One Sloop and Slow Match

by James Spurr

  As June 1813 drew to a close, the naval forces of the United States on Lake Erie were in mourning for the death of one of their own but which only one of them had ever met.

  As the twin brigs were launched and christened Lawrence and Niagara and rigging commenced, the work proceeded largely without the assistance of Captain William Lee. He spent his days on the harbor aboard the largest and most complicated of the squadron’s schooners training men with naval experience and merchant marine backgrounds amid men who could well handle a plowshare, but who regarded a tiller as a man who furrowed the soil of the farms upon which they were born and raised.

  William confessed as much to his friend Daniel at the end of long days for both. This particular night, Daniel was already in his bed when William offered, “I believe we are making progress, but ship handling while at anchor and using spring lines to pivot takes time.”

  Daniel offered, “Why not use Trippe? She is smaller, more handy and you could even sail on short tacks within the harbor?”

  William frowned and, dropping one of his boots to the floor, explained, “I have thought of that. Presently, the men have merit individually, but not collectively as a team. No, I prefer to use our larger vessels. Indeed, I very much look forward to the brigs being rigged to the state where we can brace round the yards, even without sails.”

  Daniel was not so bold as to disagree. But William noted the look of doubt on his face, questioning William’s strategy, as he doused the only remaining light in the cabin.

  “You see, Daniel,” William offered in defense while climbing into bed, “many of the men know or understand how to sail small craft. That sort of instruction helps us little when faced with more than a hundred men being ordered to tack the brigs. No, they don’t need to be taught to sail so much as they need to become familiar with our largest ships, come to trust that each of them can be counted on to react in unison, one with the others…”

  William hesitated. Daniel heard the doubt in his voice and despite his fervent hope and desperate need for sleep, asked his good friend, “What is it, William?”

  William thought and concluded, “What we desperately need is uniformity. You and I know how to handle ships, but even we have never been instructed as to how to perform tasks in the same manner, amid all options know to us from our experience. We need to be made interchangeable. When orders are shouted amidst the roar of great guns, we need to know that everyone on board, not only the ship we serve but others in the squadron, will perform their tasks in the same manner, thus likely bringing about the expected result within a predictable window of time throughout the entire squadron.”

  As both men drifted to sleep, Daniel’s muscles and back ached from a hard day’s labor on the brigs. Daniel regarded himself the more fortunate of the two. He would not want the problems, complexities or responsibilities facing William. Daniel’s last thought of the day, however, was a sense of relief that William had been assigned such tasks.

  Perry was not even close to sleep. From the rise above Cascade creek, while giving deep thought to the problems of an insufficient supply of sailors and how to get the larger ships over the bar at the harbor’s mouth, he thought he had detected sail on the northern horizon. He peered through his glass, but dusk had slid into night before he could be certain. Perry worried that just as he and Noah Brown were beginning to fashion a plan to deal with the natural obstacles presented by the Presque Isle bar and just as he had dashed still another letter to Commodore Chauncey pleading for more men, he would wake to find the British squadron tacking back and forth offshore.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The roar of a broadside echoed from the brick walls, stone wharves and cobble streets. The hard surfaces of the town sent the sound back to the gunners, just as the breeze sent the acrid smoke and sparks, now extinguished, back across the deck. James Lee waited some seconds before approaching the muzzle, forever fascinated by the softly curling smoke still meandering from deep within the barrel well after the firing. The lingering smoke seemed a last testament to the power of the United States Navy.

  The powder monkeys treated the exercise with the same degree of care as any other broadside. The black powder was, after all, just as explosive, and their path up from behind the felt blanket veil shrouding the copper lined magazine deep within the bowels of the frigate was fraught with as much risk as ever. But those of the gun team that normally inspected, selected and loaded the 32 pound iron balls, chain or bar shot, canister or grape, essentially stood at ease. There had been far too much ease of late. The rammers tamped, but with less fervor, and there seemed just a bit less excitement to the Second Lieutenant’s call, “Give Fire!” Nobody searched for shots landing upon the sea, or assessed damage to a foe. The shots were blank.

