by James Spurr
Just before dinner, Oliver was informed by armed guards to gather his belongings. Within minutes he was in Navy Hall. Ushered quickly into the Port Captain’s office, he joined another whom he regarded as a civilian, like himself, also with a small bundle of clothes. The Port Captain addressed Oliver from behind a large, unkempt desk, “Sir, your name?”
“Oliver Williams.” The gravity of the conversation caused him to settle his voice and expression as his business instincts dictated.
The Port Captain read from a list compiled, Oliver noted, in William’s hand, “You are from Detroit?
“Yes, Sir. My wife and family reside there with me.” The more harmless he appeared, the better.
“And your occupation?” The Port Captain’s initial impression was that Oliver was a bit on the older side to be a serious combatant.
Oliver replied, “I own a dry goods store, Sir. Or rather, I did, before the war.” Oliver’s concern was evident from his tone. With the capture of Friends Good Will, he lost a tremendous investment and he assumed his creditors would not be pleased, nor patient.
The Port Captain looked into his eyes and asked the question of which Oliver had been forewarned, “But, Sir, is it not true you built a ship and sailed upon her frequently?”
A man of honor, Oliver was bound to the truth. In fact, the British were well aware of the essential facts in any case. Well prepared, however, Oliver offered the truth with an emphasis favorable to that which his best friend had informed him was his captor’s chief concern, “Sir, I certainly did not build a ship. I paid another to build it for me. I have no such skills. I have sailed upon what was my vessel, before it was taken from me, but always with a professional captain and paid crew. Business is my business. My ship, at times, served as convenient transport.”
The Port Captain considered. Oliver’s answers made sense. But what led the Port Captain to his decision was not Oliver’s explanation, but rather, his diction. True sailors would never refer to a ship, especially their ship, as ‘it’.
“Mr. Williams,” the Port Captain announced, “you are exchanged. Your parole, as concerns your neutrality, extends to our border, you understand. Good luck to you and your family.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Oliver and the other citizen standing beside him gathered their bundles and exited Navy Hall to find Lieutenant Bray, Captain William Lee and nine other seamen, former prisoners, anxious to depart.
William approached, took his bundle and assisted Oliver into a wagon, procured by Lieutenant Bray from a local farmer in exchange for hard currency of the United States. Oliver joked as he took his humble seat, using his bundle for a cushion, “What, William, no dinner?”
William observed wryly, “I serve up one breakfast and listen to you. My good man, you may soon come to miss this soft life to which I fear you’ve grown accustomed!”
William had given James and Trove money to purchase horses before he left them and departed north for Oswego, so that once the waterways would carry them east no longer, their good progress would continue upon roads and through villages that improved and became more frequent with each mile. For three days, the lads continued eastward on the Mohawk, then turned south on the mighty Hudson and soon made Albany. Finally, they abandoned Sarah with some small ceremony by setting her adrift from the eastern bank. Both wondered as they made their way across the Berkshires if the humble birch bark canoe might eventually run the British blockade off New York and slip free into the great waters of the Atlantic.
Now on their newly acquired horses, they rode hard given their limited horsemanship abilities through the afternoon sleet. The Nor’easter took on a more violent character as they approached the coast. The lads figured that if the sleet was going to sting anyway, they may as well feel the pain of it while moving fast. At dusk they stopped to rest their horses at the Village Green, a public house along the same in Lexington, Massachusetts
James mentioned to Trove as they walked into the public house, “My Uncle Oliver’s father, Charles Williams, was here that morning, now thirty seven years ago. I calculated that as we rode through the storm,” James boasted.
Trove answered, “What morning?”
James was exasperated. Trove was a good friend, but like all, constant company did not always equate to constant fellowship. “The revolution, Trove; it began just there, on yonder green!”
Trove was clearly out of his element. Until just more than two weeks before, he had never been out of the Great Lakes basin, still very much the northwest frontier. He knew little of the east or much of the factual backdrop behind the creation of his own nation. As they took a seat at a table and James pulled out a cloth in which was wrapped the remaining coins held between them, Trove inquired, “What was he doing hiding in here?”
James looked at Trove, dumbfounded, for some seconds. Trove looked back, completely mystified. James finally admonished, “Not in here, I meant on the green, facing redcoats and blazing away with his fellow patriots!”
“Oh, I thought you meant he was in this tavern,” Trove responded, innocently enough.
“No,” James replied, then explained, “the Williams family is from Roxbury, just nearby.” And as he took a drink of ale, he murmured, “It seems hiding comes natural only to Lees; my family!”
Now Trove took an attitude, “Oh, you are not going to start that whine again, are you? Certainly, your father never was a coward and proved it upon Adams.”
James retorted, “I saw what I saw on Mackinaw Island and the fight did not begin on Adams until Lieutenant Elliott rowed over and took command, do you recall? Besides, why did father not accompany us to join the Navy and offer his services to Captain Bainbridge? No, instead he went to run some errand; in a city held by the enemy, no less!”
Trove insisted, “Do not tell me what happened on Adams! We have been over this on the Mohawk and—”
The Landlord interrupted as he set warm bread before the lads, all they could afford, “Did you lads mention Captain Bainbridge?”
