“Lay still, lad. It’s me, Jack Clements. You got moved over here to the Shannon when the surgeon saw that arm all turnin’ putrid – showed signs o’ morbidity, he said.” Tate’s eyes widened somewhat, and his hand moved instinctively to his right arm. A panicked look came into his eyes as his hand found nothing below what had been his elbow. The former bosun of Chesapeake continued in a voice gruff and louder than it needed to be, but it was as soothingly quiet as he could manage.
“Aye, it’s gone, Jake. Medico hadda take it afore the putrefaction spread and killed you. An’ here’s the first time you come to since. Looks like your fever’s broke – or at least eased a bit.”
“Feel like I fell from the t’gallant yard an’ hit ever’ spar an’ line on th’ way down.” The young topman mumbled, still disoriented. He frowned, making the effort to think, his eyes closed, and his head filled with the screams and shouts of men in hand-to-hand combat punctuated with the clash of steel blades and the crack of pistol and musket shots.
“I ‘member the fightin’ and then the damn Brits comin’ aboard an’ someone haulin’ down Chesapeake’s colors right about the time I reckon I got myself shot. Someone drug me over to the mast, I think. Guess I cain’t recall much after that. How’d we get took over here? Whyn’t they jest leave us in Chesapeake? An’ what about the others? What of Coleman and Johnson? How ‘bout Tim? He here too?”
“They bundled up all our Brits – Conoughy and Coleman and them others – an’ took ‘em out o’ Chesapeake soon’s the fightin’ quit. Took ‘em in manacles, they did. Reckon it’ll go hard with ‘em once we get to Halifax. Ain’t seen ‘em since. Brits got ‘em locked up somewhere apart from the rest o’ the crew. Couple o’ days back some o’ the other lads got they’s dander up and made the Brit prize crew think they was gonna take back the ship; hove to both vessels, they did, an’ run ‘bout half the crew over to the Shannon. Some more o’ the wounded ‘s’well. That’s when they took you over. I guess cause I’m a warrant, they let me have run o’ the ship below. An’ that’s better than most got it; they’s still wearin’ the iron. An’ they got a pair o’ nine-pounders loaded with grape an’ canister aimed down the scuttles over to the Chesapeake. Reckon they ain’t gonna take any chance that the ones left over there might start some trouble. Heard from one of the surgeon’s mates just last night we been off Halifax couple o’ days now and just waitin’ on the fog to lift afore we go in. Said it’d likely be this morning. Cove said they was still tryin’ to put Chesapeake to rights – knottin’ an’ splicin’, patchin’, fishin’ a mast. Decks still all ahoo; lines ain’t been made up, an’ gore still ever’where. Reckon they got some work on Shannon yet to do, ‘s’well. Been some poundin’ goin’ on topside an’ yellin’. They’s some scuttlebutt makin’ the rounds that Cap’n Lawrence is bad off – still alive though, last I heard. Lieutenant Ludlow too.
“Jake? You still with me, lad?” Clements moved closer to his friend. Tate’s eyes fluttered and he looked at the bosun briefly and fell back to sleep. “Reckon I gone on long enough. You sleep an’ I’ll check you later on.” Clements stood, as much as the low overhead would allow, and made his way between the hammocks and swinging cots of the crowded hospital, careful not to bump any of the occupants. The moans and cries of the hurt sailors could still be heard as he stepped past the hung canvas and into the even more cramped berthing space where the American sailors were confined.
Sam Johnson, a bandage stiff with dried blood around his head, was sitting on the deck with his legs out in front of him and touched the bosun as he went by. Clements stopped and squatted down beside his former shipmate.
“How’s your head, Sam? Course, any other part o’ your body what took that hit likely woulda kilt you dead, quick as kiss your hand.”
“I reckon it’ll take more ‘an some Brit musket ball to put me in a shroud – ‘specially one aimed at my head. An’ what about your own head, Bosun? You feelin’ any better?”
Clements nodded and smiled, wincing some. He put a hand up to the bandage on his head. “I’ll make it all righty, Sam. You don’t need to worry ‘bout me.”
