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

by William H. White

  “Anchor appears to be fouled, sir.” Tice informed the quarterdeck of what was becoming increasingly obvious.

  An eyebrow shot up. “Thank you, Mr. Tice. You may ‘vast heaving for now, but be ready to take a strain as quick as ever you can when I signal you. For now, however, you may give us a little slack, if you please.” Winston knew what he had to do, and while it was a relatively uncommon maneuver, he had successfully done it more than once in his career of command.

  The captain’s face was composed, confident in what he was about to attempt. “Mr. Smosky, we’ll have to sail it out. Haul braces to set the tops’ls on the larboard tack, and let go when you are ready. But we’ll be clewing ‘em up smartly when she starts to swim.”

  “Aye, sir.” He turned and blew his whistle, following it with a bellowed “starboard braces, haul. Tops’ls, lay out and loose. Let fall. Lively now, boys. Tops’l sheets, trim. Bear a hand there.”

  Orpheus’ head fell off to starboard as the tops’ls caught the wind and she began to ease forward.

  “Put your helm down, quartermaster. Mr. Smosky, you may clew up, now, if you please.”

  The orders were given, and the ship, brought up by her helm and the tension on the anchor cable jerked the anchor free. “She’s aweigh, sir. Fiddler, start yer playin’.” Tice wanted to be sure nothing further went awry, and the regular click of the pawls told him that the anchor cable was indeed coming in smoothly. The captain nodded at the sailing master, who again blew his whistle and bellowed.

  “Cast loose the tops’l clewlines. Set the spanker and stays’ls. Stand by the courses. Braces haul. Trim your sheets.”

  Orpheus paid off smartly on the larboard tack. Winston stood by the quartermaster at the helm giving direction.

  “Ease her off a trifle, son. Let her come around smoothly. Feel the wind.” Then louder to Smosky, “Braces haul Mr. Smosky. Mind your sheets. We’ll be comin’ right ‘round. After we’re clear you may let go the courses.” He glanced at the flagship where colorful signal flags were whipping from the hoist on the mainyard. “Mr. Blake. What does the flagship have up? Make ready your response.”

  “Sir, she’s showing our number and ‘well done’, if you please, sir.” Blake didn’t need his book for that one.

  “Very good, Mr. Blake. Kindly acknowledge.” Winston allowed himself the luxury of a barely perceptible smile; the Admiral had obviously seen what he had done and approved of his seamanship. A good beginning for this commission, to be sure, and perhaps a harbinger of things to come. The captain dwelled on that thought for a moment; the smile broadened. He forced himself back to the matters at hand; the smile disappeared, unnoticed by any. This was not the time to bask in small victories.

  The ship was now moving under tops’ls, spanker, jibs and stays’ls toward the harbor entrance. She approached the narrow cut and swung gracefully into it. The cry of the leadsman in the chains floating aft to the quarterdeck showed ample water, and Orpheus followed the twisting channel out of English Harbour with the ebb tide and an easterly fresh breeze billowing her sails.

  As they cleared the channel, the lookout at the foretop hailed the deck.

  “On deck there. Sail ho. Two points off the starboard bow. ‘Pears she might could be Jolie. A brig at any rate.”

  Burns, who had been standing by while the captain took Orpheus to sea, turned to a midshipman who was at the moment unemployed.

  “Mr. Murphy. Step to the maintop and confirm that the ship is in fact Jolie, if you please.”

  The young man ran to the main shrouds and fairly leaped into them, scrambling aloft like a monkey, so eager was he to please. When he arrived at the main yard, he realized he had forgotten, in his haste to get aloft, to bring a glass, and while he could see the brig with his naked eye, he had no hope of making out enough detail to determine if she was in fact Jolie. He turned to the first man he saw on the yardarm.

  “Biggs, quick as ever you can, nip down and get me a long glass. Smartly, now.”

  Biggs nodded at the boy, and looked at Coleman, who smiled his understanding of the youthful midshipman’s plight. Grabbing the main backstay, the topman was quickly on deck and approached Mr. Burns standing on the quarterdeck.

  “Mr. Murphy’s compliments, sir. Seems as if he ain’t brought a glass aloft. Sent me to fetch him one.”

