by James Spurr
Some noise was inevitable as they clambered aboard Captain Perry’s flag ship. William recalled Caledonia from the previous autumn, when he and Captain Elliot had cut her out from under the guns of Fort Erie. Those efforts were easier, he recalled, when compared with the work they had invested since the fall of Fort George.
Henry Breevort, the former Captain of President Adams, had joined just prior to William and Daniel’s entry into the aft cabin of Caledonia. Breevort and Perry were enjoying some wine. Perry was questioning Breevort on his local knowledge of the coastline and weather, some twenty miles east of Presque Isle, even as Breevort questioned Perry for every detail of the very active ten days prior.
“Mr. Breevort, what would you advise with respect to this thick weather? Will it hold and if so, what of the wind?” asked Perry.
“Aye, until noon at least,” responded Breevort. “Pray, Captain, how did you ever get out from the guns of Fort Erie?”
Daniel interjected, addressing Captain Perry, “Sir, we shall have this weather through tomorrow noon, mark me. Really, Henry,” he addressed Breevort with familiarity after their years together, serving as Captains on the lakes, “this fog, with the cold waters and warm air, makes perfect sense, don’t you recall? And have you not heard? Fort Erie was abandoned in the aftermath of the fall of Fort George. There were no guns trained upon us, after all!”
William made to join the gam, rare for Perry to allow, let alone suffer, “With little or foul wind, towing five vessels into the open waters from Black Rock was tedious, for certain!” Then, offering his opinion on the weather, “While this fog will hold for at least a day, the question, Sir, is how thick and will the sun reveal our topmasts?”
Perry nodded, looked out the stern window and was distracted from their future by Breevort’s seeming obsession with the recent past, “But however did you get these ships fully manned?”
Perry replied, as a matter of obvious fact, “Commodore Chauncey spared fifty sailors and General Dearborn offered still another two hundred.”
Breevort’s jaw went slack. William smiled and added, with Daniel nodding, “Let us just say, Mr. Breevort, that the Army and Navy both were appreciative of Captain Perry’s contribution as regards our recent victory!”
Perry, embarrassed by the boast, even if true, insisted, “Gentlemen, we must focus and consider our options. With a British squadron of many guns within a few miles reportedly, perhaps within sight if the weather clears, we have no time to lose.”
His three captains nodded soberly in agreement. Perry continued, “So let us be about it.
Breevort offered, “I know these shoal waters well, I suspect much better than the British. Let us stick to the coastline and slide into Erie sailing or towing through the night.”
Daniel interjected, somewhat peeved that Breevort would so much as hint that he knew these waters best with Daniel no more than twenty miles from his home port, “And what if the weather clears before dark, or they sail within sight of us, despite the fog, in the next twelve hours? We just sit here and wait to be discovered?”
Breevort pouted. Perry shook his head in the negative and William interjected, “Waiting will not serve, nor slinking along our own shore as thieves. That is exactly what the British would expect!”
William held everyone’s attention, so continued, “No. We must use this fog and wind and sail out into the Lake…”
Within minutes, the five ships, the brig Caledonia, schooners Ohio, Amelia and Somers, together with the sloop Trippe (formerly Contractor) were underway in a light east wind, sailing northwest away from Erie.
Late that afternoon, the tension was almost unbearable. As the sun tried to burn through the fog and the wind repeatedly eased, threatening to die altogether only to return fitfully, then with a will, the American squadron, hopelessly outgunned and under strict orders for silence, ensigns and pennants struck so to blend more effectively with the fog, slipped seaward and beyond the British squadron, sailing east close into the shore. Small conversation among the men returned and was allowed, as the enemy diminished ever more gradually off the larboard quarter.
Just before dusk, which fell early in the gloom of the fog, the opening of Presque Isle harbor swallowed the small, grateful American squadron. William, standing at the binnacle of Trippe, a square topsail sloop, recalled how just a year before he made entry to Erie in command of a similar vessel, Friends Good Will, with Oliver, James and Trove as crew. On this occasion, all he could manage was a nod to Samuel, standing upon the shore near the French blockhouse, a familiar witness to their triumphant return after some three weeks of near constant action.
