by James Spurr
Abigail considered the insincerity of the suggestion, the opportunity only implied, and gently encouraged, “That is most courageous of you, Thomas. I am certain Captain Barclay would understand and be most appreciative, if I spoke to him personally on our, or… er, your behalf.”
They met each other’s eyes briefly as the light faded, he admiring her beauty, knowing full well that were he much younger, he would be most jealous. She looked for a hint of understanding of the opportunity as may be presented to Thomas, for both, when the iron began to fly.
“Let us leave for Amherstberg first thing in the morning and give comfort and assistance to our men,” she concluded.
“Aye, M’lady,” replied Thomas, most willing, at least with respect to one far more than t’ other.
Chapter Twenty One
“Make way for the King’s men!” sang out several sailors as a caution, as they walked quickly with small steps in tandem. The weight of the long six slung between the capstan bars from which hung the black barrel as they crossed over two parallel planks from the quay to the entry port was quite intimidating. The scene caused Abigail to move immediately as far from the risky operation as the frantic activity on the crowded deck would allow.
H.M.S. Detroit was in the process of receiving and arranging its armament. Fort Malden was in the process of losing the same. Abigail knew she was in the way and while Captain Barclay seemed distracted for some moments, she could tell he also was making every effort to show his appreciation for her journey to Amherstberg and the comfort she could offer. “Abigail, my dear, please be careful,” he cautioned her, seeming to enjoy the small opportunity of taking her arm. “Here, stand to the side, near the water cask.”
In the last two days, the squadron made their final preparations. In the last two hours, the men assigned to all ships reached a level of excitement and energy which only a nearing departure could foment. Barclay had hoped Perry would bring his squadron up the river, but he acknowledged only increased respect for his adversary upon realizing Perry was much too smart to limit his maneuverability and compound his problems by allowing Barclay to shield himself under the protective cover of Fort Malden. The ramparts of the fort were now empty and Barclay’s flagship, the largest upon Lake Erie, carried a bizarre array of great guns. The circus, he noted, was just beginning.
Two natives, reputed to be excellent shots, volunteered and promised to act as sharpshooters from the maintop. “So be it,” he allowed. Abigail shrieked as the cook led a small bear with a chain leash up the same plank as had just bore the weight of a long gun, “Heroit…,” she began, using his Christian name, “… what in the world…?”
“Now, Abigail, do not worry. We shall keep him chained to the mainmast on a short length. Good for morale. We shall feast on special fare after our victory!” His spirits seemed high, she noted, as the men who heard the comment cheered, although she hoped it was the result
of their private dinner the night before.
In fact his hopes were low.
The British squadron had never been so strong. With six ships carrying 63 guns, throwing a broadside weight of 883 pounds, the force was both formidable and experienced. The Union Jack had flown with unchallenged superiority, if not near exclusivity, over Lake Erie for more than a year and while, now, clearly on the defensive since the Americans floated over the Presque Isle bar, the British squadron had suffered no losses.
Barclay felt tremendous pressure even as he smiled at Abigail and pretended to listen to her pleas of care and comfort amid chaos and cries of bravado. Barclay wondered while confessing to no one whether the Royal Navy with its proud record and string of victories as posted through the Napoleonic wars, having ruled the seas the world over for now some decades and wholly unchallenged since Trafalgar, would even so much as recognize the bell weathers of defeat. Thank God for the activity, he reminded himself. Otherwise his thoughts, strained of pride and tradition, would suggest he burn his flagship to the waterline for reasons of her limitation of draft and withdraw to Lake Huron so to protect Forts Mackinaw and St. Joseph.
“What was that Abigail?” Barclay asked, bringing his focus to the foreground instead of searching for American sails downriver. “Certainly, I shall assure Thomas is assigned to Little Belt to assist James.” Actually, Captain Barclay felt all the more comfortable with a shellback such as Thomas to assist James in handling the speedy sloop. He altogether regarded it as less likely James would do something foolish with a true navy tar close at hand. Barclay could not at that moment, while preparing his flagship to lead out the squadron within the forenoon watch, already two bells later than he desired, appreciate the state of dysfunction aboard Little Belt.
