The hail of the lookout had been passed throughout the ship and now all hands, both on watch and off, were on deck anticipating some level of action. Of course, with only the single four-pounder cannon, there would be precious little “action,” but the break in the routine and monotony was most welcome. Men chattered, pointing when they thought they saw the tophamper from deck – their vision enhanced by vivid imaginations as the stranger was still too distant to be seen from deck. They wagered with each other as to the identity of the vessel, and then wagered again as to the action the American schooner would take.
They all had been witness to crossing tacks with three other vessels, not including the wounded brig running off before the tempest as they turned Cape Charles. Except for that one, all three had been American, two merchants, and a Navy brig, USS Siren, in route to station off Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The merchants were diverted, one from her intended destination of Delaware Bay, and the other from a course that would have put her right in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay blockade. So far, the crew of the pilot schooner had seen no British vessels, either man-of-war or merchant. None aboard, including Captain Blanchard and Jack Clements, knew what would happen when and if they crossed a British warship.
“Hull up, she is, sir!” The lookout’s cry was joined by at least three other voices as the stranger’s hull broke the horizon. By now the stranger must see the schooner, and the Americans watched closely to determine what, if any, action the larger ship might take.
The two vessels continued to close each other. Tension began to build on the schooner as the men realized that if this was an enemy, there was little they might do to forestall a disaster. Still no flags appeared on the larger ship, and Acting Captain Blanchard and Acting First Lieutenant Clements studied her rigging intently through long glasses.
“She’s close enough now to be about in range of an eighteen-pounder cannon, Cap’n. Mebbe she’s American an’ her cap’n figgers bein’ rigged as we are that we probably are ‘s’well.” Clements spoke without removing his eye from the glass. Before Blanchard could respond, a geyser of water exploded out of the sea a pistol shot in front of the schooner, followed by a dull crack that echoed across the water. A British ensign appeared at the stranger’s main truck.
“Mister Clements: you may pass the word for Coleman as quick as you please and let us luff up. No sense in provoking them.” Blanchard turned to a seaman nearby and continued, “Get that British ensign up to the main gaff now. Quickly.” To some hands watching the other ship from the waist he shouted, “You men there, get yourselves below and out of sight quick as ever you can.”
Robert Coleman appeared on the quarterdeck as the schooner came up into the wind, luffing her sails in a cacophony of thunderous cracks, snaps, groans, and thuds as the canvas shook itself and its lines, blocks, and spars.
“Sir? Mister Clements tol’ me you wanted me ‘ere on the quarterdeck.” Coleman approached the young captain who was removing his blue uniform jacket. He handed it to the seaman.
“Put this on, Coleman, and step up on the bulwark there. You just became Captain Coleman of His Majesty’s prize schooner en route to Halifax. You are a master’s mate off the brig Narcissus under command of Captain Westphall and, with a prize crew, are bringing this ship to Halifax. If you need help, I’m right behind you.”
“Won’t them officers know this ain’t a right proper British jacket, sir?” I’d ‘ate to ‘ave ‘em start shootin’ if they smoke the ruse you’re pullin’.”
“Too far off Coleman; now get yourself up on that bulwark with the speaking trumpet.”
The British frigate had by now hove to and was laying a long rifle shot to weather of the schooner. A figure climbed onto the quarterdeck bulwark, a speaking trumpet raised to his face.
“You have been stopped by His Majesty’s Frigate Lively, Samuel Breathwaite commanding. Who are you and where are you bound?”
Coleman hesitated only a moment before responding. “We are the prize of ‘Is Majesty’s brig Narcissus, and I am Master’s Mate Robert Coleman, in command. We are delivering this schooner to ‘Alifax at the order of Captain Westphall of Narcissus.” Coleman could see officers on the quarterdeck of Lively watching the schooner through long glasses and hoped that he had been convincing.
“Where is Narcissus and how long are you out?” There was little hesitation from the frigate.
“Tell ‘em the schooner was taken a week ago tryin’ to run the blockade at the mouth of Delaware Bay. And you don’t know where Narcissus might be, as you ain’t seen ‘em in a week.”
