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

by William H. White

  Any color left under the tan on young Isaac Biggs’ face faded completely; the sweat ran unchecked down his cheeks and neck. His head was spinning with the enormity of this horrific turn of events.

  I don’t belong on that ship…mebe I shoulda got one o’ them citizenship certificates they was sellin’ in Boston after all. Heard they wasn’t worth the paper they was printed on though…what can I do? How’m I gonna get back to Marblehead…see my folks…what’s gonna happen to me? I’m Cap’n o’ the Foretop on Anne, not some Royal Navy tar gettin’ the lash…God help me.

  Frustrated by his inability to affect his future, Isaac glanced over the bulwark, contemplating his chances overboard; he decided against it. He shifted his gaze to the frigate, rocking gently, her guns still aimed in deadly silence right at Anne.

  They’re pointin’ right at me, he thought ruefully and decided to do what he had been told – at least for now, and only to stay alive – maybe there’d be an opportunity later to regain his life. He rested a hand on the bulwark, steadying it and trying to regain his composure. And waited.

  Burns and Blake, followed by Jakes, continued down the line of men, asking each questions designed have each man talk. Burns watched their eyes; sometimes he could tell more from a man’s eye contact with him than ever he could from their words. He found two more men; a waister claiming home was Baltimore, and a mizzen topman, a landsman, who probably was from England, but claimed New York as his home. Tyler, the waister, was barely old enough to shave, and burst into tears when escorted to the bulwark by the Royal Marine, who finished the short trip by dragging the shaking, sobbing boy. The topman, named Pope, nobody really knew on Anne, as he was both new on board, and had kept to himself for most of the voyage. Each of the now pressed seamen were sent under escort to collect their scant seabags and returned to the main deck quickly.

  Completing their tour, Lieutenant Burns and Midshipman Blake turned aft to the quarterdeck. As they stepped up the short ladder, Captain Smalley moved to the top of it, effectively blocking their further progress. Burns stopped, a step from the top, while the young midshipman peered around the back of his superior, trying to fathom why he had stopped. The captain’s voice solved the mystery for him.

  “Unless you plan on searching my vessel looking for more of my sailors on which to visit your miseries, you have no further business here, sir, so I’ll thank you to stay off of my quarterdeck. You may leave my ship if you are finished with your evilness. I suspect there will come a day of reckoning for you imperious scoundrels, and I truly hope it will be soon, and that I am there to see it. Good day to you.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Captain, I shall note it in our log. You Americans are going to learn that without England you have nothing; you should be grateful to us. Arrogance rings hollow, without the hope of supporting it. You will learn your place, however – soon, I think – and my hope is that Orpheus will be involved in teaching you. A good day to you, as well, sir.”

  Burns, equally angry at this upstart American, turned so suddenly to return to the bulwark and his cutter, that he knocked into his midshipman. The young man was embarrassed, but Burns, in his anger, barely noticed. He wanted no further incident; it was not to be, however.

  As he clambered onto the high bulwark, a belaying pin from the mainmast pin rail was thrown with some expertise, and landed with a hollow thud in the middle of Burns’ back; it might have been aimed for his head, and had he not stepped onto the rail at that precise moment, the outcome would most likely have been different. As it was, the blow sent him sprawling to the deck. The three Royal Marines brought as one their muskets to full cock, and swung them around, looking for a target; one felt he had found the perpetrator and fired. The shot rang out, quelling the short-lived cheers and catcalls from the still assembled crew. The silence was sudden and complete, then broken by the thump of a body hitting the deck, and the ensuing scramble of the men, some taking cover from further shooting, and some rushing to the aid of their fallen shipmate.

  Lieutenant Burns, having regained his feet, put his hand out, crying “Hold! Cease your firing!” and stopped the other two marines from potentially creating more chaos. He watched as the American seamen lifted their mate and carried him below.

