The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy

by William H. White

  Suffering the loss of only two of his barges, Commodore Barney headed his boats back into the relative safety of St. Leonard Creek, pursued by the British boats showing scant freeboard, loaded as they were with Royal Marines. The Jaseur brig broke off her attack to take the severely wounded, grounded, and abandoned St. Lawrence under tow, yet again.

  “Isaac! Them boats – the ones from the frigate – they look like they’s gonna land over yonder.” Jake had not taken his eyes off the pursuing British small craft. “Lookee there…just outside o’ the western point. They are, by God. They’s puttin’ them lobster-backs ashore!”

  “Aye, I see ‘em.” Isaac saw the other black-hulled sloop nearby and shouted to his friend. “Jack: have a look toward the point, there. What do you ‘spose they’re up to now? Better pass the word over to the commodore, in case he ain’t noticed.” Biggs, steering his sloop up the creek with the ease of an accomplished deep water sailor, continued to watch the Royal Marines as they disembarked from the frigate’s cutter and made their way up the steep embankment a half mile distant. In the back of his mind, he was conscious of voices relaying the message to Barney and, from the rear of the flotilla, a gunboat detached itself and sailed toward the landing point where the red-coated marines – there seemed to be sixty or seventy of them – continued to climb the slope from the small beach. And the American flotilla sailed slowly against the ebbing tide as they sought the relative safety of St. Leonard Creek.

  Crack. A musket shot rang out, followed by another and then a whole barrage opened up. The crew of the American sloop looked wildly around trying to determine where the shots came from. Their confusion resolved itself quickly as the water around the vessel became pocked with tiny splashes. The hull thudded dully as several rounds went home.

  “Get down. And trim that mains’l; I’m bringin’ her up.” Isaac quickly turned the sloop toward the eastern bank of the creek – away from the British small arms fire. The others nearby followed his lead. From behind them a carronade roared out, and the men of the flotilla peeked over the bulwarks of their boats in time to see the bank below the British marines as it erupted in dirt and greenery thrown up by the ball. The musket fire paused, then began anew. And again the carronade from the commodore’s gunboat spoke, this time apparently loaded with grape and canister shot.

  The shrubbery on top of the embankment took the brunt of the punishment, disappearing in a green cloud which rained down on the slope below. The musketry stopped as the Royal Marines moved back away from the hilltop. Gradually, the American boats came to their anchors, and the creek became quiet except for the occasional shouted comment that passed through the fleet. A single boat from the British frigate Loire drifted safely out of range and watched the Americans.

  “We showed them bastards!”

  “Commodore oughtta let us get after ‘em ever’ time. Teach ‘em a lesson, it would, by the Almighty.”

  “We gonna spend the rest of the war hidin’ up this damn mud hole?”

  “Nice shootin’, Jared. You done good with that schooner, I’d warrant.”

  “How many got hurt?”

  “Every one still got plenty o’ shot an’ powder?”

  A few taunts from the safety of their anchorage were tossed out at the Royal Marines, presumably still ashore on the western side of the creek.

  “You damned Redcoats couldn’t hit a barn from th’ inside.”

  “You try any more of that tactic and you’ll get another taste of American iron, by God.”

  Eventually, it became apparent that there would be no further action and the shouting and high spirited comments died out of their own accord. Night settled, bringing a cooling breeze and welcome relief. Nobody noticed the Loire’s boat pulling for the frigate around midnight.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “You got to send some o’ your men to help us, by God. The damn militia run off at the first sign of them Redcoats. Prob’ly made it half way to Washington afore the Redcoats was even outta their boats.”

  “Aye. We’re likely to be run out of our own homes and ruint, you don’t help us. You’re the only one around we can turn to, Commodore.”

  “British been all the way up to Upper Marlboro, they have. And burnin’ everything they cain’t carry off. Livestock stolen, warehouses burned, slaves run off. Ain’t no one lifted a damn finger to stop ‘em, the bastards.”

  It wasn’t immediately clear if the agitated farmer standing toe to toe with Joshua Barney was referring to the British Marines or the American farmers and militia in his frustration.

