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

by William White

  “Silence! I’ll have silence fore an’ aft.” Hardy’s voice was louder than necessary and cracked as he momentarily lost control of the strain he felt. But he needn’t have spoken; the two men forward who’s voices prompted his order had already been quieted by their mates. Everyone peered into the wet night to see the breakers so to gauge their distance. Putting Dancer ashore now would not only scotch the plan, but would likely get all hands drowned into the bargain.

  “There, Jeremiah, just abaft the larboard shrouds; you can see the line o’ white.” Biggs had his arm up, finger extended, and spoke quietly to the sloop’s captain.

  “Aye, I got it, I do. And I can hear ‘em ‘s’well. Probably oughta bring her up a half a point. No sense in cutting it too fine. And I ain’t relyin’ on that chart Cap’n Rogers give us. No siree. Not one eight years an’ more old. The Devil himself only knows what mighta changed – or what them Brits mighta done ‘round that point.”

  In response, the three men eased their grip on the tiller and Dancer came up, closer to the wind. A brief luff in the sail was quickly corrected and the little ship forged ahead, cutting through some waves, and over others, true to her name.

  “Aye, we’ll hold that for now. Looks right good for gettin’ round them rocks.” Hardy was satisfied, but the tension came through in his voice, and had there been more light, Biggs and the others would have seen his clenched fists and rigid posture.

  “I’ll see to gettin’ some flags ready, Cap’n. Hope we don’t need to show lights. Reckon they wouldn’t see ‘em any more ‘an they’ll see the flags, but don’t hurt none to be ready.” Isaac stepped to the scuttle and disappeared, only to re-emerge minutes later with two large red, white, and blue flags clutched to his chest. He bent the American one onto a halyard and the English flag to another that ran to the larboard end of the maintops’l yard. “Ain’t gonna see these, I’d warrant. They’ll be lucky to see the vessel in this weather. Probably all asleep on top of it.” Isaac muttered hopefully as he hauled the two ensigns aloft.

  Dancer swept around Chebucto Head, easily clearing the point and its protecting rocks. Hardy bore off some to accommodate the shoreline as it curved inward to the west toward the mouth of the Northwest Arm. He knew that York Redoubt with its Martello tower, some six nautical miles in, would be their real first test. At the rate they were moving, it would be only slightly more than a half hour until they were in position to be challenged. And it would seem like only a few scant minutes.

  The rain continued intermittently, switching between a sullen drizzle and a wind-driven deluge and then stopping altogether for minutes at a time. Not a star was visible and the shoreline showed only as a darker smudge in the black night. The opening into the Northwest Arm would likely not be visible until they were nearly in it. The tension built on the little sloop’s quarterdeck and indeed, throughout the ship the men were edgy, talking quietly in clipped tones and clustering amidships near the stout trunk of the mast. Now that they were in the lee of the entrance, the seas had calmed and the sloop rode more easily, though still with her lee rail awash, as she tore through the darkness. As they drew near the position of the battery at York Redoubt as marked on their out-dated chart, no one spoke; all eyes fixed on the shore barely visible through the darkness, watching for the first sign of a light, the flash of a gun, or the shouted hail from the shoreline.

  “There, Jeremiah, right abeam. See? Up high on the hill there. You can see the tower. Just like Cap’n Faitoute said it’d be. Leastaways, I think it is. Don’t seem to be much goin’ on. Reckon the weather’s keepin’ most of ‘em inside. Probably oughta get most o’ the men below; a trader would likely be short-handed.” Isaac stood close beside the prize captain, and hoped that his voice sounded calmer than he felt. This surely was more dangerous than cutting out that merchant last winter; aye, more dangerous by half. If this went wrong, he’d wind up right next to the men he was sent to rescue. If he didn’t get hung, that is, him and all of the men with him.

  Unbidden, the image of his parents flashed into his mind’s eye. His mother, the spotless apron perennially wrapped around her ample middle, her face, wreathed in graying hair, trying to be cheery to cover her concern at her only son’s return to sea in the midst of a war, and his father; he stood beside his wife and spoke softly to his son, returning to a life the senior Biggs knew well with all its dangers and uncertainties. The lines in his face seemed to deepen as Isaac’s mental picture focused on his father’s unsmiling eyes and his lips compressed into a tight white line. This vision swam with the snug house they maintained – the one in which he grew up – with its comfortable rooms and big fireplace, the crane holding a pot from which emanated delicious smells; he could almost smell his mother’s fish chowder.

