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

by William White

  The Prophet stroked his gray beard, looked at the heavens, and squinted his eyes down until they became little slits. He claimed it helped him think when the men had questioned him on it in the past. Now they accepted his “pre-prophecy” behavior without question. He had gained his reputation and nickname by a lucky guess made some years previously, and, among the naturally superstitious sailors, the story had grown until he was nearly a legend. Of course, he knew he couldn’t foretell the future, but he also knew that even a flogging would never make him admit that to his shipmates, He pondered the heavens, pressing his advantage, and the men waited. The silence was broken only by the whoosh of the privateer moving easily through the now quiet seas of the North Atlantic. The men looked expectantly at their strange shipmate, and waited. Finally, he spoke, his deep voice resonated as if from the bottom of the water barrel.

  “Mister Biggs is right. We be in for a spell o’ weather. Britishers’ gonna hurt us some – cut short the cruise – men gonna get ‘emselves kilt – others jest hurt some…prizes gonna get took.” A safe, if somewhat vague prophecy. He stopped and looked at one of the men with a penetrating stare.

  “Why you lookin’ at me like that, Prophet, you see somethin’ more? I’m gonna be one o’ the ones kilt, ain’t I? Come on, Prophet, tell me if I be the one…I can take it…mebbe do somethin’ ‘bout it into the bargain. It’s me, right?” Bill Watkins, known to his shipmates as Weasel in acknowledgment of his facial characteristics, was the resident pessimist and whiner, always assuming that he would be the one hurt or killed if anything on the ship went wrong. So far, he had been right, and the men thought of him as an albatross, bringing bad luck. So far it had affected only him, but one never knew. On the previous cruise, he had been knocked senseless by a sheet block inadvertently dropped from the foreyard; had it been dropped from the tops’l yard or higher, it would likely have killed him on the spot. As it was, he was nearly a week in a daze, and the captain thought him probably concussed. Another mischance in the same cruise involved a line which had fouled around his leg through his own carelessness and nearly dragged him overboard. Men naturally avoided him, with good cause.

  “I can’t tell who, Weasel, and all your whinin’ ain’t gonna change that. I was you, though, I’d watch my footin’, and pay mind to your mates.”

  “Yeah, Prophet, I know it’ll be me. You ain’t got to hide it. I can tell right from the way you lookin’ at me.” Watkins felt that in the light of the Prophet’s prediction, and with his own low self-esteem, he was the likely one to bring truth to the words.

  General Washington continued working her way north and slightly east. Rogers hoped to be in position to cut off the British merchant fleet as they bore off around the western end of Nova Scotia, or at least catch up to them before they got into the Bay of Fundy. The wind, however, was not cooperating. Lighter and lighter it became, making a frustrated Captain Rogers, Starter Coffin and the other mates pile on more and more canvas – even to the point of jury rigging temporary stu’ns’ls off the windward ends of both the main and fore yards. By dawn of the following day, the wind was non-existent. The canvas hung limply from the yards, not even the wrinkles in the corners were smoothed out. And dawn was a matter of speculation in itself; only by the sand glass and ship’s bell did any of the crew know that the morning watch had turned into the forenoon watch. The day didn’t seem to brighten so much as merely become less dark.

  “Well, Mister Biggs, we done all we can do to get after that fleet; either we are in the right spot or we ain’t. I am guessin’ they are still ahead of us. That trail of garbage we sailed through earlier had to o’ been from them ships, so they’s likely somewhere not too far ahead. Short of draggin’ the General with the boats, I done all I can to get us some prizes. We’ll have to wait and see if this wind’ll pick up again.” Captain Rogers paused in his ruminations, then continued. “Course, if they’re anywhere near, they ain’t movin’ either, so what we got right now is kind of a stand-off.”

  Isaac respectfully nodded, uttering a quiet “Aye, sir.” He looked around the ship, noting the men standing idle in the waist, the lookouts perched at the foretop and the maintop, and the two men resting on the ship’s wheel behind him. The captain was right; there was nothing more to do except wait for the wind to return. The gloominess of the day did nothing to add to their spirits, and, with the uncertainty of their position relative to the British fleet and the total lack of wind, General Washington was not a happy ship.

