by James Spurr
Perry took some steps to the desk and looked for a moment at the strips of black cloth strewn upon a letter announcing the loss of his best friend. He picked one up, wrapped it around his arm and gestured for Tiffany to help tie it off. He explained, “Tiffany, deliver the others to my officers. Ask them to wear it as do I in honor, respect and mourning for one of our best.” Perry sighed and returned to the window.
Tiffany replied, “I’s sure sorry, Cap’n. Didn’t know Cap’n Lawrence, but I’s sure he was a fine man. I will tell the others. If you need anything, you just call for Tiffany.”
Perry nodded, his back to Tiffany, and softly mumbled, “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
Tiffany left Perry, noting his silhouette framed by the bright back light of a sunset through the window; a dark man, in a dark uniform, in the blackest of moods with an armband to match.
Perry had no need to read the letter again. Indeed he never wanted to see it again. Five or six times was plenty and assured him it was no dream. The personal note at the bottom of the naval dispatch informed him of the unthinkable.
James Lawrence, having made full Captain after his successful cruise with Hornet, besting the brig H.M.S. Peacock in just 14 minutes, was assigned one of America’s original six frigates, U.S.S. Chesapeake. She was not a 44, as was Constitution, but Lawrence, Perry knew, in time would get the most out of her.
The problem was, there was no time. Perry thought about the conversation in the public house in Boston, when he met and shared a drink with Captains Lee and Dobbins, Oliver Williams and Edmund Blunt. They discussed the fact that so vastly outnumbered, there was insufficient time to effectively train crews in handling and fighting square rigged men-of-war, one of the most complex machines designed by man.
With so many more ships, the British simply blockaded every principle harbor and bottled up their American counterparts, just as Britain had done with France. With the cork fixed in place, the crews rotted in harbor and came to grief faster than the ships they served, though never sailed. Perry had no doubt that Captain Lawrence would have realized the inevitability of an effective blockade. Perry shook his head while still staring out the window. Captain Lawrence would have insisted on making a break for open sea.
Perry noted grimly he faced the same problem. He had an entire squadron, but could not bring his larger ships out to open sea. Even as his men prepared, the bar at the harbor mouth imposed its own blockade. Should he solve that problem, it was entirely possible that the British squadron which he managed to avoid in the fog would by that time be swimming off shore in full force, tacking back and forth, all the while gaining experience at sea while his squadron swung to their anchor cables. Indeed, Perry turned his head and was surprised, but only a little encouraged, that the British squadron was not yet in place.
Perry walked out of the house and down the street. His black arm band said as much as he wanted to scream. Lawrence was dead. He was killed by lack of training, lack of sea time, lack of experience in combat in facing the best navy in the world. As Perry walked slowly, reflecting though he had a purpose and destination in mind, William joined him, seeking him out from the yard. He wore his black arm band and offered, “Sir, you have my condolences. I have heard wonderful reports from you of Captain Lawrence. I feel as I have some small connection to the tragedy. My son, James, served on Chesapeake in ’07.”
Perry looked up rather surprised and asked, “With Baron and Elliott, when facing Leopard?”
“Aye, although it was not much of a contest,” William offered quietly.
“Nor was Chesapeake much match for Shannon, it seems,” admitted Perry. It hurt to acknowledge his friend, Lawrence, had died in what was reported as a futile gesture.
“Do you know many details, Sir?” William asked.
As they slowly walked, Perry opened up, just a bit, “Lawrence had just taken command of Chesapeake anchored in Boston harbor. Shannon was blockading the entrance; a real crack English frigate commanded by Captain Philip Broke, one of England’s best,” Perry made to add, almost defensively, on behalf of his friend’s reputation.
William nodded and Perry continued, “Early in the engagement, Lawrence fell. With few well trained officers, the British gunners made short work of his green crew. Few had ever served together. The duffles of some new arrivals were still on deck as she got underway. As the British boarded her, I understand there was much confusion and an ineffective resistance with too few senior officers left standing to lead.”
