“Don’t you worry none ‘bout that, Tim. Mister Blanchard got it all figgered out. Said somethin’ ‘bout New York or Connecticut, depending on where we could get in.”
“Aye, an’ it’s righty-oh you are. I guess it ain’t for me to worry ‘bout. It’s surely a puzzle to Missus Conoughy’s boy, though, why I can not get meself on a vessel with some guns. Seems they ain’t been but a moment or two when I coulda done some good ever since I left the service of the King. Thought I was gonna be righty-oh on that frigate, and now this. What ‘appens when we get to New York or the other place you mentioned?”
“Reckon they’ll tell us then, Tim. Right now, we got other things to get done. Think that little gun’ll fire if’n we need her?”
“Aye, she’ll be a firin’, for all the good it’ll do. One gun…and a wee little four-pounder inta the bargain…what do they ‘spect me to do with this?” This last was under his breath. Tim had volunteered for the berth on the schooner, but was beginning to have doubts. Well, at least he was at sea, and not holed up in Norfolk with all them other coves. And he might get a real warship that might even get to sea when they got into wherever it was Clements said.
The wind backed later that afternoon and, as Clements had predicted, flattened the waves as it filled in from the northwest. The sunset, when it came, was brilliant red, orange, and violet and turned the clouds remaining from the storm into an artist’s palette; the colors reflected onto the sea, giving the steady ground swell an eerie, molten appearance.
They sailed to the north, keeping a sharp lookout for any vessels – American to warn, and British to run from; the crew fell into a comfortable routine. And Jonas Blanchard ran a taut ship. He knew he had a fine crew, and looked to this commission as his stepping stone to lieutenant.
CHAPTER NINE
By the end of the second dog watch, the snow had eased considerably. And, while not yet blowing with any enthusiasm, the wind was showing signs of filling in. Most important, it was apparent that the General Washingtons’ presence on the British merchantman remained undiscovered.
“Biggs! Lookee there.” Captain Dickerson was pointing up to a bright green light shining eerily in the diminishing snow.
“I’ll warrant that’s Dobson and Hardy firin’ off a rocket for Cap’n Rogers. I guess we better do the same. That all right with you, Cap’n?” Biggs received a nod and “Aye, let’s get it done” from the taciturn prize master. Isaac called quietly for Smith and gave the order to fire the rocket they had brought for signaling the General Washington. With a muted whoosh, the rocket left a fiery trail from the quarterdeck of Hopewell into the cold night air; it burst into a brilliant green flare and floated down, leaving behind a shower of sparks, and extinguished itself in the sea astern.
“That surely was quick; you think they seen it on the Gen’l?” Smith looked at Isaac, his concern apparent to Biggs even in the dark. It was Dickerson, close by, who responded quietly.
“Sure hope so. And I hope the lookouts on Shannon missed it.” He turned to his acting first mate and continued. “Isaac, you better ought to figger on that frigate or whatever it is doin’ somethin’ ‘bout them rockets. I don’t reckon these vessels would be afirin’ off green rockets without they’d tell them Navy coves what they was about. Only question in my mind is whether the breeze’ll fill in afore they figger out where they come from. Mayhaps we ought to have a look at them cannon for’ard there and…” His sentence ended as he realized the futility of them taking on the Royal Navy with the four puny six-pounders mounted on rolling carriages amidships and on the foc’s’le. In actual fact, they were reduced to three, as Isaac had had one of the guns loaded with grape shot and a half charge of powder and aimed into the hold to discourage any ideas the British crew might have about re-taking their vessel. A man was stationed at the gun with a lit slow match and orders to fire should a rush up the ladder be attempted.
“I have an idea might help us out should them Britishers decide to have a look at us.” Biggs started off forward, taking Smith with him, and calling for several others to help him. Dickerson heard him sending a man to the ship’s magazine for a half keg of powder as Isaac began to shape a plan which might thwart the Royal Navy if there was to be an encounter. And the snow was beginning to ease considerably; the occasional star could be seen peeking through what remained of the overcast. The wind would be picking up shortly, Dickerson hoped. His experience in these waters told him it had been too long indeed, especially in late February, for there to be little or no wind; it just didn’t happen that way here. The prize master quietly called a handful of men to get aloft and set t’gallants and stays’ls. He finished his instructions with “…and look lively while you’re about it. No point in waiting ‘til that frigate’s smoked our ruse to make sail. We need to get this barky asailin’.