  Then it started to snow; a few flakes fluttering down, large and wet. It didn’t stick to anything on board – the decks and spars were still too salty. It was a novelty, and the men, having little to do to sail the ship, began acting like children, running about the decks with their tongues sticking out, trying to catch the snow flakes. Rogers watched them impassively, his mind on more weighty matters; let them have their amusement now, they’d be too busy for silly games if ever they found the British. Biggs, while not joining in – it was beneath his position as a mate and furthermore, having grown up in New England, snow was not a novelty to him – was amused by the antics of the men. He heard one shout out, “If this is the ‘weather’ Mister Biggs and the Prophet was talkin’ ‘bout, we kin take it an’ morel”

  The third mate laughed aloud as he watched Watkins chase a falling snowflake, trip over the unseen breeching tackle of a forward carronade, and fall full length on deck, face first. He pushed himself up, and immediately the well-known whine issued from his bleeding mouth; he had bitten his tongue, but it didn’t inhibit the noise one bit. Of course, the men laughed at his plight. He only increased his complaints, which covered everything from the fool who had not stowed the breeching tackle right (it was exactly where it belonged) to the men watching his antics and laughing.

  “Deck, deck there! I got a sail, wind’ard bow – I mean leeward bow – hell – ain’t no wind’ard or leeward. Off the larboard bow, ‘bout two points. Looks like more ‘n’ one, but I cain’t be sure.” The lookout in the maintop was alert, and immediately all the bantering and cavorting on deck stopped. In a flash, Isaac Biggs, former topman, was in the rigging, heading for the cap of the topmast, well above the position occupied by the lookout, and a better vantage point.

  “They’s more for sure, Cap’n!” he yelled as soon as he reached the lofty perch. “I can count six – mebbe more. ‘pears they’s headed more northerly, but near’s I can tell, they ain’t got any more wind ‘n we do.”

  “How far off do you make them, Mister Biggs?” The captain was clearly agitated, and impatient for the information he needed to determine a course of action.

  “Five, mebbe six leagues – looks like.” Biggs responded loud enough to be heard on deck, and then started down. As he passed the lookout at the mastcap, he heard the man mutter, “Might as well be a hunnert for all the good it’ll do us. We ain’t goin’ nowhere without no breeze o’ wind.”

  “Stow that talk, sailor, and move your arse up to the topmast so’s you can see them ships. Let the deck know quick as ever you can should they be any change in what they’s doin.” Biggs didn’t know the man, but he was not about to brook any grumbling this early in the cruise. He clapped onto the main backstay and dropped hand-over-hand to the break of the quarterdeck.

  “Pass the word for Mister Coffin, if you please.” Obviously Captain Rogers had come up with a plan and throughout the vessel; voices called out for the flrst mate, who hurried on the quarterdeck still buttoning his heavy pea coat.

  “Mister Coffin, I’ll have the longboat and the cutter put in the water, if you please, and see to rigging some hawsers for’ard; we’ll be towing the General into her first engagement of the cruise, it would appear, so step lively.” Hardly had the captain finished his instruction when Starter Coffin was off to the waist of the brig, issuing orders and reinforcing his word with the ubiquitous quirt across the backs and shoulders of anyone foolish enough to move too slowly. Lifting tackles were rigged to the mainyard and the cutter
first, followed by the longboat, were lifted, swung out, and lowered alongside into the calm, slate gray water of the February North Atlantic.

  Simultaneously, under the supervision of the third mate, two large hawsers were dragged up from the orlop deck and made fast to the anchor bitts on either side of the fo’c’sle. Their ends were fed through holes in the forward bulwark alongside the inboard end of the bowsprit, and left in readiness for dropping into the boats when the order was given. Snow continued to fall, increasing in intensity; it began to stick to some surfaces on the ship, but was not yet more than a minor inconvenience.

  The boats were manned and moved forward to positions under the bows, where Biggs ordered the towing lines to be lowered and made fast in each; then the hard work was begun. The boats rowed out to the limit of the tow lines and jerked to a stop; the oarsmen continued to pull, spurred on by the curses and shouts of both the coxswains and the men on the bow of the privateer. Slowly, the lines again became taut, and the efforts of the men in the boats told; General Washington was moving forward. Word was passed up from the captain, and the course was changed a point to larboard, toward the British fleet.

