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

by William H. White

  “Topmen aloft!” The order jolted Biggs, who had been heaving on his part of the gun tackle in a rhythm set by the rest of his crew. He whacked Coleman on the head to get his attention, pointing to the maintop. The two leaped for the ratlines and scrambled to their sail handling station. Six other maintopmen appeared, and when questioned as to the whereabouts of their fellows, only shook their heads mutely.

  “Standby to board!” The command could be clearly heard now that some of the firing had died down. The Marines and their muskets at the fighting tops were targets for the French marksmen, and musket balls whizzed by the topmen as they moved to the outer end of the main yard waiting for the main yard on the Frenchman to come within reach. Once that occurred, they would secure the two yards together, ensuring that the ships would not drift apart, even if the ropes securing the decks together were cut.

  “Boarders away!” Biggs grabbed for the bitter end of the French foretops’l yard as it came within his reach. Coleman handed him a length of line, and the two men quickly tied the spars together. As Biggs finished his task, he glanced forward in time to see one of the British foretopmen catch a musket ball square in the face, and plummet silently to land athwart the two ships’ bulwarks, an all too clear reminder of the accuracy of the French marksmen. All of a sudden his own mortality became apparent and Biggs clambered in from the end of his yardarm to the fighting top in an effort to at least put some distance between himself and the French marksmen. Coleman followed close behind.

  From his now less exposed perch, Biggs watched below as First Lieutenant Burns led the boarding party over the bulwark at the waist, landing on the French deck, sword in hand. From their position aloft, the topmen could see that the French had suffered more severely than the men of Orpheus; the decks were red with blood, and a significant number of bodies lay strewn about the deck – most exactly where they fell. He was most surprised by the number of disembodied limbs, clearly visible from the maintop. The boarding party split almost immediately upon gaining the French deck; one group, led by Lieutenant Burns headed aft for the quarterdeck, and the other, led by Lieutenant Hardy dealt with the men in the waist of the ship. Pikes, bayonets, and cutlasses swung, clanging on opposing weapons, and often landing with a soft thud on exposed flesh. The guns were silent now, their crews engaged in hand-to-hand combat. As he watched, Biggs saw Burns engaged with a French officer at the rise of the quarterdeck. When the Frenchman, backing up, stumbled, Burns took the opportunity to slash him and moving quickly, stepped over him and onto the quarterdeck of the now severely damaged brig.

  “Smoke from the Frenchy!” Coleman bellowed to the deck. He wanted to be sure that any officers still aboard Orpheus saw the smoke; if it was emanating from anywhere near a magazine and spread, the resulting explosion would not only sink the Frenchman, but would also sink Orpheus as surely as would a fire in her own magazines. Lieutenant Fitzgerald heard the warning and saw the smoke, but there was little he could do save to be sure the captain was aware. He started back to the quarterdeck with this in mind. Coleman and Biggs watched from the maintop as the portly, red-faced and powder-grimed lieutenant hurried in his unique lumbering gait down the deck, stepping over fallen men and equipment. He reached the ladder to the spar deck and was half way up when suddenly, he stopped. He looked up, a startled look on his face, and pitched over backwards to the deck below, where he lay unmoving and silent, his blood pooling on the deck under his head and shoulders, victim of a Marine sharpshooter in the French foretop.

  Lieutenant Burns, a spent pistol in one hand, his sword in the other, was handling himself with skill on the French quarterdeck; he had dispatched two officers, and was continuing to work his way aft, when a cry went up from half a dozen voices at once.

  “She strikes! She’s struck!” He looked up at the spar, hastily rigged to the quarterdeck taffrail when the main went by the boards, on which the French had attached their colors, and saw that the French tricolor had indeed been struck, cut down by someone’s sword stroke and was hanging over the stern rail. Whether the halyard was cut by a Frenchman or Englishman was neither known nor did anyone care; the fighting ground to a halt, and the captain, knowing that to continue was fruitless, walked to Lieutenant Burns and offered him his sword.

  “Sir, I am Captain Jean Faitoute, commander of the brig Toulon. My ship can no longer fight. I offer you my surrender with the wish that what remains of my crew will be treated ‘onorably and those who need it will be provided with medical attentions.”