  Burns’ incredulity at his midshipman’s stupidity drew only a long look aloft and a slight shake of his head, but he said nothing and handed Biggs a glass with a leather strap attached at either end. Biggs took it with a mumbled “thank you, sir” and moved quickly to the main shrouds, the glass swung ‘round his shoulders.

  Murphy quickly put the glass to his eye and studied the brig. From the maintop, she was hull up and quite obviously, French-built. Her sweet lines told of a fast ship, able to adequately cope with the mounting seas. He noted she had not shortened down yet and was indeed under a press of canvas. He hailed the deck.

  “She appears to be French-built, sir. Most likely is Jolie. Showing tops’ls and on the larboard tack.”

  Burns waved his acknowledgment and stepped to where the captain was standing by the wheel. Winston nodded his confirmation of the report from the maintop without comment. He stepped forward and spoke to the Sailing Master.

  “We’ll have the courses now, Mr. Smosky, if you please.” He looked aloft and thought for a moment, then added, “and t’gallants as well.” To himself he decided, We could surely give her t’gallants and still eat her up in an hour, two at most, but young Jason Smithfield over there needs to be taught some respect. Youngest lieutenant I ever heard to get promoted to Commander so quick and Master of a fast swimming brig like Jolie.

  “Beg pardon, sir?” Burns appeared beside him with an inquiring look about him. Apparently, the captain was not thinking entirely to himself. He turned to his first lieutenant and smiled thinly.

  “Nothing, Joseph. Merely thinking that this would be young Smithfield’s first taste of an action as captain. I know he distinguished himself as first lieutenant on Amethyst, and saw some successful actions with Captain McCray, but it surely is different being the Master.” Winston balled his hands into fists, resting them on the rail. He looked out over the gray expanse of water and his eyes seemed to be focused on something over the horizon.

  The captain’s expansiveness made Burns open up a little himself, and he shared with Winston something that had been on his mind for some months, now.

  “I am hopin’ we’ll have a large measure of success on this commission, Captain. I need some notable action behind me if ever I’m to see a promotion to my own ship. Young Jason over yonder was in his first midshipman year when I was thinkin’ ‘bout passing for Master’s Mate. Rankles a bit to see him with his own ship, a French built sweet swimmin’ one on top of it. I guess havin’ an uncle in Whitehall helps a bit, too.”

  One bushy eyebrow lifted slightly, then returned to its resting place. “I seem to recall hearing somewhere you had a cousin in a position to give you a boost now and again, Joseph. When word reaches London that we have taken a host of French merchants after capturing or burning their escorts, I am certain your cousin will have no trouble in securing a brig or sloop for you to command yourself. You have only to see to your duties and be certain the ship is ready for whatever may come, and I will recommend you personally to Admiral LaFory.”

  “Thank you, sir. You are most kind. You may count on me.” The conversation was hauled short by the quartermaster coming up to Burns and after touching his forelock with a knuckle, requesting permission to throw the log. The moment ended, and formality returned to the quarterdeck, leaving nothing in its wake of the conversation.

  “Aye. Throw the log, if you please, quartermaster.” Burns watched as the man picked up the reel with the log line wrapped around it. He set the chip askew, made sure the trip line was free, and turned to the boy at the thirty second glass.

  “Are you ready with the glass, boy?” A nod and “aye” confirmed that the timer
was in fact ready. “Stand by to turn.”

  The quartermaster dropped the chip over the side, clear of the turbulence of the wake. As it hit the water, he cried out, “Turn!” and watched the reel as the line spooled off it smoothly. For thirty seconds there was no sound on the quarterdeck as the ritual ran on. Then the boy on the glass said, “Stand by…nip!”, and the quartermaster pinched off the line where it left the reel. Looking at the knots tied into the line, he turned to the officers and announced “nine knots, two fathoms, sir.”

  “She’s moving smartly, Mr. Burns. Keep this course, if you please. Don’t worry about Jolie; she’ll have to keep up as best as ever she can manage. I am going below. You may set the watch and have me called when Amethyst is sighted.”

