o’ that schooner. She looks nigh on quick on ‘er feet as old Glory was; you ‘member that privateer schooner I was tellin’ you about – the one what picked me an’ Tim Conoughy off that prize down in the Indies?” Coleman took his eyes of the British schooner and glanced at his new friend for a sign of recognition.
“Aye, Robert, that fast vessel the bosun come off’n, right? I still ain’t figgered out why you three an’ that other cove what’s up in New England didn’t stay aboard; she sounded like a right fine vessel, and the prize shares musta bin better ‘en you’re gonna get here.” Tate had listened as the British topman had shared his experiences.
“That’s the one, an’ I tol’ you already why we shipped into the Navy. Ain’t allowed for British sailors to sail them private warships. Besides, I’m a topman, an’ ol’ Tim, ‘e’s a gunner; warn’t no real work aloft on that schooner, and they wasn’t but a few guns – little ones at that. Tim wanted to get back to what ‘e knows, an’ ‘e sure couldn’t go back to the Royal Navy – they’da had his arse flogged ‘round the fleet for desertion and takin’ up arms ‘gainst ‘is Majesty. An’ I ain’t never ‘eard o’ anyone livin’ through that. I don’t know what was in Clements’ mind, but ‘ere ‘e is an’ not doin’ bad for ‘isself.”
The longboat, after a great deal of travail, raised voices, and a few well-placed kicks, was finally in the water, manned and stationary under the bow of the frigate. On the fo’c’sle deck, men were lowering the kedge anchor into the stern sheets of the boat. From aloft, the topmen watched as the boat pulled ahead of Constellation, and on signal from the bosun, manhandled the anchor overboard. They rowed clear and waited. On the order of the first lieutenant, a strain was taken by the men on the windlass and slowly the big frigate began to slide through the water in the direction of Gosport and Fort Norfolk. Silently, the men watched, casting their glances occasionally at the British ships to seaward. After a while, it became apparent to even the most casual observer that the wind had played its fickle tricks on the British as well. Now the American frigate, solely through the muscle of her sailors, was drawing ahead and getting closer to the safety of the Virginia shore.
“You ain’t told us why you signed into the Navy yet, Tate. You coulda’ bin sailin’ them merchants outa’ warm ports and made a decent pound in the bargain. Why would a smart cove like you give that up?” With safety within their grasp tensions eased, the men aloft began to pass the time talking and yarning. Coleman was interested in his shipmate’s experiences.
“Robert, the life in the merchantmen wasn’t bad as some say. You’re right about that, and I likely might have stayed sailin’ ‘em ‘ceptin’ the work was gettin’ more scarce and more dangerous; your countrymen didn’t seem to have no care ‘bout stoppin’ an American vessel and helpin’ ‘emselves to her crew. Claimed they was British. Even when we had papers protectin’ us from that. Why I recollect one o’ those bastards off’n a line o’ battle ship even took up the papers we had and tore ‘em up – claimed they was false. Took four of our jacks into the bargain, they did, and put ‘em right aboard that British ship sayin’ the coves they took was British an’ hidin’ out on an American vessel. Then too, they was precious little shippin’ out there. You Brits got the coast pretty well closed up, and they ain’t many what get out. Ships lyin’ dockside all over – New York to Charleston I’m told. Cain’t get a cargo, and cain’t get out if’n they got one. If’n we weren’t sailin’ or loadin’, they wasn’t no pay, and sailors got to eat too, so I figgered this was reg’lar pay, sailin’ or no, and work’s pretty much the same. Might get a prize share into the bargain.” Tate paused, looking around the horizon and gauging the gain Constellation’s kedging was making over her pursuers. Almost as an afterthought he added, “and there was Charity. She…well, I guess that’s all done with now.” Tate made a sour face, then shook his head. Coleman and two of his fellow foretopmen sensed a potentially interesting story and pounced on Jake like dogs on a bone.
“What do you mean, Jake, ‘that’s all done with,’ an’ who’s Charity? Why would she make you go to sea on a navy ship?” One of the topmen, Sam Johnson, winked at Coleman as he pestered young Tate for more of the story.
“Well, she was jest a girl I knew once near Baltimore. Ain’t nothing you coves need know about. You think we’re making ground on them Britishers, looks to me like we might stay outta their range, we keep on kedgin’ like we doin’.” He tried to distract his shipmates from their quest to find out about this piece of his past.
“Aye, looks like we’re not gonna fight this day, less’n they…” Coleman’s words were cut off by a sudden grinding noise from below, and a lurch from the ship that threatened to dislodge them from their perches.
“I’ll be damned, she’s took the ground. Lieutenant Lyon’s put us on the hard.” Johnson grabbed onto the slack clewline to maintain his balance. The Constellation suddenly stopped all forward motion. The footropes on which the men were standing swung forward causing all of them to grab onto to whatever was handy to stay aloft. Naturally, once the topmen were again secure on the spar, they looked as one toward the British fleet, and were gratified to see both the frigate and the schooner had given up the chase and hauled their wind to head back to their patrol stations at the mouth of the Bay. The men were called back to their present situation with an order from below.
“Tak
e in all sail. Clew up courses and tops’ls.” The sailing master’s voice carried easily to the foretop, and the men waited while the heavers on deck hauled the clewlines, pulling the corners of the slack canvas up and into the center of the yard. Then they gathered the stiff, heavy sail and passed brails around the sail and the yard, effectively holding the sail up. The process was repeated on the tops’ls and the ship sat, “on the hard” under bare poles, a mile off Lynnhaven Bay.
CHAPTER SIX
“What’s that mean, Isaac – a ring around the sun? Ain’t seen such a thing before.” Tight-Fisted Smith, while an experienced seaman, seemed puzzled by the phenomenon that Third Mate Biggs had casually mentioned moments before while he stood with a few men on the deck of the racing General Washington.
“I’d say it looks like we’re gonna be in for a spell of weather, you ask me. Last time I saw a ring like that around the sun, we had some o’ the nastiest weather I ever sailed in – rain so hard you couldn’t see the headsails, and lasted for a couple of days, it did. To make it worse, they wasn’t no wind to speak of, just rain comin’ down like someone was pourin’ water out of a bucket. Course, that was down in the Indies, so maybe it don’t mean the same up here, but I reckon we’ll see somethin’ dirty.”
“How ‘bout it, Prophet. What do you think? We in for some dirty weather – and how ‘bout them Britishers – we gonna take us some prizes?” Tight-Fisted Smith wasn’t going to give up. He, like the other men in the group, figured what’s the use of having someone aboard who can see the future without asking his thoughts on the weighty matter at hand?
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 6