The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy

by William H. White

  “Sorry Jack. I couldn’t holler at you with that brig right there. Figgered they might not have seen us yet and we just wore around and went up the back side of Tilghman’s. Jake knew they was a cut there and some kinda channel ‘long the shoreline. Reckon they missed us completely, lookin’ at us like they was with the trees behind us. An’ it was pretty dark that night, as I recollect, too. We…”

  Jack jumped in enthusiastically. “Aye, we headed up towards Tilghman’s ‘s’well. Clark had us in a channel off the end of the island – right there by Black Walnut Point, it was. But after the brig took the bottom, we come back out into the Bay easy as kiss my hand, only ‘bout a league, maybe a bit more, from where we started. What kept you? Since I didn’t hear no firin’ I knew you wasn’t tangling with ‘em an’ I figgered you’d show up down here ‘bout the same time as me.” All the while Jack was chatting with his friend, he patted his big dog who sat by the bulwark, his huge head resting on it. The dog’s eyes were closed and he was quite obviously at peace with everyone, including Isaac who was quite happy to have half a boat length of open water between them.

  The two men continued to chat, each occasionally casting a glance toward the mouth of the creek. They could see quite clearly the masts of the British frigate, but there was no sign of the small boats and, so far, neither the brig Jaseur nor the schooner St. Lawrence had made an appearance.

  Suddenly, Carronade’s eyes snapped open and he lifted his head from the bulwark. Clements smoothed the fur on the back of the dog’s neck as the familiar, low, throaty growl started and Carronade swiveled his head around, finally settling on the shore about a musket shot distant. The growl changed to a snarl, then a bark.

  “They’s some British troops yonder, Isaac. I’d bet my life on it. Carronade ain’t missed yet.” Both men peered at the high shoreline looking for some movement behind the trees. A flash of red caught Isaac’s attention.

  “There…yonder just inside the tree line there. D’you see that. A red coat…and there’s another. By the Almighty, Jack, that dog o’ yours is right keen.”

  Others had seen the British marines as well and the commodore gave orders to “hold your fire ‘til we see what’s actin.”

  “Lookee yonder. Flames. Them English bastards set a fire up yonder.” One of the barge sailors noticed the glow before it turned into a well-defined fire. Still the commodore would not let the gunboats or barges open fire. “They’s some American militia up yonder. Wouldn’t do no good to fire into them. Wait’ll you can see them red coats clear. ‘Sides, them fires ain’t hurtin’ us.”

  “They’s on t’other side too. Can see them red coats o’ their’n plain as day up on the top o’ the bank yonder.” One of the gunboat sailors on the west side of the creek hollered out to no one in particular.

  “They’re just tryin’ to get us out o’ here, men. Hold your fire ‘til you got something to shoot at.” Barney’s shouted orders could be well heard by both ends of his line. A musket shot rang out from the near shore and one of the bargemen screamed and fell in the water.

  Immediately two twelve-pounders spoke and the men could hear the grape shot smashing through the underbrush. Barney bellowed out to “Hold your fire, damn it. Ain’t nothin’ to shoot at up there.”

  An unseen voice from one of the boats answered. “That ‘nothin’’ just shot me mate, damn ‘em. Don’t you tell us we cain’t shoot.” Another cannon roared and vegetation ashore fell before the onslaught. And the fire set on the eastern bank brightened.

  Suddenly, the banks of the creek erupted in musket fire punctuated with the deeper crack of a small artillery piece. Sounds of a body of men crashing through the brush filtered down amid the cacophony of guns, and then silence. A cheer went up from the banks, first the eastern and then western bank followed suit.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on up there? Who’s doin’ all the hollerin’?” Voices rose from the anchored flotilla, its men frustrated by the tall trees and scrub growth that hampered their vision of the banks. Other voices echoed the concerns up and down line of boats.

  “Hold your fire, lads. Wait‘ll we see what’s actin’ yonder.” Barney was still concerned about shooting into the Maryland militia unit stationed above him. Without warning, a British marine stepped brazenly through the trees, appearing plainly to all below.