Coleman drew a breath and relayed the information. The British captain seemed satisfied with the answer, as he waved his hand, and turned to speak with someone on his quarterdeck. He turned back and raised again his speaking trumpet.
“Mind you watch your contacts, Captain Coleman. There’s a fair number of privateers – American, of course – working the water off Cape Cod and on towards Nova Scotia. Wouldn’t do to have Captain Westphall’s prize re-taken by one of their number.” The British sarcasm was undiminished by the distance between them, and Breathwaite turned his back on the American, issuing orders to get his vessel underway.
“Back the inner jib; stand by to bear off on the larboard tack. Put your helm over.” Blanchard was wasting no time getting his ship underway as well. The officers and few men topside watched as the frigate proceeded on a southerly heading, rapidly opening the distance between them. He smiled at Coleman as the English fo’c’sle jack took off the blue jacket.
“I guess you convinced ‘em, Coleman. Either that or they wasn’t thinkin’ we was enough to waste time searchin’. That might have been a mite touchy, had they decided to send a boat across.” Clements’ words echoed what the young captain was thinking and he nodded his agreement.
“Aye, I’ll second that sentiment, Mister Clements. Coleman,” he said turning to the seaman and taking the proffered coat, “you did very well. Now let us see about makin’ for a friendly port. You may return to your duties. And thank you.”
Coleman smiled and stepped off the diminutive quarterdeck, heading back to an area in which he was more comfortable, forward. Some of his mates welcomed his return with a brief round of applause, led by the Irish gunner, Tim Conoughy.
“Ye nearly ‘ad me convinced me own self, Robert, me lad. I was just thinkin’ what a fine man, and seaman, was the good Cap’n Westphall, an’ ‘ow much I been missin’ that fine vessel Narcissus. Would ye be mindin’, sir, if’n a poor fo’c’sle jack like me own self shook your ‘and an’ give you joy of your success?” Tim had his shipmates laughing at once, and Coleman smiled. brushing off the accolade – or was it derision? – without embarrassment. It was likely that the laughter, in part at least, stemmed from the relief each man felt at escaping what could have been a desperate situation.
CHAPTER TEN
“Braces haul…ease your sheets…mind the stays’l sheets…helm down a trifle…let’s get the barky movin’ now, lads! It’s only a matter o’ time ‘til that frigate shows up.” Encouraging his men, and escaping from the confines of the British fleet were foremost on Prize Master Dickerson’s mind right now. In a louder voice, “You there…in the waist; put out that lantern. Don’t make it any easier for them bastards to find us.” Silence no longer became an issue; the fat was in the fire and getting the most out of his men and Hopewell was the only way the American prize master might actually get his prize to a friendly port unscathed. That port had to be southwest of Penobscot Bay, as the folks living north of there along the coast were still sympathetic to the British and God alone knew what troubles they might encounter should they bring their prize into a port between there and the Canadian border.
Neither Dickerson nor Biggs nor, for that matter, any other soul on the brig had any idea where the General Washington was, or whether or not Captain Rogers would be in a position to assist them should they need it. Nor did they have any knowledge of where Hardy and Dobson might be, or eve
n if they had been successful in their own cutting out expedition. No, it was better to look only to themselves to get out of this tight spot. Now that the snow had stopped and the wind was gradually picking up, most of the men thought they just might make it.
“Deck there! I think I got a sail to leeward. Hard to tell in the dark, but I’d say they’s som’pin out there…’bout two p’ints abaft the beam.” The lookout’s nasal hail, while not unexpected, caused all heads instinctively to tum aft and to leeward, even though all knew that from the deck, it was unlikely there would be anything to see. Biggs jumped into the mainmast shrouds and headed aloft.
“Point at it, Watkins. Where’d you see them sails?” Isaac was not surprised to find Weasel Watkins relegated to the lookout job; it kept him out of the crew’s way, and provided something useful for him to do where his whining would bother no one.
“You don’t believe me. I can tell right from your voice. Well, I’m tellin’ you I did see a sail right out there.” He pointed into the dark, and waited for a reaction from the third mate. “I can still see it…there – right there it is.” His arm remained outstretched and Biggs peered into the gloom, straining to see the faint glimmer of a sail that apparently was plainly visible to the lookout.
