by James Spurr
Perry continued, “The two gunboats, on the other hand, will surely not serve as much too small.” Perry shook his head disapprovingly while standing before one and the expressions on the others grew grave. “I shall require that these be lengthened by half again as many feet overall.”
Captain Dobbins, his pride at stake, challenged, “But Sir, the draft and the sand bar! Should we not also widen the craft, as we shall have to otherwise increase their draft in order to maintain the necessary stability?”
Perry had heard about the sand bar at the mouth of the harbor just the evening before. “Yes, Captain Dobbins, I also hold in my command the rudiments of design and your point is acknowledged.” Captain Dobbins flushed, not meaning to patronize. Perry continued pleasantly but with an authority that all in his presence felt intuitively from his voice, mannerisms, breeding and experience, “Still, they are of no use to us now as they are too small for great guns, and as for stability achieved through breadth or draft, it seems we should have given that more thought before building the brigs, as the pair of them will have more draft still!”
Captain Dobbins was in irons. Of course Captain Perry was correct. Even were the gunboats lengthened, which William had thought to suggest some weeks before, the Brigs would require more water still so in order to gain the open waters of Lake Erie. William had kept the suggestion to himself but gained confidence in hearing Captain Perry make the same point. While Noah Brown was thinking, Why in the world would Dobbins promote Erie for a yard, knowing full well its troubling limitations? Perry knew what Dobbins had come to realize before traveling to Washington. As for the ports in American possession on Lake Erie, there was simply no other choice.
William was impressed with Perry’s decisiveness, his apparent preparation and his ability to instill confidence. William remained silent and was of the impression Perry had a plan with respect to the sand bar, as well as the problem of freeing the vessels in Black Rock. In actuality, Perry had no specific plan for either.
Rather, Perry reminded himself while relieved that none of his new inner guard questioned what was little more than theatrics, of that which his father had taught him and his study of most effective leaders had confirmed; instill confidence, encourage ingenuity, be candid about necessity and trust that good men will respond with full measures as necessary to accomplish great deeds.
The tour completed, Perry arranged his office and quarters and dashed off correspondence, all with Tiffany’s assistance. William and Daniel assumed their regular routines of supervising and joining in the building of a pair of brigs and now beginning to rebuild a pair of gunboats under Noah Brown’s far more experienced eye and hand.
At noon, William took his lunch of bread and cheese with a dram of wine up the hill to its crest which offered a fine view of the fall of Cascade Creek, now swollen with snow melt. To his left, beyond the fall of the creek, the impressive brigs rose from their ways. To his right was the harbor of Erie and its entrance. Further to his right, a dirt road meandered down from the crest of the rise upon which he took his ease and joined the main street of the town, where the additional Navy men having billeted in the town had reported for duty that morning.
As William enjoyed the view, he considered the fine weather. Just as the day before, the sky was clear, the temperatures warming and a light southerly wind promised open waters within, perhaps, just a week or slightly more.
William looked down the road and considered a uniformed traveler, walking up the rise wearily and laden with gear, reins in hand, resting his mount. At first he assumed another naval officer, one of Perry’s men.
He studied the traveler further; his posture, his gait, his reddish hair, ringing of familiarity but much leaner than the warm memories rising from the back of his mind. He retrieved those memories from a deep recess, as from the bottom of a sea chest rarely opened but containing instruments and objects saved and yet prized in the hopes of still another voyage in the offing. The memories were for William from a time of optimism, friendship and accomplishment; memories buried since the outbreak of war and inevitable loss, inherent risk, inconvenience and loneliness borne from families parted with no assurance of reunion.
The memories were now a flood, like a spring tide not seen on the inland seas, his heart the only dike holding against foolish hope. He turned away, checking his senses, assuring that as with so many men, he was not simply perceiving that which he so longed to see. He looked back. The traveler was closer. The facts as presented were now undeniable.
