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

by William White

  “Oof…watch it…shhhh…damnation…” Whispered exclamations as the line stopped moving, and each man, concentrating on where he put his own feet, gently collided with the man in front of him. As they peered through the darkness, they could make out a light that twinkled dimly through the trees, casting a pale yellow glow and dark, dancing shadows that by contrast seemed even darker than the surrounding gloom. With complete silence restored, the men gathered closer to Isaac and Davies.

  Pulling him close, Isaac whispered, “That’s likely the battery what’s s’posed to be aimed at the main gate of the island. Cap’n Faitoute said they manned it all the time. Gotta get in there and secure the men an’ spike that gun. No blood on some of ‘em; need the uniforms.”

  Davies signaled some of the men forward. With gestures, he passed on their instructions and, in perfect silence, they followed Isaac toward the Royal Marine camp. A sentry leaning up against a tree next to his musket was half asleep; this boring duty numbed the mind. Davies moved silently around behind him and reached around the tree supporting both the Marine and his weapon. A muffled grunt followed the thud of the pistol butt as it landed on the man’s head; a second later, a small clatter as his unconscious form collapsed to the ground, knocking over the musket.

  The cox’n looked around fearfully; had the noise, small as it was, been heard? Were they given away? The men held their collective breaths; after what seemed an interminable interval with no stirring from the camp, Davies motioned them forward and they crept toward the sleeping forms of the Marines sprawled around the cannon. The lantern, dim and small as it was, cast a light that, to men who had spent their last hour and more in total darkness, was shockingly bright; it made their task easier and one by one, they took up positions by the sleeping Marines, belaying pins, pistols, and pikes ready in their hands.

  A man named Russell, moving through the sleeping men, tripped over one; he caught himself before he fell, but the Royal Marine awoke with a start, having been kicked soundly in the backside.

  “’Ere. Who’s there? That you Stokely? A little care, man. Mind where you put your feet. ’Ullo. Who the ‘ell’re you. What’s actin’ ‘ere? ALARM…ALAR…” The cutlass stroke turned his final word into a gurgle and the Marine’s head, now barely attached to his neck, lolled to one side as his lifeless body fell back with a faint thump and the blood poured from his neck, forming a black puddle that glistened in the dim light.

  Others began to awake from the shouted alarm of the now dead Marine and the night suddenly filled with the sounds of pistol butts, cutlass handles, and pikes making contact with heads.

  “Oooh…umph…thwack…thud…oooof…” Then silence, punctuated by the panting of the American seamen as they stood stock still, looking around in the dim light. Had they missed any? Had any stolen away to make a head visit before the privateersmen arrived? What now? Isaac moved around the camp, talking quietly to the men. They had performed flawlessly for the most part at their first test; but the hard part was yet to come.

  “Get some o’ them uniforms off ‘em. The ones what ain’t dead, gag ‘em an’ tie ‘em up good. You four, get the uniforms on, an’ pick up a musket. An’ keep your mouths shut. Davies, see about spikin’ that long gun there. Wouldn’t do at all to be greeted by that fellow when we’re comin’ out. Hopefully, I can still sound enough like a Brit to get the gate opened. Once we do, you all know what to do.” Isaac’s hoarse whisper galvanized his men into action.

  In just a few moments, the American seamen had struggled into Royal Marine uniforms. They laughed and giggled at each other, albeit quietly, until Isaac and Davies shushed them, their smiles giving lie to their harsh words. Leaving the lantern burning where they found it, Isaac adjusted his red coat where it strained across his broad shoulders and led his men to the bridge and the gate beyond it. The sailors not in British uniforms remained just off the path in the trees, while the ersatz Royal Marines marched straight up to the gate and stood arrayed behind Isaac while he pounded on the it and shouted impatiently for entry in an accent befitting the uniform he wore.

  “’Old your ‘orses. I’m comin’. You blokes ain’t been relieved yet. ‘Ere, now, you just took the watch an ‘our an’ more ago. Whot’s your troub… Who the ‘ell are you? Whot’s the…ummph…” The turnkey collapsed where he stood just inside the open gate, a cutlass clean through his chest. Quickly, two men dragged his body outside the gate and into the water next to the bridge. When they finished, they waved their shipmates into the prison.