“Damn your eyes, O’Connell!” growled Lieutenant Fleet. “Not that chart; western Lake Erie!”
O’Connell grimaced with disdain, having already brought it up to the binnacle from below. “This is western Lake Erie, Sir. It contains an overlap of the Detroit River.”
Fleet continued his tantrum, “Watch it with the sweeps, Thomas. You damn near cleared the quarterdeck, man!”
Thomas knew anxiety when he saw it, having endured the same in lesser officers often enough. Fleet was nervous and Thomas suspected likely rather intimidated by now having to contend with his father’s coxswain aboard his diminutive command. The two despised each other and Thomas chuckled at the thought of James performing, with his nagging insecurities, before the very man his father had trusted at sea above all others.
Little Belt’s boat approached, loaded with the last of the supplies and provisions. Two French Canadians of the twenty-five crew who crowded the decks of the small sloop shipped their oars and called out in French to their shipmates. Fleet shouted, “I will say again, use the King’s English or the bosun shall stripe your backs!”
Little Belt, with a nine pound long gun on a pivot and, as of late the previous night, a pair of sixes on the deck, now boasted a gun captain. He acknowledged the offer from the ship’s boat to offload a critical addition to their collective defense. The gunner replied in English as he hauled upon the deck a small wooden barrel recently emptied and dried, acknowledging, “Aye, a fresh coil of slow match.”
Niether Lieutenant Fleet, Thomas, or Little Belt’s gunner knew that Abigail had strolled through the yard at dusk the prior evening and found herself by chance inside the shed where the slow match was soaking. Small barrels were marked for each ship. In each soaked an allocated length of cotton line cut to length for specific armament and perceived need in the upcoming conflict. The shed and barrels were unguarded. A liberal mix of saltpeter, cured in compost and aged in stale cow urine filled each barrel, including that marked ‘Little Belt’. Abigail had absorbed a great deal of knowledge as the wife of an Admiral and the confidant of Thomas. She well remembered Thomas explaining one day on the deck of the packet as they made their passage to Halifax, the mixture prepared for slow match. It was concocted so to cause saltpeter, the active ingredient of gun powder, to soak well into the cotton line and when dried, fashion a reliable low fire, a continuous glow, for igniting the guns.
Determined to leave nothing to chance, Abigail resolved to insure herself of the applicability of ‘Paragraph Twenty First’ of the Admiral’s Trust.
Well aware of the vagaries of war and the unreliability of men, even Thomas, the golden haired beauty on the verge of a new love glanced about to warrant no witnesses. She turned the spigot of the small barrel and let drain the drink as would later be needed to cause the great guns to roar. The mix drained out onto the dirt floor, a bit of mud from the splash soiling the hem of her most attractive dress purposefully selected for a memorable night. She replaced the laced fluid in the barrel marked ‘Little Belt’ with that of pure water from a nearby barrel catching the runoff from the eaves.
She then walked to the Regent, the public house where the previous September she first dined with James. This night she would dine with Captain Barclay, who she was confident would discover the means by w
hich to break away from his duties on the night before his departure, if for no other reason than to stare into her eyes, as blue as the inland sea over which his squadron would soon sail.
Perry lay awake in the furnace of a dark cabin, hardly ‘great’ despite its traditional name. The anchor watch paced overhead through his regular path, his steps seeming deafening and distracting, although in fact they were soft and perfectly routine. Lawrence lay inert, along with the other ships in the American squadron off South Bass Island and Put-In-Bay. She lay to her anchor in the calm: no tugging at her cable, no wind whistling through braces and backstays, no breeze flowing through the stern windows. Perry awaited the dawn for no other reason than to serve as an excuse to arise and be active without the crew concluding he could not sleep. Damn, but he could not sleep.
Questions were shouting for answers. What had he forgotten? What more could he do? The dysentery sweeping through the ranks was debilitating, laying low nearly a third of his men just that day. He fought off its effects by sheer will alone. Yes, he had ordered the water to be boiled, but should have done so days before.
