by James Spurr
“Aye, Sir! We can yet win the day!” Elliott responded, immediately repeating and conveying the new orders to his subordinates. Realizing, with Perry aboard, he no longer had any real authority and served now as Perry’s flag captain, Elliott offered, still searching for a lead role, “If I may, Sir, let me cross and bring up the gun boats.”
Perry had considered the remaining vessels lagging behind with little sail set and accepted Elliott’s offer, “I wish to God you would.” Elliott set off in Perry’s cutter. Perry set off for either triumph or oblivion, but in either case, he knew, to make history. He planted himself adjacent to the helmsman and turned downwind. Niagara’s jibboom swung round the compass to bear directly abaft of the wounded Detroit. The gun crews, all too fresh save for James and Jesse, double shotted the guns, both to larboard and starboard and sensed it was now, at last, their turn.
Barclay, while focusing upon the new threat approaching, glanced off of the Detroit’s larboard bow and saw the flash from Scorpion’s long pivot gun. He actually saw the grape shot scatter, most of it land on the bulwarks and, almost as if time slowed, the splinters erupt and together with some grape, fly toward him. Next he knew, he was being raised from the deck, feeling no immediate pain but his feet slipped on the blood as the helmsman and others tried to keep him from falling on his mangled and bloody right arm and shoulder. Barclay had taken his second wound of the day, his eighth of his career in service for his King. He lost consciousness amid frantic discussion, aware only that he was being taken below.
Mr. Ingliss, the second lieutenant, felt eyes upon him and resisted the strong temptation to disgrace himself. He was, despite his lack of experience, in command of Detroit, thanks to the American iron depleting their ranks. He looked over his command, now a perfect wreck, in which he had so proudly set off just the day before, she then the newest and largest vessel on Lake Erie embarking upon her maiden voyage. He looked up to see Niagara, fresh and undamaged, steering a course so to rake his stern. Ingliss considered what few guns were still serviceable along Detroit’s larboard bulwark and instantly called, “All Hands, Wear Ship!” He then ordered the helmsman, still wet from Barclay’s blood, “Bring up your helm, to larboard.”
It was all that could be done. Ingliss sought to turn Detroit, so that her fresh starboard side could at least present sufficient weight of metal to account well for themselves and resist Niagara, despite their casualties and damage to hull, spars and rigging. He could not luff into the wind; she would be caught in irons and Niagara would simply wear and still rake his bow. Turning downwind would allow him to spin about and lend some hope of keeping his fresh, serviceable guns opposing his enemy.
But the hands, so exhausted and few, were not at stations. Those that sought out the lines found many cut, sliced and no longer led to the pins as they expected. Still, with the wind somewhat stronger, Detroit turned, the result of her momentum if not synchronized seamanship. “There might just be enough time,” Ingliss offered to the helmsmen. But just as the spanker was about to cross over the deck, Ingliss witnessed a look of horror on the helmsman’s face, who without any order, dragged the helm to starboard as he managed to call, “Sir… !” simultaneously with the collision.
Aboard Queen Charlotte, junior Lieutenant Irvine, Provincial Marine, with little experience but understanding Detroit’s purpose, also made to wear ship and likewise present his fresh broadside to the oncoming threat. Irvine had never wore a ship. His crew, under Fleet’s training program, had handled a small sloop but were never allowed to train or rehearse maneuvers aboard their own ship, at least since the blockade of Erie was lifted weeks before. Since that time, new recruits, many of them soldiers, filled their ranks and sail training while underway had been nonexistent. Irvine misjudged the distance, and his crew, exhausted, depleted and ill trained, did not respond well in bracing round the yards. Cries were confused, coming from many to others whose names were as yet unknown, some directives in French, some in English, “I repeat, hands to the braces!” Hurry, bring round the yards!” No, leave the spanker—quickly, to the waist! No, that is the lift, not the brace!”
Queen Charlotte, instead of turning in the arc expected by Irvine, struck Detroit, her jibboom tangling in Detroit’s mizzen shrouds and running rigging.
