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

by William White

  “That was the last English one I were on, Jack, aye. That was the frigate what young Isaac learned ‘bout the Royal Navy on. And one what I got no wish to see again!” Coleman’s whole face changed as he recalled the ship and her oft-times brutal commander, Captain Winston; his eyes became hard, his jaw muscles clenched tight, and his mouth formed a thin white line across his face. “Anyone say who ‘ad ‘er now? Was it still Cap’n Winston?”

  “No, I recollect some cove named Pigot was what they said. Heard he took her over when she come north. Leastaways, that’s what was bein’ said over to the Navy Yard. No mention ‘t’all of your Cap’n Winston.”

  “Pigot! A flogger, that one, just like ‘is daddy before ‘im. One o’ me mates on ol’ Orpheus sailed with the father afore ‘e come aboard. Wore stripes on ‘is back like I never seen afore. Claimed Pigot had ‘im flogged more’n’ once along with some other topmen ‘cause another ship was faster swayin’ up a t’gallant yard. Poor sod was kilt by a nine-pounder ball square in the chest first time we fought the Frenchies. ’E don’t got to worry none ‘bout the cat, Pigot’s or anyone’s.”

  “I guess you’re right glad you ain’t sailin’ with them, no more, eh Robert? I heard the ’merican cap’ns don’t flog they’s crews hardly at all compared to them Brits. An’ when a cove gets a little soft, that’s the time to make a change, eh?” Jake Tate joined the conversation with a quick grin and a wink at his shipmate, now bosun on USS Chesapeake.

  Coleman caught Tate’s wink at Clements and immediately got into the spirit of the taunt. “Chauncey Tate, you’d not last a minute with one o’ them bastards standing up there on the quarterdeck all ‘igh an’ mighty while some cove the size o’ Jack ‘ere swings the cat across your bare back. First stripe an’ you’d be running off to find sweet Miss Charity. ‘Ceptin’ she’d not be there, ‘aving run off with some farm ‘and what wasn’t goin’ off to sea an’ leave ‘er waitin’ at the altar.” Tate cringed visibly at the reference to his one-time love, the Maryland girl who still appeared frequently in his dreams.

  “You ‘spose Johnson and Conoughy got the troubles on Constitution we got on Chesapeake? Jack, you been around. You ever seen such a mess on a ship – never mind a navy ship?” Tate, changing the subject away from his love life, brought up something that had been on all their minds since reporting aboard the frigate Chesapeake with Midshipman, now Acting Lieutenant, Blanchard.

  Ever since Captain Evans had brought Chesapeake into Boston, barely a week before the four men reported aboard, there had been desertions and theft running rampant throughout the ship. A major contributor to the problems aboard was the lack of a commanding officer; Captain Evans, already blind in one eye and seriously ill, had been taken ashore to the hospital and ultimately excused from further duty in the Navy. His officers, warrants, and senior petty officer did little to quell the unrest aboard and, in fact, actually contributed to it. Questions concerning back-pay nagged at the officers, and the many crewmen who moved ashore during the limited overhaul repeatedly refused to return unless they were paid. Drunkenness and whoring prevailed, with the men bringing the women right aboard under the very noses of their officers. Little was being done to ready the unfortunate frigate for a return to the sea.

  “Aye, Jake. By my lights, I’m beginning to think thems what says she’s a jinx ship might be righty-oh. Cain’t see us gettin’ out o’ here any time soon. Course them two Royal Navy frigates out there beyond the President Roads ain’t gonna let us jest sail ourselves out an’ by ‘em. Likely to have somethin’ to say ‘bout that, you can bet. That is if or Chesapeake could be got under way in the first place. Mister Blanchard tol’ me jest today that one of the officers – one that ain’t run off yet – said something ‘bout a new cap’n and gettin’ under way in less ‘an a month. Said Chesapeake would be on the briny afore the end o’ May. I’d be willin’ ta’ wager a fair piece o’ change that that’ll not happen. Not unless the new cap’n brings a new crew an’ a new mainmast with him.” Clements laughed ruefully and shook his head at the sad state of affairs on board his ship. Even on the privateer, with a high-strung crew with larceny in their hearts, he had not witnessed the total lack of order extant on this Navy frigate. He swallowed the dregs of his tankard and, signaling the publican for another round, continued.

