A stout line was heaved ‘round the shroud lanyard and secured in the boat. One of the Americans silently stepped with bare feet over his boated oar and shinnied up to the channel; a small cask filled with black powder was handed up him which he placed carefully between the hull and the lanyards, affixing a length of slow match to its top. After a brief pause, the powder-impregnated cord flared suddenly, then dimmed to a glow. The sailor slid down the line and back into the boat. The forward starboard channel received the same treatment. All remained still.
Silently, Isaac moved the boat still further forward, until his men could reach the anchor cable. A hatchet was produced and made short work of the heavy hawser; it parted and, still unnoticed by the inattentive watchmen, the frigate was free in the confined shallow water of Tavern Creek.
“Isaac! What the hell is that?” One of the men whispered frantically, pointing ashore. A glow was building, lighting the blackness and outlining the trees. True to form, the British raiding party ashore had fired a building, likely belonging to some uncooperative farmer, and would soon be returning to their ship.
“We best be gettin’ ourselves outta here, lads. I ‘spect them marines’ll be headed back quick as you please now they done they’s dirty work. Reckon they’ll be some surprised.” Isaac smiled unseen in the darkness and, as the oars were shipped, steered the boat toward the shoreline and their sloop. A sharp crack, a musket shot, rang out from the deck of the frigate. And a cry.
“Alarm, alarm! Starboard side. Small boat ‘eadin’ off!” A watchman on the frigate had finally looked their way.
“Row, men. They’ve smoked us.” Isaac steered closer to shore, hoping the boat would blend in; but the light of the burning building behind them silhouetted the boat for the Royal Marines firing at them. More shots rent the night, then a crashing boom as one of the swivel guns mounted in the frigate’s fighting top fired. The water around the boat was pocked with falling shot and the oarsman immediately in front of Isaac sighed and slumped over his oar.
Isaac grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and pulled him to the deck. He then took the dead man’s seat and pulled his oar, his hand sticky on it from the man’s blood. An explosion lit up the darkness and covering the rig of the warship briefly in it’s flare.
“That’s the first of ‘em, lads. Keep rowing. It ought to take they’s minds off’n us!” Isaac was delighted to see that one of the charges they had only moments before planted on the frigate’s starboard channels had done its job. The other should be going off soon now and, as more British sailors and marines came on deck, someone was bound to notice that the ship was drifting with the ebbing tide. Still, the more determined of the Royal Marines maintained their fusillade of musketry and their misses pocked the water around the boat. The thump of balls hitting their hull kept the men rowing, not in a panic, but with the steady, rhythmic strokes of seasoned professionals.
Clive Billings, rowing the forward shore-side oar, suddenly screamed and dropped his oar as he clutched at his chest and shoulder. His normal voice sounded like a stuck door being forced; his scream penetrated the senses. His mate picked up the other oar, barely missing a stroke, and resumed pulling, handling both oars until Sam Hay, crouching in the bow, shoved the stricken Billings aside and took over the oar. He spoke sharply to the wounded man.
“Get you aft, Clive, and take the tiller. You ain’t hurt so bad as you cain’t steer. Isaac’s pullin’ an oar. Get goin’. An’ stop that hollerin’! You givin’ them somethin’ to shoot at.” The thought that the Royal Marines on the frigate were aiming at the sound of his voice made Clive immediately cease his “hollerin’ ” and stumble aft to the tiller. In his effort to remain silent, his lips formed a thin line across his face; his head swiveled back to the warship and his eyes darted wildly around, bouncing from the frigate to the dark shoreline, trying to see who had, and might again, shoot at him.
Isaac maintained the pace of their rowing while he, too sought the source of the shot that wounded Billings. It couldn’t have come from the frigate, he reasoned; the angle was wrong. Besides, the marines and sailors on the British ship, lit up brightly from the fire burning amidships, were now likely too busy to worry about the escaping Americans.
Then he heard crashing through the underbrush ashore and, ahead of them, muffled orders, and the sounds of men running, breaking branches and splashing through the shallows. As he twisted his head around to see, a muzzle flash flared dazzlingly for a second, then another, and another. The air hummed as musket balls flew close to the now desperately rowing raiders.