Meanwhile, Elliott was bringing up the smaller vessels by sails and sweeps and they gathered round the stricken British ships like insects around wounded prey. Positioning themselves at angles such that the British broadsides could not bear, the American gunboats harassed and confused, causing damage aboard General Hunter that frustrated Dunlap, now seriously wounded, but wrapped and yet clutching the binnacle, refusing to quit the deck as he witnessed the disaster unfolding.
Fleet sailed to leeward of the British line and attempted to come to some assistance, but he and Thomas openly argued with one another in front of the twenty or more men crowding Little Belt’s deck. The slow match would not stay lit or burn at all. It was clearly defective. Thomas, unaware of Abigail’s sabotage, blamed Fleet for incompetence. Finally, Thomas thought to fire a pistol over the touch hole. The technique was only sometimes effective and was certainly not efficient. Little Belt was thus occasionally able to fire her guns, but from an ineffective range as Fleet was too timid to draw closer to the line.
As Little Belt passed below General Hunter, Fleet himself trained the nine pound pivot gun, hoping that no one would notice that Dunlap, upon the quarterdeck of General Hunter, was Fleet’s intended target. Thomas, appalled at Fleet lowering the pistol to the touch hole with the gun so level and General Hunter directly to windward, pulled the coin from under the breech of the barrel at the last moment, sending the shot high, passing over Dunlap’s head and through General Hunter’s mainsail. The action brought Fleet and Thomas to fisticuffs and other crew intervened before Thomas would have easily killed the representative of the King himself aboard Little Belt.
As Queen Charlotte collided with Detroit, the maneuver clearly mishandled, Thomas added derisively, “So, Captain Fleet, it appears your sail training program reflects your seamanship skills!”
Niagara broke the British line, firing double shotted guns from both sides. Noah Brown built her well and ‘plain work’ was strong enough to withstand the concussion and recoil of simultaneous rolling broadsides, wreaking havoc down the decks of Detroit and Queen Charlotte. Remaining spars, rigging and men were sliced, cut and fell. British tars fought desperately with axes; not their American adversaries but frantically attempting to cut away what little rigging the American broadsides had spared and free their ships from the tangle of the collision.
Once again, then still a third time, the gunners and mates aboard Niagara went through their paces, “Worm! Sponge! Load! Give fire!” Eighteen fresh carronades were just then beginning to warm to the work with gun crews fully manned and enthusiasm high. Still, the British fought on, freeing their vessels, but with Lady Prevost’s rudder shot clear away and her drifting out of the line and so many of the commanding officers and ‘leftenants’ killed or wounded, few experienced leaders were available to meet what was likely an insurmountable crisis.
The guns under the Union Jack fired when able, killing several and wounding many aboard Niagara, but with what Perry had witnessed as possible in terms of sacrifice aboard Lawrence, he knew that Niagara, despite the losses and damage, had just begun to fight.
Ingliss aboard Detroit looked over to Irvine on Queen Charlotte and was not surprised to see at that moment the Union Jack fluttering down from the foremast truck. He looked aloft at the foremast of Detroit, or rather, what was left of it. Barclay had just that morning nailed the Union Jack to the mast, to symbolize his resolve not to strike. But there was no other way to end the now senseless slaughter. Not able to strike the ensign, he uttered the most regrettable order of his career, “Gunner!”
“Yes, Sir?” Did Ingliss detect some hope for the order forming in his throat?
“Fire a gun…,” he then hesitated and dropped his
voice, “… to leeward.”
Perry, understanding Queen Charlotte had struck, was looking intently for any signal from Detroit. He heard and saw the leeward shot and looked for some confirmation before giving the order to cease fire. Moments later, a white flag broke forth from Detroit. He swallowed, hard, fighting back a choking sensation of relief, but called out, loud enough for it to be repeated down the deck, from aft to fore, in just seconds, “Cease fire! Detroit has struck!”
With just a few more guns objecting, primarily from the smaller vessels of both squadrons, Union Jacks came fluttering down from Chippewa and General Hunter.
The smoke was thick with Niagara adding more firepower in the previous several minutes than was even available amid the larger vessels for some time before. Visibility was poor. Still, Perry sensed from the strange quiet that the surrenders were genuine and the cessation of hostilities were offered with all honor and would hold.