“Aye, Jack. That’s good. But this ain’t: I just heard that Cap’n Jim died. Ludlow ain’t doin’ much better, but he’s still alive. Mister Blanchard come through a bit ago and tol’ us. Said we was headin’ in to Halifax Harbor, Chesapeake right astern of us. Sure am glad I ain’t got to watch that. That, more than a ball, might put me into the sight o’ the devil. More than any of us could take, I’d reckon.”
“Mister Clements…what do you figger gonna happen to us, we get in?” Another of the Chesapeakes spoke up, voicing the concern most of the men, including Jack Clements, felt.
“I ain’t got any idea ‘bout that. Reckon they’ll put us into some kinda prison or other – maybe a hulk. Then what, only the Almighty knows.” He turned back to Johnson. “Sure am sorry to hear ‘bout Cap’n Lawrence. He oughta get a decent burial. Sure hope they don’t just throw him over the standin’ part o’ the foresheet. Wouldn’t be right, you ask me.”
A round of “Ayes” went through the space and the men continued to talk quietly about the uncertainty facing them and the fate of their shipmates still on Chesapeake. Clements found a space and made himself as comfortable as he could, listening to the noises emanating from both the gundeck over their heads and the spardeck above that.
Cheers, running footfalls, and the sudden discharge of a cannon that made them all start, told them that they were nearing their destination. The cannon shot was echoed, apparently by a gun ashore, and followed by others, both aboard Shannon and from the shore batteries. Tension among the Americans increased; worried looks and a few murmured words passed between several. A hatch in the gundeck was opened above their heads and the cool fresh air that filtered down to the captives, along with the slight increase in light made them all look up. A face looked down at them, then turned and disappeared.
The noise increased, now heightened by the open scuttle, and further running footfalls gave testimony to the efforts of the crew to bring the frigate to anchor. Muffled commands could be heard and the rattle of blocks and the other trappings of the rig as the sails were clewed up and finally, but only for a moment, the air was filled with the absence of sound, as the water ceased its constant murmur along the side of the British ship.
The Americans soon could hear the sounds of boats that now circled the triumphant frigate and the barely discernible sounds of their occupants yelling and shouting congratulatory slogans. A distant thunder signaled the Citadel, high above the Dockyard, had joined in celebrating the British victory and, over that, the peal of church bells provided a higher pitched counterpoint to the cacophony which, though muted by the thick hull and decks of HMS Shannon, brought an increased burden of sadness and uncertainty to the Chesapeakes as they waited to realize their fate.
Quite without warning, a half dozen Royal Marines appeared in their midst – they had come forward in the ‘tween decks – and now stood with bayonet-tipped muskets at the ready, while an additional six climbed awkwardly down the ladder from the gundeck; their muskets, unslung as each landed, were also leveled at the American prisoners. Their sergeant moved quickly into the Americans’ midst.
“All right, you lot. Listen ‘ere. Any trouble from the least of yers, an’ ye can count on feelin’ the steel o’ th’ Royal Marines. Up with ye now, an’ lively about it.” In the dim light that filtered through the open scuttle and around the bulkhead aft and canvas forward, the Chesapeakes could see their tormentor and his colleagues watching them much the way a fox might watch a coop of chickens and, without a murmur, they rose slowly to their feet and shuffled, bent by the weight of their ignominy as well as the low overhead, in the direction of the ladder.
They emerged onto the gundeck blinking and squinting in the stronger light that came through the gangways from the spardeck and now the sounds of celebration, muted from below, assaulted their ears and added to their misery. The sergeant ga
ve them no time to consider their position.
“Keep it movin’ there! Up ye go, we got boats awaitin’ to take ye on a merry ride. Ye’ll soon be feelin’ the solid soil o’ Great Britain under your feets, an’ no mistake. An’ then a fine place where you can lay about an’ consider your luck at bein’ safe an’ sound from th’ dangers ye faced on th’ ‘igh seas. Aye, ye’ll find me colleagues at Melville Island fairly leapin’ to make you comfortable. Har har har. An’ some other coves what thought they might take up arms against ‘is Majesty ‘s’well, though bein’ Frenchies, ye’ll likely not find ‘em much for conversation. Har har har.”