  The three-man envoy sent by their neighbors to enlist the flotilla’s aid had painted a grim picture of the Royal Navy’s presence up the Patuxent River. Raids from small boats, twelve in all and carrying over two hundred Royal Marines, had been carried out with chilling precision from Benedict all the way to Upper Marlboro, just as these men had explained. Barney knew from his own observation that another frigate, HMS Narcissus (32) had joined the blockade of the Patuxent River and St. Leonard Creek, providing the necessary boats and marines to raid most of the river front communities nearly to the point where the river became a stream. And at the same time, effectively curtailing all traffic into and out of the Patuxent River and its tributaries. With a seventy-four gun ship of the line, two frigates, a brig, the repaired schooner St. Lawrence, and assorted cutters and barges it was unlikely that any captain would try the river mouth, and certainly, Joshua Barney’s little flotilla would be staying put.

  “You men got to understand that they’s nothing – not a damn thing – that I can do to help you out. The ships them boats is from are anchored right out yonder…lookee, you can see the t’gallant masts of the seventy-four over the trees there. They got me penned in here sure as if they’da built a wall right ‘round the creek. If’n I send my men off with you overland, the British’ll be in here quicker than you can say it and burn every one of my vessels right to their waterlines. No, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to depend on the militia.” Joshua Barney shook his head sadly, realizing the frustration and helpless anger these men must feel. To depend on the largely unproved local militia was tantamount to disaster.

  The spokesman for the three looked hard at the commodore, searching for a break, an opening, anything that might give them a glimmer of hope for help from his sailors. The man’s eyes narrowed and the silence hung in the air for a long moment. His companions fidgeted nervously, sure that their friend had overstepped the bounds of civility and likely angered their only chance at saving their farms. The spokesman stepped back a half step and spat. He looked at one of his companions.

  “You was right, Samuel. These coves ain’t gonna help us none, just like you thought. They’s just as afraid of the damn Redcoats as the militia. I reckon them bastards could just march right into Washington if they’d a mind to and kick Mr. Madison outta the President’s House an’ move right in. Wouldn’t no one lift a finger to stop ‘em.”

  Barney bristled at the suggestion that he or his men were afraid of the British navy or marines.

  “Look here, men. We’ve been fightin’ ‘em right here in this creek and out yonder in the Patuxent for nigh onto a month now. And afore that, we was attackin’ their ships and stations up and down the Bay. Why, just a week ago we showed ‘em what we was made of, and make no mistake. Chased ‘em right outta the creek here and out into the river, we did. Like as not sunk one o’ they’s vessels and wounded more than one of the others. They’d be gone by now but for bringin’ in a frigate and a brig to help ‘em out. But I can tell you this: they ain’t been back in here with they’s boats or Marines since then. Been right peaceful in the creek here. No sir, ain’t no one afraid of ‘em here, by God. And they got a seventy-four, two frigates, a brig, and who knows what else settin’ out yonder ‘stead o’ sailing up and down the Bay harassin’ our shipping.”

  “No, that’s right, Commodore. They ain’t harassin’ our shipping none; they’s burnin’ our warehouses, stealin’ our livestock
an’ tobacco, grabbin’ our slaves, and harassin’ us. They ain’t a plantation what’s within a mile of the river what ain’t been raided. Cole’s, Kent’s, Ballard’s, Magruder’s – they all been hit, an’ hit hard. British say they’s ‘rightful prizes’. ‘Rightful’ my arse. They’s just stealin’ and raidin’ like damn rascally hooligans, by all that’s holy.” Another of the farmers had stepped up, his voice filled with contempt; a bubble of spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. Barney stood silent, his eyes holding first one and then the others in turn. His brow furrowed and he took off his hat to push a delicate hand through his hair. He turned to the apparent leader of the group.

  “I ‘spect a unit or more of the militia as well as some federal troops ought to be showin’ here in a day or two with some field pieces and you’re welcome to stay and have a word with ‘em when they get here. That’s the best I can offer you right now.” He shook his head. “I’m real sorry, but that’s the way it is.” The commodore looked genuinely grieved that he was powerless to help these men and their neighbors.