But through thinly veiled smoke screens and occasional glimpses of clearing, Perry noted and shouts brought to his attention that a British vessel was making all sail. He noted to Mr. Breevort, “Look, there, to leeward of Detroit, a sloop is attempting her escape!”
Breevort extended his glass and confirmed, “She appears to be making all haste for Amherstberg!”
Perry looked back over his shoulder, to larboard and thought which of his vessels were the closest to the rogue Briton. “Ah…,” Perry called, “Midshipman, there,” not knowing his name, as he was on Niagara’s deck, “… signal Scorpion, ‘Give Chase’.”
Perry observed Elliott coming up in the cutter from one of the small vessels and directed him to board Detroit. Stepping from the entry port to the deck, Elliott slipped on the blood, soiling his uniform. He regained his feet, looked about the deck, a sight so horrible as he never wanted to witness again; a sight no worse than would have presented from the deck of Lawrence, a sight his earlier conduct caused him to avoid with respect to Niagara. Adding to the horror was a final irony. The bear, still chained to the fife rail, intended for dinner, was now dining upon the remains of its captors.
Ingliss showed Elliott below deck and introduced him to Barclay, who in addition to despondency was thought to be suffering from a mortal wound. “Sir, I offer you my sword,” he managed to whisper.
Elliott, awed by the carnage and sacrifice as was so evidently surrounding him, replied, “No Sir. I am not in command. Of you, who have fought so gallantly, I will ask only that you save your offer for Captain Perry.” Barclay nodded and his head fell back on his bunk, his sword, which he could hardly raise, now resting upon his bandaged and bloodied shoulder. Upon taking the deck, Elliott informed Ingliss, “Captain Perry will be over to pay his respects as soon as circumstances permit. Take care of your people and let us know what you need that we might be able to assist and provide.”
Elliott then motioned over to the mangled spar that had been part of a topmast and, as Ingliss watched, removed the Union Jack by extracting the nails. He would give the ensign to Perry. He slipped the nails into his waistcoat pocket as a personal souvenir.
As Elliott accomplished his errand, Perry came to realize it was over. The enormity of the victory was undeniable. The fortune of nations and the history of a continent had been forever altered in as little time as had passed since dawn of that single day.
Despite the gravity of that which had unfolded upon the waters of the inland seas, worked for and planned by so many over more than a year, culminating in just the past few minutes, Perry forced aside his reflections.
Others were depending upon him for news. He found an old letter and used its envelope. He wrote a note to General Harrison, who had waited patiently all season and to whom, for his confidence and cooperation, Perry felt indebted.
Turning to James, with whom he had shared a small voyage in a cutter and feeling at the moment more of a bond with him than with the officers of Niagara, Perry asked, “If you please, Mr. Lee, see that this note is delivered to General Harrison’s envoy as soon as we return to South Bass Island.”
Chapter Twenty Three
Well after the signal from Niagara was made for Scorpion to ‘Give Chase’, Captain Lee kept his long glass trained on Niagara. Trove went about the deck, directing the trim aboard the schooner and evoking all possible speed from a downwind, starboard tack. He could not understand what was distracting Captain Lee.
Of all events, despite the exhausting, traumatic day, pursuing Friends Good Will, or rather, Little Belt back to Amherstberg, would have, Trove thought, justified his Captain’s full attention.
Before going below and checking the wounded, Trove offered his report with respect to speed and sail trim. Captain Lee stood at the taffrail, looking intently, through his glass off the stern. Trove used his report as an excuse to ask, “Are you expecting another signal, Captain?” Trove offered, “I could put Mathews to the task of watching. He has a fine pair of eyes, as you know.”
Captain Lee gave a faint smile and explained, “I am sorry, Trove, for my obvious distraction. I have every confidence you have trimmed for speed and the chase is well underway. No, I am expecting no signals. I was searching for James.”
Trove felt guilty and ashamed. Of course Captain Lee would be concerned for his son, as Trove should be concerned for his friend. Trove had simply forgotten in the intensity of the last few hours. The thought had never occurred to him that James would not survive the day. Trove offered, with sincere care, “Of course, Sir.” Then trying to assure, added, “James could well be at so many stations. Why, perhaps even below decks.” Damn, he thought. In trying to assure Captain Lee, he did not mean to suggest James may have fallen under the surgeon’s saw.
