by James Spurr
Through the late morning and early afternoon, the wind veered gradually from east to the south, allowing sheets to ease and the topsail to draw nicely. Fleet was marveling at his good fortune and excellent time, as confirmed by the log, when the rest of the squadron appeared crossing from Little Belt’s larboard bow. Flying along on a reach, making a beautiful sight with the shore of Canada now well within sight as a backdrop, General Hunter was dispatched from the flagship to harden up, hold back and intercept Little Belt as she sailed down on a converging course for Dover Mills. Dunlap was ordered by signal to investigate why Little Belt was so far off station and appearing to stand on into Dover Mills without orders.
As Dunlap aboard General Hunter intercepted Fleet aboard Little Belt, he signaled by flag for Little Belt to hove to. Fleet, reluctantly at O’Connell’s urging, triced up the mainsail tack, backed the topsail and inner jib and allowed Dunlap to close within range for hailing. Dunlap assumed the only possible explanation; the enemy was active and something had befallen Chippewa, requiring Little Belt to carry urgent news further than had been planned.
Dunlap called over by speaking trumpet, “What news of the enemy?”
Fleet replied, “Still in the harbor, no indication of activity.”
Dunlap was puzzled. He quickly calculated the distance Little Belt had made in essentially the same wind as the squadron had sailed and came to conclude she must have left station well before dawn. “How, then,” Dunlap asked his First Officer, “could Fleet possibly have seen anything more than that of which the entire squadron was last aware at nightfall before our departure?” His question was met with a shrug and an expression of complete confusion.
Fleet’s action made no sense. Dunlap changed the subject and shouted over from rail to rail as the ships jogged along much slowed under choked canvas, rolling in the seas that had built along the north shore with a south wind, “What news of Chippewa?”
Fleet reported, “On station, last seen three hours hence.”
Dunlap’s heart quickened, realizing the implications of Fleet having pulled Little Belt off station and for no apparent good reason. “Where are you bound and for what reason?”
Fleet chided, most rudely and with both crews overhearing the slight, “You, sir, are not my commanding officer. I will answer to Captain Barclay over dinner this night.”
Dunlap’s jaw dropped. He and his first officer looked to each other, shook their heads in shocked dismay and then anger rushed over him. Dunlap went well beyond his authority, employing the King’s resources for what was at that moment little more than a longstanding feud between men who had suffered each other for years.
Dunlap called to his First, “Mr. Bignell, run out the starboard guns, load and prepare to fire and make sure Fleet sees every move we make. Mr. Purlew, run up flags as though signaling the squadron.”
“What do you wish to say, Sir?” asked the young second, frightened at his Captain’s last order and its implications.
“Run up nonsense,” Dunlap replied and then explained, “It makes no difference.” Dunlap then muttered under his breath, “Fleet doesn’t know the signals in any case. My preference would be to ask for permission to fire at the enemy!” Mr. Purlew smiled as random flags ran up the halyard to the tip of the gaff.
Some moments later, Dunlap called over to Fleet, “I have permission to fire from the squadron, lest you bear off and return to station on the instant! Your actions this day are mutinous and actionable. Bear off at once and report to Chippewa on your way back to Erie. Should you fail to report, charges will be brought upon our return for your general courts martial!”
Fleet made no response. The 12 pound carronade and 4 pound long gun were run out. The range was point blank and the carronade alone, a true smasher, could blast right through Little Belt’s planking. Fleet thought Dunlap was bluffing until he saw the smoke waft up from the slow match wrapped round the gun captain’s linstock.”
Fleet only nodded, and O’Connell ordered, “Cast off the tricing line, haul away, mainsail tack, helm to midships, cross the inner jib and brace round the topsail for close hauled, starboard tack.”
As Little Belt parted to windward, Fleet called over in attempt to save face, “We shall later tally the full price for threatening violence upon a King’s ship, Mr. Dunlap!”
Those that heard the retort knew full well neither Captain would, in fact, ever record the incident in the log, nor mention the matter again. Both however, would remember forever.
