by James Spurr
Jesse, now alone with James, took the opportunity to pull him from his dark mood. “Do I understand these seas have no salt?”
“Yes, Jesse,” James confirmed for his friend, “fresh, sweet water, pure and glistening, cool and abundant, full of life and as much opportunity as a man can imagine.”
“Why, the Lord be praised,” Jesse offered in thanks, staring up into the sky at the brighter stars not masked by firelight.
James could tell his friend was touched, and not by the complexity of Mr. Blunt’s invaluable manuscript. “Pray tell, my friend, what is it?”
Jesse looked down, shook his head and recalled, “My mother used to tell me, while on the plantation on the Chesapeake, of how her mother had come to Baltimore, stole away from the banks of a vast river of fresh sparkling water, with no salt and fish as we have never since seen.” Jesse smiled, “Oh, I knows the Nor’west is not Africa, but just think if that sweet water is stocked with the same fish my grandmother knew well when she was last free!”
James nodded and confirmed for his dark friend forever, it seemed, displaced and searching, “Just you wait, Jesse. A man has as much opportunity in the Northwest as did your ancestors, I am sure of it!”
Jesse noted, realistically, as life and events had so well taught his people since arriving along the western shore of that great ocean dividing the fresh waters, “If I survive what we all know is before us, perhaps…” Jesse then looked at James and down to the manual he could not read, “You and Trove, you best read on and learn all you can. I think we will need it.”
Chapter Seventeen
Noah Brown stood on the tip of the Presque Isle peninsula at dawn and looked out over the horizon, first seaward and then to the mainland shore. He turned to Perry and they both smiled, but with caution, hesitation and even doubt. Brown shrugged. Perry extended his arms and offered the question, not really expecting an answer, “So where are they, Mr. Brown?”
The British squadron which had become over the course of the past month of July an ever present fixture of the seascape, a persistent blight on an otherwise clear and expansive horizon, was nowhere in sight. From the ridge above Cascade Creek, from the cross trees aboard his harbor-bound flagship Lawrence, from the tip of the peninsula furthest seaward, both Perry and Brown observed nothing but a benign, consistent, perfectly straight line, demarcating the dark blue of the sea from the light blue of the sky. It was a beautiful sight.
Perry observed, “It must be a trick. They may lie just over the horizon.”
Both men sobered instantly. The implications were clear. The British guns could well be no more than 20 miles offshore, which with a fair wind, could bring them well within range of where both men were standing within a mere four hours or less.
Perry looked to the flag flying over the blockhouse. It was mostly limp but occasionally drifted off from the pole, indicating a slight northeast breeze. Brown thought out loud, “The velocity favors us; the direction John Bull.”
Perry responded, “What would your call be for noon through nightfall?” Both men studied the sky. Perry had already checked his glass aboard Lawrence.
Brown offered his best, which was considerable, “Veering south, building gradually.”
Perry nodded. He would have guessed the same, but neither could be certain and the stakes could not have been higher. A south wind, were it to fill in, would be a comfort, delaying the return of the enemy and the devastation their ships would most surely wrought were the Americans to accept their silent invitation and render themselves vulnerable. He asked, “Are the camels ready?”
“Aye,” Brown assured, “as they have been for days, moored and ready for towing.”
Perry and Brown boarded a small boat and Brown rowed, setting a course for the Lawrence. Half way across the harbor, Perry, having uttered not a word for some time, directed, “Mr. Brown, set a course for Trippe. I shall speak with Captain Lee.”
As Brown changed course, a slight smile formed as he guessed at Perry’s decision. Captains Perry and Lee were men of action and if the two were conferring at dawn, the Erie station had a very long day ahead.
Perry weighed the risks and gave an appreciative glance over to Brown, one of his most valuable men on Lake Erie. Perry recalled last spring, when considering the problem of the bar, Brown offering, softly, “Such obstacles, Sir, are not insurmountable.” Perry smiled as he recalled in June, as a workman expressed frustration over the pace at which he was being pressed, Brown replied, “We want no extras, plain work is all that is required.” Dismissing all protests, Brown explained that the ships “… will only be wanted for one battle. If we win, that is all that is required; if the enemy are victorious, the work is good enough to be captured.”