  Still, a single cheer erupted from the deck. A pair of “Huzza’s!” quickly followed from those aloft and below, the sound descending down the rigging and rising through the open hatchways and gun ports of the lower deck. More cheers could be heard from the shore from citizens intent on celebrating and enjoying the early evenings festivities.

  The U.S.S. Constitution, for all of her well-earned reputation, lay to her anchor in the River Charles, north by nor’east of Boston. Just a cable length from where she had been launched more than a generation before, Old Ironsides had just fired a broadside to celebrate the birth of the nation she was built to defend.

  James wormed the piece. Jesse prepared to wet sponge. The consecutive commands for a second of three broadsides were in process. The crew ran through their routine. James turned as the Second Lietenant approached, having just emerged from a conference below in the Captain’s great cabin. “Mr. Lee…,” he began, looking aloft.

  “Aye, Sir?” responded James, handing the worm to Jesse.

  “Where is Mr. Morris?”

  “Just overhead, Sir…,” James indicated, turning his head and raising his eyes, “… laying on the mizzen topsail yard, to starboard.”

  The Second Lieutenant simply passed along that which he had been told, “Captain Bainbridge desires to see the both of you in his cabin on the instant. Pass the word to Morris.”

  James and Trove were ushered past the marines, the last of which opened the door, even as Trove ran his fingers as a comb through his hair. James took off his hat. Both, although having been in the cabin before, were uncertain how far to advance in light of the guest as was instantly obvious by his fine civilian clothes.

  Captain Bainbridge assured, “Come in, lads. Closer, now, let me make introductions. Mr. Lee, Mr. Morris, let me present Mr. Edmund Blunt.”

  The lads were hesitant. They could not fathom why the Captain would introduce them to such a fine gentleman. Mr. Blunt remained seated, assessed them alow and aloft and came to settle upon James, looking him right in the eye. As Mr. Blunt set his glass of wine upon the Captain’s desk, the boys, understandably rather intimidated, knuckled their forehead out of habit despite Mr. Blunt’s obvious status as a citizen.

  Captain Bainbridge smiled and explained, “Mr. Blunt is the Proprietor of “Sign of the Quadrant” of New York and creates fine charts and deals in other navigational aids and instruments.

  Both lads nodded, obviously interested but as yet still mystified as to why they had been summoned and why the Sailing Master was not included in this meeting. Again, their eyes called out for some direction.

  Mr. Blunt came to their assistance, somewhat, “I began my career in Boston and since the blockade travel far more now despite my age and, regrettably, overland so to sell my charts and instruments. Far fewer ships are calling into New York these days, as is true of Boston, as well, I am sure.”

  The boys nodded, smiled politely. Captain Bainbridge began, James thought, to sail closer to the mark, “Both of you lads are from the Great Lakes, if I am not mistaken; the Northwest?”

  Finally, thought James, some remote connection. He responded, “Aye, Sir, the Michigan Territory. Trove and me, we’s sailed the length and breadth of the upper la
kes, save north of the Sault.” James saw the vacant look in his Captain’s expression and switched to bodies of water, “Lakes Michigan, Huron and Erie are well known to us from our voyages.” James saw no harm in exaggerating slightly. Trove cast a quick glance assuring he was, if not taking the lead, in full support and smelling some adventure.

  Captain Bainbridge returned to Mr. Blunt, who seemed distracted, as he began, “Mr. Blunt also writes books and one in particular is about to be published…”

  Mr. Blunt stood, gazed out the stern windows to a brilliant sunset in the making and gestured politely with his hand, indicating the need for a pause, “Captain Bainbridge, Sir, I beg of you…” Then turning to James, asked, “Do you, lad, by chance know a Captain Lee, William, if my memory serves?”

  Trove’s jaw dropped and James was taken aback, but only slightly. He recalled his father used to sail merchant ships off the east coast for a few years some years back. He replied, “Aye, Sir. He is my father.”

  Trove looked to James for some explanation, but Mr. Blunt continued, “This past winter, I took my dinner with a Captain Lee, here in Boston, telling me proudly of his son sailing aboard Constitution. He was accompanied by a relation, perhaps a brother?” Mr. Blunt conveniently left unspoken the fact that they had shared many rounds in the tavern that afternoon.