James replied, cringing at the use of the term ‘lads’, “Why, yes, I have orders to find him. Do you know him?”
“Yes, certainly; a favorite son, of sorts, as he married a local lass,” the Landlord offered. “He is departing at dawn from Boston harbor. His wife was visiting her family in town just yesterday.”
James’ eyes grew wide, his voice urgent, “Trove, let us hurry! We may miss him if we do not press!” As the Landlord turned, James queried, “What ship, Sir, for Captain Bainbridge?”
The Landlord replied, rather surprised and implying in a tone suggesting that James and Trove were obviously strangers, or even worse, landsmen, “Why, the frigate, Constitution! Certainly you have heard of Old Ironsides?”
James did not answer but challenged, “Of course I have heard of her and seen her too. Her sides are not iron.”
“While that may be, when she took Guerriere in August, that British round shot bounced off her sides as though they were! Captain Hull earned a leave, so the Navy gave her to Captain Bainbridge.”
James just smiled with a hope for good luck that was beyond reasonable expectations.
Within minutes, their stomachs half full, their glasses completely empty and the remainder of the bread split evenly between their pockets, the boys mounted their horses and began a long night ride.
James and Trove rode through Boston, buttoned up for the night. James made straight for Long Warf while Trove marveled at such a large city. Just as they slowed to dismount, they encountered two naval officers, one walking away from the other, having just exchanged their goodbyes. Just as one made to step into a waiting gig, James approached the other, “Excuse me, Sir,” knuckling his forehead, making his obedience in the naval way that was, after just eighteen months, coming back to him so quickly, “I have orders from Lieutenant Elliott at Black Rock to deliver a document to Captain Bainbridge. Might you be he?”
The officer just smiled, amused at the thought and envious of the notion, “No lad,
I am Master Commandant Perry. But if you run and catch Captain Lawrence, just setting off in that gig, he can take you out to Captain Bainbridge on Constitution.”
“Thank you, Sir!” replied James, his legs moving before the officer could even reply, “Godspeed!”
The following morning, the wind having veered, still strong from the south, Master Commandant Perry steadied his glass and focused upon Constitution’s foretopsail luff, well illuminated by the sun just breaking over the horizon. Constitution, the last of the squadron, began to make way. Perry was proud to have already witnessed a pretty operation aboard the brig, Hornet, speaking well of his good friend, Lawrence. Perry smiled as the image of two young lads, coiling and making off the topsail grommets while balancing on the footropes, leaned casually over the yard and appearing to enjoy the excitement and adventure of a picture perfect departure. The scene brought to mind his encounter with two lads the previous evening.
Perry swallowed hard and then frowned, even as he gazed. He wondered whether he would ever again have the opportunity to serve in such manner.
Chapter Six
Abigail reached over the desk with her right hand, deposited the quill in the ink well and increased the height of the wick in the oil lamp. The resulting brightness and heat generated by the flame was both welcome and unusual for the time of day.
The thick clouds of early evening left no hint that the sun, absent from view now for several days, had progressed through its arc over the past several hours. Soon it would be dark. Abigail’s fingers were beginning to cramp and the fire in her bedside hearth was beginning to dwindle. Thomas really should have stopped by some time before to tend to it, she thought.
As her dinner engagement was nearing, she focused on completing her correspondence. The ink from her last phrase still drying, she began to read her letter from the beginning:
November 28, 1812
My Dear Robert,
Abigail considered yet again whether her address was too familiar. While not entirely sincere, she feared Lord Castlereagh would read and interpret her greeting as much too encouraging. She genuinely missed his insight, company and, amid the frustrations of the frontier, his influence. She also knew that her prolonged stay, longer than she thought would have been necessary, would likely cause him to doubt his assessment of their relationship. It was therefore, she concluded, best to be assuring.
I trust these words find you well and that you received my letter from Halifax of our safe crossing. I arrived in Amherstberg in late September and found James in good health but ill spirits. Our discussions, or most often I would more accurately describe as ‘negotiations,’ proceed slowly as he considers his options and new found status in a very deliberative fashion. Worse, as we progress on the one front, the fortunes of war, it seems, serves
up for me only frustrations and uncertainty on the other.
The ‘negotiations’ of late to which Abigail referred were focused primarily upon forming a consensus as to which bottle of wine they could come to settle upon amid the limited cellar of the inn where she and James frequently dined. Impasse, she noted, was never resolved with James sacrificing, but rather with him, almost deliberately she came to observe, ordering both bottles which reflected their respective preferences. While she did not so much care about the wine, all of it inferior to that which she had become accustomed, her instincts told her never to back away from that which she declared to James as representing her wishes and desires. James must understand she would need to be served.
There had also been horse rides and picnics on autumn afternoons, most often to the mouth of Portage Creek, just southeast of Fort Malden as it flows into Lake Erie. James kept to himself how it was that he was so familiar with secluded locations. He did not trouble Abigail with his clandestine meetings and capital crimes considered by him as necessary in orchestrating the theft and illicit sale of His Majesty’s arms for profit.
