A Press of Canvas: Volume One in the War of 1812 Trilogy

by William H. White

  “We’ll beat to quarters, now, Mr. Fitzgerald, if you please.”

  The sound of the fife and Marine drum playing “Heart of Oak” filled the air, punctuated by running men eager to have some action, and anticipating the possibility of a prize. Captain Winston watched as the ship was cleared for action; the spar deck guns that he could see, including six nine-pounders aft and a brace of ugly short-barreled thirty-two-pounder carronades were run out, loaded, and had slow matches burning in the tubs next to each, a backup for the sometimes temperamental flintlocks. Royal Marines were in the tops with muskets, and the doctor and his assistant were set up in the relative safety of the midshipman’s berth, aft and well below the fighting decks. The crew had taken to referring to the area as the “cockpit,” recognizing the similarity to the blood soaked arena of like name. The medical team would later move forward on the orlop deck where the ship’s hospital could be set up when necessary. While he couldn’t see from the quarterdeck, he knew that bulkheads would be coming down on the gun deck to clear the way for movement, increase the light and to provide less material for the always possible and often lethal splinters that could fly in the event his ship took a hit during an exchange with an enemy. Reports were coming to the quarterdeck regarding the preparedness of various parts of his ship, and the captain was satisfied that they could fight, and, he hoped, fight well, should it be necessary.

  The first lieutenant came to the quarterdeck after checking the ship, and reported that all was ready.

  “Very well, Mr. Burns, you may bear off a trifle to take us to within musket range, if you please. I shall return directly.”

  With that, the captain strode off the quarterdeck, and headed below to put on his number two uniform. Not as fine as the number one which was reserved for obligatory shore visits to dignitaries and visits aboard from his Admiral, Sir Francis Lafory, his fighting uniform was more than impressive to most. He knew his steward and personal servant, Paisley Cochrane, would have the clothes laid out on his bed, properly brushed and already rigged with epaulettes.

  He entered his cabin, noting the interior bulkheads had already been removed and most likely carefully stowed with most of his furniture. The two eighteen pounders with which he shared his cabin were manned, their slow matches lit. His uniform was in fact laid out, and Cochrane was fussing with the cockade in Captain Winston’s hat, squinting through close-set eyes in his ferret-like face, and muttering under his breath that his efforts were rarely, if ever, appreciated, and why did he spend his life in a constant struggle to make an ungrateful captain look as proper as the Royal Navy required. Winston, of course, was completely used to Cochrane’s comments, muttered or otherwise, and ignored them, saying only, “We should be finished with this action in a matter of hours, Cochrane, so dinner will not be delayed too long. I am sure you can manage to keep it hot. Remember also, if you please, that First Lieutenant Burns and two of the midshipmen will be joining me for the meal.” This last was purely for Winston’s perverse amusement, as the surly steward was nothing if not painfully punctual. Twenty-five years as ship’s boy and steward, almost ten of them to Harry Winston, had developed in him an ability to anticipate and a concern for his master found only in a superior manservant and occasionally in a wife.

  Cochrane replied that he would have “No problem with managing, sir.” and left the captain to change, muttering as he disappeared into the gloom of the gun deck.

  Winston saw immediately upon his return to the quarterdeck that Orpheus was now less than a cable’s length from the object of his attention. The two ships were sailing more or less side by side, with the stranger to leeward. Captain Winston studied her for a few minutes. Because of the angle, he could not make out the name or her hail port; he could see, however, that her deck did indeed have significant amounts of cargo stowed about it. He also saw that most of the ships company was on deck or aloft, trying to squeeze as much speed as they could muster from the breeze. The captain of the ship was watching him carefully, occasionally using his long glass for a closer inspection.

  “Mr. Burns. You may hoist our colors, if you please. Let us see what response that might have.”

  As the British Naval Ensign fluttered to the peak of the mizzen, Captain Winston stepped onto the bulwark at the mizzen shrouds, and holding his speaking trumpet to his mouth, shouted across the water, “This is His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Orpheus. What ship are you and where are you bound?”