William stood and called out, “Oliver!” He waited for acknowledgment or confusion, his heart hoping for the former, his mind prepared for the latter.
The traveler stopped, searched the crest of the rise, located the voice as had split the spring afternoon and called, “William, last I recall, I bought you dinner in Boston. I arrive at Erie fully expecting you to repay!” Oliver closed the distance still talking casually, as though no time nor miles had passed, “May a Navy tar buy a meal for a weary Army officer? I am famished!”
William attended like a brother instead of a brother-in-law to Oliver’s every need. All the while, William was filled with joy at the news that Bemo-se was expecting his child, the result of their reunion over the past year’s holidays, and he came current with respect to his sister Mary and his new niece, born to she and Oliver in March. Oliver noted that William did not ask about James. Oliver knew of William’s pain and trouble with James, evident when last they were together in Black Rock. Finally, on their way to dinner in William’s cabin, Oliver offered, “I have heard from and seen James.”
William looked relieved, “How is he, pray tell?”
“Very well. Healthy and strong. Constitution, however, is blockaded in Boston.” Hanging his coat upon a hook behind the door, Oliver continued, “He had a bit to say about their victory over Java.” When William turned, Oliver looked him straight in the eye and added, “He asked of you.”
William stoked the fire and prepared the pot for a stew, “Thank God he is safe. It sounds as he might stay safe, blockaded. It must be frustrating for him, though. As for his asking about me, I suppose that is better than changing his name, as he would have if offered not long ago.”
Oliver said, “I have written him a letter, delivered to him, I understand, while Constitution swung to the cable in Boston harbor, explaining the circumstances of what unfolded on Mackinaw.”
William shot him a reproachful glance. Some moments later, hanging the pot over the revived fire, William admonished, “You should not have. My actions require no defense. Rather, my son needs some faith in his father.”
Oliver observed, “No defense; perhaps just a bit of background. Faith, you know, at least as among men, is most often built upon history. The fact that James has little with you is neither his fault nor yours.”
William nodded, starting his pipe with long draws, but objected slightly, “I have had faith enough in my shipmates, having logged far fewer miles than did James with me on Friends Good Will.”
Oliver agreed, but offered quietly, “Fathers, I suppose, are often held to a higher standard than shipmates.”
William admitted, “And in that role, I have precious little experience.” William broke out some wine, leaving the beer for more common occasions. He asked, “Has James written since your letter?”
Oliver admitted as William poured, “No.”
William caught his eye, the glass not yet full and with the bottle still hovering over its edge, “And when did you write him?”
Oliver protested the implication, “Not long ago.”
William completed the pour. Oliver’s lack of specifics told William all he cared to know. He doubted very much if James put much stock in the explanations of his uncle.
A knock on the door put an end to a very personal conversation, even among the best of friends and family. Captain Dobbins and Perry joined in William’s cabin.
Oliver extended Daniel Dobbins his hand and warm greeting, “Captain, I h
ave not seen you since our sail downbound on Lake Huron last August. I am sorry to hear of Salina’s fate. I trust, however, you have been well?”
“Aye, Oliver, after the excitement you caused aboard Salina and our making Detroit, I made my way east and offered my assessment of our situation here in the Northwest to President Madison himself.”
Oliver looked out the window, gesturing to the ships and the yard. “And look what has came of your effort, Daniel; my compliments!” He then greeted Perry, “Sir, I do not know if you recall our conversations in Boston, but—”
“Indeed, I do. I am only surprised you recall!” Perry joked, referring to the copious amount of drink fueling an afternoon of talk of naval affairs in general and of the inland seas.
Oliver chuckled, “Yes. Well, as you see, William’s influence,” he teased, “is not always positive.”
Perry defended, “I suspect you find enough adventure on your own,” and noting Oliver’s uniform, “and the army certainly was not Captain Lee’s idea.”