Abigail, having come to know Sir Edgar in many ways more deeply than she had ever known his son, James, would not have been the least surprised had James, on any given evening, well past drunk and while leaning heavily upon her strong but slender shoulders, confessed to her his misdeeds of the previous year. Had James told Abigail the entire truth, she would have begun to calculate, even while pretending to listen to the details. She would have come to conclude that James had, on more than one occasion, risked his life and family’s reputation for profits totaling little more than the cost of their evening.
Occasional dinner parties among other officers, some with their wives, most clearly indicated to Abigail the merit of her designs. She considered the past eight weeks largely fruitful. James was progressing; not so much in terms of dispelling his hurt and humiliation caused by her marriage to his father, but rather, with the assistance of drink, he seemed to be forgetting about her betrayal of him. She knew that well, for at no such gathering of fellow officers was she introduced by James as his father’s widow.
I confess some unease as to when it would be safe to return to England. While my business in Upper Canada is not yet completed, the reports with respect to the War seem mixed and confusing. Certainly the news of Mackinaw and Detroit brought joy and we celebrated General Brock’s valor. It seemed, as we made our way to Amherstberg, the Americans would plea for peace before the snow fell. But then appalling reports made their way through the wilderness of a massacre at Fort Dearborn and we fear the unchecked brutality will only stiffen the resolve of our ‘cousins’.
Abigail thought of Tecumseth, whom she had both met and seen on a number of occasions these past couple of months. He was intriguing, charismatic and, as a civilized woman she would never write nor admit to Robert, she regarded him a fine specimen of his gender. She agreed, however, with many of the officers she had heard discussing events unfolding, that unless Tecumseth could control his more distant warriors, the dishonor heaped upon England’s armed forces would be difficult to bear or later explain. She had elected not to relate any of her thoughts in that regard. Robert, while a master of politics in England, would never understand and likely not appreciate her emphasizing his distance, both in terms of geography and understanding of the frontier to which she had been born.
Certainly, Robert, the news of this American frigate named for the Colonial’s Constitution and her inexplicable good fortune over our Guerriere brought as much dismay throughout England as it has Canada. I fear it may have emboldened some of the Lake sailors serving at Black Rock near Niagara. In October, two of our ships upon Lake Erie were taken from under the very guns of Fort Erie. While the Americans have few vessels to assert themselves on this lake, with many of ours laid up for the winter here at Amherstberg, this cowardly, brash act left us with two fewer of those still under sail. I am assured it will matter little come spring, yet the incident caused our enemy to celebrate mightily.
Abigail started at a knock upon her door. “Yes?” she inquired.
“It is I, m’lady. And how is your fire?” replied Thomas.
“Please, Thomas, it is on the wane.” She stood to open the door and greet him. “Thomas, if you could be so kind as to assure this letter is posted this evening, I would be most grateful.” Knowing he would look at the address in any case, she offered, “I am offering Lord Castlereagh my impressions of our situation here in Amherstberg.”
“Certainly, m’lady,” Thomas replied as he removed the screen, hunched over and poked at the fire, rearranged the coals and added more wood.
The room brightened, the radiant heat warmed Abigail’s hands and she turned to feel the warmth on her cheeks. Standing next to her, Thomas ventured a liberty, “You may wish to add that what I heard just today. Apparently the American’s at Sacket’s Harbor are building at a terrific pace. Lieutenant Dunlap was suggesting to Master Commandant Hall that one of their larger ships may well be launched by this date.”
Abigail thought for a moment, not about American ships, but about English men. “James does not think highly of Lieutenant Dunl
ap,” she quietly observed. Abigail knew Thomas had little use for James, but his opinion of others she often found useful to consider, even when she did not agree with his assessment.
Thomas took the invitation, “M’lady, mark me. Lieutenant Dunlap is a capable naval officer. I have served under many, of varying degree of skill and honor. He is young, but has what it takes to do well and go far.”
Abigail did not disagree. She did not know why James disliked Dunlap, but suspected that it was something personal between them; perhaps jealousy, perhaps natural competition, perhaps it held its origins in their service together on Hope. But she had spent enough time observing James these few weeks to not necessarily endorse his opinions, typically negative, without question.
“And Master Commandant Hall?” she queried, as she set out her evening’s dress upon the bed.
Thomas sighed, shook his head slowly and admitted, reluctantly, “Hall seems steady ‘nough. And of course I have no impression of his seamanship or good sense on deck, but… well, m’lady… he seems to me to be having more difficulty commanding his subordinates than can be explained, to my mind.”
“What do you mean, Thomas?” she asked, detecting unease.
“M’lady, it seems to me Mister Hall seeks approval rather than demand obedience. Of those among him, both the righteous and the wicked alike take advantage of the weak.”
Abigail nodded and stared into the fire. Thomas took her silence as dismissal and retired from the room. Again, she returned to her seat and took up the quill and began the end her letter:
I confess we have lost a true hero in General Brock. Queenstown Heights, to us here in Canada, seemed like our own Trafalgar. We won the field and the day, but at such a cost! General Brock was held in high esteem and our people both in uniform and not took his death very hard. Send us another, will you, Robert?