  The answer came back in a New England twang, “We are an American ship out of Boston, the Anne, with cargo for St. Bartholomew. Jedediah Smalley commanding. You are crowding us, and causing us to alter our course. Stand clear.”

  The American flag sprung into the wind from the spanker gaff.

  “Heave to at once, Captain, and prepare to receive a boarding party.” Captain Winston then turned to his first lieutenant. “Lower the cutter. Take Mr. Blake and three well-armed Marines as well as the boat crew and go over there. I am sure there must be some British subjects aboard. We could use a few experienced hands.”

  Raising his voice, he continued, “Gunner, fire a gun to windward, if you please. Let them know we’re serious.”

  Practically before he had finished saying the words, the air was filled with the crash of an eighteen-pounder long gun firing to windward. Smoke blew back across the deck, momentarily obscuring the forward part of the fo’c’sle. The captain watched the Anne. Nothing seemed to be happening. No one was headed aloft to back the main tops’l or course, and the ship maintained its speed, in fact, bearing off slightly to try to gain more speed. The eyebrow twitched, and began a slow ascent. Again, he stepped onto the bulwark.

  “Sir. I order you to heave to in the name of the Royal Navy. I am sending a boat across to you.”

  For a response, Anne swung open her two starboard side gunports showing the snouts of two ugly twenty-four-pounder carronades.

  “Mr. Burns. Have Mr. Fitzgerald fire a gun across her bow, and run out the larboard battery, quick as ever you please. The man must think he can bluff me with those carronades. Perhaps he will rethink his strategy with a ball across his bow, and a look at the open end of a dozen and more eighteen pounders.”

  As if to punctuate his remark, the number two gun fired, and he watched as its eighteen pound ball splashed up a small geyser in the water a scant fifty feet in front of the Anne’s stem. Almost simultaneously, the clatter of the port side gunports opening could be heard, followed by the rumble of twelve heavy gun carriages moving to their firing positions. Without looking, Winston knew the tompions were out, and the open muzzles starring across at the other ship at virtually point-blank range had to be a daunting sight. Apparently, it was; men were going aloft on Anne’s mainmast and he saw that the ship was easing up to bring the wind forward of the beam so she could be hove to. Sails were shivered, and Anne gradually slowed and then more or less stopped, rolling slightly in the now crossing seas. Harry Winston smiled wolfishly, and turned back to his quarterdeck.

  “Mr. Smosky, we’ll heave to now if you please. Mr. Burns, you may lower the cutter as soon as we have stopped.” As the two moved to obey, he turned and strode to the leeward side of the quarterdeck, where he watched the other ship carefully to be sure there would be no surprises. Behind him, he could hear the commands and sensed the actions being taken to bring his ship to a stop.

  “Main and tops’l braces haul. Trim sheets. Trim jibs and spanker. Up helm…meet her…steady there. Belay all.”

  The clatter and shaking of sails slatting and lines running through blocks combined with the shouting of the men handling the sails ended abruptly, leaving a quiet punctuated only by the gentle sound of the waves slapping on the side of the rapidly slowing ship.

  Orpheus now lay dead in the water less than a cable length from Anne. Both ships’ companies watched as the cutter swung out from its chocks and was lowered efficiently into the water on the leeward side. The crew clambered down the side of Orpheus and sat at their oar positions, wh
ile Mr. Burns took his position with Midshipman Everett Blake in the stern sheets.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Impressment

  “Give way together now, lads”. Lieutenant Burns spoke quietly to his crew. He was naturally soft spoken and felt that yelling, or even speaking loudly unnecessarily, was contributory to confusion and thence to error. He had been a lieutenant for almost ten years and had taught himself the discipline early on after a long three years with a screamer as first lieutenant. His commanding presence and quiet manner inspired confidence, but not camaraderie. And it could be menacing as well. The crew of the cutter dipped their oars into the sea and the small boat headed smartly across the two hundred yards or so of open ocean toward the waiting Anne. The gentle rolling motion of the sea rocked the cutter as it moved perpendicular to the waves, and the distance closed quickly.

  With oars tossed smartly, they bumped against the tall side of the American ship. There was no sign of the manropes which normally would be thrown over the side to assist anyone clambering up the boarding battens fastened to the outside of the vessel.