“Aye, there it be. I got it now. Hard to tell whether it’s the Gen’l or that frigate – what’d they say, Shannon, wa’n’t it?” He continued to stare, and finally added, more to himself than the seaman, “Looks too tall for the Gen’l Washington, and I think I’m seein’ three masts. Reckon we’d better figger on her bein’ British.” He looked back at the sharp-eyed lookout. “Keep your eye on her, Watkins, and let us know quick as ever you can should she do anything – change course or get much closer or anything at all. Got it?” Without waiting for an answer, Biggs was on the backstay and headed for the deck almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
As he hit the bulwark, he called out for some of the men who had helped him and Tight-Fisted Smith earlier with the plan he had hatched for just such an eventuality. They gathered around him, and quietly he explained what he wanted them to do, and then headed for the quarterdeck to fill in the master.
From the quarterdeck, Dickerson and Biggs watched as the men loaded some bulky objects into the stowed longboat and rigged a single whip to the main yard. The boat was picked up from where it had been stowed on deck and swung out to the bulwark. The men lowered it so the rail was even with the leeward deck edge and tied off the whip. Biggs turned to his superior.
“Well, if that Britisher gets closer, I think we might have a surprise for ‘em. Probably won’t stop ‘em, but sure as blazes oughta give ‘em something to think about, asides shootin’ at us. Where do you reckon Dobson and Hardy got to? Since they fired off that rocket we ain’t heard nor seen nothin’ from ‘em. Mayhaps they’ve gotten away clean if they ain’t but one escort and they’s comin’ after us. Cap’n Rogers oughta be headin’ this way by now, I’d think since we got us a breeze.” In spite of being battle seasoned, Isaac was nervous. The odds here hardly favored a successful conclusion to their mission.
“Aye, Isaac, that he should. Let’s see ‘bout settin’ the last stays’ls for’ard, and bring this ol’ barky up a mite. We might get another dollop o’ speed outa her.”
Isaac set off forward to see about the stays’ls, turning from time to time as he moved up the length of the ship to check on the position of the British frigate, even though he knew that if he saw her close enough to make out in the dark from the deck level it would be too late to do anything save fire a few puny six-pounders at her. That would hardly slow down a ship of Shannon’s size and power. Their only real hope was that Hopewell could outsail the frigate – or at the least, maintain enough of the headstart she had to make a stern chase an unacceptable alternative for the English escort.
Even with the brig’s course higher, the newly set stays’ls helped and she made a fair turn of speed in the increasing breeze. Returning to the quarterdeck, Biggs stopped to check on the longboat, and ensure himself that all was ready should it be needed. The cry from aloft cut short his stop and he hastened on aft.
“Deck there. I can see courses on that frigate now. Still off the leeward quarter. Showin’ a light aloft, she is, an’ maybe two leagues off.”
“Reckon we’re gonna have the devil to pay now, Isaac, and no pitch hot. Better have the lads unlimber what guns we got. Don’t fancy much givin’ up without we hurt ‘em some. But I’m afraid it’d just be a waste of powder an’ shot. I’d be mighty surprised if’n this merchant’s carryin’ more ‘an enough for a few shots.” As an after-thought he added, “An’ you might put a few men aloft with some o’ them rifles you found in the hold. It ain’t much, but better ‘an nothin’.”
Biggs noticed the acting gunner, Hogan, standing at the break of the quarterdeck, and discussed with him the master’s instructions. He received a nod and a quiet “Aye” and Hogan stepped off to carry out his orders. Isaac stepped to the bulwark where Smith and several others were waiting with the longboat and its curious cargo.
“Looks like we’ll be needin’ the boat, Smith. Better get a slow match lit and brought back here so we’re ready.” Isaac climbed into the boat and rechecked his earlier preparations. All was ready. All that remained was to wait for Shannon to get almost within cannon range.