The sergeant poked a few of the Americans with his bayonet, receiving no response save a step toward the ladder leading to the spar deck and the waiting boats.
As he came out into the light of a summer afternoon in Halifax Harbor, Bosun Jack Clements squinted down his eyes and cast them quickly around the British ship. Coming to anchor and looking quite the worse for wear was Chesapeake, a cable astern. The Blue Ensign flying tautly above the American flag in the moderate breeze brought a scowl to his face and his fists balled without his conscious thought. Milling small craft, decorated in bunting in apparent haste and filled to capacity and beyond with well-wishers, circled the two frigates. Their passengers, still dressed for the church services interrupted by the arrival of Shannon and her prize, pointed and commented excitedly on the obvious punishment received by the American, while countless others, also liberated from Sunday services by the excitement, lined the nearby shore cheering and waving, delirious in their joy at this first naval victory and the capture of an ‘impregnable’ American frigate. All around the harbor, and as far as Clements could see from his vantage point were ships: British men o’ war, transports, and what were apparently prizes, formerly American and a few French merchants, awaiting adjudication. His eyes moved closer: around the deck of Shannon an unrepaired bulwark and a pair of dismounted cannon were the only evidence he could make out of the fight that took such a desperate toll on the American vessel. No gore remained on deck, if indeed there had been any five days previous, and the rig, what he could see of it, was taut and unscathed.
As they shuffled by one of the spardeck eighteen-pounders, Clements could make out semi-circular markings on the deck behind it; he recalled that he had noticed the same at each battery on the gundeck. He was a bosun, not a gunner, but his instinct told him that this ship had reached a level of efficiency in gunnery to which most, in either the British or the American Navy, could only aspire. On taking a second look, he discovered rudimentary iron sights on the top of the gun barrel; no doubt these contributed as well to the deadly accuracy of their fire. He made a mental note to talk with one of Chesapeake’s gunners about these improvements to the British cannon.
Small wonder, he thought, that our rag-tag bunch what ain’t never fought together was whupped so quick. The marine nearest him prodded him with a bayonet and he moved toward the waist where the boats waited to take the prisoners ashore.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Hands to braces and sheets; let fall the tops’ls. Mister Coffin, we’ll have silence fore an’ aft. See to it.” Captain Rogers’ form, visible only as a shadow darker than the surrounding darkness, glided to the wheel and, in words indistinct to any but the men at the helm, ordered the General Washington brought to an easy reach.
Only the hands nearest the quarterdeck had heard the hoarse whispers and, of course, Starter Coffin. The mate immediately moved forward and, in his distinct gravelly growl, enjoined the hands to silence and speed as they carried out the orders which would enable the brig to get out to sea, having just won her anchor from the sandy bottom of Salem Harbor.
The nor’easter had moderated; no longer was the warm rain being blown horizontal. But even with it eased, the rain and the profound darkness of the late June night would be their allies in slipping past the tightened British blockade. Word on the waterfront was that the Brits had strengthened their choke-hold on the American coast with the addition of several more brigs, sloops of war, and a frigate all sent down from Halifax. Since the success of HMS Shannon, the Royal Navy had nearly sealed the Massachusetts coast from Cape Cod to Portsmouth and any vessel desiring to take to sea waited for a night such as this – dark and dirty – with squalls that would drive the lions from the gate as they sought sea room to ride out the weather. Asa Rogers and indeed all hands, had been aboard the privateer for nearly two weeks, watching and waiting for such an opportunity. Tension rose as the glass fell and finally, the northeast storm came through allowing them the chance they had awaited. And they all, to a man, clambered for the chance to right the wrong their country had suffered at the start of the month.
“The tide’s still makin’, Cap’n. ‘Pears to be settin’ us to th’ south a mite. Be more comfortable comin’ a trifle higher.” The second mate, well known to Rogers and, indeed, most of the seafaring community, was new aboard the General and offered the suggested course correction quietly and with some trepidation. He waited silently, a shadow, as the Captain watched his ship’s progress against the barely visible smudge of land to starboard.
“I quite agree Mister O’Mara. Your observation is astute. You may make it so; about a point to weather should answer nicely. Mister Coffin, you may trim her close hauled. And I need not remind you to do it quietly.”