  “This is not going to be easy,” thought Blake, as Lieutenant Burns, looking up to the men lining the bulwark, ordered them to drop down the manropes. There was a pause, a few men disappeared briefly, and in absolute silence, the requested ropes dropped over the rail. Burns grabbed both at head height and stepped agilely onto the bottom batten; he moved quickly up the ship’s side and Blake watched as the men parted to let him step from the bulwark onto the main deck of Anne. Blake and the three marines followed in rapid succession, leaving the boat crew in the cutter now tied alongside.

  Lieutenant Burns led the party aft to the quarterdeck, assuming correctly that the tall man, elderly with mostly gray hair and a black frock coat standing there was the captain. He had to pass through of a gauntlet of men to get there, and noted that their expressions were consistent; rage mixed with uncertainty with a touch of fear thrown in. The Royal Navy lieutenant held himself erect, trying to appear tall and imposing though he was only of moderate height with a noticeable paunch that preceded him. His hand rested easily on the hilt of his sword. He stepped onto the quarterdeck, and introduced himself, realizing as he spoke that the man was not nearly so old as he had originally thought; the gray hair was deceiving.

  “Good morning, Captain. I am Lieutenant Joseph Burns, First Lieutenant of His Majesty’s Ship Orpheus. This is Mr. Blake, our senior Midshipman. We are responsible for determining whether you have any British deserters aboard, and for returning them to service in His Majesty’s Navy. Muster your crew amidships, if you please.”

  “I am Captain Jedediah Smalley. I do not welcome your visit, and protest most vigorously your thinly veiled attempt at piracy. My crew are Americans, born and bred, and I doubt you will find any legitimate candidates for impressment among them. However, in the interest of getting you off my ship as quickly as possible, I shall assemble the crew as you ask.

  “Mr. Jakes, my third mate, will escort you.

  “Mr. Clark, Mr. Jakes, assemble the crew in the waist, if you please.” Smalley’s lips formed a thin line across his drawn face, and the blue-gray eyes blazed out from their sockets like sapphires hit by the sun.

  The two Englishmen watched silently as the men of Anne gathered in ragged rows around the mainmast. The snippets of conversation carried aft by the wind indicated that the crew shared their captain’s feelings about the boarding and search; the men knew that any one of them, for some trumped up reason, could be carried back to the British man of war to serve an unspecified term of enlistment. The men’s glances darted between their mate and the British officer, and while their words were angry and brave, their eyes betrayed their true feelings. The Royal Marines, resplendent in their red jackets and “clayed” white pants, accented with glistening black boots and cartridge boxes, stood by at the break of the poop, ready to quell any potential disturbance at the earliest indication. Their muskets, with gleaming bayonets reflecting the sun’s rays in blinding brilliance, provided a mute reminder that resistance or other trouble could end in bloodshed. A nod from Mr. Clark indicated to the captain that all the men except the helmsman were assembled.

  “Mr. Burns, the men are assembled. You will make your inspection as quick as ever you please, thank you, and be gone. Mr. Jakes, take His Majesty’s Lieutenant to the men, if you please.”

  The sarcasm was not lost on Burns, but he chose to ignore it, and merely nodded at the Midshipman to step forward with Jakes, their appointed escort.

  “If any of you men are British subjects, step forward now, and save us the bother of finding you. Because find you we will. With your cooperation, both you and we will be able to proceed apace.” Burns’ normally quiet voice was raised enough to be heard by all, but still quiet enough to carry a noticeable degree of menace. His demeanor indicated he was serious and would brook no nonsense. He stood rigidly in front of the sailors, peering intently at them through close-set eyes, his stare unwavering, and to some, unnerving.

  Of course, none of the men moved. Lieutenant Burns approached the first man in the line in front of him. “What’s your name, sailor?”

  “Able-seaman Gerald Reese. I was born in Boston, Massachusetts July 23rd 1781.”

  “Boston was still under British rule in 1781, Reese. That would make you a British subject. Once an Englishman, always an Englishman.” Burns was quick witted, and could turn a subject to his advantage easily. “Step over there, if you please.” He pointed to the bulwark where the British press gang had received their hostile welcome.