  The men moved into the yard as they had been instructed, heading to the hospital, the main barracks building, and the hill where the officers’ quarters were. A uniformed “Royal Marine” accompanied each group.

  Isaac led his group to the nearest of the barracks; two men pulled the bar locking the lower door and opened it. The half-asleep guard sitting on a stool collapsed cooperatively when the pistol butt stove in the back of his head. Isaac and two more men quietly mounted the outside stairs, repeating the move with the locking bar in the hasp. This time the marine was awake and when he heard the door open, he stepped forward, a lantern held high. The redcoated Marine in front of him did not surprise him and his last words were “Early now, aren’t you, for my relief?” The bayonet on Isaac’s musket pierced his heart quickly and cleanly, and he collapsed into the waiting arms of Russell, who had been standing just to one side of the door. Quietly, the Americans dragged the guard’s body into a corner and, taking the lantern from where it landed on the floor, started down the passageway lined with solid red doors. None were secured with padlocks; iron pins went through the hasps keeping the doors closed and the men inside.

  At the first door they opened, nothing stirred; snores, grunts, and the occasional groan greeted them. Along with the smell of unwashed bodies and an open waste bucket. Russell went to the nearest hammock and, putting his hand over the mouth of its occupant, shook him gently.

  “Mooomphh…oooph…” The hand was removed. “What? What now? The bottom deck flooded again? Hey, who in blazes are you? You ain’t a Brit.” The man in the hammock looked wide-eyed at Russell standing over him, finger on his lips.

  “Shhhhh. We’re gettin’ you outta here. You off’n the Chesapeake?” The man nodded silently. “Wake your mates and keep ‘em quiet. Stay in the building ‘til someone gets you. Bring nothin’ but what you can wear. And keep quiet!” Russell left the man staring and followed the other General Washingtons out of the cell and down the hall, where the process was repeated, until the four privateersmen, accompanied by a few of the Chesapeakes, reached the other end of the barracks. Noises coming up from below indicated similar progress from the other group handling the ground floor.

  A British voice filtered up from below as Isaac led his men onto the inside stairway at the opposite end of the building. He hurried down, musket in one hand, cutlass in the other. A figure was standing by the stairs inciting the others to speed. His accent was clearly English, but his words, and the lack of a uniform suggested he was not a Royal Marine. The accent did not cause Isaac concern; he knew there were a large number of British seamen in the American Navy. The man was unaware of Biggs’ approach from behind until Isaac spoke.

  “You don’t shut your mouth, you gonna have the guards down from the hill on us, sailor. Jest gather your mates an’ wait yonder ‘til we tell you to come out.” The man with the accent turned and, seeing Isaac in a Royal Marine Uniform, paled, looked again, then guffawed at the sight.

  “By all that’s ‘oly, would you ‘ave a look at this. Never thought I’d be seein’ the likes o’ you in that uniform – tryin’ the Marines, now are ye? What are you doin’ ‘ere, Isaac?” Coleman stood smiling at his old shipmate, and waited while the American found his tongue and collected his wits.

  “Come to get you out, Robert. Didn’t know if’n you was in here or no, but since Cap’n Rogers come up with the plan to get the Chesapeakes freed, I figgered I’d find out. Heard Conoughy was on that frigate; thought you m
ight have been too. But right now we ain’t got time to gam. Help us round up the others and be ready to come out of the building when we tell you. And keep quiet! Where the devil are all the guards? We’ve only come across a few around the barracks and o’ course, the ones at the battery outside the gate.” His concerned expression gave way quickly to a smile when he heard that the officers were up in the house on the hill and the others in the guard barracks next to the hospital. Isaac, decidedly more than pleased to have found his friend alive, placed a hand on Coleman’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Get your lads together; we’ll be back quick as we can.”

  “You people’re makin’ enough noise to wake the dead, for God’s sake. Ain’t you been told to keep quiet?” A harsh whisper from behind them startled Isaac and his men. They whipped around and came face to face with Second Mate Tom O’Mara, a cutlass in a hanger from his shoulder, a pistol in his hand, and blood all over the front of his shirt. It shone in the dim lantern light, black and wet.