Chapter Eighteen
The south wind gave little comfort to the Erie station with all men working hard on and around the harbor. The breeze skipped off of the treetops and was largely first felt just beyond the scene of their efforts.
Perry swore under his breath for only Brown to hear, “Damn! So close!” Lawrence was aground yet again for the second time that day. The initial preparations had gone well; the camels were carefully positioned and filled, the larboard side connected to the starboard and then pumped. All backbreaking work, to be certain, but the crews gave thanks for smooth water and took hope as Lawrence began to rise well above her designed waterline.
It had simply not been enough. Less than a foot of draft, or just shy, was all that stood between Lawrence swimming free in that theatre in which she was so desperately needed, together with her sister ship, Niagara, so to assure the future of the inland seas and affect the fortune of two nations.
Brown sighed and wiped his brow. He was again at the oars of a small boat with Perry, from which they were inspecting the cutwater of Lawrence, assessing if whether kedging the anchor could nudge her through the remaining sand. Both men agreed success from the technique was unlikely. “Sir, having removed the guns, which did not serve for the first attempt, together with the ship’s stores and stripped her of all equipment, not quite enough for the second attempt, the only way to lighten her further is for us to remove spars or ballast.”
Perry nodded. The simple logic was disappointing and inescapable. He replied, “Well, Mr. Brown, I expect you agree, better one than t’ other. We don’t need a capsize to complicate our day, now do we?”
“No Sir,” confirmed Brown and they rowed back to the entry port, resolved to lower the spars and perhaps pull the lower masts if necessary. Both were disheartened, but of course knew better than to show it.
“Alright lads,” announced Perry upon hauling himself aboard and taking the deck, “one more full measure and we will have done the impossible. Bosun, lead parties in lowering all yards and topmasts. Let’s get them afloat alongside.”
It sounded easier, Perry knew, than the effort involved, made all the more difficult by virtue of the fact that the men were reversing all the good progress they had made over the course of several days and they needed, they knew, to do it quickly, while already tired and under threat of attack. Still, Perry was proud. The men seemed to expect the course chosen and began numerous tasks before the Bosun could even take stock and direct the work.
Those sailors on board the smaller ships just outside the mouth of the harbor forming a protective arc of at least a few guns felt fortunate. While they were most at risk should Captain Lee send a signal warning of the approaching British squadron, they were fresh, although frustrated watching the slow progress and little reward of their friends on the deck of Lawrence.
It seemed the hours rushed by as the yards were lowered and, carefully and well attended, floated astern. Others at the same time were already, from aloft and alow, lowering topmasts while those not manning the capstan or specific lines, coiled rigging and sent those ashore as well, all to save weight. Lawrence presented a silhouette against the early evening sky of a large creature being digested by swarms of smaller insects as her rig gradually diminished her profile, suggesting her demise.
Finally near dusk, Brown nodded and Perry announced, “Alright, lads, let us all take to the small boats, each with a tow line. Let us not add to her draft by our own weight. We shall leave on deck only the bosun a
nd three others to handle lines.” Within minutes, the tiny creatures had arranged themselves alongside, surrounding the now carcass of their prey, and began to row with some coordination, to that same, all too well known point along the bar as was generally agreed to offer the deepest water.
As Little Belt tacked to the southward, she made much less progress than her lark of that morning and afternoon. Zigzagging back and forth against a south wind served as the punishment for her crew for the delusions of her Captain. Fleet remained below, allowing O’Connell to trim for speed and make minor adjustments as would save them significant time as they clawed some forty miles to windward back to station off Erie.
O’Connell had one chief concern. Little Belt had been ordered to report to Chippewa on her return to station, which if she could simply have sailed a reciprocal course on the compass, might have been easy enough. But with Little Belt tacking back and forth and with Chippewa herself sailing along a ten mile line just more than halfway across Lake Erie, combined with darkness falling and Chippewa likely showing no lights, O’Connell was not at all certain that he, employing his considerable skill, would locate their consort. He actually debated with himself the authority of Dunlap to issue the order and considered the largely favorable consequences should he fail; Fleet facing a courts martial. Still, he resolved to try. He knew he would be blamed by either Dunlap or Fleet should he not. He noted course, speed and distance with great care and double checked every line plotted on the chart.