  “If you can be patient, when we get through them ships out yonder, I can send some barges and men up the river to help you, but they ain’t no way I can get out of here now. Even Secretary Jones – he’s the Secretary of the Navy up to Washington, you know – he sent a messenger down here wantin’ us to pull the boats over the land out to the Bay, if you can believe that. That’s how desperate he is for us to get out, and believe you me, we all – every one of my officers and men – are just as desperate. No sir, ain’t nothing I can do to help you right now.” His brow creased again as he shook his head, and he shifted his gaze to the point where the top hampers of several British ships were quite visible over the trees. He smiled ruefully.

  “Thinkin’ on it, I’d reckon that Captain Barrie – he’s in command of them ships out there and likely the boats and Marines up your way – he’d be right pleased if we came runnin’ outta here to help you out. Be just what I’d want in his shoes. He cain’t get us out with his cutters and barges, so he’s figgered that by gettin’ his marines up the river a ways and doin’ some raidin’ we’d go after ‘em. But it ain’t gonna work that way. Barrie and his Admiral – Cockburn – been chasin’ me nearly a year now. They’d like nothing better than to remove the thorn in their side that we have placed there.” The commodore shrugged his shoulders, at a loss for more words to offer instead of the requested assistance. He turned to walk away. And practically ran over a young sailor nervously waiting for a chance to speak.

  “Commodore? Mister Biggs sent me to tell you it looks like that seventy-four – what’d he say? – the Dragon, I recollect – ‘peared to be makin’ sail. Her and some o’ them others. Small craft mostly, he said. An’ might be another load o’ Redcoats headin’ either in here or back up river.” The young man – hardly more than a boy – crushed a tattered tarpaulin hat in dirty hands, shifting his bare feet in the dirt, while he stared at the commodore wide eyed. His cheek muscles worked and his gaze darted around wildly as he tried to recall if there was anything else he had been told to report.

  “Is that all, sailor?” Barney questioned the nervous boy.

  “Aye, sir. Reckon that’s all he told me.” The lad nodded, his relief at delivering his message evident. He started to back away from the group carefully, not turning around until he was half a dozen steps away, then quickly moving through the trees and down the embankment.

  “So I reckon you’ll be headin’ up our way now, Commodore. Soon’s them ships yonder get gone, like the boy said?” The first emissary had heard the whole exchange and his hope was rekindled. Barney wheeled on him, his voice cracking like a whip.

  “Aye. Just as soon as the two frigates, the brig and whatever barges they left turn they’s backs and hide they’s eyes. You men wasn’t attending what I said before; we’re blockaded in here just as sure as the Navy ships like the Constellation frigate are blockaded into Norfolk.” He softened his voice somewhat. “’Sides, maybe now they got they’s marines and small boats back, they’re done with you folks up-river. You men can go home and likely not be bothered by ‘em again.”

  “That boy said they was another boatload of ‘em headin’ back up the river, so I reckon we can ‘spect ‘em sooner than later.” The citizen looked hard at the commodore, then turned and shook his head. “Come on, lads, we best be gettin’ ourselves back home afore them damn Redcoats get there and we ain’t got homes to get back to.” Without looking behind him, he started down the narrow road carved through the trees and his companions fell into line behind him. Barney watched them for a while as they made their way single-file, their shoulders slumped, down the road, then turned and headed to the water and his boats, calling for Biggs and several other captains as he approached the shoreline.

  “Get you some men and cut trees; I want a log boom rigged across the creek afore the day is out. And get a couple of twelve-pounder cannon up on that embankment to the west. If the British want to come visitin’ again, we’ll give something to think on, by the Almighty.” Then aloud, but to himself, he added, “shoulda done that a week ago. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it afore now. Them coves was right; I cain’t depend on the militia any more’n they can. We got to take care of our own selves.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Barney was more than a little surprised and quite delighted when eight days later, on June 22nd, 1814, Captain Samuel Miller, USMC, arrived on St. Leonard Creek with one hundred marines. He was accompanied by three long twelve-pounders manned by elements of the Thirty-Sixth United States Infantry from Leonardtown. Two days later, Colonel Decius Wadsworth personally delivered from Washington two eighteen-pounders and their crews; Wadsworth was Army Commissary General of Ordinance and placed high stock in the need for Barney and his flotilla to be somewhere besides St. Leonard Creek.

