“I’ll check with Mister Coffin on it, Stone. See what we can do. If’n we don’t get you a replacement, though, you’ll have do with what you got. Either make Cathcart a topman, or work the yards short-handed.”
Stone acknowledged the mate’s remark and returned forward, clearly unhappy. O’Mara commented on it and added that he sensed a general undercurrent of tension aboard; not like the last cruise when the men were all eager to get to sea and take prizes. “I’d reckon ever’ man jack of ‘em knows they’s somethin’ afoot here – somethin’ different ‘bout this time”, he added with a frown. They would not have to wait much longer to discover just what it was that was gong to be different this time out.
Toward the end of the first dog-watch, Captain Rogers, accompanied by their French supernumerary, called all hands to the break of the quarterdeck. The men gathered by watch in two loose groups, led by their petty officers. The mates joined the captain and the Frenchman on the quarterdeck and for a moment or two, they listened to the murmurings of their crew as they guessed and wagered on what they would hear. All had assumed that “Now we’re gonna find out what all this is about.” They were right.
“Men, I reckon most of you figgered out this ain’t to be an ordinary cruise; and it ain’t, not by a long shot. We wouldn’t be goin’ out with that little sloop yonder, nor with a ketch towin’ astern loaded with explosives.” A general rumbling of surprise went through the crew, though to Rogers, it didn’t sound negative – a good sign, he thought. He waited while the mates restored quiet, then continued in the same low voice in which he had started.
“You all recollect that when Cap’n Lawrence took the navy frigate Chesapeake out at the start of June, he got himself beat pretty bad by the British frigate Shannon. A lot of men on both sides was killed, it said in the newspaper accounts of the battle, but they’s a lot of Chesapeakes, men and officers, what’re bein’ held in a prison not far from Halifax.” He stopped when the Frenchman touched his sleeve and turned. Faitoute spoke under his breath and Rogers turned back to his crew.
“Cap’n Faitoute, here, tells me there are no officers held in prison with the seamen, but there likely are all the survivin’ seamen held in a place called Melville Island. I aim to use Dancer and that ketch astern to get ‘em out and bring ‘em home.” He pointed first at the Bermuda sloop, still sailing neatly about a cable to leeward, and then the smaller ketch tugging at her towline as the beam waves slid her first to one side and then the other of the General.
“We got us a plan that’s as good as I can make it based on what we know and what Cap’n Faitoute, here, can provide about the layout and customs of the Brits in Halifax. I reckon we’re gonna have to sail by the seat of our pants once we get in close, but it won’t be no different from takin’ on some of the Brits we took on together goin’ back to the start of this war. Most o’ you men was aboard when we took the boats into a fleet o’ merchants in a snow storm last winter. That took a lot of courage; this’ll likely take the same. If this fine tops’l breeze we got holds, I ‘spect we’ll be heavin’ to durin’ the morning watch tomorrow to get ready and make some changes, both to the General, and Dancer. And once it starts, it’s gonna have to keep actin’ ‘til it’s either over an’ we’re out with the men, or they catch us an’ lock us up with the Chesapeakes.” The silence that greeted his words was complete. The groan of the spars in their jere tyes and quiet whistle of the breeze through the mile and more of rope rigging, the rattle of the occasionally unstrained block, and the whoosh of the sea as it parted and slid past the sleek hull were easily heard – and totally ignored, by all hands.
Suddenly, a voice from the larboard watch cried out, “Three cheers for th’ Cap’n…huzzah…huzzah…huzzah!”
Before the first ‘huzzah’ was done, the rest of the crew, to a man, joined in lustily and voiced their complete approval to Rogers’ daring plan – even though none, including the captain himself, knew what they might encounter in its execution. Such was their confidence in Asa Rogers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ding ding, ding. Five-thirty in the morning watch. The crew had been piped to breakfast, but few could eat, the anticipation being what it was. The privateer and the Bermuda sloop were hove to, in calm pewter seas under an ominous sky. The brief but fiery sunrise of earlier in the watch foretold ugly weather moving in, but many expected it as the night before had become increasingly overcast. And then the wind had died, just after it clocked into the east. No rain yet, but the day was far from over; in fact for much of the American crew, it had barely begun. And most knew they would see rain sweeping in from the open expanse of the North Atlantic on the crest of a growing gale. It was only a matter of when.