Through the spring and summer, Brown and Perry conferred. As they drew near Trippe and Brown looked over his shoulder to check the course and final approach, Perry admitted only to himself that when Brown first mentioned camels as a solution to crossing the bar, he thought for an instant Brown was referring to the four-legged variety, of the vast eastern deserts. But then he recalled that which Brown pointed out last May to Daniel Dobbins. Large wooden boxes, built watertight and fashioned to fit along the underside of the hull of a ship, when pumped dry, increased buoyancy, decreased draft and literally raised a ship. The trick was regularly used by the residents of Nantucket for some time so to keep their harbor, plagued by a bar at its entrance, from falling into obsolescence.
Perry recalled that Captain Lee had witnessed the technique employed by the islanders while sailing coastal merchant craft off the east coast some years before. Captain Lee gave full credit to Brown for recalling the technique. With Perry’s permission, Brown set the yard to building the strange, large, empty boxes. At fifty feet long, ten feet wide and eight feet deep, the work, together with completing and rigging the twin brigs, kept them busy. By the end of July as the British squadron tacked slowly back and forth testing their faith and suggesting their efforts were in vain, the entire Erie station came to suddenly realize the ships were constructed, launched, rigged and armed.
Brown made the turn, bringing the small boat alongside Trippe. The minimal night deck watch assisted at the entry port while calling out, “Captain Lee! Captain Perry and Mr. Brown are alongside to starboard.” Perry knew as the oars were shipped and he began to haul himself unto the deck of the sloop that the remaining challenges of this day and those that would follow, together with the huge accompanying risks, were now, clearly, the sole prerogative of command.
William rushed up from the companionway, his hair unkempt, his nightshirt half tucked into a pair of trousers hanging sloppily out from the top of boots and obviously pulled on very quickly so to show at least some degree of respect. Trove, serving as night anchor watch, smiled slightly. He was pleased to be sailing again with Captain Lee aboard a sloop upon the inland seas. Perry smiled broadly, “Good morning, Captain Lee. I offer my apologies for the early visit.”
Captain Lee replied, “No need, sir.” He then called out, “McManus, get the stove hot and put on some coffee.” Lowering his voice, he casually asked as though he had been expecting guests, “Captain Perry, Mr. Brown, could I offer you some bacon? Please, join me in my cabin.”
“Thank you, no,” Perry replied. “We shall not be staying and you may want to belay that hot stove for at least the next glass.”
The men walked over to the starboard bow and Perry handed Captain Lee his long glass. “Mr. Brown and I have been searching for an hour now for the British squadron.”
Captain Lee’s expression did not disappoint. Like a beard freshly shaven, some do not notice gone what all had come to expect would forever remain. “Well, my goodness…,” and before William finished, his expression grew doubtful and suspicious.
Perry interjected, “Exactly. I am not entirely trusting. Still, we will never feel secure from our view here, within the harbor.
Captain Lee nodded, expecting the order he was next given. “Captain Lee,”
Perry dropped his voice, calling upon a tone of authority and urgency, “your experience with your former sloop affords you the ability to sail Trippe faster than any of the other smaller vessels here in this wind. Get underway, stand offshore some miles and warn us with signal flag, or gun if necessary, the moment you see an enemy vessel. Do not forget they may be hiding along the coast, either southwest or northeast.”
“Aye, Sir. At once. Mr. Connegher,” he called to his young Sailing Master, “prepare to get underway!”
As calls were passed to and among the few men on board, all scurrying in the presence of Captain Perry, sensing the day would hold much drama, William asked, “Sir, will the squadron be crossing the bar?
Perry nodded, “That is my fervent hope. We will make all preparations before noon without leaving ourselves exposed outside the harbor. We must unship the guns, the stores, sink and pump the camels and only upon no word from you by way of warning, will I begin with the brigs. I will at that time station the smaller vessels outside the bar in a protective arc, but for some hours, or days, we will be very exposed.” He looked to William as he turned to board the small boat, “Much will depend, Captain Lee, upon the early warning you afford us, should the need present.”
