“You’ll do well to keep men aloft, Isaac. Wouldn’t serve no purpose at all to get took by surprise should there be a Brit lurkin’ out here. Be sure to change ‘em right often and keep your lads quiet. Even in this weather sound’ll carry more’n you’d think.” The deep gravelly voice resonated out of the dark, raised somewhat now to be heard over the rising wind. Periodically, as the vessel got further into the Atlantic seas, a gout of spray would fly down the deck, causing the men on deck, even those as far aft as the quarterdeck, to hunch down into their already soaked jackets. The weather would likely continue to worsen through the next day or so and that was fine with the men and officers of the General Washington. With every mile of open water they gained, they lowered the chance of being detected; along shore, the British had little to do but watch the harbors for shipping, but at sea, there was just too much area to cover and the attitude on the blockading ships was that the frigates, sloops, and brigs escorting the merchant convoys would have to deal with any of the United States vessels that slipped through.
That night and the next several days passed uneventfully; the weather did in fact, get worse and, to the straining eyes of the lookouts, the sea was empty, save for the American brig. General Washington continued under shortened canvas in a southeasterly direction, handling the now heavy seas in her comfortable, albeit wet, manner. Every man knew that with each day, the likelihood of detection grew less, and by the fourth day out, they were all breathing easier. It was during the afternoon watch one day in early July that contact was finally made.
“Sails…I got two ships o’ sail, hull down, and showin’ a point off the leeward bow. ‘Pear to be under easy sail.” The lookout in the foremast crosstrees was alert and there wasn’t a man on deck who didn’t stop what he was doing to cast his glance to the horizon. Of course, from deck there was nothing to see. Which sent the officer on the quarterdeck into the forward rigging with a glass to see for himself what was out there. A messenger had been sent for the captain, and by the time Third Mate Biggs returned to the deck, Rogers was waiting by the foretopmast backstay, somewhat impatiently.
“Well, Mister Biggs. What do we have?”
“Looks to me like a pair of Bermuda sloops, Cap’n. Or possibly one an’ a schooner rigged vessel. They’re headin’ to the north under easy sail, an’ on the larboard tack. Might be ahead of a convoy or might just be on they’s own. Wasn’t nothing else in sight, even with the glass. Probably out of St. George’s in the last couple o’ days or more.”
“Thank you. We’ll harden up a trifle, if you please, an’ have a look. I doubt they’ve seen us yet, though I ‘spose it’s always possible. When they’re hull up from aloft, we’ll clear for action, but keep the gunports closed until we know what’s actin’.”
With a quiet “Aye,” Biggs headed for the quarterdeck, giving orders to sail handlers, Gunner Hogan, and Bosun Dobson, each as he passed them. The ship was brought to a course that would intercept the two potential prizes while maintaining the weather gauge. Word spread throughout the ship that something was afoot and the off watch section began to filter up on deck to discuss what might be. T’gallants were set and two additional stays’ls to close the distance before dark. Rogers could use the cover of night to disappear should the pair prove to be more than he felt the General could handle safely, but he would also have the opportunity to engage them if they turned out to be a couple of merchants, or even lightly armed Royal Navy vessels. The wind was holding nicely at west-northwest and could be expected to do so at least until dark, still some five to six hours distant. Plenty of time to close – and even take them. The men watched and waited impatiently.
* * * * * *
“Step along, there, you God damned turncoat. You start laggin’ and you’ll feel my steel, an’ no mistake. Wouldn’t be no one grievin’ over your bloody arse, neither. Keep steppin’ along with them other traitors. I’d warrant you’ll wish you’d never been born an Englishman by they time you face the gibbet or the lash, by God. A floggin’ ‘round the fleet would be too good for ye – ‘angin’ is what ye deserve. Aye, a ‘angin’.” A Royal Marine brought up the rear of the small procession of prisoners, and was flanked by an additional three on each side of the column; a marine sub-altern led the group of British deserters through the back of Halifax, past the Citadel, and onto the road that would take them around the end of the Northwest Arm of Halifax Harbor.
