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

by William White

  The bulwarks had been mended and the foremast fished where a ball had taken a bite from it. Knotting and splicing continued and he could see that the jibs and their sheets had been replaced. He shook his head as the recollection of their loss and its impact on the outcome passed through his mind. Had they remained intact, Lawrence might have been able to maintain control of the frigate and raked the British ship as they passed across her bow. Then boarded when the Americans were ready to board rather than as it happened. He looked across the water to HMS Shannon, sailing to weather and ahead of their prize. She didn’t look any the worse for the wear, he thought, but then recalled the Chesapeakes had only gotten off one real broadside before the British fire had knocked out so many of their guns. And the crews were untrained and unable to recover from the withering grape and canister, not to mention the confusion wrought by the accurate fire from the Royal Marines in the British tops. The bosun remembered seeing his friend Tim Conoughy trying in vain to rally some men to man one of the long eighteen-pounders just as the British came aboard, led by their captain. After that, the confusion of hand-to-hand fighting with its screaming, shouting, chaotic dance macabre and the overwhelming numbers of enemy on their deck blotted out any specific event, save for his felling a young officer with a blow from a discharged pistol and receiving, in his turn, a cutlass stroke from an unknown assailant. As he relived the horror in his mind, he saw again the decks running red and bodies and parts of bodies lying about as if cast off by a spoiled child. Mostly Chesapeakes, it now occurred to him. He remembered the sudden stunning pain in his head as the cutlass took his right ear and he touched the bandaged wound tentatively, as if to confirm his recollection.

  “’Ere! What’s actin’ ‘ere? You ain’t ‘sposed to be up ‘ere, sailor. You’d best be gettin’ yourself back below. Don’t want any trouble from you Jonathans now, so just get you gone, move it along.” The British midshipman serving as first lieutenant on the prize crew nudged Clements with his dirk as he spoke to emphasize his order.

  The bosun whirled around and, before he thought, grabbed the hand holding the short blade and twisted it. With a clatter, the dirk fell and the young mid cried out, more in surprise than in pain. Clements realized what he had done almost as soon as he did it and, with a muttered apology, bent and picked up the boy’s blade, turned it and offered it to him, handle first.

  “You’d be gettin’ stripes at the gratin’ for what you just did, were you not a prisoner,” the boy uttered through clenched teeth as the color returned to his face. “I reckon you’ll learn some respect at Melville Island. Aye, they’ll teach you your place and no mistake’” He turned and strutted aft toward the quarterdeck, returning the dirk to its scabbard as nonchalantly as he could. Only his eyes, darting about the deck, betrayed his nervousness over his first face-to-face encounter with an American.

  Clements stepped back over to the bulwark, noting that the deck was still a mess and, in spite of the efforts of the prize crew and a few of the unhurt American seamen, still showed dark stains and other signs of the previous evening’s carnage. He tried to recall who had been killed and knew that the number was high, very high indeed, given the short duration of the battle. He had heard from the surgeon who dressed his head that from the first shot – he did remember with a smile that it had come from Chesapeake – to the raising of the Blue Ensign over the American flag was only a matter of fifteen minutes. That was how the old Glory and the other privateers used to do it: sharp and decisive. He had thought the Navy stood off and pounded each other ‘til one or the other capitulated.

  Guess I still got me a fair bit a lewnin’ ‘bout the Navy, he thought. Hope I get me the chance. What’s this “Melville Island” all about? Must be a prison or the like.

  As his thoughts ran through the gamut of random images, his glance shifted aft and fell upon the mizzen gaff and the blue ensign gently whipping above the American flag; his countenance darkened perceptibly and the scowl that crossed his face caused the pain from his wound to flair.

  Damme, he thought to himself, ain’t that a hurtful sight? Just don’t sit right, seein’ them flags like that.

  He tore his eyes away and turned forward again, gazing absently out over the water at the British frigate sailing quietly along under easy sail. Wonder if they’s any officers still alive.