  “I’ve heard it said by some aboard that she’s already got the reputation of bein’ ‘unlucky’. It ain’t no wonder them sailormen ain’t willin’ to crew her, what with men fallen out’n her riggin’ and only four prizes, an little ones at that, on her last commission. The carpenter told me she even stuck on the ways when they launched her back in ‘98. Twice in fact. An’ runnin’ aground from time to time, as well.” He shook his head. “An’ that set-to with the Leopard down off Cape Henry in ‘07. Heard it said that they wasn’t none o’ the crew could show they’s faces around Norfolk when she come in after that. Hard to believe she’s sister to Constellation. Now there was a fine vessel; too bad she couldn’t get out to fight. We wouldn’t be settin’ here in Boston an’ assigned on that other un.”

  “Jack, what ‘ave you ‘eard from Conoughy? He an’ Johnson ‘ave not shown they’s faces ashore that I’ve seen since we come up ‘ere. I’da thought they’d be at least turnin’ up for the odd tankard. Can’t be that Constitution is gettin’ ready to go to sea; she ain’t even got all ‘er decks back in yet. Men’re livin’ ashore.” Coleman was concerned about his Irish friend. They had shipped together for many years; in fact, this assignment was the first time they had been posted to different vessels since their first duty together in 1801.

  “Heard from some cove in the Navy Yard that Cap’n Bainbridge hadda send more ‘n’ a hundred n’ fifty souls off to someplace in New York to fight up on the Great Lakes. Probably right shorthanded on Constitution ‘bout now, an’ ain’t no time for any of ‘em to be sky-larkin’ with the likes o’ you. I reckon he’ll turn up sooner or later. Drink up, lad, an’ do your worryin’ ‘bout gettin’ or Chesapeake refit and out to sea.”

  The bosun gave good advice; down to less than half her crew and a third of her officers, Chesapeake would need the attention of all hands if ever she were to fight again. It was not that she was badly wounded; indeed, though she had been at sea from mid-December until several weeks ago, there had been precious little action for the frigate, and she had suffered minimal damage from enemy guns. Her main topmast had gone by the boards while working into Boston in an April gale with the loss of three men and her mizzen head had been sprung at the same time adding further fuel to the vessel’s “unlucky” history. Word was circulating aboard that the Secretary of the Navy would not allow them new masts, and was pressuring the first lieutenant and acting captain to get back to sea as quick as possible. Of course, that could not happen until a new commanding officer was assigned, and none had as yet been named.

  ‘The way things is goin’, what with the officers leavin’ and none o’ the crew about, might be Mister Blanchard an’ us’ll be takin’ the barky to sea, Jack.” Young Jake Tate laughed as he spoke, and the others joined in, relishing the absurdity of the notion. But their laughter had a hollow ring to it.

  Two weeks later, a topman on Chesapeake and Coleman were talking in conspiratorial tones on the spar deck. “I heard it again last night, Coleman. I knowed it wasn’t real, but I ‘bout soiled my hammock when I heard them screams. Woke up covered in sweat, I did. You ever heard the scream a man makes when he’s fallin’ out o’ the top hamper? I’m tellin’ you, this barky is jinxed. I aim to get off’n here quick as ever I can. No more goin’ to sea on this ship for me, I can tell you. I know, you say the same as everyone else – ‘men fall from the riggin’ all the time. That’s one o’ the hazards ‘bout working aloft’ – well, I kin tell you, those coves went right by me, they did. I was on the main yard tyin’ in a reef when that topmast let go. They was good men. They wouldn’ta fell but for that damn weakened topmast and that squall what come outa the gale we was in. An’ ain’t j
est we lost a spar an’ some good men; damn ship is jest unlucky.

  “Last commission we was out nigh on four months and we only found us four prizes. Look around you. Most o’ what’s left o’ the foremast jacks’re drunk or pokin’ some dockyard whore or both. Officers – what’s left of ‘em – cain’t do nothin’, and the mids, ‘cept that young ‘un come aboard with you – what’s his name, Blanchard? – are as helpless as if they’s still at they’s mama’s tit. You got any sense ‘fall, you’ll get your slops an’ follow me right off’n this ship. Only a matter o’ time ‘til somethin’ really bad happens an’ I don’t aim to wait around for it. You comin’?” William Hawkins, able seaman, and main topman on USS Chesapeake, watched his new British friend for a sign of acquiescence to his impassioned plea to desert. None was forthcoming. Coleman shook his head, and smiled.

