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

by William White

  Clive Billings, rowing the forward shore-side oar, suddenly screamed and dropped his oar as he clutched at his chest and shoulder. His normal voice sounded like a stuck door being forced; his scream penetrated the senses. His mate picked up the other oar, barely missing a stroke, and resumed pulling, handling both oars until Sam Hay, crouching in the bow, shoved the stricken Billings aside and took over the oar. He spoke sharply to the wounded man.

  “Get you aft, Clive, and take the tiller. You ain’t hurt so bad as you cain’t steer. Isaac’s pullin’ an oar. Get goin’. An’ stop that hollerin’! You givin’ them somethin’ to shoot at.” The thought that the Royal Marines on the frigate were aiming at the sound of his voice made Clive immediately cease his “hollerin’ ” and stumble aft to the tiller. In his effort to remain silent, his lips formed a thin line across his face; his head swiveled back to the warship and his eyes darted wildly around, bouncing from the frigate to the dark shoreline, trying to see who had, and might again, shoot at him.

  Isaac maintained the pace of their rowing while he, too sought the source of the shot that wounded Billings. It couldn’t have come from the frigate, he reasoned; the angle was wrong. Besides, the marines and sailors on the British ship, lit up brightly from the fire burning amidships, were now likely too busy to worry about the escaping Americans.

  Then he heard crashing through the underbrush ashore and, ahead of them, muffled orders, and the sounds of men running, breaking branches and splashing through the shallows. As he twisted his head around to see, a muzzle flash flared dazzlingly for a second, then another, and another. The air hummed as musket balls flew close to the now desperately rowing raiders.

  “Steer away! Get further from the shore.” He spoke sharply to the wounded man at the tiller, and the boat swerved toward the middle of the creek. More shots came from shore; thankfully, the Marines on the frigate remained silent, still busy with the fires. Isaac also realized that the boat could well be out of their range by now. The small boat had to be getting close to the sloop and the limited sanctuary it offered.

  “Isaac, larboard, man! Steer to larboard!” Tate’s voice rang out over the water, and Clive Billings, his pain forgotten for the moment, pulled on the tiller. The boat responded instantly, and immediately a thunderous crash filled the night. Screams and curses erupted from the trees along the shoreline. It took the men on the boat a moment to realize what had happened.

  “Good job, Jake. Hit ‘em again if’n you can!” Isaac bellowed at the sloop and its sole occupant who was manning the diminutive weapon mounted on the forward bulwark. The boat was suddenly alongside, and again the little flared swivel gun crashed. Fire was not returned from the shore.

  The men scrambled out of the boat and onto the deck of the sloop; Isaac helped the wounded Billings aboard and then two men handed up the body of their dead shipmate. They cut the boat loose and the men went unbidden to their stations for making sail. In a trice the black sail was up and the anchor cable cut with the same hatchet used on the British cable. The light breeze filled the sail, soon augmented by the jib and stays’l, and the sloop gathered way. Biggs steered her clear of the shoreline and headed for the turn in the creek which would lead them to the Bay, the relative safety it offered, and the ability to set the tops’l. The sloop gathered speed quickly, and soon they were safely hidden in the dark of the Bay. He could still see the glow in the sky from both the burning farmhouse and the lesser fire on the English warship. And behind both, the orange and red harbingers of the sunrise.

  A Press of Canvas

  SECOND EDITION

  Volume One in the War of 1812 Trilogy

  by William H. White

  © William H. White 2000

  William H. White’s action-packed tale introduces a new character in American sea fiction: Isaac Biggs of Marblehead, Massachusetts. Sailing from Boston as captain of the foretop in the bark Anne, his ship is outward bound with a cargo for the Swedish colony of St. Barts in the West Indies in the fall of 1810. When the Anne is stopped by a British Royal Navy frigate, Isaac and several of his shipmates are forcibly pressed into service in the Orpheus, actively engaged in England’s long-running war with France.

  The young Isaac faces the harsh life of a Royal Navy seaman and a harrowing war at sea. His new life is hard, with strange rules, floggings, and new dangers. Then the United States declares war on England and Isaac finds himself in an untenable position, facing the possibility of fighting his own countrymen.