  “Have you not caused enough trouble already, Lieutenant? I told you to get you and your men off my ship. Should you not leave now, I will not be responsible for the actions of my crew. And yes, I realize that should there be more trouble, we risk a broadside from your ship. That would not help you, however. Therefore, I suggest you get down the side now and away from my ship.” Captain Smalley was under control, but barely, and his shaking voice and obvious effort to maintain his composure gave credence to his words. He turned away, giving orders, as he did so, to get Anne underway. The niceties of waiting for the cutter to load and leave his side forgotten in his rage.

  The British boarding party climbed over the bulwark and down the narrow steps to the waiting boat. The three new man o’ warsmen, realizing that they had absolutely no choice, and no where to run, also climbed down into the boat and took seats between the oarsmen under the watchful eyes of the Royal Marines who had already proved they would shoot to kill. The crew pushed off, and as they did, the crew of the Anne not engaged in making sail once again lined the rail, hurling epithets and jeers at the Britishers, and encouragement to their stunned former shipmates, now pulling away. The boat crew and the passengers were silent, each keeping his thoughts to himself. Burns saw the three American faces going through the mental torment that so many others before them had suffered; fear of the unknown, fear of the reputed discipline and related floggings common in the British Navy, and sorrow at leaving their shipmates in Anne. He knew that each also wondered whether they would ever see their families and homes again. The young one, Tyler, he recalled, was completely terror stricken; the boy’s eyes darted everywhere like a trapped animal, seeking a friendly face, or perhaps a way out. The tears he had shed earlier had left salty tracks down his smooth cheeks. An occasional sob escaped his lips; his hand brushed across his eyes frequently, wiping away the fresh tears that, unbidden, seemed continually to appear. Midshipman Blake broke the silence, as the cutter neared the frigate.

  “You three men will be assigned to different messes and watches so you will adapt to the Navy way faster. Our sailors will teach you, and hopefully you will learn quickly. Captain Winston does not suffer fools gladly, and will brook no nonsense. A word to the wise should suffice.”

  All three men just looked blankly at him. The impact of his words did not register, and he softened his voice a little when he said, “Are you men attending to what I said? It is possible that learning quickly will save the skin on your backs.”

  They nodded dumbly, their eyes uncomprehending, their expressions unchanged.

  The cutter was now alongside the frigate, and the manropes were down and waiting for them, unlike at the side of the American. Lieutenant Burns was first up the side, followed by Midshipman Blake, the three former American merchant seamen, now about to become full-fledged Royal Navy sailors, and the Royal Marines. The boat crew made fast the bow and stern to tackles lowered to them for the purpose, and then climbed out themselves. By the time the first lieutenant had reported to the quarterdeck, the boat was out of the water and headed inboard to its chocks on the spardeck.

  “We found three men, sir.” He answered the questioning look from his captain. “A Welshman, and two Englishmen. I’m told the Welshman is a fair hand, a topman in fact, and quite able. The other two will most likely need training. I believe I will put the topman in the starboard watch with Mr. Blake, and the other two in the larboard watch with Midshipman Davis. They will also need to be assigned to gun crews.”

  “Very well, Mr. Burns. Let us get the ship underway as quick as ever you please. Have the surgeon look them over from stem to stern to ensure they are fit, and have them make their mark in the ship’s articles. Then strip off those American clothes, hose ‘em do
wn, and have Mr. Beckwirth issue them slops, mess gear and a hammock. You may have the Bosun see to their assignments on the Watch, Quarters, and Station Bills. You might have someone show them below, as they will be of no use to us when they get lost aboard. I shall be below. You may have the crew stand down from Quarters.”

  The orders were being given almost before Captain Winston had left the quarterdeck. As he descended the ladder and headed aft to his cabin, he felt the ship bear off. He could hear the whoomp of the canvas as sails filled, combined with the running footsteps and shouted commands of the men making sail. He felt the ship begin to move through the water, and gradually gather speed.

  Cochrane, his whip-thin form standing sneering imperiously in the doorway, was waiting for the captain when he walked into his cabin. He had naturally been berating the carpenter’s men who had the bulkheads almost completely restored, and Captain Winston barely acknowledged their presence, save to glare at them impatiently while they finished their tasks.