  Isaac shook his head clearing the images and forced himself to focus on the immediate future. He again reviewed their plan, mentally checking off the weaponry he would need, the men he could count on most and, most importantly, the sketch Captain Faitoute had drawn for him of the layout of the island and its prison. This would be something he could tell his grandchildren about – if he survived to tell anyone!

  “Only the watch stay on deck. The rest of you get below and stay there, ‘til I or Cap’n Hardy calls you back up. No tellin’ what we gonna find gettin’ in there. I don’t reckon they’s any Brits gonna be out an’ lookin’ at us tonight, but no point in gettin’ caught up if they are.” Isaac spoke to the men in a whisper, trying to ensure that none of the uncertainty he felt came through in his voice. It was easier in a whisper to hide it and it was important that the men knew that both he and Cap’n Hardy had figured out all the things that might go wrong and were confident in the plan. And its success.

  With only a handful of men on deck, a few boxes and crates placed before Dancer left the side of the privateer, and most of the lines and sheets lying in an unruly tangle – or so it would appear to a landsman – on deck, the sloop gave every indication that she was just what would be expected by the British Marines guarding the entrance to the Northwest Arm, an American trader who had sailed across the Bay of Fundy from the northern coast of Massachusetts with grain for Mr. Hostermann which would be ground into meal for the good people of Halifax and the military stationed there.

  “Isaac, Isaac come here.” The hoarse whisper emanated from the quarterdeck and, even barely heard over the sounds of the ship racing through the water and the wind whining through the rigging, the urgency was apparent.

  In two bounds, the third mate was by Hardy’s side. “There, there. Do ya see? On the shore just off the starboard shrouds there. The light…do ya see it?” Hardy was pointing and gesturing wildly, his voice rising.

  “Aye, I got it, Jeremiah. Reckon it’s that battery Cap’n Faitoute tol’ us ‘bout at Point Pleasant. Said they didn’t often have an officer there, just enough conscripts to man the guns. Recollect he said if we got past York Redoubt without no trouble, we wouldn’t likely get it here.” Faitoute had said no such thing, but Isaac hoped it would calm his skipper. He needed him to get into Purcells Cove. And to wait while he went over land to Melville Island.

  The rain had started again with a vengeance. Visibility dropped to barely beyond the bowsprit so hard did it come down. And now the wind was easing a trifle. Still east though. Thank the Lord for that, thought Biggs. It would make it easier to get into the cut of the Northwest Arm – and out again. Suddenly, a crashing boom rent the night. Everybody on board Dancer started and some cringed, waiting for the splash of the ball from the shot they heard. Then came another boom. And another. Long guns, most thought, some aloud, others silently, but none the less fearfully. The sleeping Marines at Point Pleasant Battery had obviously spotted them, though God only knew how in this weather, and were seeking the range with their big guns. There must be a signal other than the two national ensigns and their lack of it…

  “It’s thunder. It’s only thunder. They ain’t shootin’ at us. It’s jest thunder.” Butterfingers Dunn had fi
gured it out first and his words were a great comfort the all hands, particularly Captain Hardy.

  “Thankee good Lord above. Now just get us safely in there without no more surprises.” The captain prayed openly, but quietly. Only Isaac, standing nearby on the quarterdeck heard the muttered request to the Deity.

  “The good Lord’s got enough on His mind, Jeremiah, without havin’ to worry ‘bout us’n. I reckon we’ll do better takin’ care of our own selves.” Biggs had been brought up with a gracious Lord, but not one to be bothered with trivialities. Time enough later to call on the benevolence of the Lord, should they really need it. Almost as in agreement with Isaac’s words, a great flash of lightning rent the darkness, throwing everything, the ship, the water, the opening of the Northwest Arm, and land at Point Pleasant into an eerily still image. It was burned onto their eyes. The crash of the thunder following brought everyone back to their senses.

  “Did you see that, or did I just imagine it?” Hardy was pointing to windward into total blackness; there was nothing at all to be seen.