Perhaps Barclay would not come out. Perhaps he would remain in Amherstberg or withdraw to Lake Huron. But Perry, in his heart, knew better. The British squadron was starving, choked off from food and supplies with the gales of autumn just weeks away. Barclay was Royal Navy and would not withdraw while facing a squadron with no greater number of guns, most of them carronades, at that. Barclay would come out, because Perry refused to stand in.
Perry thought of Decatur and his taking of Macedonian; standing off and patiently pounding away from long range. Perry knew Fort Malden supplied long guns to Barclay, similar to those Decatur had used so effectively. Barclay need only stand off in Detroit and employ Decatur’s strategy. Would Perry ever gain the critical weather gauge? Would he ever get close enough to employ his stout smashers at point blank range? Why would Barclay ever permit it?
Perry thought of Lawrence, not his flagship, but his friend who served as her namesake. Had Perry trained his men? Were they a cohesive crew? Would so many, never having seen action, stand fast at their guns when the shot whistled past their ears?
The thought only brought into sharp focus that which really haunted him. He had never seen action. He had never been tested. He recalled his longing for this command, for this very opportunity and now he felt foolish as he lay in the dark, sweating and begging for the time to pass and the darkness to fade.
Finally, just as he heard the birds begin to sing out just before dawn, Perry fell into a blessed, though brief sleep.
Captain Lee was awake just before dawn as well, but only recently having slept much better. It was early, perhaps, but he was nonetheless in the faint morning light reviewing the log of the previous day and the night, now all but past. Captain Lee recorded in the log for the new day, 10 September 1813.
The new day underscored for Captain Lee that it had been days since he had seen his son James. Scorpion passed close aboard Lawrence late the week before, returning from a routine patrol of searching the empty horizon for the British squadron. Captain Lee was at the helm, but it was father and son, despite both being men, despite rank and station, despite assignment and duty, who exchanged glances as they passed. Their eyes met just briefly. James, aloft, had to look after his work tarring some rigging on the starboard mainmast ratlines; Captain Lee, his course, sailing so close to the flag. Still, was that a slight nod, a faint smile, or the stiff resolve of a son shamed by his father’s conduct? Captain Lee was not certain and it weighed on him heavily as he looked up from the dew soaked binnacle and stared at the sky.
Trove clambered up the companionway and gave thanks for another spectacular day upon the sweet water seas. He stood at the starboard shrouds as Scorpion lay to her cable, responding to a faint southwest breeze having just then filled amid the snug anchorage.
The dawn was breathtaking. The color was brilliant, the air clear; the sky empty. But Captain Lee started when Trove strode quickly back to the binnacle and without a word grabbed the glass and quick as thought scampered halfway up the ratlines. Trove called out for those then awake throughout the squadron to hear, “Sail ho! To the Northwest!”
While the sky was empty, the horizon revealed six ships sailing down upon them from the weather gauge of the inland sea. The early eastern light reflected off what appeared as all too numerous distant white sails.
Chapter Twenty Two
Perry’s squadron met the oncoming threat with confidence and seamanship, reflecting well upon Captain Lee’s training program augmented by Edmund Blunt’s Manual. Captain Lee had for some weeks identified and rehearsed best practices and standardized maneuvers. Upon the call from Sailing Masters from several quarterdecks amid the anchorage, “Slip the cable, brace around and haul,” numerous ships let their anchor line run through the hawse, hastily buoyed to be retrieved later, leaving the anchors behind rather than take the minutes to weigh. Perry ran up signals understood instantly by all, encouraging a course to windward as might leave Rattlesnake Island to starboard. Each ship clawed desperately to seize the weather gauge from Barclay.
Very soon the frantic activity of getting underway charged with the collective adrenaline of more than 400 men settled into a slowly unfolding, more cerebral contest except for those manning sheets and braces. Like chess, slowly moving pieces, each unique, struggled with the geometry of a horizontal surface complicated by such forces as wind and current, hoping to gain every small advantage. Fifteen ships, as players, would be arrayed over the chess board of western Lake Erie.