  “Mister Tompkins, Mister Biggs, we’ll take in all sail, now, if you please. It will lower our resistance and make it easier for the men pulling the boats. I ‘spect it will also make it more difficult for a lookout to see us, should one be so inclined as to look.”

  Within a few minutes, the yards and upper masts of General Washington were bare, the sails clewed or brailed up as appropriate, but ready to let go should a breeze appear. The men on deck queued up for the opportunity to relieve the men rowing; no one could long maintain much of a pace, and it was Rogers’ desire to close with the British fleet as quickly as possible – and quietly.

  “Mister Coffin, we’ll have silence fore and aft, if you please. No point at all in letting ‘em know we’re out here. With this snow, I’d strongly doubt they’d see us at any distance at all, but there’s nothing to be gained from lettin’ ‘em hear us caterwaulin’ and jabberin’ afore we’re ready to board ‘em.” He stopped, and seeing Starter Coffin drawing in a great breath, added, “And quietly, Mister Coffin.”

  The mate let out his breath and motioned for Will Dobson, the ship’s bosun, to approach the quarterdeck. In what was sotto voce for him, Coffin told Dobson to move up the starboard side of the brig ordering quiet, while he, Coffin, would do the same on the larboard side. The two men started forward, leaving open-mouthed men, stopped in mid-word, but quiet, in their wake. And the privateer moved inexorably forward toward the snow-shrouded British fleet, dragged by her boats like an unwilling child to church. The Atlantic remained docile; just a rolling swell reminded one that indeed they were at sea, as the surface was glass-like as far as anyone could see into the now heavily falling snow.

  * * * * * *

  A single curious seagull offered its maniacal laugh to the stricken Constellation. It circled, and soon another joined it, then another, and another until a dozen and more were soaring through the rigging, loosing broadsides of ridicule at the earth-bound humans struggling to free their ship. Occasionally, one bird would dive through the cold gray mist to the mirror-like surface and pluck a hapless minnow from the schools of fish swimming in false security around the ship. The success of one encouraged others and soon the great white and gray sea birds were all swooping and soaring and screaming around the frigate.

  The sailors, engaged still in lightening the ship in an effort to refloat her, glanced jealously at the birds as they drifted effortlessly in and out of the heavy mist. Since before the noon meal, all hands had been dragging provisions and stores up from the holds where they had only days before been stowed in anticipation of a lengthy commission. The water around Constellation was littered with the bags and barrels, casks, and hogsheads containing the sustenance of the three-hundred-man crew, and a trail of the same gave unnecessary evidence of the still falling tide. The efforts at lightening ship would ensure a visit to Gosport as soon as the frigate was refloated for replacement stores, in spite of Captain Stewart’s best intentions. An hour later, new orders issued forth from the quarterdeck.

  “Mister Lyon, you may start the fresh water, if you please. We seem to need yet more lightening, if we are to float her off this cursed bar, and I am not wont to jettison our guns, especially since we…” Cap’n Stewart’s words trailed off as he began to see his career, dull though it had been, cut short with little likelihood of the necessary ship to ship combat he dreamt of. First, the British barred his access to open water with an overwhelming force, and now this. Ill-starred, indeed, he thought grim-faced as he instructed his first lieutenant to pump overboard the ship’s entire supply of fresh water.

  A small boat put out from Lynnhaven Bay and headed for his stranded vessel. The deck watch, as well as the lookout at the fore cross trees, saw it and duly announced its appearance to the quarterdeck. As it approached, a man stood in the bows, waving his arms and shouting.

  “Wonder what he’s so all-fired excited about. There’s little more that can go wrong, unless they’re British and plan on taking Constellation with that little boat!” Lieutenant Lyon’s dismay at their situation transmitted itself to all around him, but this time, his concern was for naught. The man in the bow of the small sailing vessel shouted again and, this time, made himself heard on the frigate.

  “I would imagine you’re gonna need a pilot to come much further up the bay, Cap’n. An’ I’m it, right now. May I come aboard?”

