One Sloop and Slow Match

by James Spurr

  Abigail, in Dover Mills, handed yet another letter to Thomas, requesting that he post the same to Lord Castlereagh. While it may take months to reach its destination, she wanted to assure Robert that she was well and enjoying a visit with her mother, her business with James now concluded.

  Exactly how matters with James were concluded, she was not yet sure, or rather, had not yet decided. James would likely do as she desired. Marrying James would undoubtedly be easier than bringing about the ‘facts’ triggering the ‘law’ as surrounded Article Twenty First of the trust document, in turn requiring disagreeable dealings with Mr. Wellstone. But Abigail detected in James serious flaws, some of which she recognized she may well have created, if not encouraged. He was insecure and volatile, small and immature, angry and dangerous to all with whom he came into contact. His obsession with her was a plus, along with his impressive new found wealth, to be sure. His name, status, influence and rank were, viewed most objectively, of some potential. But all of that was regarded by her, on balance, as perhaps insufficient for her to suffer such dangerous shortcomings.

  Abigail knew not what she would finally determine and was in no great hurry to decide. She only knew that at some point, the outcome would reflect her will, irrespective of the feelings and preferences of James. Thomas was as yet loyal to her and his hatred of James was made fast as mortar from nothing more than a few days spent together on a King’s highway in her presence.

  As Dunlap strode across the wood plank porch of Captain Hall’s offices at the shipyard at Amherstberg, he reflected upon still another sign that he was of two worlds—he had utterly forgotten to observe Christmas. His company that day, natives of the Northwest Territory, of course did not recognize the Holy Day. But strangely, his own background seemed to fade when he fell within their presence.

  The marine guards acknowledged his approach, ushered him inside and Captain Hall offered a warm welcome. After offering a full chronology, details, and presenting a written report for forwarding to Major Proctor, Dunlap summarized his conclusion, “The inland seas hold the key to this conflict. The Royal Navy’s position is secure, our squadron on Lake Erie will sail amidst little opposition this coming season and the Americans will face insurmountable difficulties in trying to build, outfit, launch and employ new vessels sufficient to challenge our dominance.”

  Hall interjected, “I understand they will try.”

  Dunlap nodded, but Captain Hall detected hesitation. Dunlap, when pressed, confessed, “Our supply lines are thin, our position is remote and should the brutality of our native allies not be held in check, needless bloodshed and lack of honor will only rally our enemy and strengthen their resolve.”

  Captain Hall nodded and asked, “Your recommendation, Lieutenant, so to avoid such pitfalls?”

  Dunlap was prepared and decisive, “Sir, first acquire all that you can, as soon as you can, for the construction, provisioning and arming of additional vessels. Improve our supply lines and assure ample stores, everything from nails to long guns. Second, keep a British presence among the natives at the River Raisin. I fear should the natives I observed ever engage the enemy, it could easily deteriorate into a massacre; a repeat of Fort Dearborn.”

  Captain Hall nodded thoughtfully, waved him ‘dismissed’ and sat and considered as he stared out the window. Just seven days before the new year. Hall regarded Dunlap’s second concern likely overstated or not particularly relevant. As to stores and supply lines, procurement and improvement was easier said than done. Indeed, his dispatches sent with Fleet just days before made that very point to Major Proctor.

  And after all, Captain Hall suspected the Americans suffered from the very same deficiencies and weaknesses as caused him to so frequently lie awake.

  Chapter Ten

  Captain Bainbridge collapsed the two barrel long glass, richly appointed with black leather and lacquered brass, with a distinct snap. He either did not hear or did not notice that Trove, at that very moment descending from aloft, made the small leap from the mizzen shear pole of the shrouds to the quarterdeck very near to James Lee. As gun captain, James stood by his station to leeward and whispered to his gun crew his best guess of what only the Captain saw with the benefit of enhanced optics. Trove strained to hear James and carefully motioned for him to repeat his observation, so as not to disturb the ongoing conference of officers standing nearby at the wheel.