  The men put the last peg in the bulkhead, and headed forward, to a final high pitched sally from Cochrane who had noticed the captain’s look. “Next time I’ll expect this job done by the time the captain comes below, you layabouts.” The steward, while trying to sound threatening, actually was whining. The carpenter’s men, like most of the crew, ignored the captain’s steward, thinking of him as a little more than a pest, but when there was some inside scuttlebutt to be gleaned from befriending the man, they accepted his abuse and surliness. It was a matter of pride to Cochrane that he generally knew, but only occasionally told, what he heard at the meals he served in the captain’s cabin. He suddenly realized that the captain was speaking to him, and turned to see his commanding officer standing in the middle of his sleeping cabin in his small clothes.

  “Where is my at sea uniform, Cochrane? I can’t go on deck in my small clothes. Are you ready for my dinner guests?”

  “I have your uniform right here, sir. I was just brushing it for you. It wouldn’t do to have the captain looking shabby. As to dinner, it can be ready as quick as ever you please. I have yet to hear the crew called to dinner, though and I didn’t expect you’d want to start quite so early.” He looked at his captain, a hand on his hip, and scowled, but he didn’t quite come off as he had intended.

  Almost as he spoke, the ship’s bell rang, and with the ship settled down full and by on her course to her assigned sector, the men finished restoring the vessel to her peaceable appearance and changed the watch. Running feet overhead and muffled curses from the petty officers added some emphasis to the event.

  “You may tell Mister Burns and Midshipmen Blake and Murphy that I will expect them at two bells. I will wear my sea-uniform for dinner, so you may brush and stow my number two again, if you please. Now go and see to dinner.” Winston, as always, dismissed his steward’s occasional tantrums as the price one must pay for a superior servant.

  Cochrane made his standard exit, muttering about ingrates under his breath, and wondering half aloud why it always fell to him to bear the brunt of their lack of Christian charity. Captain Winston had turned and, as was his practice, ignored his steward.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Assignments

  Biggs stood with his fellow Annes on the larboard gangway of His Majesty’s frigate Orpheus. He looked first aloft, seeking to orient himself with a familiar sight. He was most familiar with the maze of spars, ropes, and sails, and felt that if he could correlate what he saw on the frigate to what he knew from Anne and other ships, he would be able to acclimate faster. He took in the lofty spars, noting that the rigging from one ship to another is generally the same; only minor differences exist which oft-times reflect the wishes and experience of her captain. Biggs satisfied himself quickly that he would have little trouble aloft should he be assigned there; in fact he hoped he would. He did not want to be on one of the ship’s big guns; he knew nothing about them, but had heard that in battle, the other ship frequently aims at the guns of the enemy to put them out of action. That seemed an inherently dangerous place to be.

  Moving his eyes back to the more immediate environs, he saw Anne sailing off to the south.

  “Wonder if I’ll ever get back aboard her,” he thought, noticing that his hands were shaking still. His thought was echoed aloud by Pope, and young Tyler began again to whimper. The enormity and finality of their situation had hit them, and Pope’s words made them all realize that in all likelihood, there was probably little chance that any of them would ever get back aboard Anne, or even see her and their mates again. Except for the occasional choked-off sob from Tyler, they watched in silence as Anne gradually disappeared over the southern horizon.

  “You ever seen so many men on a ship, Biggs?” Pope observed. They all looked fearfully around the deck after tearing their eyes away from the quickly departing bark. It looked as though there were sailors and marines everywhere, aloft and on deck. What they could see of the weatherdeck between the gangways over the waist seemed also to be literally alive with men. Both men, seeing the yards manned as they were, mistakenly assumed that such was always the case, and that men were stationed aloft in the Royal Navy even when not actively working the sails. Other men, on the spardeck, stood in groups near their assigned positions, ready to haul a halyard, brace or sheet as needed. It occurred to all three of them that finding room to swing hammocks for this many men must be indeed a challenging proposition.