Trove observed to Captain Lee, “Quite light, from the sou’west. Friends Good Will is one of the fastest in these conditions.”
Captain Lee lowered his glass and half smiled as Scorpion was sailing closer and making more progress to weather than most, “Well then, Trove, if she sails so well as you recall, let’s just simply take her!”
Trove appreciated his Captain’s calm lightheartedness, breaking the tension of what both suspected would be a very long day. He looked in his Captain’s eyes and joked, “Perhaps a diversion; a fire raft towed by canoe?”
They smiled, but then, as Captain Lee stared once more through the glass, alternatively focusing first upon their adversaries and then the islands in their path which just hours before served as secure shelter and were now viewed only as damnable obstacles, he quietly issued three orders which reminded Trove they were both in a race for their lives: “Roll the pivot gun to leeward, assemble the crew along the lee rail and ease the inner jib slightly.”
“Aye, Sir!” Trove replied with all gravity. He recognized such measures as subtle adjustments undertaken only when full performance was required and justified by the highest stakes. Trove dedicated himself to ‘tweaking’ the rig and the trim, leaving nothing undone for the sake of speed and mere inches to windward.
“Damn,” muttered Perry. Just as Perry conceded in his own mind the need for another tack, the Sailing Master aboard Lawrence, Mr. Taylor, called “Prepare to come about.” Perry recognized that the shallow draft of the hull, more of a floating gun platform than shaped for sailing to windward, simply was not going to weather Rattlesnake Island anytime soon. He wondered, should he ever gain open water, whether Barclay would already have sailed down and positioned his squadron squarely between Perry and the wind.
Unable to control the wind or reshape the hull, Perry focused his attention upon that which he could control. “Tiffany,” he called, “if you please.”
“Yes, Sir!” Tiffany responded with a willingness and devotion which gave comfort.
“Keep fiddling for now, Tiffany. The men enjoy it. But stand over here in front of the main hatch,” Perry whispered. Tiffany’s eyes revealed his confusion. Perry explained, “When the fighting begins, trade your fiddle for a pistol and threaten to shoot any man who may attempt to go below unless with good reason or my permission.”
“Aye, Sir!” Tiffany assured, proudly. He had, he knew, just bee
n assigned the position as would constitute the domain of a United States Marine. Perry, however, had precious few of them and he needed them in the tops with their muskets. All of his men would recognize Tiffany as being invested with authority from Captain Perry and none would doubt that he would do whatever Perry asked.
As the quest to lay Rattlesnake Island unfolded with great frustration, Perry signaled which of his ships would sail in what order along the line of battle. Perry reserved for Lawrence the H.M.S. Detroit. Perry intended Elliott in the Niagara to close with and engage Queen Charlotte. Caledonia, he expected, could handle General Hunter. Most of the smaller ships would trail in the wake of the larger ships which bore most of the guns.
But Perry called for Captain Lee in Scorpion, and the schooner Ariel, to undertake an important role at the front of the line. Their duty and objective would be to keep the larger British ships, should they sail faster, from crossing the bows of the American brigs and raking the squadron. In short, Scorpion and Ariel were assigned a near suicide task, implying the necessity of positioning and sacrificing both smaller schooners against perhaps the largest of the British squadron. While Perry would hate for such circumstances to unfold, he was certain he could count on Captain Lee to do his duty.
The order of the line of battle required Perry to assume Barclay’s plan of attack, as yet unrevealed. Perry assumed Queen Charlotte would lead the British line, with Detroit perhaps second or third, allowing for greater communication from the flag to the rest of Barclay’s squadron. He turned to Midshipman Allard on Lawrence, signal flags and halyard in hand, and after announcing the order and requiring its repeat, ordered, “Direct each ship to ‘remain on station’ astern of that ship called out in the sequence.”
All hands remained at stations for more than three hours when, finally, the futility of weathering Rattlesnake Island became clear. Perry turned and ordered, “Mr. Taylor, we shall proceed below Rattlesnake Island. We shall not, it seems, weather it this watch or next and I’ll not be caught in such a small bay as allows us no room to maneuver!”