  Before James could repeat, Captain Bainbridge observed to Mr. George Parker, First Lieutenant of U.S.S. Constitution, Frigate, 44 guns: “One of the two ships standing some ten leagues off to the west and between Constitution and the Brazilian coast appears to be a frigate, Mr. Parker. French built from her lines and the cut of her sails. A man-of-war, to be sure; the question, of what nation?”

  Trove looked to James, his expression confessing some confusion. James whispered, by way of explanation, “The French would not likely have a single ship in these waters, not at this stage of the conflict and so long after Trafalgar.” Trove nodded, feigning somewhat his understanding of the international political situation.

  Parker wisely asked, “And the second vessel, Sir?”

  Captain Bainbridge offered Parker his glass and speculated, “Perhaps a merchantman, maybe a prize, but not so fine a sailor. I could not make out if she was armed.”

  Parker extended the barrel, steadied, slid the barrel inward slightly to focus, hesitated but then offered, “The frigate, Sir, seems to be standing out on an intercepting course. The consort veering off, perhaps.”

  Captain Bainbridge smiled, “As I hoped and suspected.” He glanced to windward up to the set of the sails, and confirmed, “We shall draw her out well away from shore and separate them so that one cannot support t’other.” He then nearly whispered, his voice cold, ordered, “Set the royals, Mr. Parker. Let’s show her our heels.”

  Mr. Parker called out to the Sailing Master, “We shall have the Royals.”

  The subsequent calls were made and Trove, a topman, joined his division and scurried aloft once again. James, while not yet being ordered to quarters, glanced round his gun and went through his mental checklist.

  Captain Bainbridge’s next words were nearly lost in the Sailing Master’s calls for “Cast off clewlines and buntlines,” “Let fall,” and “Sheet home.” The bosun’s distinct whistle directed each task.

  “Mr. Parker,” Bainbridge near whispered. “Come up on the wind, ten degrees to starboard. Let’s see if she can sail!”

  The wheel spun, braces were hauled round and sheets brought in. Constitution heeled, surged ahead and the log was made. Midshipman Reynolds, all of thirteen years old, called excitedly to the Sailing Master, “Eleven!”

  The Second Lieutenant, who had the deck, made one of the last entries in the log for 29 December 1812 as the morning wore on, “Four bells in the forenoon watch, observed possible enemy, changed course to NE, set royals, speed 11 knots.” The Sailing Master went below to attend to the chart.

  The strange sail was well handled and showed a good turn of speed. Captain Bainbridge was impressed though not particularly concerned. Indeed, this informal chase confirmed his impression of her French pedigree. French ships were fast. French ships were pretty. Years of British blockades, however, much like that now suffered by American ports, simply rendered their handlers rusty and often fatally inferior. This ship’s crew, however, revealed no rust, no deficiency in set, trim or maneuver. The question remained whether she was, in fact, sailed by the French.

  Captain Bainbridge shrugged as he considered. If a contest ensued, it would be one ship against t’other. A frigate captain could ask for no more.

  The men at the wheel remained attentive to their duty. The sand slipped through the glass, first one turn, then another, and the bell, with each additional toll, piqued the anticipation through the entire ship’s company. Theories among the lower deck were as numerous as among the topmen and rumors at the scuttlebutt became more outlandish with each gathering among the hayseeds, purposefull
y stoked by the shellbacks.

  At six bells, Captain Bainbridge came up from below, met Mr. Parker in the waist and after just seconds of observation and conference, the order was passed, the calls sung out and Constitution tacked and stood now to just north of west, on a converging course for the stranger.

  James nodded to Trove. Although at his ease, James was much too excited to go below; nor did he stray far from his gun. Constitution had drawn its prey far from shore. The consort was now irrelevant and the only thing tugging at his stomach, causing a tinge of doubt, was the obvious impression that their present situation appeared to suit the stranger as well, skillfully maintaining the weather gauge.

  While the stranger was as yet some miles off, quiet, subtle preparations were already underway among the more experienced of the crew. As Parker called “Clear for action,” nearly all were close to their stations and rarely had the numerous tasks proceed with such speed and efficiency. The men were rested, in good health and were in recent days just beginning to shift restlessly, feeling as their victory of October last, over Guerriere, was now so distant as to require, as is often the case with reputation, more recent validation. Morale was high.