  “Guess I got to see it for myself, Will. But if I was gonna get, I’d do it now. I ‘eard one o’ the officers sayin’ we got a new cap’n gonna show up any day. Some cove named Lawrence, if I ‘eard ‘im right.”

  “Well, you can stay ‘til somethin’ even worse happens. Me, I aim to get gone from this ship and Boston quick as I can. I heard o’ Lawrence; he got hisself a bunch o’ prizes on his last ship – Hornet, it were – including some Brit filled with gold an’ silver. But he ain’t gonna change the luck o’ Chesapeake, you mark me well.” Hawkins turned and walked away from the foot of the mainmast where the two had been talking. He took ten steps and stopped, casting a glance back to where Coleman stood. “Last chance, Robert. You gonna come with me or get your own self killed on this bad luck barky?”

  Coleman waved to the American sailor, “Good luck to you, Will. Perhaps we’ll meet up again.” He turned and headed aft, leaving his friend in a stunned silence.

  As he neared the quarterdeck, he heard Midshipman Blanchard and First Lieutenant Page talking. Actually, what he heard was Page giving rather explicit orders to the young, but seasoned, midshipman.

  “…those women out of the gun deck. If Cap’n Lawrence sees that, he’ll have those men flogged to within an inch of their rotten lives and we’ll have no crew to work the ship. And find Mister Ludlow, if you please, and have him see to those stores the good citizens of Boston seem so reluctant to part with. My guess is that, when Cap’n Lawrence comes aboard, he will be most anxious to get underway, assuming we have the same good fortune as President did just the fortnight past and are able to slip out past His Majesty’s frigates that seem fixed like barnacles to the entrance to President Roads.”

  The midshipman saluted Lieutenant Page and, with a confident “Aye, aye,” departed to carry out his orders. Coleman continued below to find Bosun Clements and pass on this latest intelligence.

  When he got to the lower deck and his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out several pairs of legs, some obviously female, protruding from beside a few of the eighteen-pounder long guns. Grunts, groans, drunken mumbling, and a variety of other sounds gave evidence that several of the crew were involved in activities other than what is normally associated with a man-of-war. Further confirmation, if any were needed, came from more than a few petticoats strewn carelessly about, over gun breechings, rammers, and indeed, the deck. Several others of the crew were apparently passed out drunk on, beside, and, in one case, partially under, the gun carriages, He saw Midshipman Blanchard moving through the deck placing well-aimed kicks in exposed backsides and urging the men to get back to their duties. His reception would have been considered mutinous by most.

  “…get on with you lad. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Ooof. What’d you do that for?

  “…mind your knitting, youngster…”

  “You…”

  Midshipman Blanchard had not recently commanded his own vessel – even though a nominally armed schooner – for nothing. He picked up a bucket of water near one of the guns and unceremoniously dumped its contents on the nearest of the copulating couples. They rose, sputtering and grabbing for clothes, stunned to see a lowly midshipman standing by the gun carriage; his hands held the upturned bucket and his face a frighteningly hard stare. Their sobriety returned quickly and the sailor staggered forward, hitching up his trousers as he went, and muttering drunkenly under his breath. The woman beat an equally hasty retreat toward a ladder leading to the spar deck. Blanchard saw Coleman watching, and smiled.

  “Well, that’s one, anyway.” Turning back to the supine sailors, he added louder, “All right you lot; the same for each of you less’n you get back to work.”

  It was as if he had never spoken, so little was the impact of his words. Jonas Blanchard shrugged at the British topman and stepped to the ladder recently vacated by the dockyard whore. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered.

  Coleman smiled inwardly, knowing that it would take more than these loutish American sailors to get the best of Mister Blanchard. It wasn’t just anyone who could pull off a successful deception on a Royal Navy frigate, and this minor action just didn’t signify, he thought. Blanchard’ll get ‘em. He dropped down another deck, finding Jack Clements, Bosun, about to ascend it.

  “Mister Clements. I just ‘eard Cap’n Lawrence’ll likely be showing up aboard any day now. Mister Page, sick as ‘e is, is tryin’ to get the ship in order. Seems like it might be more’n ‘e can ‘andle. What ‘ave we gotten ourselves into ‘ere? I thought this was the American Navy. This crew would have been flogged ‘round the fleet were they in the Royal Navy. I surely ‘ope we don’t see action anytime soon; why those coves yonder couldn’t find the guns, let alone fire them.”