The five British sailors, late of USS Chesapeake, and still stiff from their confinement aboard Shannon, struggled to keep up the pace set by the young officer. Most showed some physical manifestation of their part in the battle, either before or after Shannon’s sailors and marines had boarded Chesapeake. Two limped horribly, their bloody bandages, one around a thigh and another covering most of the calf, had begun again to seep from not yet closed wounds. They were helped by shipmates, one with a head wound wrapped in a dirty bandage, brown with dried blood, and another with most of one arm wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage. Only one among them was unhurt and he brought up the rear, helping his wounded comrades as they faltered. It was while he struggled to help up his long time friend who had stumbled – weak from the serious wound in his thigh and from loss of blood – that he provoked the Marine’s impatient encouragement. He didn’t stop moving, but turned to look at the Redcoat after the wounded man was back on his feet and once again stumbling along. His look was blank; it held no animosity or rancor, but it again inspired the marine to more invective.
“’Ere, what’re you lookin’ at, you filthy turncoat. Leavin’ a nice Navy vessel to join up with them American upstarts and takin’ up arms against the King and country what birthed you – you orta be ‘ung. An’ I’d warrant you will be. Har har. Unless me colleagues yonder at Melville Island ‘ave an accident with ye. Har har.” The Royal Marine poked at the sailor with his bayonet, encouraging him to move faster. The pace remained unchanged.
“I can manage, Robert; by me own mother’s eyes, I can. You step along like the cove wants. You topmen got the luck o’ St. Patrick on you, comin’ outta that scrape with nary a drop o’ blood spilt. Hidin’ up aloft, were you? Tol’ you all the excitement’s at the guns. Next commission we’re gonna see that Mrs. Conoughy’s boy gets ‘is young arse up there in the clouds.” Tim smiled thinly at his friend, maintaining the long standing rivalry between the topmen and gunners. Through teeth clenched in pain, he continued. “I coulda stayed down there in Gosport on Constellation, but it was action I was cravin’ and I guess that’s what I got, eh, Robert lad? An’ now a chance to have a wee visit with some of me countrymen on top o’ it.”
“Don’t waste your breath talkin’, Tim. I’d warrant we’ll find time enough for that whenever we get to wherever it is we’re goin’. An’ your ‘countryman’ back there ain’t likely to…”
“’Ere now. Shut your gobs, you two. Ye’ll be needin’ all the breath you got for our little walk in the woods. Gotta get you over there afore it gets dark or I don’t get me wee dram of good Jamaica rum.”
As the cart track they were on fed into a wider road, the British seamen, formerly of USS Chesapeake, could make out the end of the long line of the American prisoners marching ahead of them. They too were flanked by Redcoats on either side, as well as ahead and astern. Many were wounded, but could walk; those that couldn’t had been taken to the British Naval Hospital in Halifax along with the more seriously wounded officers, American and British. According to one talkative marine guard, the other officers – ‘the ones what wasn’t ‘urt bad’ – would be given their parole across the harbor in Dartmouth or Preston. And would be free to come and go within certain limits until exchanged.
As the road ran down a hill and emerged from the woods, the men, first the Americans and then the British, could see ahead of them the water of the Northwest Arm where it dead ended in the inland shallows and, looking to their left, they could see it extending through the woods for some distance, but the open end of the Arm was not visible. Instinctively thou
gh, most knew that the open sea and freedom, should they make it there, lay in that direction. Directly across the narrow band of water was a pretty cove – or would have been but for the blight of the island set in its opening. On the eastern end of the island was a house perched high on a knoll, part covered in scrub grasses; the rest of the island was surrounded by a fence, high and with pointed tips. The men could see part of the prison itself now; barracks of wood and stone, wooden storehouses, and other buildings all painted blood red, and glowing ominously in the late afternoon sun. A signal mast stood next to the house on the knoll, apparently for communicating with the fort on Citadel Hill. It seemed to the prisoners a dismal and formidable place to behold; even the golden glow of a late Sunday afternoon in early June, and the clear water, dazzled with the low sunlight and reflecting the deep blue of the Nova Scotian sky, could not soften the ugliness of the red-painted buildings on the rocky island. Behind the island were dense woods, similar to the forests that covered much of the area between Halifax and the Northwest Arm.