By the middle of the morning watch Dancer was secured alongside the General Washington and a steady stream of men moved back and forth between the two vessels. They carried munitions, arms, cutlasses and pikes to the little sloop and then, curiously, burlap sacks filled with they knew not what, but happily, not heavy. The sacks were stowed in the sloop’s hold on top of the weaponry and when the task was finished, a casual look would reveal the hold filled almost to capacity with sacks of unmilled grain. While Dancer was being loaded and fitted out as a merchant trader, a meeting was going on in the cabin of General Washington, to detail the plan.
Jeremiah Hardy, Prize Captain and skipper of the Bermuda sloop, would sail her into the outer harbor of Halifax and hopefully be able to convince any Brits who might stop him that he was only an American trader bringing grain to Hosterman’s Mill in Purcells Cove. The sloop’s crew would consist of a landing party of privateers under the direction of Third Mate Isaac Biggs. And Second Mate Tom O’Mara, along with half a dozen more seamen, would stand into the shore in the bomb ketch towing a pair of the General’s boats. What happened after that would be decided on the spot and depended in large measure on the weather (hopefully bad), Hardy’s ability at playacting (hopefully excellent), and the manning level of the various batteries along the shore of the approaches to the harbor (hopefully weak and inattentive). Captain Rogers would sail the privateer undetected into the shallows behind MacNabb’s Island, called the Eastern Passage, and wait for his men to carry out their part of the mission, but ready to assist with the General’s guns if he deemed it necessary.
“Oui, American sheeps sail into the ‘arbor all the times, I think. And never ‘ave I ‘eard of them being detained. When you pass the battery at York Redoubt, if they see you, you may ‘ave a visit from a Royal Marine at Point Pleasant, right ‘ere at the – ‘ow you say – la bouche? – oui, the mout’ of the Northwest Arm.” Jean Faitoute stabbed his finger at the chart and the prize captain, third mate, and second mate all peered attentively at it. Captain Rogers stood to one side, having already been through it with Faitoute several times. Each time some small change had been made to strengthen the plan. Neither felt they could further improve on it.
“How’re they gonna know we ain’t lookin’ to be hostile? I don’t reckon they gonna let just any ship sail in easy as kiss my hand, now, eh?” Hardy was not totally convinced that this Frenchman had all the answers.
“You’ll be flying a Brit flag in addition to the American; that’s what Cap’n Faitoute says all the traders do when they come in. And if this weather continues to thicken, it ain’t likely they’ll see you anyway. Accordin’ to the cap’n here, it’s an easy league twixt this York Redoubt and Pt. Pleasant; they ain’t going to be seein’ signal flags one to t’other – or lights, for that matter – in the teeth of a gale.” Captain Rogers spoke for the first time since the briefing had begun and Biggs, O’Mara, and Hardy nodded in unison, hoping the weather would be as bad as they needed. “And,” he added, “even if they should see a signal, they ain’t likely to be comin’ out to have a look-see in a small boat in that weather. Not the Royal Marines, I’m thinkin’.”
“Oui. Purcells Cove, she is right ‘ere, and ‘osterman’s Mill ‘ere.” Again Faitoute’s long tapered finger touched the
chart at a point about half way into the Northwest Arm. “That’s where you must anchor your vessel and go ashore. I can not…there might be…oui, je suis sur, there is a dock ‘ere, and with an anchor down, you can make fast to it. It will look like you are unloading the grain sacks more that way. Then you will go t’rough the woods to the island.” Faitoute looked at Isaac and smiled. “You will ‘wipe the eye’ of the English, no?” I am sorry I will not be wit’ you to see it, but your Capitan Rogers, ‘e wants to me stay ‘ere, on this sheep.” Isaac didn’t look as confident as the Frenchman that he would ‘wipe the eye of the English’.