  “See what? I seen we’re headed fair for the cut yonder, if that’s what you’re sayin’.” Biggs strained to maintain the image the lightning flash had shown them, but it faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.

  “No, I seen we‘re headed into the opening. That ain’t what I seen to weather, though. Seen a boat, headin’ this way; comin’ downwind right for us. Didn’t you see it, Isaac?”

  “Musta missed that, I reckon. Where’d you say you seen it? How big was it? Could it have been a warship?”

  “Small, I think. Aye, small it were. No bigger ‘en the ketch you was towin’ astern o’ the Gen’l. Might be comin’ out from the battery there at the point to have a look at us. Probably oughta have some o’ the men load one o’ them carronades to starboard, just in case, I’m thinkin’.”

  “I don’t think it was comin’ from the battery yonder if’n you seen it where you said, Jeremiah. Might be just some poor soul what got caught by the weather who’s tryin’ to get home. ‘Sides, what’s some little boat gonna do to us. Likely they cain’t catch us up, the way we’re sailin’, and they cain’t have much of a battery aboard, the vessel’s small as you say. Let’s not look for things to worry us. They’s enough ahead to think on, I’m thinkin’.”

  Another streak of white light lit the sky and this time, Isaac saw the small boat himself. Not only was it not coming after them, it was in fact the bomb ketch from the privateer, heading to the place east of the point where O’Mara had been instructed to leave it.

  “Looks like the Gen’l musta made her anchorage, Jeremiah. That’s O’Mara in the ketch, headin’ into the point. Hope they don’t see him with all this lightning. I reckon he seen us, though. Leastaways, I hope he did. Let him know we’re where we s’posed to be.”

  The sloop shot into the opening of the Northwest Arm; dark shapes loomed on either side, reaching up into the sky. In the next flash of lightning, they saw the shore was lined with huge pine trees and at the water’s edge, boulders that would tear the bottom out of anything unlucky – or unskilled – enough to run afoul of them. Protected from the easterly gale, Dancer slowed to a moderate, more sedate pace; the water was completely calm and the quiet was broken only by the wind, now reduced to a whisper, and the gentle splash of the bow wave returning to the sea. They were past the battery at Point Pleasant and into the Northwest Arm.

  “Isaac you better get some men for’ard with the anchor. No tellin’ how far that cove is where we’re s’posed to tie up. The Frenchy said a league, but he was guessin’. Better to be ready, case it’s less.”

  Hardy was regaining some of his self confidence, now they’d made it actually into the cut without discovery, and Isaac smiled inwardly as he went forward to get Dunn and a few others rigging the best bower for letting go on a moment’s notice. Hardy was right; no telling how quick they might need it. After only a moment, it seemed, it was ready, hanging only by a stopper to the cathead.

  “Goddamn it, Dunn. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The voice cut like a knife through the silence and was answered immediately by the bark of a dog on shore. Isaac turned and went back to the bow at a run. He found Butterfingers Dunn with a sailor’s neck in his hand. The sailor’s toes just touched the deck and his arms flailed in front of him. Isaac’s arrival stopped the flailing, but Dunn continued to hold the man almost off the deck.

  “What’s goin’ on here, Dunn?” Isaac grabbed the big seaman’s arm, and peered into the face of the other. It was Cathcart, the topman afraid to go aloft. “What was that shoutin’ about, Cathcart. Don’t you realize we’re tryin’ not to get noticed here? Dunn, put him down. All right, tell me what’s the story.” The dog ashore continued barking unabated.

  “He was throwin’ papers over th’ side, Mister Biggs, an’ I tol’ him to knock it off. He didn’t, an’ I grabbed him up so’s he’d stop. Don’t know what the papers was all about, but didn’t look right to me.”

  “How ‘bout it, Cathcart? What about the papers you was throwin’ overboard.”

  “You damn fools ain’t gonna get in here, an’ out again without you’re gonna get caught. Brits ain’t stupid, you know. They’ll be on to you in a flash an’ locked up you’ll be – right up yonder with your mates off’n th’ Chesapeake. I don’t aim to let…”

  “Dunn, take him below and figger some way to keep him quiet and out of trouble. Stone was right. Man’s not what he said he was. Might be some kinda spy for the Brits or something. Better make sure he cain’t cause any more trouble.”

