One Sloop and Slow Match

by James Spurr

  Entirely surprised by Abigail’s presence but obviously well used to sharp words from Lieutenant Fleet, the men knuckled their foreheads, making their obedience, mumbled their apologies and hurried off. In the awkward silence, Abigail made to change the subject, “Your ship, James? And a new name?”

  James turned to regard the sloop, smiled with pride and explained, “Yes, my command since her capture at Mackinaw in July. Ironically, I have been pursuing her merchant master since the traitor deserted from Hope.”

  Abigail, aware of the outcome of James’ command of the H. M. Schooner General Hope, leading to her loss and his acquittal by a Courts Martial now six years before, steered the conversation to a happier course, “Little Belt? Why, wasn’t that the name of the British ship fired upon by an American ship just last summer?”

  James smiled and nodded in satisfaction, “Aye, with this fully intended as vindication for the offense!”

  Abigail could see he enjoyed speaking of his ship and his command, “And her previous name, which I can see just the faintest imprint through the new paint, ‘Friends…’’ I cannot make out the last part…”

  James assisted, “Friends Good Will. She was built as an American merchant ship at the River Rouge and launched in the spring of ’11. I could not wait to repaint her Naval black and buff and change that horrid name!” Then reminding himself of whom he was addressing, James turned again to the river, walked a few steps from Abigail and grew silent. He seemed almost distracted at one point and she was uncertain as to what drew his focus from her.

  A young man in a canoe paddled, it seemed, too near to the dockyard, his craft laden with supplies for what appeared a long journey. He was obviously preoccupied with Little Belt and seemed only to notice James at the last instant. He veered away, realizing his interest was drawing the attention of a Royal Navy Lieutenant. He picked up the pace as he paddled downriver to the opening of Lake Erie.

  James turned suddenly to Abigail, and pleaded with anger in his eyes, and a tone only betrayal can foment, “What could ever have led you to have married my father?”

  Abigail knew the question must come and hoped only for time so to assess the deep wound for which she knew she was entirely responsible. “James, I came here because I cared. If you would like to talk, of so much after so many years, I will dine this evening at the public house Regent, where I have taken a room.” She dropped her eyes, suggesting remorse and finished softly, “Please join me.” She turned and walked gracefully from the dockyard.

  James called out loudly to Abigail, sounding almost in pain, his voice revealing anguish, “You promised yourself to me!”

  He turned from Abigail, admitting her beauty, even if he had denied her his admission. His emotions went quickly from anger to frustration as he regarded, now from a greater distance, what he accurately took for an impertinent young waterman, an American, his enemy, plying British waters in a humble birchbark canoe in defiance of his power and command.

  James did not at that moment know whether he would join Abigail that evening at the Regent, or take his other, more frequent comfort; regular company for him this past decade. He had brown jugs well hidden at various locations throughout the dockyard.

  Abigail walked toward Thomas, hoping he had not heard James’ final outburst, and together they headed back to the Regent. She instructed, “Pray, Thomas, inform Captain McNair that we will not require passage upon General Hunter on the ‘morrow.”

  She knew well that James would be engaged with her that evening over dinner. In fact, she suspected there would be many dinners. Abigail knew there would be dinners because she heard his anger. Had Abigail heard only that which she, as a woman feared most, she would have returned to England, having let Thomas proceed with his plan, as he preferred.

  But where there was anger, there was hope. Only ambivalence held none. There was no ambivalence in his voice, no disinterest in his eyes. Anger was a strong emotion, very close to that which at one point, years before, James freely professed only for her.

  Chapter Four

  Trove paddled until well past dark, the near full moon waning at the very end of September, 1812. He enjoyed the clear night, the helpful Detroit River current and as he made the delta, he turned east along the north shore of Lake Erie and soon looked for a suitable, isolated area to camp. The process, one with which Trove had grown well accustomed, entailed little more than seeking cover, spreading a blanket, arranging his pack as a pillow and sprawling, once again, underneath his birch bark canoe, Sarah. His voyage had begun, tracking along the edge of an inland sea with which he was well familiar.