Oliver admitted, “No, Sir. Very true. After the birth of my daughter, I made good on my word, given to myself that very day on Salina,” glancing over at Daniel, who acknowledged with a nod, “and as repeated in our tavern in Boston,” looking to Perry. “I have financed a company of Michigan lads, from Detroit, who are now with Harrison and will meet me in the field.” Oliver concluded, “I shall take command upon my joinder with him and serve as Captain—only on the hard, not at sea!”
Daniel approved enthusiastically. Despite William’s concern for his particular friend, he was proud of Oliver’s commitment and willingness to sacrifice for a cause he came to with more deliberation, if not hesitation, than did most. William always knew that once committed, such thinking men as Oliver often made the best leaders.
Perry offered, “Laudable, indeed.” Taking a seat, he encouraged, “Please, gentlemen, take your ease.” Oliver suspected Perry was a rather formal officer, not prone to casual conversation, and he made to tread carefully at what he regarded an exception to normal routine and preferred protocol. Perry attempted to break his unease, “How long will you lay over?”
“A day at the most,” Oliver assured. “I am enjoying good health and after a good night’s rest and with some fresh supplies in the morning, I should be off and take advantage of this mild weather.” William’s heart sank at the thought of such an early departure, but his spirits soared from the good news Oliver delivered of himself and their close knit family. It was, if brief, an excellent visit and a boost to their collective morale.
Oliver continued, addressing Perry and Daniel, already packing a clay pipe and reaching for a light from the hearth. “Harrison is building a fort, named Meigs, at the Maumee rapids. As you likely know, Captain Perry, he has had to lie below Detroit after the native massacre on the River Raisin of Winchester’s men this past January. That outrage may have afforded us a new rallying cry, further strengthening our resolve, however, we are now on the defensive, nonetheless.” Looking to Perry, wondering if he had spoken out too bluntly, Oliver added plaintively, “Until we gain control of the Lake.”
Perry nodded soberly, his hands on his knees. Oliver sensed Perry was deciding the extent to which these men before him could be relied upon. He made his decision and offered, “Pray, extend to General Harrison my compliments. Inform him the work here proceeds at an impressive pace. As you know, we are growing stronger and more numerous each day.”
Oliver assured, “Of course. He will be encouraged to hear of it.”
Perry hesitated but continued, “Holding Fort Meigs is critical. Chauncey expects an offensive against it sometime this spring, with the British hoping to sweep further east. Certainly Cleveland and all of Ohio… perhaps even Erie.”
Everyone in the cabin understood the implication. The thought settled among them like a fog shrouding a windless dawn. Soon, they departed for their own quarters, with Oliver grateful for the rest he needed, as come morning he would continue his trek with, now, a newfound sense of urgency.
Chapter Thirteen
Captain Oliver Williams lay prostrate in the wetland, with barely some reeds and marsh grass between he and the great guns of an entire British squadron. England’s wooden walls, he had come to realize, had a very long reach.
His corporal squirmed for a better view and, at Oliver’s suggestion, was counting ships, guns and estimating men as were gathered on deck and likely still below. Oliver’s company had left Fort Meigs the day before to reconnoiter the area north of the fort near the river mouth, and at nightfall had seen ships well offshore. Not certain of their intended destination and despite the likelihood that Colonel Proctor of the British Army had troops in the area, Oliver remained with a few of his better men, a mere scouting party, and sent the rest of his company back with word of enemy activity.
Oliver and his few stalwarts spent an uncomfortable night. The food was poor and the camp cold; hot drink forestalled for fear fire would betray their position. But the wait was worthwhile and come daybreak, no more than one half hour after finding themselves at the water’s edge, they peered through reeds at the British squadron cautiously approaching the shoal mouth of the Maumee River.
Oliver turned to his corporal, “See, they are coming up into the wind to run out their ground tackle. With some moderate cable, they will drift back closer still, and the ship’s boats will have but a short pull to shore.”