“Steer away! Get further from the shore.” He spoke sharply to the wounded man at the tiller, and the boat swerved toward the middle of the creek. More shots came from shore; thankfully, the Marines on the frigate remained silent, still busy with the fires. Isaac also realized that the boat could well be out of their range by now. The small boat had to be getting close to the sloop and the limited sanctuary it offered.
“Isaac, larboard, man! Steer to larboard!” Tate’s voice rang out over the water, and Clive Billings, his pain forgotten for the moment, pulled on the tiller. The boat responded instantly, and immediately a thunderous crash filled the night. Screams and curses erupted from the trees along the shoreline. It took the men on the boat a moment to realize what had happened.
“Good job, Jake. Hit ‘em again if’n you can!” Isaac bellowed at the sloop and its sole occupant who was manning the diminutive weapon mounted on the forward bulwark. The boat was suddenly alongside, and again the little flared swivel gun crashed. Fire was not returned from the shore.
The men scrambled out of the boat and onto the deck of the sloop; Isaac helped the wounded Billings aboard and then two men handed up the body of their dead shipmate. They cut the boat loose and the men went unbidden to their stations for making sail. In a trice the black sail was up and the anchor cable cut with the same hatchet used on the British cable. The light breeze filled the sail, soon augmented by the jib and stays’l, and the sloop gathered way. Biggs steered her clear of the shoreline and headed for the turn in the creek which would lead them to the Bay, the relative safety it offered, and the ability to set the tops’l. The sloop gathered speed quickly, and soon they were safely hidden in the dark of the Bay. He could still see the glow in the sky from both the burning farmhouse and the lesser fire on the English warship. And behind both, the orange and red harbingers of the sunrise.
CHAPTER TWO
“Maybe you oughtn’t take on a frigate, even a little sixth-rate frigate, by your own self again, Isaac. Might be something we could do as a two-boat expedition. Sounds to me like you come pretty close to gettin’ yourself caught…or dead.” Jack Clements had arrived back at Kent Island the day after Biggs’ sloop had been warped into the dock, returning without further incident, and the two, with Jake Tate and Frank Clark, were enjoying a tankard at the Barking Dog, a block from the Eastern Bay waterfront.
“Jack, that frigate didn’t look ‘little’ to us, I’ll warrant, but you’re likely right; with two boats we could use the second to watch our backs. But I ain’t thinkin’ they’s gonna be too many more chances to get alongside a frigate. Anywhere but out in the Bay, the water’s too thin by half for ‘em. I’d think most of ‘em’ll stay down south of Tangier Island. Whoever that was commandin’ the one I went after must’ve been takin’ some kind o’ chance, goin’ into Tavern Creek like he done. ‘Specially on a tide what could only be ebbin’ when he was ready to get gone.” He paused, took a pull at his mug of ale, and nodded at the young man next to him. “’T’was young Jake, here, saved our arses with that swivel gun. She’s old, but they ain’t much I’d trade for it.” He smiled at Tate, and the one-armed Marylander sat a little straighter and beamed at the praise.
“Well, I’d reckon he done that cuz he figgered wasn’t no way he could sail that sloop back to Kent with but one arm and, without you and them others, that was his choice. Probably was thinkin’ ‘bout Miss Charity over to Frederick Coun
ty pinin’ away for her darlin’ Chauncey.” He winked at Jake, noticed the look the newly-married Bayman threw at him at the mention of his real name, and went on in the same vein. “You ain’t been home more’n once since you two got married up, have you, Jake? Isaac, I’d say you ought to let this cove get along home to his bride. He’s likely got some business to take care of.” All three men were smiling now; Isaac and Clements at Jack’s somewhat ribald humor, and Jake at the thought of spending some time yardarm-to-yardarm with his new bride. The flash of anger at Jack passed as quickly as it came..