  “You sods in the boats! Lay down your arms and give it up. Your militia ‘as run off. You’ve no chance of escaping or stopping…”

  His arrogance was cut off mid-sentence by a well aimed musket from one of the barges. The shot was followed immediately by a barrage of grape and canister from half a dozen cannon. The underbrush exploded in the fusillade and screams from the high bank spoke eloquently of the accuracy of the fire. The men in the creek were further rewarded with more sounds of men crashing willy-nilly through the underbrush. Only this time, the sailors were sure the runners were British. Excited chatter spread across the line of anchored boats. “We got ‘em, by God. We done ‘em some dirt.”

  Time passed and the men quieted down, waiting in uneasy anticipation of what the future might hold for them. Occasional nervous laughter broke the silence as the heat of the day began to build. The sun stood overhead, beating down on the men, adding to their discomfort. Some slept, others ate some of their rations, and still others stood staring, shifting their glances from the banks of the creek to the top hamper of the frigate, still clearly visible through the trees at the creek’s entrance.

  “Boats comin’ in.” One of those unable to find a patch of shade in which to lie down hollered out. No sooner were the words out of his mouth when the bright sky was streaked with white smoke trailing behind the red glow of rockets and Barney’s flotilla was again under attack. This time from a barrage of Congreve rockets. Their courses were erratic and no one, including the British gunners, had any idea of where they might fly. Which made them all the more dangerous.

  Men leaped to their stations, instantly awake, as the rockets snaked through the air across the line of boats. Guns were run out; those with ball shot had their loads drawn and replaced with grape, not an easy task to accomplish while trying to keep one’s head below the low bulwarks of the barges and gunboats. One unfortunate soul stood erect – only for a moment to see how close the enemy had gotten – and took a rocket right through his chest. He stood a moment longer, the clothes and his flesh around the wound smoking from the rocket’s fire, then fell back into the arms of his mates. The startled look on his face faded as he died. A transparent wisp of smoke issued from the man’s chest, and disappeared into the barely perceptible breeze.

  Still unable to bring their guns to bear, Barney’s flotilla remained silent; the men and officers were frustrated with their inability to defend themselves and tempers flared. Joshua Barney’s voice rose above the melee. “Keep your heads down, lads. They’re only tryin’ to draw us out where that frigate yonder can bear on us. Them rockets’ll do us little…”

  His encouraging speech ended abruptly, cut off as it was by a deafening explosion; one of the American barges carrying half a ton of powder and nearly seventy men blew up, raining matchwood on the others along with bits of their mates. The sudden silence was complete; even the rockets seemed to fly silently overhead. Then a cry from the eastern end of the line of anchored boats: “I got ‘em. I can bear…FIRE, DAMN IT!”

  And fire they did; not just the one or two boats which actually could bear on the rocket launching British, but the entire eastern end of the line. The thunder roared out from the carronades and long guns, spewing fire and shot, but mostly canister and grape. The British vessels withdrew, seemingly unharmed.

  As the day waned and darkness fell, it became clear there would be no further attack; Barney had called his key captains to the meeting in a shed he had found ashore and appropriated for his temporary headquarters.

  “I reckon he ain’t real pleased with what we done. I ‘spect I’m likely one of them he’s gonna fire a broadside at since it was my lads wha
t fired off all three guns at nothin’.” Jared Talbot, for all his huge size and menacing looks seemed genuinely contrite. He fixed the two deep-water men with his one eye – the other was just a scar running down his cheek to his chin – and absently cut a finger nail with the sheath knife which normally resided in the back of his trousers, almost touching the leather-tied plait of hair hanging down Talbot’s back. The knife, a substantial piece of steel, looked puny in the man’s great paws.

  Biggs and Clements nodded and kept walking up the hill toward the small cabin, not wanting to irritate this giant of a man who happened to be holding a knife. Carronade trotted silently at his master’s side, occasionally pausing to sniff this tree or that, and sprinkling those he felt deserving.