  “I can not accept your sword, sir. I would be honored to accompany you and any of your officers you wish to bring to Orpheus and Captain Winston, where arrangements can be made to assist your surgeon should help be needed. I fear we should move as quick as ever you please, though, sir, as I believe your ship is afire.” Burns’ words caused the French captain to look forward over the length of his ship, and having quickly assessed the situation, he nodded to the Englishman and gave a series of commands to what remained of his crew. Burns’ concerned look and tensioning of his sword arm produced a slight smile on the captain’s face, and a comment in his heavily accented, but proper English.

  “Do not fear, sir. I ‘ave not told my crew to take up arms again. Only to extinguish the fires if they can do so. Let us go and see your Captain ‘Ween-ston’.”

  Burns led the way and the French captain, accompanied by his senior lieutenant, slightly wounded, made their way slowly forward. All the while, the two French officers surveyed the damage to their once proud ship, talking quietly to each other as they pointed out particularly devastating carnage. They reached the amidships area and climbed across what was left of the bulwarks to the British ship, where Captain Winston, having seen them coming, greeted them cordially at the waist.

  “I welcome you aboard His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Orpheus, sir. I am Harry Winston, commanding. My surgeon is at your disposal. I would suggest that delay in getting your men aboard my ship would be imprudent as it would appear that your ship is afire, and should it reach the magazine, we all should be in dire straits. I give you my word that your officers and crew will be treated kindly as long as they behave themselves.” Winston’s face remained unsmiling and impassive, but his eyes darted between Faitoute and the burning brig.

  Flames were now visible, and once the remaining sails caught, the conflagration would be unstoppable. Men of both nationalities were moving rapidly to the British ship, and soon the decks were quite crowded. The wounded French were removed to the orlop deck where the hospital was set up, and both captains knew they would be treated not according to their nationality, but to the severity of their wounds.

  The lines securing the ships together were cut free, and as the burning brig drifted off, aided by her remaining but untended sails, Captain Winston gave orders to his men to ease Orpheus up, sheeting sails as necessary and get some distance between the British frigate and the mortally wounded Frenchman. He called for Gunner Chase.

  “Have the larboard guns sink her, Mr. Chase, if you please. A broadside or two at her waterline should answer nicely, I think.” During the relative quiet after the battle, Winston had heard the continuous clanking of his own pumps as men labored to keep ahead of the sea entering their hull through what were probably shot holes, or at least weakened planks. Sending the gunner on his way he called out, “Pass the word for the carpenter.”

  As the ship’s carpenter showed up on the quarterdeck, the larboard guns spoke; the range was not quite point blank, but still close enough at half a mile so that most of the shots found their mark. Winston quietly watched the burning frigate as the iron hit home, quite oblivious to the warrant awaiting his attention. A second volley was fired, and she began to list to windward, taking on water in her badly damaged hull. To a seaman, watching the death of a fine ship was always cause for sadness, regardless of the vessel’s nationality. Suddenly, the captain realized that the carpenter was standing nearby, waiting to be recognized.

  “Ahem, ahh, yes…how i
s our own damage Mr. Lacey? What of the water level?” Winston cocked an eyebrow expectantly.

  “We are holding our own with the pumps, sir. About two and a half feet in the forward hold, but not rising. Aft there’s a trifle more, but the pumps seem to be keeping up with it, sir. If the weather don’t make up any, we’ll manage, and with luck, get the holes plugged. She’s took some hits larboard side low, but I’ve a crew working on ‘em now.” The normally taciturn man had spoken more at one time than most had heard him do before, but the captain did not notice, so intently was he watching the French brig in her death throes.