  Written from the aspect of the fo’c’sle rather than an officer’s view and through the eyes of an American, A Press of Canvas provides new perspectives and an exciting story of this often neglected period in American history.

  Critical Acclaim for A Press of Canvas

  “Sailors everywhere will rejoice in the salt spray. slanting decks and high adventure of this lively yam of the young American republic battling for its rights at sea.”

  Peter Stanford. President, National Maritime Historical Society

  “A great read…a very engaging story with believable, honest characters…taught me a lot about this period of history…just fabulous!”

  John Wooldridge. Managing Editor. Motorboating and Sailing

  “The Age of Fighting Sail has been well portrayed by C.S. Forester, Patrick O’Brien and their followers. But all of these writers saw the world from the quarterdeck. Now comes William H. White with A Press of Canvas to present the same conflicts on the same ships from the viewpoint of a fo’c’sle hand. It is a worthy effort, well executed. and thoroughly engaging, and all of us who love the subject matter are in his debt.”

  Donald Petrie, author of The Prize Game, Lawful Looting on the High Seas in the Days of Fighting Sail. Naval Institute Press, 1999

  Readers’ Comments:

  “A real page turner…couldn’t put it down.”

  “The book disappears – you find yourself right there watching the action unfold.”

  “The characters became my friends. I hated to finish the book because now I have to wait until next year to see what they’re up to.”

  “I found myself wondering about my friends on those ships while I was gardening or doing chores. They became part of my life for a while.”

  “Professionally done – and accurate. I especially enjoyed the ship action.”

  On the War of 1812 Trilogy…

  “Read the trials and tribulations of Isaac Biggs and enjoyed them immensely. Haven’t read anything like this since Forester. You write better sea stories than I do.”

  Clive Cussler, Author of the Dirk Pitt Series

  An excerpt from A Press of Canvas follows…

  A Press of Canvas

  SECOND EDITION

  Volume One in the War of 1812 Trilogy

  by William H. White

  © William H. White 2000

  “Biggs, find Mr. Clark, if you please, and ask him to step aft.” Captain Jed Smalley continued his pacing of the quarterdeck of the bark Anne, casting the occasional glance at the sails hanging limply aloft, reflected almost perfectly with the image of the ship in the brilliant, but dead calm sea. Isaac Biggs, Captain of the Foretop, had been taking his ease with some of his fellow topmen in the scant shade offered by the vessel’s deck house when Smalley sent him to find the First Mate.

  “Aye, sir.” He said aloud, and to himself, Something must be gonna happen. Maybe the cap’n figgers we gonna get a breeze o’ wind. ‘Bout time, I’d reckon. He stood and walked forward, squinting as he left the shade, and the full force of the Caribbean sun, low in the sky and bouncing off the quiet sea, hit his eyes. He noticed with pleasure, and some relief that the deck no longer burned his bare feet as he made his way forward, and the tar caulking the seams no longer oozed from between the long leaf pine boards.

  As he gained the fo’c’sle, he could smell that Cook was getting close to having the evening meal prepared; Isaac could only imagine how hot the galley must be, and the air around the Charlie Noble stack shimmered as the cook
ing heat rose from it. First Mate Sam Clark was sitting with some of the foredeck hands on the butt of the bowsprit, and Biggs watched for a moment as the jib boom on its outboard end described lazy circles in the air from the gentle rolling of the ship.

  “Mr. Clark. Cap’n wants you on the quarterdeck, if you please. Sent me to get you.” The mate looked up at the young topman. He stared for a moment at the curly dark hair, the earnest penetrating eyes, and the easy smile that always seemed ready to expand into a full grin. The mate smiled in spite of himself and stood.

  “He say what he wanted?” There hadn’t been anything requiring the mate’s attention for the two days they had been becalmed, and even though he knew it would be unlikely for Captain Smalley to have shared his thoughts with a foremast hand, his curiosity got the better of him. He could see the tall, whip-thin form of the captain some one hundred thirty feet away, still pacing his domain, and he wondered how he stood wearing the black frock coat he habitually wore at sea, regardless of the weather.