As he began to descend, Perry asked, “The men on all vessels are acquainted with signals and warnings?”
“Aye, Sir. Mr. Blunt’s manual was very helpful in that regard. We communicate now between ships in such manner as even my son, James, assures would make him proud were we sailing in the company of Constitution!”
Perry nodded, “Very good. I have been very pleased with your efforts, training and drilling and thankful for the loan of those men from Captain Bainbridge. I compliment you on your son, Captain. Altogether a solid seaman and his help with exercising our great guns and improving our marksmanship will soon prove valuable, I expect.”
Captain Lee replied, “Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your comments.” Both men felt an awkward silence, neither knowing what to make of the obvious distance between father and son since James’ arrival more than a week before.
Perry changed the subject as Brown took up the oars. “What would you say today as our maximum water over the bar?”
William had carefully sounded the depth many times that summer. He was sad to report, “With little rain of late, maybe five to six feet. With a west wind, of course, more water would flow into the harbor.”
Perry nodded, “I think you are correct.” He then directed, “Mr. Brown, let us wake the rest of the station and set about those camels!”
Perry and Brown shoved off and Captain Lee heard and acknowledged the cry from the foredeck, “Anchor at short scope,” followed shortly by, “Up and down!” Captain Lee confirmed that which the crew fully expected, waiting at their respective stations, “Cast off the quarter-tackles, slack the vangs, loose brails and haul away the mainsail outhaul.”
Both Captains Lee and Perry were reminded as Trippe slipped through the water toward the bar that her prompt response to unexpected orders, professionally employed, reflected favorably upon recent, intensive training. Their efforts were assisted mightily by a manual donated to the cause by an east coast cartographer, and well demonstrated by recent additions from the U.S.S. Constitution to what was known in Erie as ‘Perry’s men’.
They were, in total, all too few, but together making great strides.
“Haul in on the mainsheet, Mr. O’Connell,” Fleet growled. “The outer jib is luffing as well. Is basic trim on a simple sloop beyond you, man?” The last comment stung and O’Connell abandoned all care for favor from his Captain.
“Sir,” he protested, “the outer jib is luffing because the course given the helmsman is simply not sustainable in this wind. The foot is already sheeted taught as a halyard. As for the mainsail, in light air, give it some depth and curve. If too flat, the driver will simply stall.”
Fleet reminded, “Dover Mills lies on this course only, Mr. O’Connell, not a point to larboard!”
“Aye, Sir,” retorted O’Connell. As he brought his glass around, sighting and focusing beyond Little Belt’s transom, he said, “I know well where Dover Mills lies, as well as Erie, which Captain Barclay ordered us to cover. Shall I note in the log, Captain Fleet, Erie is now well out of site, with the dawn offering such a glare that there is no way while sailing more distant we can observe the enemy?”
Fleet turned from the binnacle, faced O’Connell and threatened, “You make that note in the log or whisper that to your mother and I will have you stripped and striped!” The tone suggested he meant it and O’Connell knew Fleet would enjoy it in the bargain.
Fleet calmed slightly and offered for the helmsman to hear and bear witness, “My orders allow discretion. We have been tacking back and forth for weeks. It was perfectly obvious that the Americans are nowhere near rigged and ready. We are low on provisions and will return back on station within a mere 30 hours.”
O’Connell was more worried, however, that he would later be implicated in that which as the sun rose gave all indications of another Fleet blunder. He protested loudly enough for the helmsman to bear witness. In fact, O’Connell caught his eye and was reassured with a subtle nod, “Captain, the squadron left station to re-provision. I am certain, Sir, they will return with enough for Little Belt. If we must sail to Dover Mills, should we not be able to return within 24 hours? Even at that, I am allowing for three hours for filling our cupboards and taking on wood and water.”