“Mister O’Mara, you’ll sail the ketch to the shallows to the east of Point Pleasant, there either to ground her, or anchor her within hail of the beach. Accordin’ to Cap’n Faitoute, they ain’t nobody what can see you there, an’ you’ll leave two men aboard to light the fuses when they get the signal. Course, you’ll have to leave ‘em a boat ‘s’well. Wouldn’t do to make ‘em swim for it. Ha ha.” The mates smiled, albeit thinly. Rogers continued. “When you got her into position, you’ll take the other boat and sail right ‘round the point and into the Arm. With a bit o’ luck, you’ll be able to sail right to the prison dock, help Isaac, here, with his task, and sail back out again. I am told that small craft sail around the point and into the Arm continually, so it should arouse little suspicion. It might be easier gettin’ back out – leastaways for the boat – cause the Brits’ll be lookin’ t’other way.” Rogers then detailed more of the plan to his mates and Jeremiah Hardy. It would be up to them to pick and brief their crews.
Before the meeting ended, there came a knock on the cabin door. Upon instruction, it opened and a seaman, one of Dancer’s, apologized for interrupting, then said, “Sir, Mister Coffin sends his respects and all the cargo’s been shifted an’ the crew’s standin’ by.” He stood there, hat in hand and obviously uncomfortable at being not only in the cabin, but surrounded by two captains, two mates, and an important foreigner.
He fidgeted for a moment while a final point was made by Captain Faitoute, then Rogers said, “You may tell Mister Coffin we’ll be up directly and he may have the men stand ready to get Dancer underway.” The sailor could not get out of the cabin fast enough.
Isaac stayed behind for a moment when the others left the cabin. “I’m thinkin’ I know you from somewhere, Cap’n Faitoute; you look real familiar. Been gnawin’ at me since we was underway.”
“I do not know where it might be, young man – Mister Biggs, oui? I ‘ave been in the service of France since I was barely more than a boy, beginning my service as le aspirant – ‘ow you say…emm… midshipman, oui? And until t’ose English sank and burned my beautiful little brig, Toulon. That was in the Indies somet’ing over a year ago. We an’ t’ree other vessels was escorting a – ‘ow you say…convoy? Oui, convoy, I t’ink – back to France. Barely ‘ad we left Guadeloupe when a squadron of British frigates attacked us. We fail mos’ terrible at protecting our merchants. But never can I forgive that Capitan Weenston for destroying such a beautiful vessel as my petite Toulon. Then they send me to this God-forsaken place, ‘ere, in the North Atlantic – instead of they give me parole there, in the Indies. Such barbarians!”
“Winston? Did you say Cap’n Winston? On the frigate Orpheus, he was. Now I recollect. I was aboard when we took your brig and I ‘member how she took fire and burned. Right up ‘til the fire touched the magazine. They wasn’t nothing to be done for it, Cap’n. I got no reason to have any regard for the Brits, neither – I was pressed into that frigate off’n an American merchant my own self. Escaped from a prize crew when they was took by some American privateers. I heard the Brits took all they’s prisoners up here to Halifax, bein’ the only place they got over here.”
“Many of the French officers were released in the Indies, after they gave t’eir parole, a promise not to take up arms against Britain. Ptew!” Faitoute spat angrily as he recalled more of the events of that unpleasant time. “Now I am free. I give my parole in Preston and because I am gentleman, I will no take up arms ‘gainst England. But I will do all I can to ‘elp you get your men from that prison. And if an Englishman dies while you do it, I will no’ be sorry.” Faitoute turned and mounted the steps to the quarterdeck, his anger and frustration still evident when he reached the deck. But habits die hard and, as he emerged, the hard gray eyes of a former commander in the French Navy gave nothing of his emotions away, instead they flicked expertly over the entire ship from masthead to deck, taking in everything before him, each element registering in his brain without conscious thought.
Isaac appeared moments later and one glance around the decks of the privateer, a look at the sky and the pewter, oily calm water told him all he needed to know. Dancer had to be got under way soon, before the wind piped up and a sea started running. And he aboard with the men who would make up the shore party once they got into the Northwest Arm. As he started forward to collect the men he would take, he heard the captain’s voice behind him.
“Mister Biggs, you’ll be wantin’ to step lively now. Once the wind comes back, you and Hardy will be off on Dancer.” Captain Rogers voice was even and unemotional; there was no tension evident in spite of the fact that they were embarking on a most perilous undertaking and one he was sure no private vessel had attempted before. Even though there was no profit to be gained from the adventure, it was abundantly clear to all that he would brook no delay in getting started.