“Deck there. She’s gettin closer, Maybe a mile, now.” One thing about Watkins’ whine, it carried easily to the deck. Biggs looked for the hundredth time astern and saw the white glow of the frigate’s sails in the dim starlight as she bore down on them, clawing to wind’ard as she gained noticeably, shortening the distance between them. As he looked, he saw a brilliant flash from the bow of the British ship. They had fired a bow-chaser, likely attempting to find the range. A second later, the report of the shot was heard on Hopewell. All eyes turned aft in time to see a geyser spout up from a hundred yards astern, just out of their wake.
“Isaac, if you’ve got something rigged, now would likely be a good time to use it; no point in waitin’ ‘til they’s got the range.” Dickerson, while an experienced privateersman who had tasted battle on more than one occasion, had little desire to be on the receiving end of the Britisher’s eighteen-pounders if it could be avoided. Biggs shared his feelings.
“Stand by to lower away, Smith. And take ‘er slow; remember, we ain’t hove to and I got no desire to swim in this water tonight.” Isaac was in the longboat, slow match in hand, as he gave the order. The boat easily slid down the vessel’s side and touched the water, made easier by the fact that the sea was still flat from the long calm they had all endured. Dickerson watched the proceedings from the rail on the quarterdeck, shifting his gaze between the boat alongside and the British frigate, now visible, even in the dark, from the deck. He saw a sudden glow flare up from inside the boat and then the crew on deck threw down a line to Isaac. As Biggs clambered up the rope, ascending to the deck of Hopewell, Smith and his crew paid out the line attached to the bow of the longboat and soon the little vessel, still showing the glow from within, was astern of the bark.
“Bear off, some, if you please, Mister Dickerson. I want that boat ahead of the frigate afore we cut her loose.” Isaac’s plan was becoming apparent to the master. He nodded, and the ship eased her course. The men watching were startled to see Hopewell begin to sail a course that would close them with the frigate.
“Braces haul. Ease your sheets, blast your eyes! Look lively there. You ain’t out for a picnic, you lubbers!” Ben Stone’s impatience served him well and the sails were properly adjusted for the new course.
Boom! Another ranging shot rang out across the dark water and the splash was noticeably closer this time. It would not be long before the obviously skilled gunners on Shannon could fire at the Americans at their leisure. Isaac and Smith watched their longboat, now at the end of its long tether, as their ship’s course took it across the path of the oncoming British frigate. The glow in the longboat was barely discernible but, Is
aac commented to Smith, “She’s still burnin’.”
“Cut her loose!” The order relieved the tension and an ax swung down on the longboat’s painter. The silence was complete on Hopewell as all hands watched as the longboat, now free, drifted sideways almost directly in front of the British ship.
“Look to your sheets and braces – we’re headin’ up.” Dickerson’s order was slow being carried out; the men were too busy watching to see what effect, if any, the drifting boat would have on the frigate.
“Look alive there, damn your eyes! Helm’s down. Get them sheets trimmed.” Stone, working on deck since his presence aloft was not required, encouraged the heavers on deck as only he could. The sails shivered briefly, then filled again as the brig settled on her new course, trying to regain the weather gauge and make it more difficult for Shannon to get any closer.
Suddenly the air was filled with a mighty explosion, as the night astern turned briefly to daylight, and then a darkness even more profound than before settled over the water. Before any eyes could adapt to the new darkness, a light, growing in intensity, emanated from the longboat; it was burning brightly and from its light, the men on Hopewell could make out the entire bow of their pursuer. The ship was clearly going to run right over the drifting fire-boat; there was simply no way they could bear off in time to avoid it.
“What in the name of all that’s holy did you put in that boat, Smith?” Ben Stone was clearly impressed with the jury-rigged fireboat. Whether it would have the desired effect remained to be seen.
“Why Ben, all’s we put in there was half a keg o’ powder with a fuse made up from a length of line soaked in oil and then powder. The whole thing was covered over with some oil soaked canvas. They’s one more half keg in there. Don’t think it’s caught the flame yet. Reckon we’ll know when she does.” Smith was clearly proud of his and Isaac’s creation and, should the device have the desired effect, it would provide him with a limitless supply of ale and rum ashore in the re-telling.
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 11