The General Washington eased up, her tops’ls and reefed courses trimmed without a single shiver at the hands of her adept crew. As she breasted the rolling ground swell forcing its way into the confined waters of Salem Harbor, the brig began the familiar and easy motion her crew knew so well. The northeaster, docile for the moment, would return with a vengeance soon enough, but now with the temporary lull, the officers needed only to watch the action of the tide to get the handy little brig to sea.
Tom O’Mara, his face and deep-set eyes shrouded under the weathered tarpaulin hat which he pulled down low on his forehead, watched the ship carefully even so and stood close by the helm where he could watch the compass in the dim glow of the binnacle. Tall, his long arms hung at his sides, his wrists showing out the bottom of his sodden canvas coat. Had it been only slightly lighter, one might have noticed his fists clenching and relaxing as he conned the vessel out of the harbor. It weighed heavily on him that he had a large berth to fill and knew also that many of the crew sorely missed Jared Tompkins, his predecessor, a kindly, easy-going man, and fine sailor killed by a splinter in an action during the last cruise. He had been buried at sea.
O’Mara, ashore and without a berth, had run into Captain Rogers shortly after the disastrous Shannon/Chesapeake duel. When Rogers had suggested he might fill the second’s berth on the General, he fairly leaped at the opportunity. Salem born to immigrant parents and named in lofty tribute to his antecedents, Thomas Francis Xavier Ignatius O’Mara had sailed on both Rogers’ and Crowninshield ships for many years, but never with either of the great men personally. He was well known by most of the seafarers between Salem and Boston as a fine seaman with an abnormally low boiling point; in fact it was his quick temper and even quicker fists which accounted, yet again, for his current availability. And he had promised himself, should he find a berth as a mate, that he would make every effort to control his temper.
“She seems to be responding nicely, Mister O’Mara; you may keep her as she is. I am going forward for a spell.” Without a backward glance, Captain Rogers stepped off the quarterdeck and disappeared into the darkness.
“Who’s that there? Oh, Cap’n, I didn’t see you comin’. Everything all right?” Third Mate Isaac Biggs was standing in the bow, a foot on the butt of the bowsprit and his head pulled into his canvas jacket, dull with the soaking rain. He leaned forward over his raised knee, both arms resting easily on his leg as he peered intently into the dark ahead of the privateer.
“Just dandy, Isaac. Just come forward to have a look around and see that we’re keepin’ a sharp weather eye out. Wouldn’t do to find that one o’ them frig
ates was pokin’ ‘round out here. I am hopeful they and their associates have headed well off shore during this spell of weather. No sir, wouldn’t do at all to discover one still on station.”
“Amen to that, Cap’n. I got two aloft at the cross trees and I’ll be changin’ ‘em every hour. Likely not gonna see much in this rain, but like you said, they won’t likely be anything to see. An’ I got Davies just aft o’ the chains there with the deep lead.”
Almost as if on cue, the two men heard Davies quietly announce the depth as he hauled in the ocean leadline; they were still on soundings and would be until they passed below Great Misery Island.
“Good thinking, Isaac. Wouldn’t do to find Harding Rocks on a night such as this.” With that, Captain Rogers disappeared aft and Biggs continued to peer into the dark ahead of the General Washington, as the brig shouldered aside the growing swells generated by the storm that rolled in from the open expanse of the Atlantic.
It was about half way into the middle watch when Biggs stepped onto the quarterdeck, found the Captain among the dark shapes, and announced quietly, “Cap’n, we’re off soundings. I have secured Davies since he ain’t found a bottom with the deep lead for the past fifteen and more casts.”
“Very good, Mister Biggs…Mister Coffin: who has the watch?”
The growl emanated from the leeward side of the quarterdeck, “Be Biggs, an’ the starbowlines, Cap’n. You figger we can go to a reg’lar watch now?”
“That will answer nicely. I’ll be in the cabin, should you be needin’ me, Mister Biggs.” With that, the men watched as the tall form of Asa Rogers appeared to sink into the deck as the captain went through the scuttle and down the ladder to his cabin.
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 20