Within the hour, Biggs’ men and gear were aboard, the sloop cast off, and the wind was beginning to fill in from just a little south of east. The ground swell of rollers became first riffled with the breeze, then a short chop formed as the wind continued to increase. Within another hour, it had begun to rain, though not yet as hard as it would, and the wind was moaning in the rigging. From the privateer’s quarterdeck, Dancer could be seen on a close starboard reach under shortened sail as she labored through mounting seas.
Indeed, the General was working for her weathering as well as she sailed close-hauled under tops’ls, a reefed forecourse, and the spanker, also reefed. Forward, a single jib balanced the mizzen. The second saw that the helmsman was not struggling with the brig, a good indication that the ship was well-balanced. In fact, despite the worsening weather, she was having a much easier time of it than her smaller consort to leeward.
He heard the crew called to their supper and wondered where the day had gone; it seemed like only an hour ago that they came out of the cabin after learning the details of the rescue plan. Rogers stood by the helm watching his ship sail; “Mister O’Mara, we’ll have a reef in the foretops’l, if you please.”
The second nodded and said “Aye” as he stepped forward to see to the reef. Starter Coffin chose that moment to step onto the quarterdeck, and pointed his chin at the ketch working hard at her towline astern.
“She’s makin’ some water, Cap’n, looks like. Mebbe a longer line would answer. Wouldn’t do to get all them munitions soaked through.”
“Aye, Mister Coffin. You may be right. See to it, if you please.”
As he spoke, a sharp gust heeled the General suddenly and catching the helmsmen unawares, caused her to round up as the ketch yawed, heading down on a wave. The hemp towline went bar-taut, giving up half its girth in the process. The ketch jerked back into the wake of the brig and coasted forward, slackening its tether. But the damage had been done. Where the line crossed the transom, it showed a large frayed section and, in fact, of the three strands making up the line, only two remained.
Coffin grabbed two men, idlers, and together they dove for the failing line. Six hands struggled to find room to hang on, while Rogers himself went to the bit where the line was secured to take it in and make it fast again outboard of the damaged section. As the brig pushed her way into a particularly large wave and slowed momentarily, the ketch surged ahead, slackening the towline. All three of the men hanging on sat down suddenly as the strain was eased; scrambling to their feet, they hauled in. The captai
n took the turns on the bits, once again making fast the line and, at the end of it, the ketch loaded with powder, rockets, and oil. They pressed on to the northeast and the coast of Nova Scotia.
“Make a signal to Hardy that we are hardening up now, and good luck,” said the captain as the lookout in the foretop announced the appearance of the highlands just behind the Nova Scotian coast. It was after supper, though not yet evening, but it might well have been, so dark was it. With the heavy overcast of scudding cloud, it was quite unlikely that even if seen, the vessels would be construed as a threat. The ordered flags whipped out straight from the leeward end of the cro’jack yard, and were matched by lights in an appropriate pattern. In moments, they were acknowledged by the sloop to leeward which bore off slightly in a physical confirmation of understanding, and Rogers called out, “Hands to sail stations. Mister Coffin, we’ll be coming close-hauled, if you please.” As the ship pointed her bow closer to the wind’s eye, he spoke to the helmsman. “Keep her hard on it, lad; give nothin’ to leeward.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Isaac stood with Jeremiah Hardy on Dancer’s quarterdeck; three men labored at the tiller as the little ship leapt over the sea, heading for Chebucto Head, the promontory that marked the southwestern end of Halifax Harbor’s entrance. The vessel was reefed down and reaching, but still labored in the heavy swells capped with breaking waves. It would not be too difficult to maintain the agreed upon ruse of making Dancer look like a merchant coaster running in from the foul weather. If any on shore happened to notice her arrival.
“Deck there…on deck. I got breakers larboard bow…an’ mebbe a light above ‘em.” The lookout in the larboard rigging cried out and instantly, a dozen eyes swiveled to the leeward side, squinting through the dark, hands thrown up to shelter faces from the lashing rain.
A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Page 26