William struggled to fully organize his thoughts and prepared to explain to Samuel the recent exploits of their leader, Captain Perry, whom he beheld with admiration now standing upon the quarterdeck of a schooner just to larboard of William’s sloop. Perry had, in William’s mind, been the unsung hero of the Battle of Fort George, which led directly to freeing the ships upon which they now sailed, until then trapped at Black Rock. Recent events had unfolded with what could be spun as a good yarn. He could present it as resembling calculated genius, but William wondered whether their outcome was nothing more than the reflection of good fortune.
William then wondered, however, as whether good fortune was nothing more than talent recognizing opportunity.
Captain Perry returned to Erie leading a small squadron. It was a far cry from arriving at Black Rock upon the back of a pony. As Perry passed over the bar at the entrance to the harbor, however, nodding an acknowledgement to Captain Lee, just to starboard and in command of Trippe, he considered whether when next he would attempt to take to the inland sea with guns, provisions and men settling his ships much deeper in what was often the more scarce water of late summer, he would be so fortunate as to pass over the bar without going hopelessly aground.
As William had regarded Perry’s strengths, Perry worried about his weaknesses. He worried that history may well record that he, as commander of all United States naval forces on Lake Erie, voluntarily sailed his squadron by virtue of the bar and low water into a state of utter irrelevance.
Chapter Fifteen
Abigail sat in her bedroom in the home in which she was raised, her furniture from her childhood surrounding her. While her surroundings brought forth only memories of her youth, both her mind and body were now clearly those of a woman. Abigail was well aware of the desire she ignited in most men, a trait she first noticed in her last year or more living in this home. But the content of the letter from Lord Castlereagh, posted three months before, caused not its author, but rather, her, its recipient, to breath more quickly.
Thomas had delivered the letter just moments before upon his return from the center of the small village of Dover Mills. He reported two coaches had arrived in the village with some Royal Navy officers carrying mail westward from Kingston, stopping as convenient enroute to Amherstberg. Thomas offered the hospitality of the Wheems household to the commanding officer for dinner and the night. Abigail’s mother was delighted. Thomas was intrigued, both by the arrival of the Royal Navy officers and by the letter. There had been no word from Lord Castlereagh since Abigail had left Amherstberg for Dover Mills just before Christmas six months before. Abigail, seeking privacy, retired to her bedroom but knew she would soon be required to make an appearance at dinner. Her mother would ask about the letter. Thomas would either hear, or come to know of her answer.
Abigail had to admit Sir Robert’s news was unexpected. At the same time, she felt foolish. She should not have been the least bit surprised. Any woman, even without her intuition and instincts, would have found Sir Robert’s sentiments, expressed with the utmost courtesy and kindness, entirely predicable.
Her hand trembled as it seemed another option was lost. She calculated that at the time of James’ last visit to Dover Mills, in late March, finally proposing marriage and offering his fortune, no, rather his father’s fortune, which should have been hers, Sir Robert ap
parently had determined it best to inform her of the effect of her long absence from London. English society was indeed social. Lord Castlereagh had met another.
While reading his letter, Abigail understood instantly that her absence and infrequent letters, not particularly personal or encouraging, caused Sir Robert doubt and impatience. She regretted she had not been more flirtatious. The irony was not lost on her. No sooner had she, upon receiving a proposal from James, determined she could never carry through upon her plan to marry the Fleet family fortune for yet a second time, then she lost her alternate plan of returning to England and settling for an even larger fortune.