  It was Jake Tate, walking with Frank Clark and another gunboat captain a step behind, who spoke up. “You wasn’t the onliest one, Cap’n. They was at least half a dozen, mayhaps more, what fired. I just wish the commodore’d do something to get us outta here…that or send us home. That would suit me just fine; I got a young bride waitin’ on me up to Frederick. We sure as hell ain’t doin’ nothing useful settin’ here takin’ British fire.”

  The men drew abreast of the shack as the conversation ended and Barney, outside to greet them, had quite obviously heard the remark.

  “Mister Tate, those ships out yonder may be keepin’ us bottled up in this damn creek, but they ain’t out on the Bay attackin’ our ships or raidin’ the coastline. So while we ain’t exactly bringin’ ‘em to their knees, we are keepin’ ‘em busy. And I’d warrant that seventy-four yonder would be a trial for ‘em up the Bay. Those’re the things I got to think about, not whether or not you young rascals is gettin’ your share of the fightin’. Now come in, sit down, and let me tell you what’s actin’, and what I think we might do. And Cap’n Clements, I reckon that animal might be happier stayin’ outside.” Barney turned and walked into the gloom of the cabin without a backward glance.

  The captains and mates followed. As did Carronade who decided at once that the corner close by the door would suit him perfectly. He stretched himself out along the wall where he could watch the room and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “…and the militia gonna be here within a week. Likely bring a field piece or two with ‘em as well.” Barney was explaining the steps he had taken to get the flotilla out of St. Leonard Creek and, realizing that they should be listening, Isaac turned away from the storm and Jack from his recollections of the previous weeks and gave their commodore their attention.

  “I ‘spect them bastards’ll try some other tactic to get us outta the creek sooner than later and, when them militia lads get themselves down to the point, I’d warrant they’ll give ‘em a right warm reception. Ha!” Barney seemed quite sure of the several plans he had developed and now all that remained was for the British to try another foray into the confines of the creek. After the militia was in position.

  “You men want to wait up here outta the weather, you’re welcome; or go back to your vessels. And take the animal with you, if you please, should your choice be goin’.”

  Jack Clements, an oiled canvas hat pulled low over his forehead, was first out of the door; without a word from his master, Carronade stood up, shook himself mightily head to tail, stretched and, without a backward glance, followed Clements into the wet night. Biggs, Tate, Clark, and the others shrugged into their tarpaulin jackets and stepped out, their shoulders hunched against the downpour.

  “And remember you men, no wild firin’ of your guns. You ain’t independent units no longer an’ I’ll tell you when to shoot. And at what.” From the cabin door, Barney hurled a final reminder at his captains, knowing it would be passed along to the others quicker and with more impact than had he told them himself. No one had been singled out for reprimand when they arrived, contrary to Captain Talbot’s suspicions. It was not Barney’s style.

  By dawn, the storm had passed, the wind changed, and the sun popped into a cloudless sky with little fanfare. The gunboats, barges, and sloops were warped around to keep their gun barrels pointed fair. Then the crews settled down to wait for their antagonists to make another move. The day proved to be even hotter than had its predecessors and the men suffered, as much from the waiting as from the heat. Captains found busy work for their crews to do while lookouts kept wary eyes on the lofty spars of the frigate still visible over the trees.

  Even the breeze was hot and did little to temper the June sun in the south Chesapeake; deck seams oozed their tar and the men drew buckets of the creek water to cool the decks, even temporarily. As the heat built to a shimmering crescendo at midday and the crews were called to their dinners, faint music could be heard wafting through the tress. Being as far out of context as it was, it got attention, and those who had not heard it at first were shushed by their mates until all hands were listening intently. Then the cries went up.

  “There they are!”

  “They’re comin’ in again.”

  “The bastards’re playin’ music, for the love o’ Mike!”

  And indeed they were; a small squadron of boats came around the point and hove into sight, each flying flags and pennants, and the first, carrying a band in full cry. But they were beyond the range of Barney’s guns, and were not themselves firing.