  “Aye, and welcome. I could have used your services five or six hours ago, it seems.” Stewart’s voice lost none of its irony as it traveled to the little sloop bobbing alongside the frigate, its shallow draft allowing it to float easily where the warship was stranded.

  “Tide’ll be nigh on full in another few hours, Cap’n, and we’ll float you right off’n here then easy as kiss my hand.” The short, rotund man clambered over the bulwark at the waist, an apparently perpetual smile splitting the gray beard that covered the lower half of his face. His pale blue eyes glistened with glee, either at the prospect of an employment, or merely because of his outlook on life, for he seemed filled, as far as Captain Stewart was concerned, with a most annoying good humor. Then, of course, it wasn’t his ship stuck on this cursed bar.

  “Thank God for that, then. I have jettisoned most of our stores and started the fresh water. I reckon we’ll need get to Fort Norfolk to replace what we lost. What news do you have of them vessels off the Cape, sir?” Stewart still hoped for an escape from the confines of Chesapeake Bay.

  “It’ll be no trouble to take you into Norfolk, Cap’n, and I reckon they’ll have plenty o’ stores for you; not many needin’ ‘em these days. You seen the reason right out yonder. Them Brits’ve had the opening there closed up tighter ‘en a Scotsman’s purse for the last month an’ more, and they’ve even had the brass to sail right into Lynnhaven and anchor…like they was darin’ some to come out. No, sir. Ain’t no ship got out o’ the Bay in weeks. They even chased a few of our gunboats back into the harbor, if’n you can imagine that. An’ ain’t nothin’ we can do about it, neither. Yes, sir. I’d be bettin’ you’ll be spendin’ more time ‘an ever you thought likely right there in Norfolk.” Even the gloomy news the pilot was offering did not erase the seemingly ever-present smile from his round face, a sharp contrast to the expression worn by the frigate’s captain, as he turned and led the newcomer aft to the quarterdeck.

  The work of pumping out the remaining supply of the ship’s fresh water continued apace in anticipation of the evening’s high tide and expected increase in the breeze. The weather had not worsened but continued gray and dismal, a hint of rain showing itself in the hanging mist, making the air seem even colder. The darkness deepened ever so gradually. By the time the men were finished eating their evening meal, full dark had descended on the stranded ship. There was the occasional indication that she soon would float free, however, and preparations were begun to take advantage of the
opportunity.

  “We’ll have the boats in the water, if you please, Mister Clements, and smartly. See that they’re equipped with lanterns and have the crews stand by for orders.” Lieutenant Lyon had been privy to the conversation between the pilot and Captain Stewart, and was not going to waste a moment in the preparation to get Constellation swimming once again. And the crew, remembering the close approach of the British blockaders just prior to their taking the hard, worked through their exhaustion, cold, wet, and miserable.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Vast heavin’ there. Boats come alongside.” The hoarse whisper of Mister Coffin was quiet, but none-the-less heard in the two boats. The crews immediately backed their oars to take the strain off the hawsers, and then turned the boats to larboard, dropping the heavy, water-logged ropes as they did so. The fo’c’sle crew clapped onto the ice-encrusted towlines and ran aft, pulling the lines aboard with alacrity, guided quietly by the third mate. The General slipped silently forward, its momentum slowly carrying it well past the two boats, their crews now obligated to row up to where the brig coasted to a stop. Nobody shouted, or even talked unnecessarily, as with the nearest British ship less than a league away – or so the captain hoped – the slightest noise would have given them away. The snow continued falling with a vengeance, blotting out anything much beyond fifty or sixty feet away; the wind remained non-existent. Occasionally, a brief break in the snow gave a glimpse of dim ghostly shapes, all that could be seen of the British merchant fleet.

  With the last boat crews back aboard and, after giving them time to guzzle their extra ration of spirits, the mates quietly assembled the men in the waist. Captain Rogers stepped forward on the quarterdeck to address them, keeping his voice low enough so that the men standing in the rear ranks had to strain to hear what was being said.

  “My intention is to use the boats and execute a ‘cutting-out’ operation on the merchants. If necessary, we will engage the escort with the General, but on our terms, not theirs.” The captain’s quiet voice held the men mesmerized, both by the audacity of his plan, and the thought of the rich prizes they would have before this day was ended. He continued.