The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy

by William H. White

  Boom! A roar and a six-foot tongue of flame leaped out of the bow chaser on the row barge. The cries from the beach told the story; their range was long. They had unknowingly fired right into their own seamen lining the shore.

  “Get the rest of the men aboard, Jack. Get the cutter secured astern.” The doctor and his Royal Navy patient had already been installed in the cutter, with the explanation that they would be more comfortable there, and there would be no one to disturb the wounded officer. Most of the supplies and implements off-loaded the night before had been reloaded and anything that hadn’t would be left.

  The remaining American sailors were quick to clamber aboard, the sloop’s black sail was raised by willing hands, and the anchor was won quickly. She paid off on a tack that would clear the mouth of the creek, but at the same time, exposed her side to the approaching barge. Black hull and black sails made her little more than a dark shadow on the inky water.

  “To larboard! To larboard! Bear off! They’re gonna get away!” The British sailors – those that could – were running down the beach shouting directions at their mates in the barge. They would take no chance that the Royal Navy would make the same mistake and overshoot their target again.

  Boom! Another shot rang out, and the splash was close enough to wet the deck of the fleeing sloop. “Jack, lay that larboard six-pounder at the muzzle flash. Try a shot when she bears.” Isaac alternated his gaze from trying to see where the shoreline bent around to the northwest, indicating the opening to the Patuxent, and the British barge. He could hear willing hands levering the cannon around to make it bear more aft. Then it roared out a sharp crash and a sheet of blinding yellow fire.

  The splash was ahead of the barge, but close. “Bring her aft, some, Jack. I’ll bring the barky up a trifle.” Isaac cried out even as he pushed the sloop’s tiller down.

  Boom! The British gun fired. The men amidships ducked instinctively as the ball whined over their heads, through the big mainsail and on to splash to leeward.

  Crash. Jack’s six-pounder spoke again. This time, the Americans were rewarded with the satisfying thump of the ball striking wood and followed by a sharp scream. Then silence.

  “Sounded right good, Jack. Hit ‘em again.” Isaac yelled encouragement to his gunners. And the sloop cleared the entrance to St. Leonard Creek. “Make it quick; I’m gonna bear off.”

  Instantly, the little gun shot out its flame and sharp report and the sloop eased her course into the broader, deeper waters of the Patuxent. And the British barge responded.

  Boom! This time the British ball found wood. But in the cutter astern of the sloop. A startled cry went up from the smaller vessel. Isaac recognized the high raspy voice of Jeremiah Plumm. Again the barge fired, its gunner satisfied that they had found their target, and again, the formerly British cutter took the punishment.

  Within a few moments, Isaac could feel the pull of the cutter on its tow rope; it had to be taking water now. Barely able to see it through the darkness, Isaac was sure the little boat astern looked lower in the water. He thought quickly.

  “Billings there! Cut it loose! Quick man. Use the hatchet.” Billings, manning the swivel gun at the stern, wasted no time; the hatchet swung into the sloop’s taffrail and through the hempen line that tethered the cutter to them. Freed from the drag astern, the sloop leaped ahead as if thrilled to be shed of her burden. She danced away, her black sails and hull merging with the night, as her sharp bow cut cleanly through the black water of the Patuxent River.

  Boom, boom! The British gunners, unaware they had the wrong target, continued to pound the defenseless cutter, now drifting in the slight chop of the Patuxent River. The Americans, their own guns quiet, watched as a light appeared – a lantern held aloft – in the cutter. Its glow showed the boat low in the water, wallowing and helpless. A cry rose from the standing figure. The men on the sloop recognized Jeremiah Plumm’s voice, even though they could not make out his words.

  Crack! The high-pitched report of a musket echoed across the water and the light fell, accompanied by a shriek in the same voice. Then darkness closed in again.

  “What the hell was that, Isaac? Sounded like a musket shot from the barge to me.” Tate, standing beside Isaac leaned forward, straining to see through the darkness.

  “Aye. That’s exactly what it was, Jake. And I’d reckon that wasn’t the lieutenant standing up there holding that lantern. Looks like ol’ Jeremiah Plumm might be gonna be needin’ his own services about now. By the time them bastards figger out they shot the wrong boat, we’ll be safely away. Kinda too bad we can’t bring Plumm and that lieutenant back to the commodore, but I reckon we got all we was gonna get from the officer and I doubt the doctor would give up much. Guess Barney’s gonna have to take our word for what’s actin’ with the Royal Navy.”