Frank Clark sat silently, his gaze, as near as anyone could tell, shifting from Clements to Biggs to Tate as he struggled to understand the past the three men had shared. It bothered him that he would never have the close relationship, the easy camaraderie, these three enjoyed. His broad forehead was furrowed and his wide set eyes alternately danced with pleasure or dimmed in consternation as events from their experiences in the Caribbean or New England were recalled. His mostly bald head was shiny with sweat, and his short pigtail bounced with each nod as he tried in vain to share the relationship his mates had with one another. Under the table, unseen, his fists clenched tightly on his legs.
“I ‘spect we could drop him off in Baltimore when next we go over there. You might get a day or two if’n you step along to your in-laws’.” Isaac aimed a look at Jake who’s smile broadened to split his face. The young man took a long swallow, gathering his thoughts as he did, and looked at the former bosun and his shipmate on the ill-starred USS Chesapeake.
“You surely are right, Jack. I could put up with a day or two at the farm – an’ even with my new in-laws. Got some unfinished business with Charity. Isaac here ain’t given me more’n a day at a time to spend with her since we was married up. Mayhaps I ought to just get on with it. Hear tell lots of coves headin’ home; reckon they figger this war ain’t goin’ nowhere, an’ what’s the use of sendin’ out small boats ‘gainst the Royal Navy.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes were flat; he was only half in jest.
Isaac could not accept that the young man who had been through so much might be in earnest and said hopefully, “I know you’re just trying to rile me up, Jake. You know we’re doin’ real good here. I reckon that frigate we tangled with the other night won’t be fightin’ any too soon. They’ll be re-riggin’ the main shrouds anyway, and likely fixin’ the damage the fires caused.” Biggs paused and shook his head. “I sure would like to know why that for’ard powder keg never went off. That would have really slowed ‘em down. As to sendin’ “small boats” out to fight – I cain’t think of anything else we could be doin’. Sendin’ frigates or even brigs into some of these back waters would give us the same trouble it gives the Royal Navy. We’d be runnin’ aground every time we turned a bend, same as them. I’d wager it took ‘em two tides, maybe more, to get that one from the other night off’n the hard. No sir, we’re doin’ good, and I hear that Commodore Barney’s gunboats down to Virginia are doin’ a fine job, ‘s’well.” He paused, and look hard at Jake. “And you know we need you. They’ll be time aplenty when this is done to sit by the fire and spoon with Miss Charity. But I will let you have a run ashore for a few days. Maybe help to put out some of them fires burnin’ in your belly.”
Jake’s face was alight at the thought of a few days with his new bride, and his smile belied his feigned attention to his companions as his mind drifted off in that direction and the conversation swirled around him. He never had any intention of leaving Isaac and Jack and the rakish sloops. But some time exploring the delights of marriage would be a welcome respite from the risky expeditions that had occupied their time for the past three months. And he thought of Charity’s tears and wails of grief when he told her shortly after their wedding that he would be leaving her to join Commodore Barney’s ‘private navy’. But a man’s got to pull his share, and sailing was the only skill he knew, and the Bay the only place left where he could help the cause.
“…’bout it Jake. Jake?” Clark touched the young man’s shoulder, one eye looking questioningly at him while the other struggled to focus and finally squinted down, eliminating the image of Clements across the table. “You comin’?” Clark stood up, his barrel shaped body looming over the slighter, one-armed figure of his friend. His large hands were no longer balled into fists, but even relaxed he appeared coiled, ready to spring at whatever was in front of him.
“Oh…uh…aye. I’m with you.” Jake stood and finished in one swallow the remains of his tankard. He followed Frank to the door, and Isaac and Jack heard him say as they left, “Where’re we goin’, Frank?”
Jack laughed with Isaac as they watched Clark take Jake by the arm and guide him out the door of the alehouse. The dim room brightened suddenly as the door opened, letting the afternoon sun burst in, illuminating the dust particles and smoke in the air, then just as quickly darkened as Frank closed it in their wake.
“There’s two good men, Isaac. I wouldn’t want to be doin’ this work without either one of ‘em. You really gonna give Jake a run ashore, or was you just puttin’ him off?”
“I said I would, and I will, I reckon. I figger the commodore’ll be sending us out again in a day or two, and we can set him ashore ‘cross the Bay. Maybe we ought to try a run together – see how it works out.”