  “Hey, ashore, there, wake up you Brits…” A crushing blow across the back of Cathcart’s head ended the shout. No one moved for a minute, waiting to see if anyone had heard. The silence was undisturbed.

  Even the dog had quieted and Dancer continued up the Arm toward Purcell’s Cove, as Butterfingers Dunn, after returning the belaying pin to the rack, dragged seaman Cathcart in a strong grip below to a stores room, picking up a short coil of rope as he passed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The thunderstorm moved off to sea, leaving the air heavy and sodden. Distant crashes and the occasional flash of lightning called to mind a naval battle being fought just over the horizon. A damp breeze, still mostly east and a reminder that the storm still lingered, filtered through the trees across the Arm and ruffled the water alongside the pier at Hosterman’s Mill, set well back in Purcells Cove. No dog barked, no light showed, no one challenged them; the place appeared deserted. The mill building sat near the pier, dark and empty, but likely would be a-buzz come morning. The American seamen planned to be long gone before the first mill worker showed up.

  Dancer lay partially alongside the pier, but with a bow anchor down in the middle of the cove. The leadsman’s whispered calls coming in had shown three fathoms as the anchor splashed, held, and the sloop swung around, her stern neatly contacting the pier; Hardy may not have an abundance of courage, but he was a fine seaman and ship handler.

  Quietly, with orders given in whispers, the bags of grain were brought on deck, then onto the pier, where they would stay while Isaac led his men through the forest to the bridge at Melville Island. The weapons came up and were neatly stacked on deck; cutlasses, pikes, and half pikes. A few muskets and pistols were added to the collection and Isaac gathered his sailors, a dozen and more strong.

  As the men stood in a tight circle on deck with the privateer’s third mate in its center, the only sounds were the creak of a deck plank, the infrequent groan and squeak of the lines holding the stern of the sloop to the pier, and the scratch of callused bare feet shuffling nervously on the deck as the men waited.

  “You’ll each get a cutlass and a pike, or half pike. Some will have a musket or pistol, but them what do, hear me good; they ain’t to be fired less’n I tell you. We ain’t lookin’ to let ‘em know what’s afoot here. And when we’re on the island, each of you are gonna have something to do.” He went on to describe in some detail the assignm
ents for each smaller group and to impress on them the need for silence. He looked at the large pocket watch Jeremiah Hardy had loaned him for the mission with the admonition to “…be sure it gets back to me, with or without you” – just past midnight. The British watches ashore, both on the island and at the batteries around it would have changed. In another hour, the new watch would be comfortable and hopefully dozing. It was time to go.

  The path from the pier into the woods was well trodden and, even in the all-encompassing darkness, easy to follow. After a hundred yards, however, it veered sharply inland, forcing the men to break a trail along the water’s edge. Wet branches slapped at faces, sometimes pushed away by groping arms, sometimes not. Wet undergrowth, thick with brambles entangled and tore at trouser legs, rocks and roots caught at unprotected feet tripping, bruising, and cutting even the hardened feet of the seamen. The men, in spite of these difficulties, remained silent, each following the man in front with only the occasional stifled grunt as someone tripped over a rock or root, or a branch caught an unsuspecting face. The cutlasses the men carried, as well as the pikes helped push back the heavier branches, but hacking them off as they passed was too noisy by half; they just couldn’t risk announcing their presence, especially when they had little idea of how far they had to go before they would find their first obstacle.

  The rain had softened the ground and the undergrowth; there was no cracking of twigs or rustling of dry leaves. But there were puddles, some surprisingly deep with unseen stones and twisted roots hidden in their depths. Isaac led, taking the worst of the branches and pushing them back; he followed the rocky shoreline, with all its undulations and deep cuts and coves. From time to time he stopped, both to check his bearings if they got out of sight of the water, and to let the men catch their breath. He was followed by Davies, the cox’n, and then the others. Butterfingers Dunn brought up the rear, his massive body moving with surprising agility and quiet through the woods. So far, the men knew of nothing that might have given away their presence on the peninsula. The light breeze and their own breathing seemed to be the only sounds. Not even did they hear animal noises as they moved carefully toward the British battery outside Melville Island Prison.