  Sailing against the tide, but with the breeze fair from the Bay, the sloop made Benedict just before a clear summer day began to dawn. Even before it was light, Isaac and his men could see the gunboats and row barges had left; the anchorage was empty as was the single dock that the sloop had left only two days previously. Isaac maneuvered the sloop expertly into it and, once the sails were secured, went ashore to find out where the flotilla had gone. Jake Tate accompanied him.

  “Jake, I been thinkin’. Back in April or May I reckon it was, when I told you you could trot yourself up to Frederick and see your bride.” Jake nodded and smiled hopefully. “Well, looks like we’re gonna be here for a while and now would likely be as good a time as any to get that done. ‘Sides, no tellin’…” Isaac fairly jumped as his words were cut off by the whoop the young sailor let out.

  “You mean right now, Isaac? Or just sometime while we’re tied up here in Benedict?” The smile had been replaced by an earnest seriousness that was uncharacteristic of this veteran of a major frigate action and Melville Island. But the smile returned in a trice when he heard Biggs, somewhat taken aback by the ‘whoop,’ utter “Right now. Get what you need from the sloop and get gone.”

  His smile matched that of his friend, but faded as he told the one-armed sailor “You’ll have to find us when you get back. No tellin’ where we’ll be, but I’d warrant it’ll be further up-river than Benedict.”

  Jake, standing still, but leaning toward the sloop so anxious was he to be away, nodded. “When you figger you’ll need me back aboard, Isaac? Don’t know how far we are from Frederick here, but I figger it’ll take me more ‘n a couple of days to make it there. And back.”

  “Let’s see. Nigh on to Independence Day, ain’t it? Well, you be back by the end of the month. That oughta give you time enough to re-acquaint yourself with Miss Charity, I’d warrant.”

  “Thank you, thank you. I surely will be back. You can count on me, and thank you.” The words were barely out of Jake’s mouth before he was gone, running back to the sloop for his dunnage. His whoop caused the few people out to look at him strangely. Indeed, there was precious little to whoop about these days, what with the British fleet likely to appear anytime, food scarce, and the militia about as useful as a pitchfork in a sinking boat.

  Biggs went on toward the square and a coffee house where he was sure he would find the information he sought. He smiled in spite of himself, so infectious was Tate’s joy.

  A silence fell over the group of men in the coffeehouse when Isaac entered; all looked his way, studied him for a moment and, deciding he was not a threat to them, resumed their conversations. A grizzled soul, his beard and hair awry, his clothes soiled, and a knife in his belt, continued to watch him and finally spoke. His expression did not invite Isaac to join him – or even step closer.

  “You lookin’ for somebody, boy?” The voice was a rumble from deep in his chest.

  “Aye, I am,” said Isaac walking toward the man, a smile ready. “I was hopin’ you or somebody hereabouts might tell me of the commodore’s flotilla. And where they might have got to.”

  “They ain’t here,” came the rumble. “Left on the tide yesterd
ay after the commodore headed off to Washington City. On horseback.” Still the dour expression continued, showing no warmth or invitation to the young captain. Isaac stopped where he was.

  “Well, I didn’t pass them comin’ up the river, so I reckon they musta headed further up?” Isaac was still smiling, but the bearded face continued hard, showing no hint of friendliness toward him.

  “Reckon they scampered when they heard that Royal Navy cove, Cap’n Barrie, and his ships was headin’ up from the Bay. Now I ‘spose we gonna have to depend on the militia. Ha!” There was no mirth in the laugh. “Them gunboats is all the damn Royal Navy is after and, with Barney runnin’ further up the river ever’ time they get close, all he’s doin’ is bringin’ trouble to us an’ them others what want to be left out o’ this damn mess.”

  “But Barrie and his ships are anchored at Point Patience, down south of St. Leonard Creek. I seen ‘em there yesterday with my own eyes.” Isaac really hadn’t, but Tate had, and that was good enough, he supposed.