  Days of company among good friends in Detroit, even under strict occupation and facing shortages, allowed him to repair and maintain his vessel. He gained weight, strength and rested. Samuel scrounged provisions and provided him powder, ammunition, fresh socks and a third shirt. Mary, Mr. William’s wife, baked bread and some pie and Be-mo-se, Captain Lee’s common law wife, repaired the stitching of his leather shoes, pants, and fortified his hunting jacket for both strength and durability. They all knew that winter would likely pass before he would have any chance of seeing each other again. Still, all were in agreement that Trove’s stated goal of searching out James and with him, join the United States Navy, made sense and they prepared him well.

  The first day of his voyage went well, after a belated start awaiting correspondence from Mary and Be-mo-se, in the instance he should be successful in finding James or have opportunity to locate Captain Lee or Mr. Williams. The most disturbing moments were late in the afternoon, when he could not resist seeing for himself his sloop, their ship, Friends Good Will, in the firm control of the Royal Navy, having been hauled at the yard at Amherstberg. He did not know how he would ever break the news to his captain and shipmate, or her owner, that she had been painted black and buff and her name had been changed. He was so shocked to see her with hammock nettings, gun ports, and made a man-of-war that he nearly lingered too long and invoked the wrath of a nearby Royal Navy Lieutenant.

  Trove was outbound from Detroit for slightly more than one week.

  He had an uneventful passage around those peninsulas stretching along Lake Erie’s northern shore and he reached the eastern end of the inland sea. He noted that with the advent of war nearly all commercial traffic upon the Lake was absent, either suspended for reasons of politics, inherent risk, or with a fair season fast closing.

  Trove crossed over to the eastern shore as he felt a current assisting him in entering the mighty Niagara River, flowing northward. He hoped it was as yet still American territory. He instinctively drew near to shore so to put as much distance between himself and Fort Erie on the western bank, with the Union Jack flying above it, and great guns within. He recalled that just earlier in the season he had studied Fort Erie from the deck of Friends Good Will upon her maiden run to Black Rock. Now, however, Trove noted the ominous addition of a Royal Navy brig, with which he was unfamiliar, and a snow, which he recognized as the former President Adams, lying to anchor adjacent to the fort, well within range and protected by her guns.

  Trove made a mental note to inquire of his comrades at Black Rock. Both Captain Lee and James were known to various marine agents and chandlerers; Captain Lee among most public houses. Late that afternoon, a landlord of just such an establishment, having provided Trove his first cooked meal in more than a week, came to trust him sufficiently to offer what he knew, “I know of a Mr. Williams, young man, although his first name is John, not Oliver, as you seek. You say he is the brother-in-law of Captain Lee and owned Friends Good Will?” At Trove’s nod, he continued. “Yes, I recall the ship. She last called on Black Rock in the spring of this year. Although I doubt I have met your Mr. Williams, Mr. Colt, a regular customer of mine, misses him mightily. Merchantmen such as he fueled our growth and we fear the winter with so little trade this past summer.”

  Trove finished his stew and determined to share what he had heard from others. “I am sorry to tell you what
folks in Detroit believe to be true. Apparently, Mr. Williams, Oliver Williams,” he clarified, “was taken prisoner, thought to have in some fashion helped the cause. Friends and family in Detroit fear he has been sent to Kingston and awaits exchange.” Trove’s voice trailed off, “He is a fine man and was very kind to me.”

  Trove’s sincerity elicited a response, not of mere rumor or speculation, but rather with which the landlord was certain: “Captain Lee was here just today, about noon, seeking his son, this shipmate of yours. I told him to look for the lad, whom I do not know, at our naval yard.”

  Trove’s eyes widened. “And where is this yard?” he inquired as he reached into his pocket for coin and leaving his drink half finished.

  “Just downriver about a mile. It is the former shipyard of Mr. Porter. It’s now federal, of course, since the outbreak of hostilities.”

  Trove nodded, “Yes, I knocked about the place last season, waiting for a wind. Thank you, sir.” Trove offered in appreciation, grabbed his pack and musket and stood from the bench as the landlord, whose name he never knew, offered luck in his search.