His corporal, from a farm near Frenchtown, turned and stared at him as though he was hearing Greek. Both men lay in the soft sand and silt. The corporal admitted, “Sir, while I am aware of your experience on the inland seas, your shipmates are nowhere in sight. I have no idea what you are trying to tell me.”
Oliver half smiled. While Trove and James might find fault with his observation or terminology, given the arrogance of youth, he knew that William would be proud. Oliver was at last but a mystery to a farmer. His corporal had unwittingly paid him a high compliment, indeed. Oliver translated, in landsman, “Sorry. Just this: The ships will offload within the hour. It is time for us to go.”
His corporal nodded, seemingly relieved, but then recalled and inquired, “What of Colonel Proctor and his troops?”
Oliver rephrased his comrade’s real concern. Their fate could well be decided upon weather British regulars had marched in cooperation with the squadron around the western end of Lake Erie from Frenchtown where, after the River Raisin massacre, British advance troops had wintered comfortably and were at this moment positioned between Oliver’s scouting party and Fort Meigs – their intended destination.
Oliver, ever the realist, acknowledged the point, “If Proctor’s timing is impeccable, we shall likely encounter British regulars by noon.”
The young corporal’s eyes grew wide and Oliver intended to comfort him with a thought that would most often only heighten concern, “We are so few, what are the odds they will detect us, of so little significance?”
The corporal nodded for a moment with something like hope, until the point underscored sank in: that they had no real option or credibility as a fighting force. Oliver next said what the corporal had just thought, “We shall depend upon quiet, speed and stealth. Leave all camping gear and provisions. We must travel light.”
The party moved back into the cover of the reeds just as the first boat was lowered from the davits of a smart little brig.
Oliver, however, thought not about the obvious fact that the attack, expected by all, was about to begin. Instead, as he quickly made his way through the narrow trails of bush and grass, heading for the edge of the forest, he regarded a haunting sight that had presented itself in those first rays of light as he felt the sun’s tentative warmth on his cheek. A fine lined sloop with a raked mast and impressive jiboom, accentuated by a spritsail yard, caught his eye as the most handsome of the squadron, perhaps of all vessels now on the lakes.
Friends Good Will, his former ship and the linchpin to his dreams of peace and prosperity in the Old Northwest was a
mong the British squadron, having dipped its gaff and rounded up furthest to his right with what he would swear was Lieutenant Fleet standing on the quarterdeck, like a cock on a wall. The sight brought back a flood of memories, just as had the sight of a lone traveler to William some weeks before in Erie.
Oliver had not seen his beloved sloop since he was shipped off as a prisoner of war from Detroit, just after the village fell. He recalled as he slipped from the marsh how last August he looked back from the deck of Salina, employed as a transport, his family gathered at the commercial dock outside the walls. His wife, Mary, had a handkerchief to her eyes. Be-mo-se was tending his children and trying mightily to comfort Ephrium, who was even then old enough to feel cheated that his father had been home after months for less than one day before setting off, and at the same time unnerved that his mother was crying. That scene haunted Oliver throughout his term of imprisonment in Kingston, an image which had gratefully faded while he grew to know his family again in Boston.
Now, back in those waters where Friends Good Will swam so well through the summer of ’11, memories including her smells and sounds, the way she moved in a seaway and what promise she held for their future rushed forth as he recognized her familiar rakish lines, undiminished by the altogether uninspired fresh paint.
“Which way, Sir?” his corporal inquired, interrupting his memories.
Oliver considered the trails, broken more by wildlife than men and thus with no human logic, and considered the likelihood that the trail to the right would track close to the river’s north edge as Fort Meigs drew near, while the one to the left appeared to fade into dense forest. The first shorter; the second, while longer, provided more cover, but at the same time would afford little warning of enemy nearby. Oliver did not hesitate, despite his lack of certainty, “We must go left, through the forest.”
Lieutenant Owen Dunlap watched from the quarterdeck of the Brig General Hunter as his crew lowered a ship’s boat and as Little Belt came up into the wind and attempted to anchor.