  “Well, ain’t what we heard. They’ll be along right quick, you mark my words, boy. An’ if you’re one o’ Barney’s lads, you better chase your arse outta here an’ go find him. You people brought nothin’ but trouble hereabouts.” And the old man turned his attention back to his coffee, gripping the chipped discolored mug with two hands and, without lifting it off the table, slurped it noisily. The conversation was over, Isaac realized, but at least he got a little information. And he found that the folks here were just as opposed to the war and the American forces – or at least the flotilla – as they were further down the Patuxent.

  Without further talk, Biggs left the establishment and, blinking as he emerged into the bright sunlight, thought about his next move. As he stood on the grass, it occurred to him how like his native Marblehead it looked: the trees in full leaf, some flowers someone had planted, grass, and a monument to some forgotten event nearby. It had a tranquil feeling to it and Isaac lingered for a while, remembering his New England home, his parents, and the last time he visited them.

  It seemed long ago, but was in fact only eight or nine months back; he had stopped by to tell Charles and Liza Biggs of his adventures with Captain Rogers on the privateer General Washington and of his plans to head back to Baltimore to find a ship.

  He smiled to himself as he thought of his mother’s fine meal, salted liberally with the concern she shared with his father about his plans for the future. Hadn’t daring to enter the Northwest Arm and Melville Island up to Nova Scotia been enough excitement for him? Why would he want to go seeking a fight when things had finally quieted down in Massachusetts, thanks to the British ships sailing off and on the coastline? Why, that was just as silly as running off to New York and the fresh water fleets being built there, like his former shipmates – those nice British boys, Coleman and Conoughy – had done. Isaac had tried to explain to his mother that the two didn’t “run off” to the fresh water; they had been sent by the navy, of which they were still a part. It did no good, as she merely asked him in a voice filled with quiet concern “and who is sending you to the Chesapeake, Isaac?”

  His father had tried half-heartedly to help, adding that they should be proud of the lad for wanting to help his country, but Mother would have none of it. She was, like most of her New England contemporaries, dead set against this craziness of ‘Mister Madison’s war’. And on top of that, she worried about her ‘boy’ deliberately putting himself in harm’s way. Isaac had left their home on a less-than-pleasant note and a frown began to form as he recalled their warnings that “nothing good will come of this nonsense. Better you stay here and out of it.”

  “My goodness! You certainly seem serious. And on such a pretty day.” So lost in his thoughts had Isaac been that he failed to notice the young woman who had walked right up to him. And was now addressing him.

  “Oh, excuse me, ma’am. I guess I was daydreamin’. Didn’t see you ‘til you spoke.” Isaac, caught completely off guard, was flustered; his experience with the fairer sex was limited indeed. Suddenly, so suddenly in fact that the young lady started, Isaac remembering his manners, snatched the weathered canvas hat off his head. He twisted and turned it self-consciously in his hands.

  “Well! That’s certainly something a girl wants to hear. That she just blended into the background!” The young woman flounced her skirts and turned away, as if preparing to take her departure.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s not what I meant at all. It’s just that, well, I was thinkin’ on something else, and you, well, it was my fault. I just didn’t see you comin’.” This was not going well at all. “Please don’t run off, ma’am. My name is Isaac Biggs. I’m from up New England, Marblehead. That’s in Massachusetts.”

  “And I am Sarah Thomas. I am from right here in Benedict. My father is Colonel Thomas, in charge of the militia here. What would a Massachusetts man find to do here in Benedict, if I may inquire?” She had turned around and now faced Isaac from three feet away.

  He studied her guardedly, not sure of what he should be doing or saying. She was of his height, so she was able to look directly into his eyes, which she did with an unflinching stare. Her hair, what he could see of it under her bonnet was as black as night and shiny as a just-tarred shroud on a Royal Navy man of war. Pale skin, almost luminescent, with a full-lipped mouth, small nose slightly up turned, and eyes; oh those eyes! They were big and dark and penetrating. Isaac thought they could look right inside him. It was somewhat unsettling. Her dress was of a medium blue and her straw bonnet was tied under her chin with a light blue ribbon. She carried a basket in her left hand. Empty, he noticed.