Perry walked on, not yet finished, but visibly trying to find the strength to continue, meaning no dishonor to his fallen friend, “Chesapeake struck in just minutes after being boarded.” After a painful pause, “Good God, an entire frigate lost in not much more time than it took to get her underway! Nearly all her officers killed. With none remaining to strike, a British officer actually hauled down our flag and replaced it with the Union Jack!” Perry shook his head in shock and disbelief.
Perry then turned and confessed to William, “His dying words were, ‘Don’t give up the ship! Fight her till she sinks!’”
As they walked, William remained silent. It was the most respectful gesture he could summon and meant only to listen and offer support by his presence. Perry walked and thought. Not about Lawrence, as William assumed. Perry thought about what the defeat of Chesapeake portended. Perry was blockaded, assuredly by the bar; soon enough by British ships, each with more time and experience on the Lakes. Perry had insufficient men to crew his vessels and few if any of them had served with one another before. Few had seen combat and few were trained in sailing large ships maneuvering in close quarters while fighting the great guns. His breathing was quick and shallow.
Within a few minutes, William noted that Perry calmed. Perry turned to William and requested, “Captain Lee, will you undertake immediately and for the balance of this summer, using the time we have left before engaging the enemy even while here in the harbor, to train and teach our men how to handle a ship?”
William was stunned, but instantly saw the need and replied, “Aye, Sir, I will do my best. I have no experience in teaching so many, but they are willing and well, yes, we have some time and we best begin…”
Perry added, “I mean sail handling, Captain Lee, in close quarters, setting sail, clewing up, tacking, wearing, while fighting the guns.”
William nodded, assuring, while at the same time disclaiming, “Why yes, of course, Sir, I understand. We may have to make do and, I imagine, here in the harbor. But as the brigs are completed, we can certainly drill and attempt to make it as real as possible.”
Perry listened intensely for sincerity and commitment and seemed satisfied. “Very good, William. Thank you.”
Captain Lee was taken aback by Perry’s familiarity, calling him, for the first time, by his given name. Perry strode off quickly, and William called, “Captain Perry, where are you bound?”
“Return to the yard, Captain Lee. I shall see a woman about making a flag.”
Master Commandant Robert Barclay, R.N., found himself in the Caribbean at the beginning of the war and soon after its outbreak began his journey to Halifax, with a stay of some months both there and later at Kingston. This morning he felt somewhat as though he had come nearly as deep within North America as would any man interested in naval affairs while still retaining credibility, all while striving for a command. After thousands of miles and a two hour tour of His Majesty’s Naval Establishment on Lake Erie, at Amherstberg, he undoubtedly had found one.
Barclay arrived late the preceding night from Dover Mills and was greeted by Hall with respect though hardly warmth. Hall, Provincial Marine, was taken aback when Barclay ordered him to assemble the men at dawn. Hall had never had to take an order while in Amherstberg, he being allowed to retain command over the less experienced Royal Navy lieutenants such as Dunlap and Fleet. It was instantly clear to Hall he would have to do so in the future.
Barclay began the day by addressing his officers in Hall’s fo
rmer office, then the men assembled in loose ranks gathered around the rough hewn flag pole. The Union Jack fluttered in the early morning breeze, wafting off the Detroit River.
“Men,” he began softly, but then immediately increased his volume,
finding his command voice, “I am Master and Commander, Robert Heroit Barclay.” He then produced a letter from a packet, unfolded it and began to read:
“By the order of Commodore Sir James Lucas Yeo, Commander in Chief of His Majesty’s ships and vessels employed on the Great Lakes,
You are hereby required and directed to proceed to His Majesty’s Naval Establishment on Lake Erie at Amherstberg and take upon you the command of all available vessels, willing and requiring all officers and company to behave themselves with all due respect and obedience, complete all such vessels under construction and engage the enemy upon your first prudent opportunity such that Lake Erie will be thereafter secured for British citizens and commerce.
Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril. And for so doing this shall be your Order.”
It was done. Every man on station knew it. They had witnessed the ceremony, oft employed, by a commander introducing himself and at that moment, by declaration in the absence of anyone more senior, elevating himself as the King’s representative, all history notwithstanding. Barclay had read himself in. Hall winced at hearing the words.
Barclay looked over to Hall standing before and facing him among the other officers, “Captain Hall, have the men stand down, attend to breakfast and commence with their regular duties. I shall want all officers to join us as you conduct a tour of facilities and vessels.”
“Aye, Sir.” Hall repeated the orders for all to hear, thinking that this serious man, younger than himself and with a resume beyond question, was all business.
Returning to Hall’s, or rather now his, office, Barclay offered his first comments after many questions already posed during the tour. He gestured for them to sit and the less junior, for whom no chairs were readily available, stood behind those sitting before the desk. Fleet flushed with anger as Dunlap took the last chair. He had the good sense, however, to remain standing quietly in the presence of Barclay.
“Gentlemen,” Barclay began, “I must congratulate you at your good work and progress. This yard, with its blacksmith shop and ropewalk, is a credit to all England here, deep in the frontier. One has only to look across the river and wonder as to how British skill and organization from a village so small as Amherstberg can dominate the far larger village of Detroit. The reason is not Fort Malden. The reason is because of this yard and the vessels it supports, maintains and keeps in fighting trim.”
Hall was somewhat mollified. Barclay was large enough, it seemed, to extend credit where due. Dunlap was impressed. Barclay was in the midst of making a good beginning. Fleet was impatient, thinking that this new commander should get on with it, cut the fluff and inform everyone as to whether the current assignments with respect to command of the vessels would be allowed to stand in light of the background and breeding of the men assembled before him. Barclay mentioned on the tour that he was aware of Fleet’s relationship to the late Sir Edgar. Barclay did not, however, elaborate on how he had learned of the connection.
Barclay continued, standing and pacing behind the desk, “Just as this facility is the reason why we occupy Detroit, our ships must become the instruments with which we dominate Lake Erie.”
The men nodded at the apt analogy. Fleet was thinking as how that was already accomplished. Barclay then revealed in what manner he disagreed with what Fleet had already come to conclude. “Our squadron is not now strong or numerous enough to withstand the challenge from Presque Isle. Now that the ships from Black Rock have joined the Americans, their completion of a pair of brigs at Erie should leave our squadron out-manned and out-gunned.”
Hall frowned at the suggestion that Perry, making Presque Isle with the vessels from Black Rock, had bested the squadron while under his command. Dunlap recognized the reality of the challenge before them. Fleet was growing ever more impatient with such impersonal strategic observations.
Then Barclay revealed his concerns, “We have not nearly enough supplies, of every sort and variety.” Fleet scowled and thought about Salina, as did every man in the room it seemed as all glanced at him.
Barclay explained, “The Americans appear to be obtaining supplies far more regularly and in greater volume. They seem to have better routes and sources. I have no doubt but they will finish their ships in the near future.”
Barclay then turned and strode to the window, gesturing to a large ship yet on the ways, “We, by contrast, have made slow progress, despite Mr. Bell’s expertise and best efforts.” Barclay turned and gestured to Bell, the only civilian in the room, but as master shipbuilder perhaps the most important in relation to their near future.
Barclay concluded, “Our priorities in the coming days and weeks, and we have no more time than that, will be these: First, the dedication of all supplies and armament to finishing the ship on the ways, which I hereby declare shall be christened ‘Detroit’, in celebration of Brock’s tremendous victory.”
“Here, Here!” resounded that officers in small celebration for a monumental task nowhere near complete.
“Second,” Barclay announced, “our common sailors appear a sad, lackluster and undisciplined lot.” Hall scowled at the implication he had not trained the men. “Mr. Fleet, you are in command of Little Belt, the sloop, am I correct?”