  “Not to me, sir. But then I guess he figgered it wasn’t none o’ my business. He ain’t been off’n the quarterdeck since the breeze quit, though, ‘at I’ve noticed. Probably concerned ‘bout gettin’ into St. Bart’s afore someone else gets our cargo for the return.” Isaac watched the sails overhead as he spoke; they still showed no signs of life, not even the t’gallants some one hundred forty feet above the deck. Not a breath of air was stirring.

  The two stopped as they passed two of the bark’s longboats, lashed down tightly, and covered with taut canvas, bleached white by the tropical sun. Isaac, seeing his friends still taking their ease, rejoined them in the shade as Sam Clark continued to the quarterdeck.

  “Think we’re gonna get us some breeze, Cap’n? The men been scratching the backstays and whistling until they’s lips hurt. You’d think we’d have more wind ‘en we could handle from all o’ that. I cain’t recall them nor’east trades droppin’ fer this long down here. Might be gonna change. Mebbe get some weather.”

  Smalley had stopped his pacing, and stood at the starboard rail staring at the horizon to the east. He continued watching the horizon, while his first mate stood patiently behind him, waiting. Clark could see the sweat running down the captain’s neck and the queue in which he habitually wore his gray hair was damp from it, the black ribbon drooping. Hatless, the tall, almost gaunt skipper suddenly turned, squinting at his mate with deep-set pale eyes that most took as blue, but were in fact gray, in a weathered face that had seen the sea in all her moods over the nearly forty years he had been at sea. His jaw line showed a stubble of white bristles – not from slovenly habits, but from an inability to see close at hand without his spectacles. And he did not feel that wearing spectacles while he shaved was appropriate. He had been captaining vessels for twenty-five of his forty-eight years – everything from small coastal vessels to a few brigs, schooners, and this bark, Anne, his favorite, and also the largest.

  “Yes, Mr. Clark, I think we might get a breeze this night. And from the look o’ them clouds startin’ on the eastern horizon, mebbe even some rain inta the bargain. You can let the men enjoy a song after supper if they’s a mind, as I figger we’ll be workin’ with no time for gaiety and cavortin’ soon enough.” Smalley’s baritone voice was quiet, as always.

  Underscoring his words in an ironical counterpoint, the silence of the day was broken only by the slatting of sails and the slap of unstrained sheets and halyards as Anne rolled in the gentle swells. Sam Clark knew better than to doubt this man’s sea-sense; he had sailed with him for five years now and had yet to see him err when it came to anticipating the weather.

  “Aye, sir. I’ll give the second the word; it’ll most likely be his watch that’s shortenin’ sail later.”

  Clark left the quarterdeck and the captain continued pacing, glancing from time to time at the eastern sky. Absently Smalley watched Clark’s compact form head forward, not thinking about anything in particular, but aware of everything going on aboard his ship. One part of his brain again gave thanks that he had this strong leader and excellent seaman as his second in command. He noticed, without thought, that Clark stopped and spoke with a few sailors, his powerful arms gesturing aloft, and, as he turned his face eastward over the larboard side, his light colored-beard glowed as the lowering sun shone through it. The captain expected that the wind would come in more from the east than the north, and said to himself, Be nice if’n we might could get them steady half gales back we been enjoyin’ since Boston. This don’t look like it to me, though. Reckon they might just be some weather over yonder. Be takin’ in a passel o’ this canvas before long, I’d warrant.

  The Anne had all her canvas set – courses, tops’ls, t’gallants, and the spanker on the mizzen; all hung as slack as wash on a Vineyard clothesline. The stays’ls and jibs forward and the sprits’l under the rakish bowsprit were motionless and it might seem to the casual observer, and certainly to some of the landsmen aboard, that thinking about shortening sail was, at this point, a waste of effort – indeed, even foolish.

  The rattle of the pumps brought his mind back to the immediate present, and he looked up the deck where he could see, just abaft the capstan, two men working the handles for the pumps, manned for about an hour during each watch to keep the holds and bilge as dry as possible. He noticed that Clark was now deep in conversation with Second Mate Joe O’Malley and Third Mate Ben Jakes, both good sailors, but only the second was the kind of leader Smalley wanted in his ship. Jakes was a smarmy little man with a scraggly beard and a mean cast to his eyes. Even in the heat of the day, his tarpaulin hat was pulled low on his narrow brow, hiding his eyes as they darted everywhere but at the person with whom he spoke. He did not inspire trust from anyone, least of all the captain. Snippets of conversation drifted aft.