  With that, Captain Winston turned and left his quarterdeck to his second in command and the starboard watch.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Rendezvous

  The three Royal Navy men of war sailed in company for two full days and nights, waiting for the wind and seas to moderate enough for the captains to heave to and meet on Orpheus. The other frigate, Amethyst had met them on the first afternoon, only slightly later than anticipated, and had fallen in with Jolie and Orpheus, sailing in a ragged line abreast. Winston had determined that a well thought out attack on the French fleet would include using Jolie as decoy, but had not yet been able to gather Captains McCray of Amethyst and Smithfield of Jolie aboard his ship to lay out his plan. The frigates had shortened down to tops’ls and reefed courses to allow Jolie to keep up with them as they headed to the north-northeast in search of the Frenchmen. Lookouts were posted at the topmast trestle trees in all three vessels, and changed hourly to ensure eyes as sharp as ever possible would see the top hampers of the enemy before being seen and the surprise turned into a stern chase.

  Winston had figured they would sight the topmasts of the French fleet on the third day – certainly no later than dawn on the fourth – given the fact that the merchant ships would be unable to maintain the same press of canvas of which a frigate would be capable. Intelligence sent to Antigua on a fast schooner had indicated to the admiral’s staff that the ships had sailed from Martinique three days prior to Orpheus’ departure from Antigua; with the easterly blowing as it had for two days, the French convoy would have likely been heading something south of east before turning north to ensure a clear passage past the British held islands in the Leeward chain. This would give the British ships time to meet their quarry in the deep ocean. It was Winston’s intent to cut them off as they worked their way north, and do it well away from any possible assistance from either French or Spanish warships. Hence, he took his ships north, out into the Atlantic.

  By dawn on the third morning, it was apparent that the wind was moderating as were the seas. Winston knew this before ever he came topside; lying in his swinging cot he could feel the easier motion of his ship and hear the diminished whine of the wind through the masts, yards and rope aloft. He determined that this would be as good a day as any to get the other captains together, and the sooner the better. He went on deck, instinctively glancing aloft as he stepped up onto the quarterdeck. He spoke to no one and walked to his place on the leeward side. He paced fore and aft for some minutes, deep in thought, and then called to Lieutenant Fitzgerald, who had the watch.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald, I shall be in my cabin taking my breakfast. After the crew has been fed, we will signal Amethyst and Jolie to heave to and call the captains aboard. It is my intention to have you and Mr. Blake handle this maneuver without my or Mr. Burns’ comment. Naturally, we both will be close aboard should you have difficulty, but I suspect that you will manage nicely.”

  Without further comment, and leaving a speechless Fitzgerald gaping after him, Winston again glanced aloft and then around his entire domain, missing nothing, and headed below where he expected Cochrane would have his morning meal of coffee, toast, fruit, and pork laid out on the dining table in his cabin. Fitzgerald shook himself and gathered his wits; his brow furrowed in concentration, he spoke sharply to his midshipman.

  “Mr. Blake, kindly check the signals book for the appropriate hoists and have the quartermaster prepare them and hold them at the ready.” He paused, thinking of what else must be must be done. “Pass the word for the gunner.” This to fire the necessary gun to windward to call attention to the signals.

  Shortly, the warrant officer responsible for the guns appeared on the quarterdeck. Midshipman Blake was first to notice him, and started to give him the instructions he felt necessary.

  “That will do, Mr. Blake. I believe I can manage to communicate our needs to Gunner Chase without your assistance.” A stunned midshipman moved back toward the wheel with a quiet “Aye, sir” and covered his astonishment and his embarrassment for his officer by looking aloft. “Mr. Chase, prepare a wind’ard gun for’ard to be fired on my signal, if you please, after the crew has been fed. We will be heaving to directly thereafter, so kindly use no topmen in the gun’s crew.” He turned back to the quarterdeck, indicating the conversation was at an end, and, remembering he needed additional help, spoke to no one in particular, “Pass the word for Mr. Smosky and Mr. Tice.” The men on watch in the waist could be heard calling forward and below for the two warrant officers without whom Lieutenant Fitzgerald had little hope of successfully completing the maneuver the captain had ordered. At that moment, the hands were piped to breakfast, and Lieutenant Hardy appeared on the quarterdeck to relieve Fitzgerald so he could go to the gunroom for his own meal. The watch was turned over, and Fitzgerald left with the admonition “Just keep her full and bye as she goes, Mr. Hardy. The captain wants someone competent on deck to heave to and be on the quarterdeck when the other captains come aboard. Blake and I will return directly.” He turned and walked away, full of himself, and did not see the astonishment which turned to a smile on Hardy’s face.