  Isaac, Jack Clements, and Jared Talbot met for a full day with Barney and Wadsworth, hatching a plan to break the flotilla out of the Creek and do some damage to the British ships in the process. They met in the leaky shack the commodore referred to as his “headquarters” and the atmosphere in the diminutive building quickly became thick with tobacco smoke from the cheroots and pipe used by the gunboat captain and Colonel Wadsworth, respectively.

  As the deep-water men stepped outside, Isaac wiped his eyes and remarked to Clements, “I never seen a room fill up with smoke so fast – neither ashore nor afloat. Them two must be usin’ green leaves to burn!”

  The former Navy bosun smiled and nodded. “Aye, Isaac. Even that hog pen yonder smells better’n the tobacky them coves is usin’.” He referred to the collection of food animals – mostly hogs – which the commodore had secured from local farms for the use of the flotilla. They were penned near the building and on a hot airless day, the air near the pen seemed to shimmer with a malodorous mixture of the pigs, sheep, chickens, and their various leavings. Not to mention the rotting food scraps thrown into the area to supplement the animals’ regular diet. The butcher had set up shop near at hand and the spoils of his labors added to the fetid atmosphere that seemed to hang at nose level around the headquarters area.

  “Ain’t no wonder the commodore don’t spend much time up here.” Isaac shook his head. “Thought it was on account of his wantin’ to be on the boats. Reckon not. Guess we better get ourselves back in there.”

  Clements and Biggs turned away from their view of the creek and the boats still anchored below them. They were no longer extended in a line across the water; the log boom the men had rigged across the entrance had been effective in dissuading the British small boats from visiting. That or the two manned twelve pounder cannon in plain sight on the embankment above the western shore of St. Leonard Creek.

  “…set, then. Guns are to be in place and ready soon’s Keyser’s infantry gets here. Oughtta be this very night, I’m thinkin’ based on what the major told me afore I left the Capital.” Wadsworth was referring to Major George Keyser who was supposed to be on the march with his T
hirty-Eighth Infantry from Annapolis. They had sailed there from Baltimore the day before on the order of Colonel Wadsworth.

  “Wouldn’t wait on them coves, were it me, Commodore. More’n thirty miles down from Annapolis. They ain’t gonna march that in a day and be in any shape to fight the next.” Jared Talbot had been disappointed before by the land units the flotilla had counted on and spoke, he knew, for the other barge and gunboat skippers. Best they just use what they’ve got and get on with it.

  Wadsworth fairly bristled at the suggestion his orders would not be carried out. “Captain, Major Keyser is a professional – a United States Army officer – and his infantrymen are army soldiers, not militia. If he said he’s comin’, he’ll be here. And as to fightin’, well, you just be damn good and sure your sailors can do your own part. You ain’t got to worry none about the Army bein’ in this scrap – and on time.”

  Talbot said nothing, but glanced at the two sloop captains. His one-eyed look gave each a pretty good insight as to his feelings on the subject. The other men, seeking to avoid a possible confrontation, stood, and the meeting was over.

  But not the day – or night. Some of the newly arrived long guns, soldiers, and Marines were put in position on the western shore of the creek where they could fire into the Patuxent, augmenting the two cannon Barney had emplaced the week before. Others were set to fire along the shore of the Patuxent and the infantry were dug in behind the artillery. Still other cannon were dug in on the eastern shore of the Creek where they would be able to fire into British ships moving up the Patuxent toward the Creek. Wadsworth’s twelve-pounders were sited on the reverse slope of the hill with the hope they would be virtually invisible to the British; they were, but unfortunately, the British were also invisible to them, causing them, when called to action, to fire blind. And Keyser’s troops did arrive from Annapolis in time, getting themselves quickly and professionally into position for the opening salvo.