“No, Trove, have no cares. I saw James transfer the flag to Niagara. He accompanied Perry in the cutter, just more than an hour ago. I was very relieved he made if off Lawrence alive. I suspect the destruction was horrific. Just now, I saw Perry hand him something. So he is well and I am filled with joy.” Captain Lee’s tone and expression reflected tremendous relief; Trove supposed that relief known only to a parent. Trove smiled and Captain Lee snapped the glass shut and wheeled about, declaring, “Now, let us catch this sloop of mine!”
The wind had increased slightly from that afternoon, still steady from the sou’east. Little Belt was making a straight line course to the nor’west for the mouth of the Detroit River. As fast as she was if handled properly, the simple fact was that Scorpion, though heavier, was a schooner. With its main and foresail spread wing and wing, together with topsail and stuns’, Scorpion spread far more canvas to the available breeze. The question was if her greater sail was sufficient to offset her greater weight.
Small differences in speed are dramatic at sea over time. A near empty horizon often offers little more to focus upon than small changes in relative angles, headings, course and bearings. There was yet some hours before sunset, but by mid September, the nights were descending far sooner than the weeks before and Captain Lee hoped to snatch up his prize by dark. If not, he recalled, a waxing moon, nearly full, would yield plenty of light, provided the wind held.
Aboard Little Belt, the realization set in that those few on board were the remnants of a squadron numbering several hundred men. Little Belt bore ill news should she be so fortunate as to make Amherstberg.
Aboard the sloop, the survivors were as diverse in emotion after the battle as in purpose. Thomas, serving the Royal Navy for just the duration of the engagement, felt his duty was officially discharged, though his full purpose was not yet accomplished.
Entirely unnerved by what he had witnessed and uncertain as to how to navigate his new responsibility as the sole surviving Captain, Fleet suffered the advice of Thomas, so desperate was he for direction. “Listen to me, now,” Thomas imparted. “All eyes in Kingston, if not Halifax, will judge your next moves. If Scorpion is still close astern as Amherstberg presents itself on the starboard bow, you would do better to continue into the shallows of the St. Clair River in the hopes t
hat Scorpion might run aground. Little Belt could at least continue north’ard and serve the crown on Lake Huron upon making Mackinaw or Ft. St. Joseph.” Thomas hoped he would have as much time as possible so to achieve his objective in his service, not of the Crown, but Abigail.
Fleet eyed Thomas with suspicion. Why would Thomas ever offer him sound advice? Still, the coming morning was as irrelevant as the following year. There was an American schooner with a long gun close astern and Fleet was acutely aware that something must be done, not so much as to deliver her crew, but rather, her captain.
As Fleet turned his eyes from Thomas to study his pursuer through his glass, a sick feeling welled up from his stomach. He recognized Scorpion’s Captain. Fleet shared his nightmare with Thomas at the taffrail, “It is William Lee! That traitorous bastard from the schooner Hope! By God, I will not be taken by Lee! Thomas, damn you, man, help O’Connell. I think Scorpion is gaining!” Fleet shouted out to O’Connell, “Faster, I say. Listen to Thomas. Between the both of you, certainly there is some knowledge of trimming sail!” With that, he stormed below to grapple with his demons and take comfort in a brown bottle, stashed beside his bunk.
Abigail stood on the shore amid the grasses and sand, staring through a long glass from time to time, searching out over the horizon to the south. Several horses and a few carriages, carrying mostly military personnel and leading citizens of the town, had gradually gathered by concerned coincidence, it seemed, through the afternoon. The great guns had been heard from Cleveland to Detroit and some of those who waited for a sign of the outcome knew well that the guns of Fort Malden that secured their freedom from American domination had recently been removed. Those same guns were now somewhere on the inland sea, serving upon England’s wooden walls and leaving the stone ramparts so familiar to them, as familiar as the English lion itself, entirely toothless. The roar of the guns lasting far longer than anyone had thought possible, was hard to bear. Those who gathered had friends, husbands, sons and brothers aboard the vessels comprising the British Squadron.