  The wind had backed to the northeast, and continued to moderate to the point that heaving to became almost redundant, the ships were moving so slowly, but the captain had said “heave to,” and heave to they would. Fitzgerald had returned to the quarterdeck having had his breakfast in the gunroom with the other officers. From the expressions on the faces of his fellow diners when they came topside, he had spent a good part of the meal expressing his thoughts on the captain’s confidence in him, and the obviously greater things that were in store for him as a result. Many of the officers secretly hoped for a disaster that would haul short this troublesome braggart once and for all. He was the kind of man who took all the credit but never the blame, usually finding a scapegoat on whom to lay the credit for his own malfeasance. Fitzgerald turned to Blake, who had also rejoined the watch on the quarterdeck having enjoyed a rather more pleasant breakfast in the midshipmen’s berth with the other mids.

  “Go and tell the captain that I am ready to heave to and signal the other ships, if you please. Be sure to say ‘with Mr. Fitzgerald’s compliments’. Before you go, have the quartermaster standing by with the signal.”

  A quick “Aye, sir” and Blake was gone, first to instruct the quartermaster as directed and then to inform Winston that Fitzgerald was about to heave to the ship. When he returned, he saw the flags flying from the mizzen tops’l yard, and looked forward, expecting to see the gun crew on the forward-most windward gun standing by with the lanyard in hand and the gun run out. They were not, nor were the sail-handlers at their positions aloft or in the waist. Nobody had called them yet, and in spite of the advance notice from the officers, the crew would not be assembled until the quarterdeck gave the word to the warrants and petty officers. First Lieutenant Burns was not in evidence either, and of course, Captain Winston had not yet come on deck. It occurred to Blake that Mr. Fitzgerald might be getting a little ahead of himself, but as he had been chastised before by his lieutenant for making suggestions, he kept his own counsel and waited to see what might happen; he smiled secretly and the gleam in his eye, which he could not hide, did not betray him.

  “They
seem not to see the signal, Blake.” Fitzgerald sounded genuinely perplexed as the other ships continued sailing their course in apparent oblivion to the signal flapping lazily from Orpheus.

  “Perhaps a gun to wind’ard would draw their attention to it, sir.” Blake tried very hard not to sound as if only an idiot would forget something so basic, and Fitzgerald, in his growing angst, took the suggestion at its face value.

  “My God, Blake. Where in the name of all that’s holy is the gunner? He was supposed to be standing by with a ready gun. Pass the word for the gunner…and Mr. Smosky.”

  It was during this outburst that the captain and first lieutenant chose to appear on the quarterdeck; they each smiled inwardly, their faces giving nothing away, and moved to a position where they could observe. It would be unlikely that they would offer assistance as the three ships were virtually hove to already, so light was the wind. The sails were drawing, but had not been spread full since the wind abated, given the plan to stop for the captains’ meeting.

  Warrant Officer Chase appeared in the waist. Fitzgerald saw him before he got to the quarterdeck and bellowed loud enough to be heard clearly all the way to the end of the jib boom, “Mr. Chase, why hasn’t a for’ard gun been fired to wind’ard as I requested?”

  The answer came back at similar volume, “you said, sir, on your signal. You ain’t signaled yet.”

  Fitzgerald turned purple. Blake, the captain, and first lieutenant struggled to suppress grins; the rest of the crew on deck didn’t bother to make the effort. Their response ranged from smiles to outright laughter, which Lieutenant Fitzgerald tried very hard to ignore.

  “You may fire to windward now, if you please, Mr. Chase.” The report of the gun sounded so quickly it was obvious that Chase had followed his earlier instructions and had the gun ready, only awaiting his signal. Since all on deck had heard the exchange between the deck officer and the gunner, the gun’s crew had already moved into position at their gun from the pinrail around the foremast where they had been lounging awaiting the order.