  Trove burst forth in excitement, “That was likely Mr. Williams, Sir. Captain Lee’s brother-in-law and James’ uncle.” Trove was proud to have contributed and James nodded in confirmation.

  Captain Bainbridge was patient as the connection was made and allowed Mr. Blunt to continue, “Well, Mr. Lee and Mr. Morris, if you are relation and friends of those gentleman, I will trust you implicitly!”

  James and Trove smiled, but James caught the implication, which he did not as yet understand. Why ever would Mr. Blunt have to trust them at all? Trove continued to expound, “Me and James, we crewed upon Captain Lee’s sloop, Friends Good Will, ‘til she was taken by the British, the result of a shameful display of false colours!”

  Mr. Blunt smiled at the characterization, but nodded, “Yes, I seem to recall now, having heard the story.”

  James was uncomfortable with all of this ancient history before his days in the Navy and, perhaps to remind Captain Bainbridge, perhaps to impress Mr. Blunt, offered proudly in transition, “I later made my way to the Navy yard at Black Rock and served under Captain Elliott in cutting out Caledonia.”

  Trove, not wanting to be left out, but disapproving of James’ recall of events, added, “I was there as well, serving Captain Lee!” Trove deliberately reminded James of that which Trove witnessed, though their versions of that action still differed mightily.

  Mr. Blunt nodded approvingly. Captain Bainbridge took control once again of his great cabin, “Very good, lads, but as I was saying, Mr. Blunt here has written a manuscript. The proof is off the press and there are but three copies on earth.” He picked up a pile of papers on his desk and for dramatic effect let them drop with a thud. “He has brought us two and I will keep one.”

  Both lads were silent. The connection was made. The plan, however, was still a mystery. Captain Bainbridge held their attention and would, they knew, reveal the mission on his own terms. He began, “There will soon be a naval action on these inland seas of yours. I have word we are not too late. As we are blockaded in this damnable harbor, we serve the republic to a very small extent, firing nothing but salutes.” He looked out the great cabin and wryly noted, “The next celebration is not for some time!”

  Captain Bainbridge then announced, regarding a letter on his desk, “Commodore Chauncey, fully engaged on Lake Ontario,” hesitating at the pronunciation, “requests men for manning the Lake Erie fleet under Captain Perry.” He then thought for moment and digressed, turning to Blunt, “I know Perry and believe him to have merit.”

  Captain Bainbridge then took his seat behind his desk and prepared to write orders that would change lives, including those of James and Trove. “Lads,” he began, cheerily, “I am affording you the chance to get back into this war, sailing on your home waters!”

  As he wrote, he explained as the quill scratched across the parchment, “You will, with as many more as I can spare, depart for Erie, Pennsylvania. Do you know the place?”

  Both lads confirmed to Mr. Blunt’s satisfaction, “Aye, Sir! The port of Presque Isle. We have sailed in and out of there many times.”

  Trove then mused softly with a hint of concern, meeting with a jab in the ribs from James, “I doubt as we’ve ever put in from the land…”

  Captain Bainbridge assured, “Your acting Lieutenant, Midshipman Bowen, will have a map, so have no worries.” As he signed the order and handed it to Mr. Blunt for his review, he looked gravely at both lads and directed, “This manuscript must find its way to Captain Perry as soon as possible.” Still grave, he asked, “Do you both understand?”

  “Aye, Sir.” The lads responded in unison, equally sober. Captain Bainbridge knew he had made an impression. He looked to Edmund Blunt, who handed back the order, the ink now dry, and he nodded. Captain Bainbridge sensed that Mr. Blunt was comfortable in giving up that which represented a lifetime of knowledge, study, research and talent with words and with pen, making the complex sound simple, imparting to those with understanding of the sea what they so lacked in terms of common training, coordination and uniformity.

  Captain Bainbridge looked to the lads, “Now, if you please, summon Mr. Bowen to my cabin so that I may deliver to him this order and a list of your fellow crew. Any questions?”