  “Hold men…stand by your anchors…look to your matches…NOW! By the Almighty, FIRE!” Barney’s boats opened fire at the same moment the British barges did and the crashing and roaring of the cannons and carronades was horrendous.

  The air was filled with iron; the British added some rockets to the mix and a barge took one aboard, immediately starting a fire. From its neighboring vessel, an officer leaped over the bulwark and smothered the flames before they could get started; it was Commodore Barney’s son who had managed to douse the fires before they reached the barge’s store of powder and any more serious damage was caused.

  “Up your anchors! Sails and oars! Attack! Attack!” Barney had considered his action and it appeared the British might be yielding to his fire power; at least no longer were they approaching the American line. An aggressive American move might convince whoever was in charge of the squadron of boats that there was naught to be gained by pressing home their attack.

  The American sailors and captains, long held in check and eager beyond words, had their vessels underweigh in a trice. Many simply cut their anchor cables and rowed or sailed straight toward the wavering British line, guns firing chain, grape, and ball shot. The crews were filled with the rush of action, responding to orders with efficiency and alacrity. In moments, the entire flotilla was rushing pell-mell straight at the British boats.

  Barney’s move worked; with a shout barely heard over the din of the battle, the orders were given and the British turned tail and ran, rowing as fast as ever they could aiming to get under the guns of the larger ships anchored at the mouth of St. Leonard Creek. The Americans kept pace, maintaining their fire. Their enthusiasm was now fed by the desperation of the British retreat and their own barrage of cannonading. And the band was now silent, their instruments dropped in the bilges while their owners lent a hand on the oars.

  As the American boats turned the point of the creek, the crews saw the schooner they had last seen on the hard a week and more before.

  “Isaac! Bear off. That schooner is the St. Lawrence.” Jake Tate standing, as was his habit in the bows of the sloop, shouted his warning back to Biggs. But the sloop pressed on, the gunboats, barges and Clements’ sloop keeping pace. St. Lawrence opened her own fire as the Americans came into range of her six- and eight-pounder cannon.

  The gunboats shifted their fire to the schooner at once with a devastating accuracy, while the sloops and some of the barges continued to hammer the British boats still within range. The British boats and crews were in total disarray and suffered heavily from the accurate American fire.

  And the St. Lawrence was being overwhelmed by the shot she received. Her hull was holed in several places and her
rig all ahoo; the mains’l gaff hung listlessly down, its halyards shot away and once again, her jib boom had carried away. But still she kept firing. And many of her hastily laid shots told. Several American barges and one of the gunboats felt the weight of British iron, and slowed or withdrew from the contest completely. But the damage to the British vessel had been done; in their haste to get out of the range of the American gunboats, she again took the ground, and her crew, realizing they had little recourse, abandoned the schooner.

  The other American boats continued to press home their attack, both against the boats and the St. Lawrence. In their focused effort, none in the American vessels noticed the taller spars of the Loire frigate and Jaseur moving behind the trees on the point of St. Leonard Creek. They announced their presence with the throaty roar of eighteen- and twenty-four-pounder cannon as they hove into view and rounded up to unmask their broadsides while remaining in the deeper waters of the Patuxent.

  Barney saw immediately the potential for a disaster. Indeed, the newcomers’ ranging shots were shockingly accurate. And both vessels were launching their boats; red-coated Marines could be seen clambering down the ships’ sides into them. He realized that he had led his flotilla right into a trap like some rank amateur, not a veteran seasoned with action in two wars.

  He looked around frantically at his boats; many were still on the attack while others were lagging behind dealing with damaged hulls and wounded crews. His voice rose above the roar of the guns, the shouts of the men and general cacophony of the engagement. Signal flags whipped to the top of his gunboat’s mast, giving visually the same orders he yelled out to his men.

  “Back into the creek, men. Tack around. We’re outgunned here.” There was little hesitation in obeying the orders and any who might have, had only to see the boats from both the brig and the frigate pursuing them. The high splashes from the heavier guns also added inspiration.