  Trove pulled his canoe up on shore just inside the picket, having convinced the sentry of his citizenship, errand and good intent. The sun had just set, the days now quite short. Campfires were burning outside the tents, the work for the day was now largely abandoned. He inquired of strangers and followed uncertain tips until he heard a familiar voice; no, two, on the other side of an open tent flap.

  The words stopped him short, however, shocked him into not revealing his position around the corner of the tent stake. “Father, I know what I saw. I wish I had not. Ship’s Captains do not dive below decks, shrink through stern windows and hide beneath docks!” Trove heard James’ voice rise in what sounded a combination of anger and shame.

  “James,” Captain Lee replied more calmly and so softly that Trove later considered the dishonor in his act of straining to hear, “there is more to the story than what you saw. It was a difficult decision for me, I assure you—”

  “Aye, father, Uncle Oliver told me the same but offered few details. Still, for months now I have been haunted by what was obviously your brazen attempt to save your own skin, while abandoning not only your command but your son!”

  The words hurt even Trove, a mere bystander, as they were exchanged between two he so admired. The words must also, he knew, grievously hurt both James and Captain Lee. Trove reflected on the circumstances of Friends Good Will’s capture at Mackinaw earlier that summer.

  Captain Lee’s version, now offered to James, was entirely consistent with that which Trove heard from Samuel, Mary and Be-mo-se while recovering in Detroit. For some reason James, perhaps unaware of the facts, apparently viewed it very differently. William continued, “James, what you witnessed was what Oliver and I agreed upon we should accomplish. Besides, I hardly abandoned you; rather you were left in the capable care of your uncle, who appears to have handled matters most satisfactorily, including arranging for your later escape!” Trove had been witness to none of it, however, and felt guilty that when his ship, Captain and shipmate needed him most, he had been flirting and taking his ease with Sarah Kinzie at the opposite end of Lake Michigan.

  There followed some moments of silence and Captain Lee began again. “Friends Good Will could not have escaped, James. As we were mere citizens, I was certain the British would not hold any of you captive for long. Events proved me entirely correct. You were in no danger, whereas, Oliver and I were committed to another purpose, one which I could at that time still effect. What you witnessed was our joint decision put into action.”

  Trove could make out James’ silhouette through the canvas as that young man waved his arm dismissively. “All very convenient, father, but I overheard others describe you as a deserter and a traitor from the Provincial Marine! As for leaving me in the care of others, indeed, you are well practiced.”

  William did not deny the charge. Trove knew William had spent little time with his son prior to the spring of ’11 when James was discharged from the United States Navy and made his way to the Great Lakes to serve as Mate upon Friends Good Will. With his mother’s passing shortly after his birth, James was raised in Philadelphia by his aunt.

  There was a long pause in which Trove waited uncomfortably, wondering if he should now move forward and reveal his presence or simply retreat. Then William said, “Which would you have me address, James? Your shame of me as a described deserter and traitor, or my absence as a father to you when you were being raised?” He waited but a brief moment before continuing. “I can assure you that I’m neither a traitor nor a deserter, but I can not do it here or now, James. Not without putting the very mission I managed to accomplish into unnecessary jeopardy. This is hardly the time or the place to discuss such matters. There are far too many ears much too close.”

  Which with his saying caused Trove an unexpected moment’s wondering if Captain Lee was indeed somehow aware of his presence.

  He had no time to ponder as Lee continued, “I find myself now on a multiple mission. One aspect of which is assuring your safety and wellbeing. Another aspect of which is seeking the release of your uncle Oliver. The third aspect… is one in which we will speak of another time… if you are willing to trust me with that delay?” His voice was one of quiet entreaty, and Trove understood that James’ answer was of utmost important to the Captain, despite the calm measure in which he had delivered his words.

  James did not speak, but Trove saw his silhouette give a thoughtful, deep nod, and he knew that the storm he had happened upon with finding his friends was now passed. “Pray, what are your plans, James?” William Lee continued, “I have come to assist you. With your skills and training acquired aboard Chesapeake, I assume you are making your way east?”