“You men in the waist: stand by the halyards and heave with a will. Soon’s them t’gallants are up, clap a hand on them braces. Wind’s comin’ right soon.” Prize Master Dickerson had as much hope as fact in his orders, and, if will alone could have sailed that brig out from under the British noses, she would already be away and gone.
“Ahoy there, ‘opewell. Everything righty-oh with you?” The distinctly English voice cut through the darkness and caused absolute silence on the quarterdeck of the American prize. The handful of men there and the others forward looked at each other, wide-eyed. After what seemed a lifetime, but in fact was only a few heartbeats, Isaac responded, imitating a British voice as best as his two years in the Royal Navy allowed.
“Boat ahoy. Everything is quite fine now the bloody snow has nearly stopped – at least it would be if a breeze would fill in. Who are you, sir, and ‘ow can we ‘elp you?”
“I am Lieutenant ‘owell, of’n the frigate Shannon. We saw the rockets and Captain Broke thought you might be ‘avin’ a problem. Did you fire them off?”
“Aye, Lieutenant. We saw them as well, but sorry to say we can’t be of ‘elp to you; they did not come from us. All is quite well here, save the lack of a breeze. Is Shannon far?”
The last question was ignored by the lieutenant from HMS Shannon as he continued his own interrogation. “Would you be so kind as to tell me, sir, why you are trailing your boats astern…” The question was interrupted by a cry from the window directly below the quarterdeck. “You damn fools. It’s the bloody Americans – they’ve taken my vessel and…” The alarm was cut off mid-sentence by a shot, and the night was suddenly filled with a ringing silence.
Dickerson wasted not a moment before he leaped for the scuttle and the cabin; obviously something had gone very wrong. Opening the door he was greeted by the acrid odor of spent powder and the sight of the captain slumped on the sea chest under the quarter gallery. The window gaped open, and the seaman who had been left as a guard stood stunned in the middle of the small room. This tableau was lit by a single oil lamp, flickering on the writing desk. Through the open window, the prize master could hear most of the continuing and decidedly one-sided conversation with the Royal Navy boat. What he heard was not boding well; in spite of Isaac’s efforts to dissuade them, the Navy insisted on coming alongside and boarding the merchantman.
“I didn’t mean to kill him honest to God he jumped for that window an’ afore I could stop him had it open and was ahollerin’ at them coves in the boat I ain’t never kilt nobody afore Cap’n, I don’t know what went wrong, I was watchin’ him just like you said …” Dickerson put up his hand to stop the torrent of words, recalling he was one of the two landsmen in the boarding party; his inexperience had been apparent to the British captain as well. The sailor was not going to be much help for a while.
Leaving the babbling sailor, Prize Master Dickerson moved directly to the side of the ship’s captain; he picked up the lamp from the desk as he passed and, holding it high, studied the Englishman.
“He’s not dead; the ball cut his scalp, and must have knocked him senseless. Damn fool shouldn’t have tried that. But I reckon he’ll live – or at leas
t he likely won’t perish from this wound.” He moved the man so he was sitting more or less erect and propped him up against the corner of the window, which he now closed and latched. “Bind him up so we don’t have another problem should he come to his senses afore we’re away from this mess. See about some line or rip up that shirt there into strips.”
The man was still babbling as he had when first the master had entered the cabin. Dickerson relieved him of the pistol and threw the captain’s shirt at him. “Tear this into strips and tie his hands and feet right good now. Better tie one across his mouth so he don’t yell out as well. Look lively about it.” He hoped that giving the man a job of work to do would be most effective in returning him to his senses; with the short crew he had to call upon, they could ill afford a single man who didn’t pull his weight. Dickerson then ran for the ladder, pounding his way up to see if he could regain control over the situation on deck.