  “Very good, Mr. Lacey. Keep at it, and let me know…” The explosion cut off his sentence, and for the moment, his thought. The burning brig’s magazine had evidently been touched by the flames, and the resulting detonation was terrific. The foremast of the ship went straight up forty or fifty feet before it lazily toppled over and fell with a silent splash into the water. The center of the ship heaved upwards, buckling and releasing sheets of flame which immediately ignited any remaining deck furniture. The fire on deck was short-lived; the main thrust of the explosion had ripped out her bottom, and most every head on Orpheus, French and English alike, watched silently as what was left of the frigate rolled over and sank. The only sound was the sizzling as the ocean quenched the fires, and quickly the sea resumed its timeless motion as though there had never been a proud ship disturbing the waves. Bits of wood and rigging floated to the surface, a testimony belying the sea’s apparent emptiness. The bosun stepped onto the deck and without waiting for recognition, cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Sir. The larboard shrouds on the lower foremast been mostly shot away. I’ve some men working on ‘em, but I do not think she’ll stand the strain of a larboard tack until we’ve rigged new ‘uns. The forecourse is shot full of holes, and we need to bend on a new un. Likewise the forestays’l and main upper stays’l.” Tice’s jacket was torn and spattered with blood. His forearm showed a gash extending beyond the blood-soaked handkerchief tied around it, the result of a splinter which, while obviously painful, Tice ignored.

  “Very good, Mr. Tice. See to it, if you please. And you might let the surgeon have a look at that arm when you’ve a moment. We will hold on this course for now, but I will need to wear soon if ever we’re to take those merchants. And heaven only knows what has happened to Jolie and Amethyst.” His words and tone gave credence to the urgency of his need to finish this action. Turning to his second in command, he continued.

  “Mr. Burns. Take Captain Faitoute to your cabin. You will move into Mr. Fitzgerald’s cabin until we return to Antigua. Make room for his officers as best you can.”

  Jean Faitoute bowed at the waist to Captain Winston and acknowledged his hospitality.

  “Sir. I am most grateful for your ‘ospitality, but before I go with Lieutenant Burns, I should like to ‘ave a word with my doctor as to the condition of my crew. Would you be kind enough to ‘ave ‘im sent for.” Winston nodded at midshipman Blake, who had heard the exchange and immediately went off in search of the French doctor.

  Orpheus was now sailing large on a course which would never in life close with the rest of the French squadron, and Winston was concerned. He summoned Smosky and when the Russian sailing master arrived, the captain said, “We must wear ship if ever we are to catch the merchants. Mr. Tice’s men will not be done any time soon with the larboard shrouds; furl all sails for’ard of the mainmast, save the inner jibs and set main and mizzen t’gallants. As quick as ever possible, if you please. We will wear the very instant the foremast is no longer in danger of falling.”

  Smosky left, calling out orders as he moved forward. His place on the quarterdeck was taken by two doctors, one British and one French. The latter, his bare arms red with blood spoke in rapid French to his captain. The other waited as Winston saw his orders to Smosky were being carried out.

  “What is the butcher’s bill, Doctor? And what of the Frenchmen?”

  “We have ten dead as of now, sir. There are a few others what won’t make it to dark. The wounded number over thirty, and range from crushed feet and hands to bullets what got to be dug out. As to the French, I can’t say. Their own doctor has been taking care of them, and has not yet asked for any help from us.”

  “Very well. I will be down to the orlop deck straight away. Offer any assistance to the French medico, if you please. Inform the sailmaker we shall need shrouds. I expect there will be more before this day is out.”

  Another voice caused the captain to turn; he smiled inwardly as he listened to Bosun Tice.

  “We’ve got the foremast secured, sir. All the sail is furled and I ‘spect we’ll have some shrouds rigged to larboard within an hour or two. Meantime, I had ‘em rig some temporary cables; they won’t hold no sails yet, no sir, but they’ll surely hold that mast up, by my eyes.”

  “Very good Mr. Tice. Keep the men working.” He raised his voice, his eyes searching out the sailing master. “Mr. Smosky, the bosun tells me the foremast is secure. Kindly wear ship.”