  His thoughts turned to the British sailors in Chesapeake’s crew; besides Coleman and Conoughy, he knew there were at least three others, maybe more. But he had no idea if any survived. He thought he recalled seeing the Irishman carrying Captain Lawrence below just before the British sailors swarmed aboard, but he had not seen Robert Coleman after the action had begun so didn’t know whether he was alive, wounded, or dead in the melee. He shook his head slowly. Gonna. go hard on them. Might even get ‘emselves hung. Brits ain’t gonna take real kindly to their own fightin’ ‘em from an American ship.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  So you’re of the opinion that Cap’n Lawrence was taken and his ship sore wounded, eh?” Rogers sat with a neatly dressed man, older by all appearances and, from the set of his eyes and the weathered look to his face, a seafaring man. He owned the coastal vessel Olivia, brig rigged, and handy as any in the shoal and tricky waters around Massachusetts Bay and Cape Cod. He had been returning to Salem from a run to Cape Cod and had witnessed the entire battle, from the moment that Chesapeake and Shannon were something more than a league apart to the end, when the British disentangled the two ships and sailed the American frigate away to begin making the repairs necessary to sail safely to Halifax. Dick Waters, his eyes hard and his jaw set, nodded grimly at Asa Rogers. One of his scarred hands rested easily around his cup of coffee, but the other was clenched into a fist so tight as to make the knuckles white.

  “Sore wounded, be my opinion, Cap’n. Riggin’ pretty well cut up on top of it. Streaks down her sides coulda’ only been one thing, too. Wasn’t close enough to be sure, but the scuppers was runnin’ red by all appearances. Reckon they was a passel o’ the crew what passed over to th’ other side in the fight ‘s’well. Shannon didn’t look like she took much of a beatin’ ‘tall. Noticed some bulwarks stove in, but seemed like her rig was tight an’ serviceable. They was runnin’ boats back an’ forth ‘tween the two for some time, even after it got full dark. I’d warrant they was takin’ some o’ the wounded over to the British vessel an’ mebbe some prisoners ‘s’well. One thing other that I recollect: one o’ my lads said he saw a’ explosion near the quarterdeck o’ Chesapeake just afore them Brits boarded, but I didn’t see anything like that. Mighta been one o’ them hand granadoes the Brits got a fondness for. Don’t seem quite right if you ask me. But I reckon no one did.” Waters smiled slightly at his own remark, but his eyes remained flinty. He continued. “Damn shame, losin’ that vessel and all them men. But I reckon…”

  He didn’t get to finish the thought; a boy ran into the coffee house, breathless and hot. He had apparently run a fair distance and had news to share, but it was nearly a minute before he could stop gasping and make coherent speech. Most of the men in the coffee house watched him struggling for his breath; some offered encouragement for him to deliver his message, but most sat patiently and waited. Finally it came.

  “They’s goin’. The Brits is sailin’ northeast. Chesapeake with ‘em. They ain’t comin’ into Boston or here…they’s goin’ away.”

  “Well, I reckon that answers the question ‘bout who carried the day. Had Lawrence beat ‘em, he’da been headin’ into either here or Boston.” One of the patrons in the restaurant spoke aloud, obviously referring to a previous discussion. The silence that greeted first the boy’s announcement and then this man’s comment was complete; to have the stunning news confirmed was more than the people wanted to hear. Gradually, talking in subdued tones, they began to leave the establishment in twos and threes, walking out and onto the quiet streets of a somber Salem.

  Asa looked at his third mate, swallowed a mouthful of coffee, and said, “I got a
few people to see and some things to check on, Isaac. Should you be wantin’ to pay a visit to your folks for a day or so, be all right with me. You figger on bein’ back here in no more’n two days. We’ll likely be headin’ out again quick as ever we can unless Hardy and Dickerson got into some trouble bringin’ in them prizes. They oughta be showin’ up today, tomorrow latest; by my reckonin’ they’re already a day an’ more longer than I thought they’d be. I figgered to give the lads a run ashore for a day or so, anyway, and this looks like a good chance for that.” He paused and looked off into the distance, ruminating over the recent turn of events. Then he went on.