  “Well…I’m…that is…” Isaac couldn’t put two words together. He took a breath and tried again. “I’mIsaaccBiggsguessItoldyouthatalready.” This wasn’t getting any easier. Another breath, slower this time. “I’m on that sloop at the pier, there. Part of Commodore Barney’s flotilla. They was here couple of days ago.” That was better. He smiled hopefully.

  “That must be very dangerous work. I heard about your terrible battle with the Royal Navy a few days ago down river. St. Leonard Creek, I believe they said. I hope there weren’t too many of your friends hurt in it. It must have been frightful. Were you scared?” Her expression became open and her eyes got bigger, Isaac noticed.

  “No ma’am. None of my crew got hurt in that, but some of the other boats had a few killed and some others was cruel wounded. Doc Plumm took care of ‘em when we got here – to Benedict.” Isaac found he could actually carry on a conversation with this striking young woman, as long as he didn’t look too hard at her; when he did that, his brain got all confused, like the sea in a sudden change of wind.

  “Yes,” she said, her expression changing to a frown. “I know Doctor Plumm. A good doctor, I’m told, but I fear his loyalties never changed from the days of the War of Independence; he was surgeon on a British ship, you know. That is, I am led to believe, where he learned his medicine. And he’s one of those who feel we shouldn’t be taking up arms against the British after all they’ve done for us. What with trade and commerce and things that I am not supposed to understand. I am told repeatedly that I am wrong – or that I should stay out of it – but I think it’s high time we removed ourselves from under the Royal thumb. I can tell you, that opinion is held in little regard by most here.” She looked intently at Isaac, who involuntarily took a step backwards.

  “I’ve noticed that most of the folks here and down toward St. Leonard seem to wish we – or at least they – was out of it. Been told that a lot. But we’re in it now and got to see it through. That’s what we need to do. Aye. Finish it, and get them dam… – ’scuse me, ma’am – get them ships out of our waters so we can get back to our own business. Ain’t likely they’ll leave ‘til we beat ‘em – and beat ‘em good.” Isaac had not consciously thought about his feelings toward the Royal Navy since he escaped from Orpheus, but it felt good to say it out loud. Actually, he thought, just talking to this black-haired
young lady with the piercing eyes felt good. He smiled, in spite of himself.

  “What do you find so amusing, Isaac Biggs of Marblehead, Massachusetts? The fact that I have an opinion, or that I am not afraid to voice it? I suspect you’re thinking ‘what an outspoken girl she is’, right?”

  Isaac recovered quickly. “Oh no, ma’am. It weren’t that at all. Just smiling at the thought of sending the British packin’ back across the ocean. That was all.” The smile was gone.

  Now Sarah Thomas was smiling. “I must be on about my chores. One must get to the shops early nowadays as there is so little on the shelves. I am told it’s because the British have stolen or burned most of our stocks of food and goods. Will you be staying here in Benedict for a while?” The implication to Isaac was that she’d like to see him again.

  “Well, I reckon I got to get back aboard the sloop and get about findin’ the commodore. Don’t know for sure where he got off to, but I aim to try up the river further. Would you like to see the sloop?” That last just kind of slipped out. He really didn’t mean to be forward, but he was thinking that he didn’t want her to disappear right now. And the words just came without any conscious thought.

  “Why that would be nice; yes, I’d love to see your – what did you call it, a sloop?” She turned toward the dock, just a short walk away.

  Isaac, delighted, but again caught all aback by her willingness to continue to be in his company, took a moment to realize she’d agreed, and had to take a couple of fast steps to put himself beside her.

  Together they walked down the street, Isaac still twisting his hat with both hands, to the pier. Rounding the corner of a building, Sarah saw the sloop and exclaimed, “Oh what a beautiful boat! But it’s painted black. How extraordinary!”

  “Aye, she is that, Miss Sarah. That’s so she cain’t be seen real good in the dark. Her sails is black, too.” Isaac was getting back on familiar ground and was more comfortable talking about his boat as long as he didn’t dwell on the fact that he was talking about it to a beautiful woman. He went on. “And she’s fast on top of it. With a fair breeze and a press of canvas set, ain’t much on the Bay what can catch her. Raised hell – ’scuse me, again, ma’am – I mean to say, we’ve raised the devil with the Royal Navy up the Bay some. Ain’t done so much since we got down this way, though. Spent most of the time trapped in…well, I guess you ain’t interested in that.”