But Abigail was nothing if not realistic. She recalled she had considered this very risk last summer, just about a year before, in Sir Robert’s coach after visiting Mr. Wellstone. She deliberated on her chances at repairing a relationship with James, the small scandal of his now qualifying as her step-son and the hurt she caused him in marrying Sir Edgar. She balanced it all, including Lord Castlereagh’s fortune, position, power and the requirements of English politics and society. She had carefully considered ‘Paragraph Twenty First’ of her late husband’s trust. She came to realize, as she folded the letter and slipped it back into the packet, she simply wanted more freedom than Sir Edgar afforded her; more freedom than Sir Robert’s expectations and position would ever have permitted. She placed the packet in her desk and gently closed the drawer. As she stood to rejoin for dinner, the thought struck her that indeed, the same priority and sentiment governed her rejection, yet again, of James. He was not likely to afford her much freedom either.
She stood at the top of the stairs and took a moment. She was a bit shaken; somewhat weak. She was beautiful, but aging. She was surrounded in Dover Mills by few, if any, alternatives. She had no plan. The absence of such was extraordinarily rare for the Widow Fleet.
As she began to descend the stairs, she heard horses and a carriage pull up to the house. She retreated to her bedroom window, pulled back the curtain and confirmed the Royal Navy Officers that Thomas had mentioned were now arrived. She was relieved. The distraction of guests would most certainly take the spotlight off of her and her news. She counted two officers and a driver. She would wait a moment and make her entry after theirs.
Thomas answered the knock on the door. Her mother seemed quite excited and a bit nervous at the thought of entertaining. Abigail overheard introductions, the exchange of pleasant compliments, the expressions of gratitude, but was unable to make out any names.
As she began down the stairs, she noted the officers’ hats had been removed and she formed her first impression which had been impossible from her bedroom window. The officer on her left had a single epaulette; a ’‘leftenant’ with a command and was about her age. The officer on her right, obviously younger, bore no such critical distinction. The Commander looked up at her as she descended the stairs. His eyes grew wide and he formed a smile. Rather charming, she thought. He asked her mother, “Mrs. Wheems, pray tell, what allows us such good fortune as to dine with such beauty?”
Abigail noted her mother, before answering the question, searched his eyes, then gave a quick glance to her as she stepped from the last stair. The Commander tucked his hat under his arm, extended his right hand and Abigail offered hers willingly. His lips upon her hand were warm, with just the slightest suggestion of lingering beyond polite. Abigail blushed. She had not blushed in years.
Her mother replied, “Master and Commander Barclay, let me present my daughter, the Widow Fleet.”
Barclay asked, “Your husband, m’lady, was Sir Edgar Fleet?”
“Yes, Commander; he passed just a year ago,” Abigail answered, subtly suggesting the time for mourning was past.
Barclay informed her, “I never met Sir Edgar. I believe he was stationed here in North America even before I was serving Nelson, at Trafalgar.”
The very mention of Nelson, Trafalgar and Barclay’s presence among the fleet at such an event caused everyone to consider the gravity of such a guest in Dover Mills, Upper Canada. Abigail could not recall just how or what comment caused them to walk into the parlor. She later realized her mother caused her to be seated next to him. Finally, she gathered her composure and fell back upon years of training for persons with whom she was impressed, “Tell me Sir, what brings one of our heroes to the Great Lakes?”
Barclay smiled, shook his head and began to offer, but was interrupted by his companion. “Captain Barclay, M’lady, was commended for his actions as acting Lieutenant upon Swiftsure. His efforts led to the rescue of 170 of our enemy; French sailors.”
Barclay admonished, “Official accounts often make that which nothing but our common Christian duty requires sound much too extraordinary.
Who in this room would not have offered such compassion to the vanquished?”
Abigail’s mother spoke, “Truly, Sir. This war it seems could well use your honor. We hear accounts of unnecessary brutality all too often.”
Barclay nodded. Abigail remained quiet, assessing whether or why her first impressions had caused her heart to beat somewhat faster. Was it the shape of his hand resting on his thigh, his dark eyes piercing those with whom he spoke, or his finely brushed uniform coat, remarkable after his long summer day spent amid the dust of the road. Initially, she had not even noted that he was missing his left arm, he carried himself with such grace without it. Upon realizing it, she found it a mere curiosity. But at the mention of Nelson, England’s most beloved hero, also missing an arm, both having lost theirs in the service of their nation, she found the thought of coming to know Captain Barclay better and being seen in his company rather exciting in the midst of war.