“There you are, lads, ‘ave a good long look at your new ‘ome. Ye won’t be seein’ it from this place again, I’d warrant. Har har.” The Redcoat allowed the men to stop for a moment to take in the sight of the prison that covered nearly all of the little island. But not for long. “Awright, then, let’s get movin’ right smart.”
Tim Conoughy leaned heavily on Coleman’s shoulder, more to talk quietly than for the support it offered; but make no mistake, the wound in his thigh, now bleeding freely, was no small matter and putting any weight at all on it caused him to flinch and, on occasion, grunt in pain.
“What of the others, Robert? Did you get a chance to see Jack or young Tate? I ‘eard one of the lads mention that Sam Johnson was ‘urt sore bad, but not a word ‘ave I ‘eard of our other mates that come up from Gosport.”
“They wasn’t bringin’ me the news regular, Tim. But I did ‘ear that Cap’n Jim passed over just afore we come into ‘Alifax. An I seen Mister Blanchard on deck as we was gettin’ into the boats; didn’t ‘pear to be ‘urt that I could make out. Maybe Clements and the others is up ahead there. Blanchard’ll likely be given ‘is parole, not locked up. They don’t do that with the officers.”
“What of young Isaac, Robert. ‘ave ye seen ‘im? Did he come through …as good…ohhhhh.”
Coleman’s head whipped around to look at his friend. His jaw muscles tightened and his brow became furrowed. “Tim, Isaac ain’t with us; ‘e’s somewhere in Massachusetts, remember? We ain’t seen ‘im since last winter, ‘e didn’t stay in Baltimore to join the navy with us. You all right there, Tim? Tim?” Coleman realized he and another were supporting the entire weight of their shipmate. The Irishman’s head drooped, his chin resting on his chest. The topman called to the guard.
“Hey, you. Redcoat. ’Ere…give us a ‘and ‘ere. Me mate’s passed right out. Musta lost a lot o’ blood.” As he spoke, Coleman eased Conoughy’s inert form to the ground and knelt over him. The Irishman was deathly pale.
“Look’s like ‘e’s dead to me. No bother there. Just leave ‘im be. Too bad ‘e cheated the ‘angman, though. Move along now.”
“’E ain’t dead, damn it. Just passed out, ‘s’all. Give us a minute and we’ll carry ‘im the rest o’ the way. Ain’t right to just leave ‘im, even if ‘e is dead, which ‘e ain’t.”
Coleman and the least wounded British sailor, a man named Edward Tingley, picked up the form of the Irishman and staggering slightly, rejoined the procession now heading around the end of the Arm, following the water’s edge.
Less than an hour later, all the prisoners, American and British, marched or were carried through the gate of the prison on Melville Island. Mr. Walton, the camp doctor, met the procession, checking visually each of the men as they arrived. One look at the Irish gunner, one of the last he saw, caused him to shout at the Marine subaltern who had led the group.
“’Ere now, Mister Marine. What’s actin’ wi’ this one. Why ‘aven’t you left this cove in the ‘ospital at the Dockyards, then? You must think I got time ‘angin’ ‘eavy on me ‘ands, me an’ them sorry excuses for surgeon’s mates what’s assigned ‘ere. You two, carry ‘im right over there with them others and don’t tarry. Poor sod’s likely enough to die without you delay any more.” Several others among the wounded sailors had already been taken to the hospital and two of the British seamen with them. The Irishman groaned as Coleman and Tingley followed the outstretched arm of the doctor to the entrance of the hospital building, also painted blood-red, located across the yard from the barracks building, and carried their shipmate inside.
When they rejoined their shipmates, all hands were being lectured by the warden, a paunchy florid-faced Royal Marine, with a bulbous nose tracked with the red and blue veins of a serious and long time drinker. He was stuffed into a uniform that may have fit him ten years earlier and showed the markings of a major. As they took the places opened for them by their mates in the rear of the group, Coleman and Tingley stood with their American shipmates and listened as the warden touched on what their lives would be like going forward; it was apparent to the most casual observer that this officer had never seen a shot fired in anger, except perhaps at the back of an escaping prisoner.