  Constitution tacked again and once around, struck her royals and clewed up her main course. She slowed and allowed the stranger to close. Captain Bainbridge wanted no confusion or mistake. The national ensign would fly high and proud and this stranger would have no excuse for not being able to observe the private signal established for the day. At seven bells, Captain Bainbridge took his eye from his glass, swung around to his left and nodded to Midshipman Reynolds, standing at the taffrail, halyard in hand, the private signal affixed and ready for the anticipated hoist. Excitedly, while trying to hide his nervousness caused by such a simple task, the young gentleman sent up the private signal. It broke free from the leach of the spanker and snapped full and fair, a solid, bold colored rectangle begging for the only possible reply that would cause Constitution, a man-o-war, to stand down.

  The stranger ignored the signal. Some minutes passed. It was not so much that Captain Bainbridge was surprised. Nor did he believe the stranger needed more time to sort out the only proper response. Rather, he did not so much mind, at that moment, allowing the contestants to close, to get the scent of each other. A full glass passed since the tack, a bit less since the signal. The stranger stood on, fast and from the position of strategic advantage. The crew stood near motionless, no preparatory tasks remained undone, no doubt remained with even the least experienced that this stranger was of a nation unfamiliar with the established reply.

  Finally, just as it seemed Captain Bainbridge had no other plan or maneuver in mind, he wheeled and ordered the helm up on to the wind yet again and quietly requested of Mr. Parker, who with an excited call somewhat louder than proper decorum required, repeated to the Sailing Master, “Set the royals and main course!”

  Captain Bainbridge brought up his watch from his waist coat pocket, checked the time and commented to Mr. Parker, “We shall draw him out still further from the coast.”

  Mr. Parker nodded, swallowed and wondered how long it would be until the stranger, holding the weather gauge and apparently determined to fight, would wait before sending hot iron hurling amidst them, against the hull, splitting planks and rails, cutting rigging, creating mayhem, spilling blood and bringing death. The sooner the better, he thought, for so to end this cruel dance upon his nerves.

  Mr. Parker called again to the Sailing Master, not for a change in set or trim, but for a routine task, calming in nature because it reminded all that perhaps this day was no different or special in so many respects, “Mr. Barlow, prepare to make noon.”

  “Aye, Sir.” In just minutes, midshipmen and junior officers congregated on the quarterdeck, where visibility of the sun, this particular day, was greatest on this point of sail. Fine instruments, dusted and polished, appeared from protective boxes. The Sailing Master would most often instruct, while sometimes admonish, with respect to how to shoot the sun. James warmed to the ritual. Some weeks before, Captain Bainbridge noticed James’ keen interest and asked, “Fascinated with navigation, son?”

  James started, his thoughts so deep and afar that he stammered, “No Sir… well, I have some training, but I also very much like the part where they always declare a new day.”

  Captain Bainbridge nodded and smiled, “Yes, so do I. Just as in Genesis, on the first page of my Bible, we gather each day in poor imitation of that which God accomplished; separation of light from dark. ‘Thereupon, from the formless mass of the earth, there was day’.”

  James never forgot the exchange and rushed to inform Trove of his profound respect for his Captain, who so easily acknowledged a power greater than himself, while assuming the role of God among them. In that sense, Captain Bainbridge reminded James of another captain under whom he had sailed, who with the highest skills, practiced profound humility grounded in duty and responsibility; his father. The thought was welcome, though now quite rare, ever since James called into question Captain Lee’s courage in the face of an enemy.

  Still, he was fascinated with the upcoming ritual, because unlike Genesis as he recalled his lessons from his Aunt Margaret, aboard Constitution and all ocean going ships, day was not born from darkness, but rather from light, unto light, at high noon. He asked Mr. Barlow why each day at sea began at noon and the answer, typically as with matters involving ships and the sea, was not in any manner theologically profound, but rather grounded upon common sense and necessity.