Dunlap reported the day’s incident to Barclay just as he was leaving for dinner at the Wheems’ home. He concluded his report with as positive a note as he could muster: “Fleet reported no activity from the Americans and Chippewa is still on station.”
“These events, however, are most troubling, Mr. Dunlap,” Barclay replied. Then, through a scowl, “And you say he was intending to make the dinner this evening?”
Dunlap shrugged. “He called over that he was under the impression he was invited.”
“Invited?” Barclay sneered, “By whom?”
Dunlap just rolled his eyes.
Barclay was as surprised by Fleet’s bizarre behavior as he was enthused about an evening in the company of a beautiful woman. Still, he recognized clearly enough the implications. “Mr. Dunlap, carry word back to the squadron that we shall depart for Erie upon my return late this evening. Have all ready; anchors at short scope.” Barclay entered his carriage as Dunlap repeated the orders. Barclay was confident that the Americans could not possibly extract themselves from Erie in just 24 hours. Still, he was most disappointed that his evening with Abigail would be cut shorter than he had hoped.
Nearly 18 hours after the Erie station awoke, Lawrence rested at anchor, just seaward of the bar. The celebration was muted by exhaustion and the threat of attack. At no time had Perry’s command been more vulnerable. The smaller ships, positioned in a protective arc outside the harbor entrance, mounted few serious guns as would offer the British a contest. Lawrence was a mere floating hull and a very inviting target. But thanks to the offer of Captain Dobbins, relying upon no cautionary signal offered from his friend, Captain Lee, nearly all of the crew from the smaller ships stood in through the night for Lawrence’s crew, who after allowed some hours of rest, remounted all of Lawrence’s great guns. Come dawn, even with no spars, Lawrence could at least swing to spring lines; a dangerous, fully armed, floating gun platform.
Meanwhile, Niagara’s crew positioned her just before the bar, the camels were in place and filling with water even as the tophamper was sent down. Perry ordered the guns on Niagara to remain on deck to be removed last should they be needed come dawn, even if firing from inside the bar. Noah Brown was confident, based upon what they had all learned with Lawrence, that floating Niagara over the bar would proceed much more quickly. Perry was seen frequently scanning the horizon for any signal from Captain Lee.
Through the day and night, marked by a hot sun, fair wind and no moon, Trippe tacked back and forth across a gradual arc. Not a sail had been sighted save for a small, open decked merchant sloop, likely out of Cleveland bound for Erie and racing the sun so to put in before dark.
Not long after midnight, Trove had the deck and as he checked the compass and course, assisting Mr. McManus at the helm in keeping awake, he noted bright stars on the northern horizon flicker in sequence from west to east, a darker shadow as though extinguishing each. He quietly whispered down the companionway hatch, “Captain, Lee, Sir. A word, if you please.”
William watched for some moments from the lee rail that which Trove had detected. He confirmed Trove’s suspicions. “We have a ship to leeward, on a converging course as she beats upwind. A fine observation, Trove.”
“The British squadron, Sir?” Trove asked with unmasked excitement in his voice.
“Perhaps their vanguard,” William allowed while considering his next move. Trove left him to think and resumed his watch over the helmsman. Within a minute, Captain Lee approached and ordered, “I shall take the helm for the moment. Go below, Mr. McManus, and quietly wake the crew. Ask Mr. Connegher to relieve me at the helm. Trove, as the crew takes the deck, load and run out both deck guns and train our pivot gun to larboard. Both of you, now, be quick, be quiet, and pass the word. No lights, for any purpose!”
Preparations were made as the two ships converged. There was no sign the mystery ship to leeward had yet observed Trippe. Soon, as the ships drew in range, Trove left the guns and approached Captain Lee, standing on the larboard quarterdeck, “Sir—” he offered with some urgency.