Once on the quarterdeck, Isaac greeted him with the news that the British lieutenant had announced his intention of boarding the merchant, and would they be so kind as to drop the man ropes at the waist? Dickerson glanced to leeward; Hopewell was making way, though not as much as he would have liked, but from what he could make out through the gloom of the night, the oarsmen in the cutter from Shannon were going to be hard pressed to get alongside any time soon, unless Hopewell were hove to, something he had no intention of doing. He turned to the men in the waist.
“You men, clap onto that little cannon there. Drag it to the quarterdeck. We’ll give those British bastards somethin’ to keep them occupied ‘sides trying to come alongside this barky. Look lively, now.”
The men needed little encouragement; the six-pound cannon was rigged aft on the quarterdeck where the bulwark ended and only a waist-high rail prevented a body from falling into the sea. Loaded with not only a six-pound ball but with some loose bits of iron and nails one of the men found. even a close miss would do damage. A hit would be devastating.
The seaman returned topside from the cabin where he had left Captain Stephens resting in a chair; Stephens had not yet regained consciousness but showed signs that he might come around before too long. The sailor seemed to have returned to his senses. Dickerson looked at Biggs as the group of men gathered around the cannon. Without a word spoken, Biggs answered the prize master’s question with a nod and moved to check the tackles and jury-rigged breechings on the cannon. A sailor with a lit slow match appeared. It was Weasel Watkins; even in the dark, his whine made him instantly recognizable and Biggs answered his question.
“No Watkins, we’re not ready…haven’t even aimed it yet.” He stood and looked around the faces assembled on the quarterdeck, and not seeing the one he wanted spoke to the closest, which happened to be Weasel Watkins. “Go find the gunner, and get him back here quick as ever you please, Watkins.” Seeing that he was about to get an argument from the man, he put up his hand and continued. “Don’t give me no fight here. Just do as I told you. Save your fightin’ for them Britishers; if they come aboard you’ll be a-needin’ all you can muster. Now git!” The sailor turned and hurried away, knowing that to whine now would be fruitless.
Gunner Hogan showed up faster than Biggs expected, given the messenger he had sent. The gunner had been finding more powder and shot in case they were needed and instantly took in the situation. He bent down and peered along the top of the barrel. Picking up a hand-spike from the carriage, he levered the cannon forward slightly and then pounded in the quoin under the back of the barrel to depress the aim toward the British cutter. He stood and looked at Dickerson.
“She’ll fire, Mister Dickerson. I reckon we might do some damage with this one. When you’re ready.”
“I doubt we’ll get more than one shot, Hogan, so let her go as you will.”
The gunner took the slow match and peered again down the barrel of the piece. Satisfied, he picked up the horn of powder and carefully poured a small measure into the touch hole on the top of the antiquated gun. He motioned the nearby men to step back and touched the slow-match to the powder. With a sputter and a flash, the spark burned down the powder and into the breech of the gun, igniting the cartridge within. The gun went off with a surprisingly loud crash, leaping backwards into the jury-rigged breaching tackles, and sending a double handful of shrapnel and a six-pound ball across the water and, hopefully, toward the Shannon’s cutter, still only barely visible in the profound darkness.
A splash was heard, followed closely by screaming. The privateersmen looked at one another then back through the darkness at the dim outline of the cutter. Isaac spoke what most were thinking.
“Looks like the ball missed, Hogan, but from the hollerin’ over there, I’d guess you might have got some of the nails into someone’s hide. Maybe that’ll give ‘em reason to go back to they’s ship and leave us alone.”
Indeed, as they peered through the darkness, the lieutenant regained control of his boat crew, and, to the men on Hopewell, it certainly looked as if they had changed their mind about coming aboard. And the wind was picking up.
* * * * * *
“You didn’t have to volunteer for this, you know, Jake. You was in such an all-fired rush to get out of Norfolk and away from Miss Charity. And asides, bein’ out ‘ere ‘as got to be better by far than sitting on our arses wonderin’ if ever we’ll get the barky through the blockade and into the fightin’. An’ this little vessel ain’t so bad; kinda puts me in mind of Cap’n Smalley’s Glory. You ‘member my tellin’ ‘bout that sharp-built schooner what took the two prizes we was sailin’ in the Indies. This one don’t swim quite as sweet, but she’s surely older, an’ a damn sight less fine in the lines. I reckon she was all Cap’n Stewart could get ‘is ‘ands on quick enough to please that secretary cove what kept sendin’ messengers to ‘im.” Coleman paused as he looked around the horizon, still unbroken by mast or hull, friendly or otherwise. They had seen nothing for the past two days despite maintaining a constant lookout, day and night. The men had repaired much of the old pilot schooner commandeered by Captain Stewart, and the work kept them busy during the long dull days when no ships appeared.