  “You made it! We seen you sailin’ in just afore we come into the Arm. That your blood?” Biggs motioned his men to go on down the hallway while he talked quietly with his superior.

  “Not on your life, it ain’t! Some Brit that was down on th’ dock behind the hospital didn’t want us to come ashore. Opened him up like a sheep, I did, an’ the bastard sprayed blood all over the place. Boat’s at the dock there; couple men with it. And there’s another boat there too – a bigger one, might serve better. How you doin’ here?”

  “Doors is all opened in here. Reckon same goes for the other barracks – that stone building to the west. I was about to send these lads and some o’ the Chesapeakes to have a look into the guards’ barracks. And there are some of the men in the hospital checkin’ for Americans. Noticed a lot of Frenchies here, ‘s’well as the Chesapeakes. I been just leavin’ their doors open; Cap’n Rogers didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout them. Neither did Cap’n Faitoute, come to think on it. Rest o’ my lads went up the hill to the officers’ quarters. Mebbe we oughta get up there.”

  At a nod from O’Mara, barely visible in the dim lantern light, Biggs turned and started out of the building. But before either could take another step, a shot rang out, splitting the quiet so suddenly both men visibly jumped. Voices, muffled but clearly angry, came down from the hill and a flickering light showed in a window in the house perched atop it.

  After the briefest of pauses, both men went at a dead run toward the hill; past the long, low, blood red storehouse, the blacksmith’s shed, also red, and on to the steps ascending to the officer’s quarters, racing up them two at a time. The light still flickered in the window, but the voices had quieted and no further shots were heard. When they reached the house, they saw the door flung open and light spilling out from within – that same flickering light, but much brighter than an unshielded candle. Simmons, one of Biggs’ men in the red coated uniform stepped out into the darkness; even with the light behind him, the uniform showed clearly for what it was. O’Mara drew his cutlass and charged straight for him, ready to separate head from neck with one swipe. Isaac shouted.

  “Hold on, Tom. That’s Simmons. He’s one o’ mine. Stop.” O’Mara, his sword arm still raised over his head, stopped his mad rush and stared. By God, it was one of the Gen’l Washingtons. What was he doin’ in a Marine jacket by all that’s holy? He turned, the confusion apparent on his face, as his arm lowered the cutlass back to the hanger and looked at the third mate. And noticed for the first time that he also was wearing the red coat and white trousers of a Royal Marine. His confusion grew.

  “It’s how we got in here, Tom. And with luck, how we’ll get out ‘s’well. Didn’t you notice I’m wearin’ the same rig? I got a few others in ‘em too.” Isaac looked at Simmons, his eyes still wide from his brush with decapitation by his own second mate. “It’s all righty, Simmons. What’s afoot here. Who fired the shot and why is the place all lit up?”

  “Markham fired the shot, Mister Biggs. At one o’ the Brits what tried to run down the backside o’ the hill for the water. Don’t know whether he got him or no. As to the light, well, that would be the fire the lads is tryin’ to put out right now. Lantern got knocked over and…well, a desk and chair caught the flame. Spread into the wall. No water up here, ‘ceptin’ some pitchers an’ chamber pots. Lads’re doin’ the best they can.” Simmons, shuffled his feet as he spoke, aware that his team had created a potentially disastrous situation. In the reflected flickering light, his thin form seemed to shrink and his drawn face, with an overlarge nose and deep set eyes, colored. A shouted curse came from behind him and, grateful, he turned and went back inside followed closely by the two mates.

  The situation was not as desperate as it might have been; there had been six officers in residence, including Major Gilpatric who still hadn’t figured out “what was actin’ ‘ere” – he’d again fallen into bed blind drunk – and five of them were tied securely to chairs in a central parlor. The sixth, a lieutenant apparently, was the one who escaped; that had been ascertained now, and in fact, one of the General Washingtons had heard him splash into the water at the foot of the hill.