Aye, Trove,” Lee nodded, his arms folded, the perfect picture of calm, “I know what you are about to report. I recognized that profile some minutes back.”
“So, she is Friends Good Will?” Trove asked, hoping he was mistaken.
“Without a doubt, although now Little Belt.” Captain Lee seemed unmoved.
“We must fire on your ship?” Trove was aghast at the implications.
“She was never mine, Trove, although I will admit, she was in a very real sense all of ours.” Captain Lee did not take his eyes off of her, judging time and distance as did any predator, ready to act and maximize the element of surprise. Trove had overheard the same objective tone in Captain Bainbridge just prior to decisive action. Captain Lee continued, reminding his former merchant crewman, “However, I regard my actions this night as firing upon my enemy so to assist my friends and advance our cause.”
Trove nodded. Captain Lee then grasped him by the shoulder, “In just a few more lengths, I shall have you, upon my order, fire the deck gun, followed by the pivot. Aim for her hull.” We shall then head up, tack smartly and bear dead down wind, firing our starboard gun into her transom. Do you understand?”
Trove swallowed, “Aye, ye shall have all of that.”
Captain Lee squeezed his shoulder, “Return to your guns and be prepared to handle the sail during maneuvers. Do not reload.”
As Trove made to return to his station, he heard Captain Lee advise the Sailing Master, Mr. Connegher, “After firing our guns, all three, we shall harden up on a larboard tack and make for Erie to give warning.”
The roar and flash of the gun caused those crew not asleep aboard Little Belt to start. The ball slammed into the starboard cathead before anyone could call out or take cover. Within seconds, a larger report and the whoosh of a hard shot overhead coincided with Mr. O’Connell’s shout, “All hands on deck. To quarters!”
The pins for headsail sheets and braces to starboard were smashed, some lines cut and tangled, but as these were slack and to windward, Little Belt sailed on. Fleet came on deck and instantly heard from O’Connell and another crew conflicting opinions on the location of their stealthy foe. Just as one crew called out, “There, off our stern!” a third roar and flash caused many to duck, followed by a round shot crashing into the transom to starboard, just outboard of the stern window.
O’Connell’s first thought was not of damage, but rather regret that Fleet had not been in h
is bunk. A burial at sea was not always a sad affair. Fleet was deeply indebted to the night, which masked the fact he had gone completely pale. He shouted to O’Connell not three feet away loudly enough to announce to their enemy, “Bear off, starboard tack. Back to Dover Mills. We must warn the squadron. The Americans are out!”
At dawn, Little Belt, somewhat scarred but sailing smartly north’ard, found the squadron tacking south’ard, back to Presque Isle. Fleet made his report to Barclay in the cabin of Queen Charlotte. Barclay’s words were cold and short, but he mentioned only once Fleet having disobeyed orders, suggesting a full inquiry would follow. He dismissed Fleet and called in Dunlap, signaled to join for a conference. Barclay summarized, “Fleet can confirm only one ship, but of a size to have gotten off three shots in quick succession. She could well have been a large schooner, but I doubt it was one of the brigs.”
Dunlap observed, “The question is whether an armed American schooner would be sailing alone. Why would she not be in company with the rest of Perry’s squadron?”
Barclay nodded and rubbed his eyes. His head ached slightly from the fine Bordeaux at last evening’s table. He informed Dunlap, “This American schooner sailed off to the westward. If you were Perry and your squadron was out, where would you head?”
Dunlap and Barclay both nodded and confirmed, “Amherstberg.”
“Mr. Dunlap, on your way up and back to General Hunter, convey to my First to signal the squadron, ‘Change course for Amherstberg’. We must guard the town, protect the yard, commission our new ship and support Fort Malden.”
As Dunlap departed, Barclay wondered at how reversals could unfold so quickly. The reality of war and the struggle for the inland seas was so much more complicated than losing oneself in the eyes of a beautiful, golden haired, and apparently admiring, dinner companion.