  “…aye, if Cap’n Smalley’s lookin’…breeze, I’d bet on it. Seen…before…”

  “Thinks…men need sompin’ to do…shorten down? My maintopmen surely don’t need no practice…tell Biggs…his crew aloft…ain’t no wind yesterday, ain’t none today and ain’t…none tomorrow, neither. Man’s gotten…sun, you ask me.”

  “I’ll let you know when…later…supper…jest lettin’ ya know…get yer boys together.”

  Biggs stood up and stepped over to where the mates were talking. After waiting for a break in the conversation, he looked at Clark. “Did I hear something ‘bout shortenin’ down later?” At a nod from Clark, continued “I’d best get my boys fed if…”

  Clark cut him off. “Ain’t no rush, Isaac. Cap’n said be after supper and mebbe a song. No need to rush none.”

  Smalley smiled to himself; that young foretopman was always ready to work, and eager to advance himself. Reckon he’ll make a fine mate – mebbe even a master – someday. Good man, that. I could use a dozen like him.

  He watched as Biggs, dismissed by the first mate, joined one of his foretopmen and moved over to sit on one of the twenty-four-pounder carronades, straddling the short barrel. Biggs rested his large, scarred hands on the bulwark in front of him, unconsciously flexing the muscles in his forearms as he stared out to sea, watching the horizon. So intent was his gaze that the fellow with him remarked.

  “Isaac, what’s that you’re lookin’ at so hard. Ain’t nothin’ out there ‘ceptin’ flat calm water.”

  “Cap’n thinks we gonna pick up a breeze o’ wind here soon enough, and I’m tryin’ to see what it is he sees makes him think that. Stuff I need to learn my own self, if I’m gonna ever sail as mate. Must be them low clouds over yonder. Looks like it could rain, you ask me.” He leaned over the rail, looking at the water and the black sides of the ship with the white painted gunports.

  The ship had been painted before leaving Boston for this run to St. Bartholomew and he knew she still looked Bristol. The gunports, mostly there to deceive, did include four that opened to reveal the twenty-four-pounder carronades, short barreled and with a range of scarcely more than a pistol shot. They were lethally effective
when properly served and loaded with bits of iron, nails and chain; unfortunately, there were few aboard save Mr. O’Malley who knew how to handle them, and the owners, New Englanders all, and parsimonious to a fault, felt there were far better ways to spend money than on powder and shot for practice. Let the Navy handle that. Besides, if a French privateer or British man-of-war really wanted to cause trouble, those four carronades would not slow them down much.

  There seemed to be little defense against the British “right of search” boarding parties which could strip a ship of vital crew members in a trice. The British had been busy with the French for the past several years, but instead of that ongoing war distracting the English Navy from American ships, it focused the attention of any short-handed Royal Navy vessel squarely on American merchant vessels. The conflict required a constant supply of seamen to sail the king’s ships. And in the eyes of the British, a supply of skilled sailors existed for their pleasure on American ships like Anne. A cry from the masthead of “sail ho!” could mean an opportunity to speak a homeward bound American, or the potential for the British to board them on the premise of looking for British subjects avoiding service in His Majesty’s Navy. This had become an increasingly frequent occurrence in the past several years, and a problem that many ship owners and captains felt should be handled by the American Navy. If it led to war, so be it. Smalley, while not having experienced the British “right of search” first hand, agreed with his fellows that something must be done, and soon. Already ships that had been regulars on the Indies run were heading off to Europe or Russia where there was less likelihood of problems with the Royal Navy. Smalley had captained a score of successful trips to the Indies for his owners, but still felt the uncertainty that always showed up about two or three days before the anticipated landfall. That landfall this time would be St. Maarten, just to the northwest of his destination and occupied by both the Dutch and the French. The likelihood of crossing tacks with a French privateer leaving or returning to port was a consideration, but he was more concerned about a British ship, and was in part at least, why he had been on the quarterdeck for most of the past two days.