“Likely might keep your arse from gettin’ shot up or worse were there to be another sloop to help you out – or you me.” Jack nodded seriously at his friend and in his mind the matter was settled: the next time they were ordered out, it would be as a two-boat expedition. His hand moved absently to touch the gold ring in his missing ear; realizing his error, he quickly pulled his hand away and lifted his tankard for a long draught.
“Say, Isaac. Join me on the sloop; I have something to show you.” Jack stood, and Isaac, with a questioning look at his former shipmate, rose from his chair finishing his ale as he did so.
As the pair approached the pier where the two sloops and a variety of other craft were tied, they each commented again on the fine job the British had done in building it, and how considerate it was of them to abandon it last Summer when they left Kent Island, ultimately leaving the Bay, except for a small force left at Lynnhaven, by year’s end. As they neared Clements’ sloop, they could hear the deep and insistent barking of a dog – a large dog from the sound of its bark.
“That dog sounds like it’s on your vessel, Jack. I never knew you had much time for animals.” Isaac looked at Clements who just smiled and continued walking. The barking became more insistent.
As they came abreast of the second sloop in Commodore Barney’s flotilla, Isaac could see a huge gray dog straining at a chain which connected him to the lower mast. In spite of the constriction of the rope tied around the beast’s neck, his barking was undiminished, and he lunged against the chain, baring fangs and pawing at the air with great forepaws. His hackles stood up along his back, from his huge head all the way to the top of his long tail. Isaac stopped dead in his tracks.
“If that’s what you wanted to show me, Jack, I’ll be happy to look from here. That ain’t nothin’ I want to get any closer to. Why you’d want a beast like him on board I cain’t imagine, ‘specially since movin’ with some silence is important to what we do.”
“Oh, he’s quiet when I tell him to be, an’ he likely won’t hurt you none, long as I’m right here. Come on aboard; I’ll show you.” And with that, Clements stepped aboard the vessel and went up to the dog which immediately became quiet. “That’s a good boy, Carronade. Come on, Isaac. Lookee here; he’s tame as ever could be. Just put out your hand so’s he can sniff it.”
“What’d you call him, Jack? Carronade? What kind of a name is that for a dog?” Isaac, while aboard the sloop, remained safely out of range of the beast’s chain.
“Aye, Isaac. Carronade it is. Not much good at any kind of range, but close aboard, he’s a smasher, by God.” The tall good natured captain laughed as he always did when asked to explain the dog’s name, then
he became more serious. “An’ he’s got damn fine ears; better than mine, anyway – ‘specially seein’s how he’s still got two of ‘em! He don’t carry on like he done when we’re close in. Just growls some when he hears something. I reckon he can smell an Englishman from a league an’ more.” Jack scratched the huge animal lovingly behind one floppy ear, and the dog, his eyes half closed and clearly enraptured, leaned easily against the former bosun’s leg.
Isaac approached warily, his hand tentatively outstretched for the dog to sniff – or help himself to a piece of; he watched the dog’s eyes, now open and alert, for an indication of which it might be. Jack spoke softly to him and Carronade smelled the proffered hand disinterestedly and looked adoringly at his master.
“Go ahead, Isaac. Pet him some. He ain’t gonna hurt you. Now he knows you’re a friend.”
Gradually, Biggs let his hand rest on top of the dog’s head and, when there was no reaction from Carronade, patted him nervously. Isaac smiled. “I sure am glad he’s on our side, Jack. I’d hate to try an’ get aboard this vessel if’n he didn’t want me to.” He withdrew his hand, clasping both behind his back. No sense in taking further chances. “Where’d you find him?”
“Got him last time out, I did. Found him tied to a wagon an’ left. Reckon the British raidin’ party musta catched him and were takin’ him aboard the brig we found down toward the lower part of Talbot County. When we run ‘em off, they just left him, and I figgered he might be a good addition to my crew. Seemed to take to me right off, an’ here we are.” He looked at the dog and smiled. “Ain’t that right, Carronade. You’d sooner be bitin’ them redcoats than.…” He never finished the sentence, interrupted as he was by a rider on a sweat-streaked horse who stopped his dash down the pier at the sloop.
The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy Page 2