Tate smiled at his friend and shipmate. “You know I’d sure rather be out here than back yonder, settin’ on my backside and wonderin’ when Charity was gonna come back to fetch me up to Baltimore. A determined woman, that. I am surely glad that you and Johnson didn’t give me away when she come back aboard Constellation with that cove while we was fittin’ this schooner out. I reckon that would have put the fat in the fire had she found me out. Why, even on the orlop deck I could hear her stormin’ around. Tellin’ her I was ashore on a special mission was a truly kind act on your part, Robert. I ‘spect that gorilla with her was sent by her Pa to convince me I’d be better off ashore in Baltimore. I collect her Pa’s a mighty important cove, knowin’ the Secretary of the Navy an’ all. I reckon I got myself outta Gosport just in time. I’m tellin’ you, Robert, you coulda knocked me down with a feather that day she blew inta the tavern there, comin’ in like that storm we went through a fortnight ago. Yessir, I ain’t complaining about bein’ out here, just wishin’ they was something to do save workin’ ‘round the clock trying to keep this ol’ bucket afloat, Any word from Clements when we gonna get in – and where?”
‘‘‘E ain’t said where, but ‘e did show me on the chart that we was off something called ‘Long Island’. ‘Bout sixty an’ more miles off, ‘e said. I collect there’s places in there to get in. Tim said likely we’d be ‘eadin’ further up towards Massachusetts – though I ‘spect ‘e’s just makin’ noise cause he don’t know any more than you an’ me. That last vessel we spoke was ‘eaded down to the Delaware when Cap’n Blanchard told ‘em ‘bout the blockade. Reckon they’ll be headin’ for New York, or mebbe up this way wherever it is we’re goin’. Clements said they’d not make it ‘round Sandy Hook without they’d get themselves caught by one o’ me countrymen. I collect he and Cap’n Blanchard got ‘intelligence’ from that cove wha
t come down from Washington. Clements said somethin’ ‘bout Mister Blanchard bein’ responsible for tellin’ what vessels we see out ‘ere, an’ where they’s bound. So…”
“Sail! Sail to leeward! Hull down and showin’ topmasts.” The lookout in the crosstrees of the foremast was pointing frantically to leeward, and forward. Every man jack on deck looked aloft at the lookout, then in the direction in which he pointed. All any could see from deck was the open and unbroken expanse of horizon; the stranger had to be fifteen miles and more from the schooner. Midshipman Blanchard, a long glass slung over his shoulder, was in the rigging in a heartbeat, heading to the maintop to assess the sighting.
“She’s headin’ this way, Mister Clements. Under a press of canvas she is too. Let us bear off a trifle to close with her until we can tell what we’ve found.” His voice carried easily to the quarterdeck where Jack Clements gave the orders to ease the sheets and bring the little ship down a point, causing the course to be almost toward the newcomer.
“If this breeze holds true for us, we could make her out before nightfall, Cap’n. We still got us a couple of hours afore it’ll get too dark to tell much what she is.” Acting First Lieutenant Clements had done some mental arithmetic and was giving the midshipman – and acting captain – a little guidance. He thought it was probably unnecessary; this young man had grown in stature and confidence daily since the storm over two weeks ago, and Clements thought he’d likely make a fine lieutenant when the time came.
“Aye, Mister Clements. I had about the same notion. Let us make the necessary preparations now. Have both flags ready to show, and have that British fellow come here to talk with them in case they are British, if you please. And you might have supper piped down a trifle early. If we have to flee, we’ll need all hands working the vessel.”
Clements nodded, and smiled inwardly. “Yes, this young cove’ll do just fine when the time comes,” he mused as he made his way forward in search of Robert Coleman. The schooner moved easily, cracked off on a very broad reach, in the brisk westerly breeze, and closed with the strange vessel heading toward the land.
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 10