  With a startled and fearful cast in his eyes, Reese glanced at Jakes, then set his full attention on his first mate, Mr. Clark. He was obviously unsure of what to do, and at first, remained rooted to the deck. His entire body began to tremble, and a trickle of sweat made a track down his weathered face.

  Could this be happening to me? I ain’t British…What am I going to do? This long-nosed dandy and his Marines could take me and any of ‘em should they want to. Reese’s thoughts rushed through his confused mind. Ingrained through years at sea of doing what he was told, acceptance and obedience of an order took over; his feet moved without a conscious thought and he started to take a step in the direction the officer had indicated.

  “Reese, stand fast.” Clark roared out the order to his sailor, who once again became rooted to the deck, a look of utter confusion masking the spark of joy at his potential salvation. In a quieter voice, the first mate, who had joined in the little procession at the rear, spoke to Lieutenant Burns.

  “You may recall, sir, that America declared her independence from England back in 1776, and at that moment, any British subjects living in America either the took the opportunity to run away to Canada, or become Americans. Probably wasn’t no Britishers living there much past then, and I’d reckon precious few visiting, save for the lobsterbacks.” This last comment included a glance at the three standing rigidly by the mainmast.

  He went on, “Under your idea, there would be no Americans over the age of twenty-eight. A idea what is clearly preposterous. This man is no more a British subject than you are an American, perish the thought.”

  Burns had rarely been “one-upped” by a colonist, but he gave in this time. He checked half a dozen other men, finding all American born and bred. Turning to move into the next rank, he heard a whisper in his ear.

  “This next one’s a Britisher, sir. Came from Wales, I’m thinkin’. Not a bad topman, either, but a bit of a trouble-maker. Maybe some of that Royal Navy discipline would help straighten him out.”

  Burns turned back, seeking the source of this new information. He nearly stepped on the man assigned to escort him; a furtive glance shot out at him from beneath a tarpaulin hat, and shifted immediately to the row of men, then back to Burns and finally retreated to study the deck at his feet. He recalled the man’s name was Jakes. Looking back at the men, Burns was now face-to-face with a short, sunburned man of about twenty years, good looking, and appa
rently strong. Curly dark hair, dark eyes, and a slight smile gave him the appearance of innocence and a relaxed demeanor spoke wordlessly of his confidence.

  “Where are you from, lad?” Burns lowered his voice to a friendly, almost conspiratorial level.

  “Marblehead, Massachusetts, sir. Born January 12th 1790. I am American.”

  “Your accent sounds a bit Welsh to me, sailor. Sure you’re not from Wales?”

  “Aye, I’m sure. They could be a little accent from my parents. They left Wales for America in 1787, and I was born in Marblehead where they settled. Other than sailing, I have never left New England; I ain’t even been east of the Bermudas.”

  Burns’ stare went right through the young sailor. After a moment of silence, he spoke.

  “I don’t believe you. Consider yourself a British seaman, now assigned to HMS Orpheus, from this point on.” He motioned to one of the Royal Marines standing by the mainmast, who immediately stepped out smartly and escorted the new British seaman to the bulwark.

  “Hold on there, Marine.” Burns turned to the departing men. “You, the Welshman, what’s your name?”

  The American sailor turned around and just stared, wide-eyed in fear, at the officer for a moment. It was apparent that the enormity of the event had just hit him, and he was stunned. His confidence had abandoned him; with a visible effort, he gathered himself, collected his wits, and spoke clearly, “Isaac Biggs…and I’m American, not Welsh.” His curly hair was plastered to his narrow forehead with a sudden outpouring of sweat born of an abject fear. While his words were calm, his voice had a tremor, further testimony to his terror of what lay ahead.

  “Biggs, you’re a British sailor now, so we don’t much care where you’re from or not from. And when you address an officer of His Majesty’s Navy, you use ‘sir’. Am I clear?” Midshipman Blake was exercising his own authority; it couldn’t hurt to make his position and responsibility clear to this new man. He might turn up working for him, and this would give him a jump on establishing his authority.