  The fire was small and, while not yet out completely, was well in hand, though it had caused significant damage. Isaac smiled at the competent job done by his crew and watched as Second Mate O’Mara looked over the befuddled officers, checked the desk for any intelligence that might be found, then nodded in concurrence when O’Mara complimented the sailors.

  “Sir, I think there may be some trouble yonder in the yard; sounds like the men might have their hands full.” Simmons had come from the window; the men could hear the sounds of fighting and yelling floating up through the night. If they could hear it so plainly, who else could as well?

  Biggs and O’Mara ran to the front door of the house and stared open-mouthed; the guard’s quarters had apparently emptied and the General Washingtons were struggling with them. So far, no shot had been fired, but the yelling and clanging of cutlasses was enough to wake the less fortunate souls resting on Deadman’s Island in the cove. The mates, followed by most of the men on the hill, ran down into the melee.

  Isaac, instead of joining the fray immediately, ran up the steps to the prison barracks and bellowed for Coleman. “Robert. Get all the Chesapeakes rounded up and get ‘em outside. We need a hand here.” Without waiting for an answer, Biggs ran back down the steps and unsheathing his cutlass, headed for the nearest red coat he saw in the darkness. Suddenly he remembered, by the Almighty, I’m wearing a red coat my own self. He stopped, dropped his weapons and pealed off the offending garment. In the seconds it took him, Coleman had reacted and Isaac heard the American prisoners pouring out of the barracks, carrying whatever weapons they could find. With his former shipmate at their head, they waded without hesitation into the fight with all its swinging cutlasses, slashing pikes, and air of utter confusion. The air rang with the sound of steel on steel and the angry epithets hurled from both sides.

  Isaac had no time to watch the American prisoners as they grappled with the guards, shoulder to shoulder with the General Washingtons, all fighting like badgers in the confines of the prison yard.

  Isaac ducked as a musket swung past his head and came up with his own musket, bayonet first, into the center of an amorphous form looming to his side. He was rewarded with a surprised grunt and a gurgle and watched as the form crumpled to the ground.

  “Zees way, ‘ere. Allez, allez, vite!” The French prisoners had joined the melee. Isaac looked; a group of them were herding the guards back toward their barracks and Tom O’Mara was right in the middle of it.

  “General Washingtons! Here, lads. Damn…oooof…watch it…Push ‘em this way. Move lively, now.” The second kept fighting, swinging his musket like a club, first this way, then that way. At the other end of it, the bayonet cut and slashed, cutting a swath in the ranks of the British marines. The French had formed on him and widened the opening he had made. O’Mara’s voice rang out over the yelling, c
ursing throng and soon the American privateersmen had rallied to him. With the French and Americans working together, the British Marines had little choice but to give ground and they fell back, seeking shelter in their barracks where they likely expected to make a stand.

  One of the French prisoners leaped up the stairs behind the last Royal Marine and, as the door slammed in his face, he dropped a musket, barrel first, into the great iron hasp, effectively locking the guards into their own barracks. At a command from O’Mara, two of the Americans ran around the building securing the other doors in a like way. Suddenly, all was again quiet, save for the panting of the exhausted seamen.

  “It’s time to go, lads. No tellin’ what we mighta missed. You General Washingtons what come with me round up the Chesapeakes what can walk and get over to the gate. Mister O’Mara’s lads and the hospital cases get to the dock and the boats. If you cain’t take both of ‘em, burn one – or sink it.” Isaac had restored order for the moment and felt they had accomplished what they had set out to do. But they weren’t out yet and there was no telling what they might have to deal with before the broad swells of the Atlantic welcomed them back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Better cut them little boats loose, Tom. Don’t want to have to deal with ‘em if’n we need to make haste gettin’ outta here.” Hardy was ready to leave and no mistake, though the third mate had yet to return with his sailors and the rescued Chesapeakes.

  The half dozen men who had remained aboard Dancer had not been idle while the rest were ashore; the sacks of “grain” had been soaked in whale oil and laid end to end up the pier all the way to the mill building itself and a trail of black powder lead back down the dock to where the sloop was rocking slightly in the rising breeze. A slow match burned in a tub of sand on the pier. More cutlasses stood in racks on deck and the four carronades which graced the deck of the sloop were charged and double-shotted.