  In fact there were two hundred and four men not counting the forty Royal Marines, six officers and warrants and seven Midshipmen all assigned to HMS Orpheus. Still her captain felt he was short-handed, and when the opportunity presented itself, would seek additional sailors from other ships, in the grog shops, or in the brothels ashore. It was always good to have men over and above the minimum required to sail and fight the ship; extras provided replacements for battle casualties and could man a prize crew. It was usually desirable to sail a prize into a friendly port rather than tow it in as the ship did not have to leave her station. And then there were the desertions ashore, a common problem throughout the fleet, and perhaps a trifle more frequent on Captain Winston’s ships due to his forthright and, at times, brutal ways.

  “I’m Philip Tice, Bosun. Pick up your dunnage and come with me.” The three American sailors were jerked from their reveries by a very large man in his mid-thirties wearing a blue short-waisted jacket with brass buttons which had not visited their corresponding button holes in some time, and dirty – they might have once been white – nankeen trousers. Hard eyes over a bulbous red nose fixed each of the new Royal Navy recruits in shriveling stare. He was shod in leather shoes, something the men weren’t used to seeing in American merchantmen. Muscular hairy forearms stuck out from the ill-fitting jacket, and one over-large hand – almost a paw – held a short length of twisted rope, stiffened and bound with twine. Biggs had seen a starter before; he recalled Ben Jakes had frequently used one. Somehow, seeing one on a British man of war surprised him. There were to be more surprises for all of them. Tice turned and started forward, continuing to talk to the three over his shoulder.

  “You’ll be assigned to watches, messes, and quarters stations. Learn them, and when you hear the drum beat to quarters get to where you’re s’posed to be as fast as ever you can. You’ll get one time to get lost aboard; after that you’ll find the cat licking your back. Right now, you gots to get down to the surgeon so’s he can check you out – make sure you ain’t diseased or nothin’ and fit for duty on a King’s ship.”

  They followed the bosun forward, along the gangway where, by looking down, they could see some of the starboard eighteen pounders on the weatherdeck below them; he took them down a ladder onto that deck with all its cannon. The first thing any of them noticed was the gloom; amidships, under the gangways it was sunny, but here, under the fo’c’sle, it was dark and it took a while for their eyes to adapt. What little there was filtered in from the open area under the gangways on the spar deck. Long guns lined both sides of the deck,
and most of the eighteen pound iron balls and each gun’s supply of powder bags had yet to be re-stowed. They lay in neat arrangements by several of the guns, and it occurred to the Americans with a sudden and shocking clarity that Captain Winston had been prepared to fire the guns at Anne had there been sufficient provocation. Biggs remembered how the muzzles had looked from Anne when the guns were run out; they looked just as deadly from this end. He had not realized how big they actually were, and how much damage one of those huge iron balls could do to the hull and rigging of a ship, especially if fired from the almost point-blank range at which Orpheus had lain from Anne.

  The group continued forward; Biggs stopped and looked back when he heard a solid sounding thump, followed by a grunt. Tyler, busy gaping at the guns, had walked squarely into the foremast where it passed through the deck. Embarrassed and bruised, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed his blunder. The remaining gun crews and a few powder monkeys had certainly seen, and were enjoying a laugh at his expense. As he ran a hand cautiously over his face and through his shaggy non-descript hair, he silently thanked the heavens that it was dark enough that they could not see his red face! At least his quick exploratory probing had discovered no obvious damage!

  Down the next ladder they went, and Bosun Tice waited at the bottom for them.

  “This is the gundeck, and you’ll sling yer hammocks with yer messmates.”

  The bosun caught the look that passed between the three Americans; if this was the gundeck, why were the guns on the deck above? Biggs shook his head, confused, and nudged Pope.

  “Gundeck, aye. Guns were topside – you see any down here, Pope?”

  “Too dark to see much of anything, but I guess this’d be what we’d call the berthin’ deck. Mind yer head there.”