  Following his “Aye, sir”, Smosky issued orders which would cause the ship to swing her stern through the wind’s eye, maintaining her headway and sailing off in pursuit of the French merchantmen, and Jolie. Yards were braced around, the spanker reset, and, after she was full and bye on her new heading, studdings’ls were added to the main and maintops’l yards. Orpheus fairly flew across the wind, returning to her previous course, but now without her foresails and jibs. With the ship on the larboard tack, the foremast would never stand the strain of sails until strong new shrouds were run from the foretop, through the deadeyes, and secured with lanyards to the channels outside the hull of the ship. Additionally, the twelve-pound ball lodged in the lower part of the foremast required attention, and the carpenter would sister timbers to the mast, strengthening the spar so that it could take the strain of wind and weather. With a new forecourse bent on to the yard, and human damage notwithstanding, Orpheus would be nearly whole before she saw more action.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A Blessing in Disguise

  “Sail! Sail broad on the larboard bow.” The lookout in the maintop hailed the deck, and was immediately joined by a midshipman with a long glass sent up from the quarterdeck to determine the identity of the newly sighted vessel. Amethyst had not as yet joined her sister, and the hope was this would be she.

  “Deck there. Hull and rig appears to be French. Under shortened sail…rigged with a jury foremast…no colors yet.” Midshipman Murphy put the long glass up to his eye again, waiting to see if the French ensign would break out from the mizzen. The quarterdeck waited less patiently, and there was a quiet on deck, as the hands wondered if they were about to do battle again. The strange ship was in the wrong place to be the remaining escort for the merchant ships and there were no other sails on the horizon.

  “French colors it is they’re showing now, sir.” Murphy called to the deck. A pause of several moments, then, “wait…they’re taking it down.” Questioning glances were cast to windward as the sails of the ship became more and more visible from deck. No flag could be made out from the quarterdeck and Murphy’s cry had begun a delayed reaction, with the ship again beating to quarters and clearing for action. Barely had the crew repaired the damage from their first engagement, fixing hull and knotting and splicing rigging, and the new forecourse was still being bent to the yard. The ship could fight, but the lack of the sail would put them at a disadvantage both in maneuvering and speed. The stranger continued to close with Orpheus.

  “Mr. Burns, we will come up some. While I can’t hope to gain the weather gauge on her, we will be in a better position to defend ourselves without exposing our entire larboard side. See if you can encourage the sailmaker and bosun to bear a hand with that forecourse.” Then to the mid standing near at hand, “Pass the word for Mr. Chase, if you please.”

  The gunner showed up almost at once and Winston instructed him to have all the guns aim high, and fire at the top
of the roll. This to damage the Frenchman’s already damaged rigging, hopefully to take down another mast, completing what Amethyst had apparently begun. Chase hurried off to ensure his gunners mates were told and the larboard battery was loaded and run out.

  “What ho, masthead?” Winston yelled to the midshipman still perched in the fighting top of the mainmast.

  “Something’s going on on the quarterdeck, sir. Wait, sir, they’re running up another flag…it’s the British ensign, sir, and the French one’s right below it.”

  “Stand easy, Mr. Chase.” The captain’ voice and the relief it contained could be heard fore and aft. “Mr. Burns, unless I am greatly and sadly mistaken, that is McCray in the Frenchman; he has taken her as a prize. Mr. Murphy, do you see Amethyst anywhere?”

  “No sir. Nothing to wind’ard.”

  As he spoke, the French ship bore off, and paralleled Orpheus’ course about half a league off. Flags broke out at the mizzen jackyard, and a gun fired to windward, unnecessarily drawing attention to them. Burns had a glass to his eye and called out the flags. Lieutenant Hardy translated.

  “‘Amethyst burned’,” he read, “‘French frigate under my command. McCray’.”

  This revelation triggered a flurry of commands from Winston, who settled quickly on a plan of action, realizing that the turn of events was indeed a blessing, though a costly one.

  “Ease your sheets and braces. Your course is east a half north, Mr. Burns. While it appears that McCray has lost his ship, we can use this French frigate to our advantage in the balance of our commission. Bring us closer yet, if you please. Stand by to lower the blue cutter. I shall go aboard and assess his situation and explain my plan to him. You will continue on this course under tops’ls until I return. Mr. Tice, call my coxswain, if you please, and have the cutter ready at the waist.”

  A string of orders emanated from the quarterdeck, preparing the cutter for launching and shortening sail. This latter called the topmen from their quarters stations and sent them aloft at the run, to furl the reefed main course, the forecourse not yet being ready for use, and get the t’gallants handed fore and aft and their poles struck below.