Fleet straightened and awoke from his state of boredom, “Aye, Sir, and let me suggest—”
Everyone smirked as Barclay cut Fleet off in mid sentence, “You will undertake the responsibility of training the men upon the deck of your sloop, just offshore the yard here on the Detroit River.” Fleet was incredulous. The other officers looked concerned.
Barclay noted the initial reaction, knew not the reasons, but offered this, “Little Belt, as a sloop, is perfect for training. It is small, agile, reacts instantly and quickly demonstrates the effect of crew coordination upon ship handling. The men will learn more easily aboard your sloop.”
Barclay did not articulate his second reason. During the tour, he was least impressed with and detected among others a general lack of respect for Fleet among his other officers. So in order to improve Fleet and his standing among others, Barclay offered him this opportunity. To the extent Fleet’s low standing was justified, Barclay had often found that teaching was the best means for learning.
Barclay concluded, “Lastly, Amherstberg is too distant from Presque Isle to keep close enough watch upon our foe. The squadron will prepare to move its operations to Long Point. I shall issue orders addressing the details tomorrow, with an anticipated departure for our new, temporary base, within the week.”
The men were surprised; not so much at the logic of the move, but rather surprised they had not thought of it themselves. Hall was a bit low as the move reflected upon his lack of strategic vision.
Two men in the room, in the moments of silence as the meeting adjourned, shared the same thoughts.
Fleet thought about Abigail, her possible view of his new assignment, which while he despised the thought of training common seamen, could be made to sound impressive, if not critical. Fleet wholly missed the fact that indeed, the assignment was just that: critical for their collective futures.
Barclay also thought of Abigail, the mischievous beauty he had dined with just days before. Long Point was much closer to Dover Mills than Amherstberg.
Fleet admonished O’Connell yet again. It seemed to Fleet as Little Belt had just tacked more slowly than it had just ten minutes before. “Mr. O’Connell,” Fleet yelled from the quarterdeck, “we stand here as the sun sets and I see little improvement throughout this day.”
O’Connell suffered the admonishment amid still another random crew as had been assigned Little Belt for just one day. “Sir,” he protested, “of course this tack took longer as
the wind is diminishing and the last did not require we bring round the topsail. Some men were confused with the manner in which the braces are led forward as opposed to those found on Lady Prevost leading aft. The men from General Hunter apparently back the headsails for longer than we do on Little Belt.”
“Do not offer excuses, Mr. O’Connell,” Fleet threatened. “I am interested only in improvement at the end of each day.”
O’Connell remained silent but regarded the absurdity of the exercises he was delegated the responsibility of orchestrating. He doubted very much whether drills upon Little Belt would count for anything when many of these same men would soon be deposited upon the deck of Detroit, still on her ways back in Amherstberg.
O’Connell directed the helm be put down, swinging Little Belt to the Nor’west and making a course for their return to anchor in the harbor and makeshift establishment in the lee of Long Point. He then made to change the subject with his peevish Captain standing beside him on the quarterdeck, “Any word from the squadron, Sir?”
“Not this day,” Fleet grudgingly allowed. “They should be arriving off Erie just about now.” Having made his obligatory appearance on deck for at least a couple of minutes each hour, Fleet predictably announced, “I shall complete my correspondence below.”
O’Connell was relieved. Anything which removed Fleet from the deck was most welcome. He knew not what Fleet was composing, though it appeared to take nearly all day. He did not care why Fleet insisted the correspondence be posted for Dover Mills upon the return of the squadron from Erie. Fleet seemed disinterested in the training, distracted as usual, and O’Connell yet wondered what was in Dover Mills as had caused Fleet to anchor there, seemingly without justification, last March with Salina.
All O’Connell knew is that Commodore Barclay had announced that upon his return from Erie, he would depart on an errand for Dover Mills. Fleet mentioned to O’Connell that he intended to ask Barclay to deliver the correspondence over which he had been toiling.