  “This loss of the Chesapeake frigate gonna put a new slant on things right quick, by my lights, and I’d warrant the folks up here gonna be more willin’ to take a part in this war than ever they been. Might even stop tradin’ with the Brits now. We’ll have to see.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. I reckon my folks would be happy to see me. Been six months an’ more since I been in Marblehead, so I thankee most kindly for the chance to get there. What do you think is gonna happen here-abouts now? I mean…”

  “Well, for one thing, I’d warrant people’ll stop callin’ the Chesapeake a ‘bad luck ship’. Sometimes a passel o’ minor things’ll build up in folks’ mind that ties a ship or person to bad luck, but then when something like this happens, folks’ll get behind that same man, or in this case, ship, and make ‘em into a hero. And Jim Lawrence was damn near a deity to these people, ‘specially after that run he had with the Hornet. Navy thought so too. Folks ain’t gonna believe he got beat by anything short of foul play…you heard that Waters cove sayin’ they was talk of the Brits usin’ hand granadoes against the Chesapeake. Whether it’s true or ain’t, folks ain’t gonna take kindly to it and they gonna figger that they’s fine British friends maybe ain’t so fine after all. I’ll tell you this though, lad, after this shock and sadness wears thin, folks gonna be some mad – this bein’ the first beatin’ we’ve taken on the sea – and they’ll be wantin’ to do something about it. You mark me well on that; they’ll be lookin’ to hurt the Brits however they can.” Rogers sincerity and conviction was telling, and Isaac figured he was likely right.

  The two men stood, Rogers dropped a few coins on the table, and they stepped out onto the street. Isaac turned southward and followed the coast road, heading for Marblehead and his home, while Captain Rogers headed off to the warehouse and office complex his company maintained on the Salem waterfront.

  As the General Washington’s third mate stepped along the road he kept a weather eye out for a passing wagon or coach on which he might catch a ride and he thought on what he had just heard from his captain and the events of the past few days.

  To be sure, the loss of the frigate was serious, but his time in the Royal Navy had taught him that it was certainly not the end of the world; one ship would not make that big a difference to the final outcome of the war. On the other hand, this was the first time America had suffered a naval defeat and most of the folks he’d seen were surely stunned by the news. Acted like the war was lost just acause the frigate was taken – even in this anti-war, pro-British part of New England. Maybe Cap’n Rogers was right; maybe they’d be upset enough by Lawrence’s defeat to stop tradin’ with the enemy and start helpin’ out with the American side of the war. Maybe some might even sign onto warships or privateers.

  He thought about that, and it put him in mind of his friends from the British Navy and the American privateer, that beautiful sharp-built schooner Glory, that they all sailed on. “Wonder whatever happened to Coleman, Clements, and that Irish gunner, Conoughy? Probably down in the Indies, takin’ British merchants and warships and gettin’ rich on prize shares.

  “Course,” Isaac said aloud to no one – he was totally alone on the road – “I ain’t doin’ too bad my own self on that score. Cap’n Rogers’ luck holds, an’ we’ll all be pretty well set.” He smiled at the thought and picked up his pace some.

  In time, a wagon slowed as it came upon him striding purposefully along the road. The driver looked down at the sailor, sized him up and offered him a ride. Isaac accepted with a smile and climbed into the back where two other men, obviously sailors in the Navy, sat amid coils of nets and rope. The odor wafting out identified the wagon and its owner as being in the fishing trade and, as Isaac settled himself in a corner opposite the other two, it brought back memories of his days as a lad, fishing on the Banks with his father and Mr. Rowe. It seemed so long ago and so much had happened to him in the intervening years. He was so lost in thought that he missed the words of one of the Navy men with whom he shared the bed of the wagon.

  “Hey…I’m speakin’ to you, lad.” The older of the two poked Isaac in the leg, getting his mind back to the present.

  “Oh, sorry mate, I didn’t hear you. My mind was full and by in a fresh breeze. What was it you said?”

  “I was askin’ you where you was bound and what ship you come off’n.”

  “I’m headin’ down to Marblehead to see my folks. Been out o’ Salem six months an’ more, an’ ain’t seen ‘em in that time. On the Gen’l Washington, a private armed blig. I collect you coves are Navy?”

  “Aye, got us a leave while Constitution gets herself refit in Boston. Headin’ back now. Hope she’s comin’ along light smart; every man jack on her’s likely ready to get back to sea, I’d warrant. When we left wasn’t no decks on her, so most o’ the crew’d been moved into the Navy Yard. What was left of ‘em anyway. More than half had been shipped off to New York or to other ships. Reckon a passel of ‘em’s on Chesapeake with Cap’n Lawrence. Guess they’ll be seein’ some action long afore we do. Cap’n Lawrence’s just chafin’ at his lines to get to sea, I’m told. Workin’ even the officers and mids, he was, to get that ship ready for sea. An’ he’d only been aboard for less’n a week. Heard that from some wharf rats afore we left Charlestown.”