Fleet shot back in a manner and with a rationale as caused O’Connell to suspect his Captain’s sanity, all doubts with respect to his competence long since resolved, “I have a dinner to attend this evening, Mr. O’Connell; a dinner in honor of Captain Barclay hosted by Abigail Wheems.” Fleet’s use of her familiar, maiden name was telling. O’Connell noted the breach in protocol. Ignoring Widow Fleet’s station and status was damning in and of itself.
“Pardon me, Sir,” muttered O’Connell, attempting one last time to literally reverse by 180 degrees the course Captain Fleet had announced at eight bells in the midnight watch. “I understood that Captain Barclay had been invited to a dinner. None of the fellow offices are attending.” The British squadron departed for Dover Mills at the set of the midnight watch, as agreed by signal and conference held among the officers at dusk the preceding night. O’Connell had attended that conference with Fleet in the great cabin of Queen Charlotte.
Fleet reddened with anger. He could not, at the moment, discern which of the three most generated his anger: O’Connell, an insolent Canadian who thought he knew well the complications of command, Abigail, who having rejected him once for his father, he now suspected as infatuated yet again with his commanding officer, or Barclay, who was so obviously more capable, experienced and dashing as to justify hatred on those grounds alone. No, Fleet told himself, he would not allow Barclay or, rather, Abigail, his confused reasoning cried out, to make a fool of him. He would attend the dinner precisely because Barclay had deliberately ordered him to remain on station. He was certain that were Abigail to behold he and Barclay, side by side, she would recognize the benefits of good breeding and substantial wealth.
“I am certain you are mistaken, Mr. O’Connell,” replied Fleet, with an icy tone. O’Connell dropped the matter and stepped from the quarterdeck to the waist, continuing forward and taking some enjoyment from the smell of breakfast wafting up from the foredeck hatch over the galley stove. He tried hard to ignore the ill trimmed sails and sluggish sailing from a sloop that should have been unrestrained and allowed to slice through the flat sea in a steady, light breeze.
Two hours later, with Little Belt another seven miles off shore, Erie was but a memory astern.
Fleet, back on the quarterdeck, continued to simmer. He had no letters from Abigail, who he suspected was writing Barclay. She had not given him an answer to his proposal of late last winter. Although the war had kept them from spending time together, as Fleet had enjoyed through the off season at Amherstberg, he coul
d not believe that the feelings Abigail expressed for him years before could not be, indeed, had not been, rekindled upon her return to North America. Everything he had been bred to become, everything he had been told to expect by virtue of birth, status and rank could not allow him to believe a girl from a modest family residing in a small village in Canada could refuse his offer. Yet deep down, Fleet was physically sick at his instinct that Abigail was on the verge of doing just that, all for a one armed Scot who happened, like his father, to hold over him the privilege and power of command.
The bells rang out as breakfast passed and the watches changed. As the sun grew higher, O’Connell returned and interrupted Fleet’s deep and dark thoughts, “Sir, I did not catch your reply. Might you repeat?”
Fleet looked up from the deck plank at which he was staring, caught the puzzled look on the face of the helmsman and lashed out, “Well, speak up, man! Let me hear you over the wind!”
O’Connell looked at the helmsman in wonderment amid the gentle breeze and near quiet but for the parting waves at the cutwater, and offered, “Chippewa is abeam, Captain, two miles to the west. She is signaling, no doubt wondering why we are off station and not relaying a report by way of her.”
Fleet comprehended O’Connell’s point. That was the agreed plan. Little Belt would relay to Chippewa, who in turn with a few miles of sailing would hove to within signaling range of either Long Point or Dover Mills, depending upon wind and weather. In such manner, word of enemy activity could be quickly conveyed across Lake Erie.
But with Little Belt off station and Chippewa confused, no signals from the former to the latter, the system was failing and the time and distances dangerously extending. Fleet replied, “Stand on. I will not answer to a mere Provincial Marine,” referring to John Campbell, the Chippewa’s appointed commander. O’Connell merely stood by the larboard shrouds and watched as Chippewa remained on station as ordered, gradually slipping further off their quarter. Good man, Campbell, thought O’Connell. Follow your orders!