  James ventured forth with two. “Sir, is our assignment, detached from Constitution, permanent?”

  “No lads,” Captain Bainbridge chuckled. “Captains may loan some of their men, one to the other. I have never seen as yet a Captain make a gift of any but the useless!”

  Next, James asked, fearing he pressed his status beyond propriety, but with his curiosity over-riding his caution, ventured, “What is this manuscript, Sir, if I may ask?”

  Suspecting documents of a secret type or nature, James was shocked as Captain Bainbridge handed the packet to its author, “Mr. Blunt, share with Mr. Lee and Mr. Morris what great service you do this nation!”

  Edmund Blunt began to explain, “You see, lads, it has been my humble observation as I have sailed on so many vessels in furtherance of cartography, that the service, our Navy, would do well so to learn from one another best practices and make such standard, or uniform, throughout all of our ships. Certainly such practices represent the best tradition of the Royal Navy. With so little time, in the midst of conflict, to train, well, I set about to writing that which I thought would be of some benefit, in fact,” looking to James, “beginning the project after meeting and talking with your father and uncle.”

  Edmund Blunt looked down, put on his spectacles and began to read

  from the cover page, in the diminishing light before lamps were lit, before slipping the manuscript into its leather satchel: SEAMANSHIP Both in THEORY AND PRACTICE To which is annexed, an essay on NAVAL TACTICS AND SIGNALS Also REGULATIONS For the Government of the NAVY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA WITH

  OBSERVATIONS AND INSTRUCTIONS

  For the Use of the Commissioned, the Junior, and Other

  Naval Officers

  James and Trove looked to each other, somber and yet surprised. Captain Bainbridge offered by way of explanation, “The both of you are a part of a well oiled machine. Think of what you have learned since shipping aboard: techniques and procedures that could be of great use to those mariners on the inland seas, deep within a remote frontier. Think of how such uniformity, training and familiarity would have assisted our brothers aboard Chesapeake, just last month.”

  Captain Bainbridge delivered a deliberate and grim reminder, to be sure, which cast a frightful resolve over both lads. Mr. Blunt witnessed

  their change in expression and noted the set of their jaws. Trove asked his only question, “Sir, when do we leave?”

 
Over the next couple of weeks, as the seventeen sailors and three marines crewed wagons and horses snaking westward and contended with rough roads rather than steep seas, James and Trove would often, as they gathered round the camp fire before dark, carefully remove the manuscript from the satchel entrusted them by Mr. Bowen. Together with Jesse, though of less use as he could not read, the lads attempted to digest the gravity of its contents as would contribute to their fate.

  James was most interested, Trove mightily impressed. Jesse was fascinated with the detailed illustrations of that which they had all learned, but never seen or heard explained. The lads took lessons from stowing ballast to clearing a hawse, lying to in the lee of another ship and how to club haul a ship off an unexpected lee shore.

  James offered to Trove one evening, “Imagine if that technique were employed at the same time by an entire squadron should the wind have turned foul through the night and all must claw off come dawn.”

  Trove, carving a model of Constitution’s hull with his rigging knife by the firelight, admitted, “T’would be pretty work, indeed. But even without a squadron, imagine the technique of deploying the anchor and hauling round the sail at the proper moment and the elimination of ground and way lost when coming about. Why, it could save vessels from foundering; indeed it would have saved your father from losing the schooner Hope, from the way he tells it.”

  James scowled and Trove caught the look, “What, now, is with the evil eye? Alright, perhaps nothing could have saved Hope, what with that rogue, Fleet, in command.” Trove cut off a few more shavings, then pointed the tip of his knife to James and affirmed, “Still, I would love to try club hauling Friends Good Will!”

  James shook his head, “You mean Little Belt, a Royal Navy sloop which Fleet now commands, my father having slipped away by some maneuver that you will not find in Blunt’s manuscript!”

  Trove was growing tired of James and as he stood to take a walk, along the banks of the Mohawk River, Black Rock just two days distant, he noted, “Proves without a doubt, cartographers don’t know all the moves that allows one to fight another day!”