“…Roll your ‘ammocks daily and ye’ll be washin’ an’ holystonin’ the decks twice a week, an’ make no mistake, it’ll be no different than when you was at sea; I run this island just like a man o’ war, an’ them decks’ll be clean an’ white. Ain’t no worries ‘bout ‘ow long it takes ye; you got time – plenty o’ time, as none of ye’ll be goin’ anywhere soon. Har har har. An’ then after your breakfast, ye’ll be free – it’s not like ye’ll be free, what I mean to say is, ye’ll ‘ave time – to do what ye will. Some of our French visitors use the time to make gewgaws to sell on Sundays to the folks what come over to gawk and point at ye from ‘Alifax an’ Dartmouth. You could do the same, if ye’ve any talent. An’ I ‘ope ye do, as ye’ll be needin’ spendin’ money to buy the things what ain’t supplied by the Transport Office for its prisoners.” After a pause for this news to register, he continued. “An’ I own the store. Just there, right by the gate. Sells everything a body might need. Wool for your feet in the winter, flannel for next to your skin, an’ a host of other necessaries. We got the occasional wee dram o’ spirits, an’ all of it cheap; you ask any of them Frenchies. You’ll see.”
He stopped, looked at the guards waiting for the men, and said, “Issue ‘em their ‘ammocks and blankets, then take ‘em an’ show ‘em to their quarters. Keep ‘em away from the Frenchies for now.” And he turned to walk back up the hill to the officers’ quarters on the top of the island. It was immediately apparent to all, prisoner and guard alike, that the warden, Major Ian Gilpatric, was less than sober, as he stumbled onto the first step of the walk and wove his way up.
The guards herded the sailors inside a stone storehouse where they drew hammocks and blankets, and then into the long two-story wood and stone building and to what would be their homes for some time to come.
A narrow hallway, illuminated by some lanterns augmented by half a dozen “purser’s glims” stretched out for some distance in front of them; doors, wooden with heavy iron hardware opened at frequent intervals, and a stone stairway disappeared up into the darkness to their right. The men could see that the wall by each cell was pierced with a small opening leading to a shelf in the inside. “That’s for your food,” one of the taciturn guards explained unnecessarily. As each four men reached a doorway, they were pushed inside of the six-by-nine-foot cells.
Inside, they found a metal basin, a wooden bucket in the corner, and a window high up in the end of the narrow wall. Iron hooks protruded from the wall, obviously for the hammocks. The light, what there was of it in the fading daylight, filtered in through a glassless, barred window set deep in the stone wall. The door slammed shut behind them and they heard the bolt being shot home with a depressing finality.
“Ain’t as muc
h space in here as they was on the barky, by God.”
“Aye, an’ a damn sight colder I’d warrant, once the weather turns. Ain’t no stove or nothing.”
“Now what I ask ya. We gonna be here ‘til the war ends, like he said?”
“I didn’t sign on to be locked up in a cage. I ain’t no animal. I’m tellin’ you coves right here an’ now, I aim to get me out o’ here quick as ever I can, an’ no mistake.”
“Did you catch a glimpse of that battery on t’other side of the bridge comin’ into the island? Aimed right at the gate, it were, like they was expectin’ all hands to bust out at once.”
And so it went; each group of four Chesapeakes were shut into a small stone cell. The reaction was mostly the same, save for a few who set up such a caterwauling that even their mates told them to shut up.
It would not be long before they met their French neighbors, many of whom had been residents of Melville Island prison since the fish factory that originally occupied the island was experimentally used for the prison. The current facility was erected in 1808, after the Crown – in the person of the Transport Office Agent for Prisoners – had determined the shore-side prison would be an improvement over the hulks in Bedford Basin. The health of the prisoners had improved, and while the escape rate was up considerably, more the result of using the healthier prisoners to build roads around the area, the majority of the escapees – all from the work parties – were usually rounded up within a fortnight. And not a one had escaped from the island prison itself – ever.
Jack Clements, even though a warrant officer, received no special treatment and since young Jake Tate had been deemed fit for the island instead of the Naval Hospital in Halifax, they had been put into the same cell along with Sam Johnson, who was not hurt as badly as some had thought, and Ike Massey, a waister from northern New York, and a transferee from USS Constitution. He bemoaned his ill-starred luck as the four of them sat on the cool stone floor and waited for what might come next.
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 21