  “Why Lee, come now, how would we ever set out to determine the zenith of the sun at midnight, or so easily as with the sun at noon, than with any night body?” Mr. Barlow walked off, shaking his head at what he considered a silly question. James knew Barlow regarded him but a sweet water sailor, where navigation so often depended much less upon the art and science of fine instruments brought to bear upon celestial bodies, aided by man’s discovery of the universal truth of mathematics, as crude piloting requiring only reasonably good vision, simple arithmetic and a stout anchor cable in case of doubt. Still, James was proud of his abilities on the Lakes, where reefs and shoals and islands added some risk not often encountered in the South Atlantic. He then recalled, oddly, he thought, some minutes before going into battle, that all of that was taught him by his father.

  Still, there they were, enemy approaching, gathering in high ritual for the declaration of a new day. Soon enough, the high priests and devout came to nod, write a note or two, retire their instruments, protecting them from the corrosive salt air and Mr. Barlow strode to the binnacle to make the note in the log as the third lieutenant, who now had the deck, struck eight bells. It was noon, the beginning of a new day.

  Barlow, taking no notice of James, wrote in Constitution’s Log, “Wednesday, 30th December, 1812, Commences with Clear weather and moderate breezes from E.N.E. Hoisted our ensign and pendant.”

  Suddenly, Captain Bainbridge called while staring intently with his glass, “Mr. Barlow, remain and add in the log, ‘At 15 minutes past meridian, The ship hoisted her colours—an English Ensign—having a signal flying from her main Red Yellow Red.’ Mr. Parker, if you please, take my glass and confirm.”

  Captain Bainbridge walked to the taffrail and soon Mr. Parker followed. They conferred in whispers, adjourned and began to walk the deck in perfect calm as though enjoying a fine day sail and without a care in the world. James knew this was an important part of their responsibility, to calm, assure and give confidence, all while instilling trust.

  Trove inquired as to what was going on, with an enemy so close and with so little apparent response. James tried to explain but Trove only commented, “Such nonsense, let’s give them a taste of metal, now and for as long as they are in sight.” James just smiled, knowing well that while the oncoming ship certainly did look to be very close, even closer somehow now with her colours hoisted, he knew they were not as yet in range.

  Captain Henry Lambert was as impatient as Trove,
but far more experienced. He had just ordered the hoisting of the colours aboard

  H.M.S. Java, formerly the French frigate, Renommee. His consort was safe, far inshore. His frigate, officially 38 guns but sporting this day 49, was nearly new, having been recently launched and captured off Madagascar in 1811. Her crew was as well trained as his ship was well found. On board were notable persons within the English empire, all of whom looked to him to avenge the outrage suffered upon their national reputation with the surrender and sinking of Guerriere.

  Lieutenant General Thomas Hislop, appointed to command and enroute to the East Indies and Captain John Marshall, Master and Commander, R.N., taking passage to his next command and officially a passenger, stood to his left, just behind his elbow as he stared at this curious American through his glass. Mr. Chads, his First Lieutenant, was just behind him, to his right. All quietly waited upon his word while he pondered just what to say.

  Java sailed well and was perhaps in these conditions just slightly faster than her opponent, who, Captain Lambert had to concede, was well handled. While at first his unofficial ‘afterguard’ was convinced she was running, Lambert recognized and respected what he regarded as an obvious prudent move. The American frigate wanted a single ship action and was purposefully drawing Java out from shore, so to assure his consort would not in any manner interfere. The only question, Lambert considered as he pressed the advantage of the weather gauge, was for how long would the American insist upon still greater distance. While it appeared they both wanted a fight, he saw little need to sail halfway to Africa.

  Captain Lambert shut his glass and inquired of Lieutenant Chads, “Is everything ready?”

  “Aye, we are cleared for action in near record time our lads are so anxious. The marines are aloft. If only this American will allow us to close,” offered Lieutenant Chads.

  Captain Lambert stepped back and observed so that all around him could hear, “I perceive we are faster in this wind, despite our somewhat lesser tonneage. Gentlemen, the day will be won with British seamanship and discipline.” The others nodded. Lt. General Hislop smiled and Captain Lambert knew that such a hollow prediction was beneath him, ordinarily, but his esteemed guests might appreciate a quote or two before the work grew warm.