  James silhouette relaxed and he seemed to welcome the new course, “Aye, that was my plan. But I have been made to feel welcome here in the last couple of weeks. I know the commanding officer, Lieutenant Elliott. We served together on Chesapeake. He was a midshipman and he and I were on deck when Leopard boarded us. I am impressed with Elliott. He has invited me to stay here and join his command. I hope to see much action on the Lakes with him.”

  William appeared to consider his son’s words with less than enthusiasm. “Lieutenant Jesse Duncan Elliott?” he inquired.

  “Yes. He is in command of the US Naval forces at Black Rock, under the larger command of Captain Isaac Chauncy, at Sacket’s Harbor on Lake Ontario.”

  “I just this afternoon met with Elliott.” William’s tone of voice seemed to convey that he had formed the entirely opposite view of the man as had James. Indeed, William could not hide his dismay as he added, “He is unwilling to listen and gave every indication of recklessness. I went to him for help, and ended with keeping my own council, for I was deeply hesitant to trust him. I hope to have further opportunity by seeking out Chauncy at Sacket’s Harbor as I make my way eastward to Kingston.”

  Now he directed his words to his son in an almost urgent whisper, “James, Lieutenant Elliott discussed with me this afternoon his plan to cut out the ships lying to anchor off Fort Erie. He offered me a role in it and disclosed to me the details. I beg you, travel with me east before joining the Navy. His plan is folly.”

  James’ silhouette had been steadily stiffening again as his father spoke. With his father’s final entreaty, he appeared as frustrated as he had moments before. He went to the door of the tent, shot over his shoulder before leaving, “At least he takes action!” Then he was gone into the night.

  Trove considered for some moments, composed himself, attempted to sound hopeful and moved round the corner of the tent. He inquired, “Captain Lee? Tell me, is Captain Lee about?”

  William stepped out from the lantern light of the tent to the shadow cast by a nearby campfire. His expression of dismay and despair changed instantly to joy and relief, “Trove! What a sight you are, lad! Welcome and, pray, whatever are you doing at Black Rock?” They talked fo
r some time, sitting by the fire, and Trove brought him current as to the events at Fort Dearborn, his journey across the interior, voyage along Lake Erie and delivered him greetings from Samuel and correspondence from his sister Mary and Be-mo-se. Eventually Trove inquired of James. William did not offer to accompany him, but rather suggested where he thought James would be found. Trove tried to regard as natural William’s rather strained explanation, “Trove, I would not make to ruin such a grand surprise for James. No, lad, seek him out on your own. Let us talk on the ‘morrow of your plans; will that serve?”

  “Aye, Captain,” Trove assured. He headed off into the night feeling more secure in the last hour than he had in the last several months, even if his ‘family’ was fractured and embroiled in crisis.

  Captain Lee stared into the camp fire, his dinner disregarded, the wafting smoke from the fire occasionally encircling him. The conversation of others was background noise. He considered with intensity what impact he as a mere merchant master without a command could possibly have upon a naval officer of superior rank. James was impatient to prove his abilities and overanxious to demonstrate his courage. Wisdom, it seemed, must find opportunity somewhere in the mix.

  As the coals grew dim he drew on his pipe and came to realize, yet again, how he missed and sorely needed the aid of Oliver’s persuasiveness, Mary’s faith and Be-mo-se’s love. Sometimes with James, he found himself at a loss for words and doubtful of his abilities. It was not love he lacked, but experience.

  As he drifted off to a fitful sleep, wrapped now in his blanket in front of a rejuvenated fire, he was still working on that which rarely failed him, his acknowledged strength among those who knew him well – his ability to produce a thorough, specific, coordinated and realistic plan.

  The following morning, as James made to clean his plate and utensils from breakfast and while Trove was helping himself to still another portion of sausage from the skillet, William offered, “I will clean for all. I fashion it is my turn.” James nodded his thanks and he walked off. William said to Trove, “Do you have any interest in helping us in the cause?”