Barclay offered to Abigail, again trying to make a connection, “After Sir Edgar’s return to England, I served as Second upon the frigate Diana assigned to the channel fleet and rarely made London, despite our close proximity.”
She recognized his attempt to learn more about her, so offered, “Yes it must be frustrating sailing for so long off our own coast. I was during those years living in Touro, not far from Falmouth, with Sir Edgar, when he was not called away. Thomas is, in fact, Sir Edgar’s former cox’n and has been in our service for years. I would guess your family is from Scotland, though, not Cornwall.”
He smiled, “Aye, Edinbrough, though it has been many years. What brings you back to North America, M’Lady?”
She sipped her tea, served by Thomas, “A visit with my mother. I arrived just after the war began and have been uncertain as to whether it is safe to return.”
Barclay made to assist, without sounding boastful, “I hope, M’lady, to render this Lake safe for any English ship, particularly that which would be transporting you. Give me this summer,” he suggested. His reference was purposefully ambiguous. They exchanged smiles, hers as quizzical as his was mischievous.
Again his companion offered, “Captain Barclay is assuming overall command of naval forces on Lake Erie.” Abigail glanced again over to Barclay. She realized he must be held in some esteem among the Royal Navy in Upper Canada. Though impressed, she could not resist a tease, “The Royal Navy Commander arrives in a carriage?”
Barclay laughed. Abigail took that as an indication that he was very different from the men in the Fleet family. He offered, “Our journey resembles that of Odyssius himself, with one adventure after another. We were nearly captured in a small coasting schooner by the American squadron on Lake Ontario. With the fall of Fort George, we made our way overland. Candidly, I will walk to Amherstberg if I have to.”
Again, Abigail was impressed. Barclay had both a sense of humor and dogged determination. She turned and asked, so to offer assistance, “Thomas, do we not have in our harbor this very day, a ship from Amherstberg?”
As Thomas made to set the dining table, he affirmed, “Aye. The Lady Prevost put in just yesterday to stand in the lee of the cold front bringing strong north winds. I assumed our guests knew as much.”
Barclay and his junior officer w
ere both surprised and delighted. Barclay instantly ordered his adjunct, “Make all haste, there is not a moment to lose. Arrange for our passage to Amherstberg tomorrow on that schooner.” He wrote a brief note, signed his name and assured his adjunct, “Do not fear, I suspect Mrs. Wheems will hold dinner for at least a glass, what?”
With his adjunct on an errand, there was ample time for conversation. Abigail’s mother offered, from that told her by Thomas over the course of weeks, “I understand, Sir, the Americans are building ships across the lake at Erie.”
Barclay acknowledged calmly and with a self assuredness stemming from experience under fire in the best navy in the world, “Aye, and it is my duty to sweep the Americans from this inland seas, or make certain their ships never swim in open water!”
Barclay’s adjunct soon returned; their passage to Amherstberg secured. Dinner proceeded amid the best of conversation, with much news and generous laughter, all encouraged with fine wines. Abigail, before the night was out, noted several hints reflecting Captain Barclay’s good breeding, secure holdings, promising career and something with which she had thus far little experienced in men – good character.
For his part, Commander Barclay had rarely been so taken with a woman in so little time. He regretted his goodbye the next morning as he set off aboard Lady Prevost for Amherstberg, a departure at the dock made even more cruel by Abigail’s encouraging glance and smile as he kissed her willing hand once again.
Tiffany entered quietly. Perry stood at the window of the home at which he had been staying in town, still staring out at the harbor. Tiffany knew Perry saw none of it. A letter lay on his desk; his thoughts hundreds of miles away and several years past. Perry was recalling his friend, Captain James Lawrence.
“Sir, just as you requested…” Tiffany offered softly. He laid the material on the desk atop the letter. He did not know what more to say at his completion of Perry’s most recent errand.