  “You ain’t heard this, then: Chesapeake went out two days ago and got took by Shannon, right off’n Cape Ann. Terrible loss, it were, an’ from what I heard, they was a passel what got killed – or leastaways hurt bad.” Isaac shook his head and realized by the looks from the two Navy men that they must have had friends aboard. This impression was confirmed with their next words.

  “Oh hell’s fire, Bill, I wonder who got it. Gunners more’n likely. Poor old Hocker – he probably got hisself kilt. Wasn’t none too bright, neither. Probably stood up to see what was happenin’ and looked right into a British eighteen-pounder.”

  “Your likely right ‘bout that, Sam,” responded Bill. “Wasn’t that Irish cove a gunner s’well? He got took over to Lawrence’s ship. I recollect him say in’ he was gonna get him some action finally. Said the only action he’d seen was from the deck of a British ship ‘gainst the Frenchies. He’d had a run o’ bad luck, bein’ on that ship down to the Chesapeake what couldn’t get beyond the Capes on account o’ the blockade. Kinda funny, you think on it, that he went from being in th’ Chesapeake to on the Chesapeake, an’ didn’t have much in the way of luck with either one!”

  “Aye, though I’d doubt he thought it funny, his own self. Cap’n Stewart just come up from Gosport. He left command o’ the Constellation, tied up in the blockade for the quarterdeck o’ the Constitution, what’s tied up in a refit. Don’t reckon he’s gonna be seein’ action any time soon, neither. Hell, ain’t none among us gonna, what with that damn British fleet standin’ off an’ on day after day. Heard Decatur’s got three or four blocked into New London by a seventy-four and a couple o’ frigates.”

  The two continued to chat idly about the state of the war, while ignoring their fellow passenger. Isaac listened idly to them and it suddenly dawned on him who it was they had been talking about earlier in the conversation.

  “You coves mentioned an Irishman – a gunner, you thought – come up from the Chesapeake. Do you recall his name, by chance? It couldn’t have been Tim Conoughy could it?”

  “Aye, that’d be the one. Tim Con
oughy. Fine fellow, he seemed, the little time I got to know him. Seemed to want to fight the Brits real bad. Thought it a mite strange for an ex-Royal Navy man to be wantin’ to fight his own kind.” The sailor paused as he thought further, then continued, “But I reckon he wa’n’t no different than any o’ the other Brits fightin’ in the American Navy, upon thinkin’ on it.”

  “Wasn’t a topman – ‘nother Brit, in fact, named Coleman, Robert Coleman- in that crew, was there? What about an American name o’ Clements?”

  The two seamen looked at one another silently as each searched their memories for the names Biggs mentioned. Finally, one, the younger of the two, responded.

  “Don’t recollect anyone o’ them names, Brit or other. Course, coves was comin’ and goin’ quick as ever you please. Ordered in, then moved out – either to the fresh water Navy up to the Lakes or off to Chesapeake. Musta been more ‘an fifty sent over to Lawrence after he come aboard to see the Commodore. Most hadn’t been aboard us a month. An’ we been gone a few days now on top of it. But I reckon they figgered you ain’t got a need for a crew on a ship what ain’t got a rig – or even a deck’”

  The two laughed at their joke, then continued their conversation, largely ignoring the privateersman who shared their ride. Isaac leaned back and thought about his friends. If Tim somehow found his way from Baltimore to Boston and then to the Chesapeake, why not Coleman and even Clements?

  * * * * * *

  “Charity…that you? Glad…mmmmphhh…back…Sorry…Baltimore…I …no, sweet Charity, don’t…never…”

  “Jake, lad, wake up. You’re dreamin’ again. You ain’t in Baltimore. You’re on the British frigate Shannon. And I surely ain’t your ‘Miss Charity’…Clements gently shook his young friend’s shoulder. Tate’s eyes snapped open, darting around feverishly as he tried to locate himself and identify the moans, cries, and shouts he heard as well as the stink of the ‘tween decks area on the British man o’ war turned temporarily into a hospital. He tried to sit up in the swinging cot he occupied in the sick bay. Clements put his hand again on Jake’s shoulder, gently pressing him back down. The young topman’s eyes finally focused on his shipmate and friend.