  “I wouldn’t let it worry you, Robert. Them two British frigates beyond President Roads ain’t gonna be lettin’ us out o’ here anytime soon, and ‘sides, we ain’t got stores aboard or that replacement topmast. An’ God alone knows what we’ll be doin’ for a crew. Ain’t enough men aboard to fill one watch right now.” Seeing his English friend about to speak, Clements anticipated him. “President got out on a fluke. Just lucky that little storm blew through and them Brits hadda get offshore some. Wasn’t nobody watchin’ when she made it out. Don’t mean we can do it, just cause we got us a famous cap’n.” He saw the quizzical look on Coleman’s face.

  “Aye, an’ famous he is. Was him what took that Brit – Peacock – it was. An loaded with gold an’ coin, I hear tell. Why, when he came back to port here in America, he was a real hero. Promoted to captain on the spot, way I heard it. Near as famous as Cap’n Bainbridge was when he come back on Constitution from sinkin’ HMS Java down there off Brazil. He’ll whip this crew into shape or die tryin’, be my guess. An’ then go out yonder an’ show them British frigates that it ain’t just Constitution what can take they’s men o’ war. You mark my words, Robert. Your gonna see some real changes in the barky when Cap’n Lawrence comes aboard. Unlucky ship, my arse. He’ll change that, for sure.”

  It was the very next day that a tall and quite good-looking officer in his early thirties, wearing the two epaulets of a captain, strode up the brow to the spar deck of Chesapeake, followed by a lieutenant and a midshipman. The senior of the three stopped in the waist, flanked by his two subordinates carried with him from his previous command, and surveyed the spardeck; a look at once sour and angry settled on his handsome face. His lips were pursed and his brow became furrowed as he visibly darkened. After a brief conference with his juniors which included much nodding and more concerned expressions, the trio stepped to the quarterdeck of the frigate, taking no notice of the curious glances cast by the few seaman on deck. A midshipman noticed the entourage and ran immediately for Lieutenant Page. who appeared on the quarterdeck looking for all the world as if he were ready to die.

  “Captain Lawrence?” His barely audible question merely caused the captain to raise his eyebrows and shift the shiny new bugle he carried from one hand to the other.

  “If you are my first lieutenant, muster the crew if you please. There is much to do and precious little time in which to do it. This, by the way, is L
ieutenant George Budd, and Midshipman William Cox is next to him. Both are reporting aboard as well and were with me on Hornet in our recent actions in the South Atlantic. Assign them quarters and duties.”

  “Aye sir. I am Lieutenant Page, first lieutenant as you correctly surmised. Captain Evans is unfortunately unwell and in the hospital ashore.” Page stopped and, turning away. sought the bosun and a midshipman – the former to call the crew to muster and the latter to escort the two new officers below. He would see to their duties shortly.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Men, I am James Lawrence, and now in command of the frigate. There is much to do and precious little time in which to do it. The Secretary of the Navy wants us to sea and after the British as quick as ever possible, but first we must put Chesapeake in fighting order. It will take all hands working watch and watch to manage this. We will also begin recruiting new hands to assist us. My lieutenants and midshipmen will be working with equal vigor and I expect all of you to do your duty. But first,” and here, Captain Lawrence held up the bugle he had been holding, “is there one among you who can blow this thing?”

  Silence reigned on the spar deck. Suddenly a black crewman, fascinated by the shiny bugle, stepped forward and sang out loudly, “Yes sir. I kin blow dat jest fine.”

  “Then it shall be yours, and you shall blow it when we board the enemy ships.” Captain Lawrence did not bother to find out if Seaman Brown could, in fact, play the bugle.

  The men were subsequently dismissed, and the lieutenants and midshipmen moved throughout the ship, organizing work parties and beginning the task of returning the frigate to fighting shape. Lawrence personally handled the merchants ashore, leaving the dockyard workers for the sick and failing Lieutenant Page to manage. In spite of all efforts to the contrary, relatively little was accomplished either by the still unruly crew or the inept dockyard workers. Frustration in the cabin and wardroom grew daily in the ensuing week.