The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy

by William H. White

  They arrived at the end of the dock and Sarah stepped right up to the bulwark, ready to peer over it. She drew back quickly when the large gray head of Carronade appeared over the rail, directly in front of her.

  “Oh my goodness! What a huge animal. Is he yours?”

  “Oh no, Miss Sarah. He belongs to Jack Clements. He’s skipper of the sistership to this one…I mean Jack is, not the dog. His name’s Carronade – the dog, that is.”

  She laughed, her face alight with pleasure at Isaac’s obvious discomfort. “Can we go on the boat? Does your captain allow you to have visitors?”

  As Isaac was about to answer the question, Sam Hay appeared from below and, seeing Isaac had returned, stepped to the bulwark. He did not miss seeing Isaac’s companion.

  “Uh…Cap’n, while you was gone, some cove come by the barky and said the commodore’d headed up to some place called Lower Marlboro. Left word, he did, we was ’sposed to get along up there quick as ever we could. G’morning, ma’am.” Hay removed his shabby worn hat when he addressed Sarah.

  Before Isaac could respond, Sarah voiced her surprise at this revelation. “He called you ‘captain’. You didn’t mention you were the captain of this boat, Isaac. And here I thought you…well, never you mind what I thought.” She turned back to the bulwark where Carronade was resting his head. The dog had not taken his eyes off Sarah; it appeared that even he was smitten with the young lady. Reaching out a delicate hand, she patted the huge animal and, seeing that he didn’t seem to mind, scratched his ear.

  Isaac was stunned; no one had ever approached Carronade so casually and with so much confidence. The dog closed his eyes and almost smiled. “Ain’t no one ever got away with that afore, save Jack, Miss Sarah. Looks like he took to you right off.

  “Sam, this here’s Miss Thomas; her father is colonel in charge of the local militia hereabouts. Miss Sarah, this cove is Sam Hay, one of my sailors, and a fair hand with the guns.” The sailor stood straighter and beamed at being presented to the girl. He made his bow and the smile broadened, but he said nothing. “Sam, go get a box or something to help Miss Sarah get aboard. Cain’t ask a lady to climb over the bulwark, now.”

  Before the sailor could move, Sarah stepped onto the waterway outside of the bulwark and sitting down on the top of it, swung her legs over and slipped onto the deck right beside Carronade. Isaac was speechless. So was Hay.

  Laughing at their shocked expressions, Sarah said, “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I’m helpless, you know. Now, Isaac, are you going to show me around your boat?” She scratched the dog unconcernedly.

  The deepwater sailor jumped aboard and was quickly in control of himself. He turned to Sam Hay. “Get the men out and prepare to make sail, Sam. I’ll show Miss Thomas around topside.” He turned to the young woman. “We’ll start for’ard, Miss Sarah, if that’s all right with you.” He was rewarded with a smile.

  She followed Isaac toward the rakish bowsprit and Carronade followed her, not willing to give up the affection she had shown him. Isaac stopped upon reaching the eyes of the boat and began to explain the elements of the sloop, including the lethal little swivel gun perched on the rail. She was suitably impressed and said as much. Isaac colored at the compliment, but continued the tour, working his way aft.

  The crew of the sloop began to appear on deck, the word having been passed quickly that there was a most attractive young woman aboard. As each went by – and each found an excuse to do so – he tipped his hat, smiled and muttered a suitable greeting. Except Clive Billings. Obviously taken with the girl’s beauty, he tipped his hat, turned, and tripped over a sheet block. He fell backwards landing full length at his captain’s feet.

  “Here, now, Billings. Get on with your duties. We’ll be gettin’ the barky under way quick as ever you please. No time for sky-larkin’.” Isaac worked hard to control his laughter at Billing’s discomfort. The red-faced seaman, all his bravado and gallantry evaporated, scrambled to his feet and hastened to the bow where he busied himself taking the harbor furl off the stays’l. He cast furtive glances at Sarah, hoping she would look at him and smile. The sudden slump of his shoulders when she continued aft with Isaac spoke eloquently of a disappointment that knew no bounds.

  When the pair reached the quarterdeck, they found Jack Clements waiting there. Carronade, still close aboard to Sarah made no move to join his master. After the introductions were made, Jack commented on the dog’s behavior.

  “Ain’t that I’ve known him all that long, Miss Sarah, but in the time I have, I ain’t never seen Carronade take to someone like he’s took to you. You surely have charmed him.” Clements smiled and reached toward the dog. He was rewarded with a low growl and withdrew his hand.

  “Now Carronade, I must be getting along. You stay here and be nice to Mister Clements. After all, he’s the one who rescued you from the nasty British soldiers.” The big dog looked at her with sad eyes as if he had understood her words. She turned to Isaac. “Thank you kindly for showing me your wonderful boat – excuse me – sloop. I know you have to be on your way to find your commodore, but I do hope you’ll be passing by here again?” It was a question.

  “I ain’t got no idea, Miss Sarah, but I surely do hope so. Fact is, I’d like that just fine my own self.” He led her to the bulwark amidships where a box had been set on either side to aid her departure. She stepped daintily onto it, over the rail, and on to the one on the dock.

  “I shall watch for your…sloop, Isaac. Please don’t disappoint me.”

  Biggs was again tongue-tied and mumbled something about “being back right soon…” and turning, he ordered hands to stations for making sail. The sloop slipped away from the dock, her black sails filling to the easy breeze, and headed up river. Isaac watched the dock with furtive glances and was more than pleased to see that Sarah Thomas watched them until they turned a bend in the river.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “That’s about the whole of it, Commodore. Ain’t too much more to tell, ‘ceptin’ the folks down to Benedict ain’t real friendly towards us. Kind of got the impression they blame us for all of the grief and problems they got with the British. Just like the folks down to St. Leonard. And the militias.” Isaac finished his report to Barney in the Cabin of the black sloop anchored in the narrows off Lower Marlboro. Jared Talbot, Jack Clements and Luke Cooper, skipper of Barney’s flagship sat around the table in the small cabin and had listened to the whole tale.

  “So you think Plumm is either dead or captured by the British?” Barney asked quietly.

  “Well, he might have got killed by them in the row-barge, but if’n he didn’t, I’d reckon he ain’t their prisoner; he likely went over willingly. Seemed to Jack and me to favor them more’n us. We ain’t figgered out how the British officers knew to send that barge into the creek, but I’d warrant that the good doctor had something to do with it. Jack says he never left the camp while I was takin’ care o’ them two gunboats, but it ain’t beyond the pale that he figgered out how to send someone.” Clements nodded in silent affirmation of Isaac’s statement. Biggs continued. “And a person in Benedict told me he learned his doctorin’ in the Royal Navy durin’ the War of Independence, not the American Navy.” Isaac was a little vague about who the ‘person in Benedict’ might have been, but colored slightly as he thought about who it was. In fact, he had thought of little else until he began his report to Barney.

  Barney’s face gave little away, but he accepted the report on Plumm without comment, save a brief sigh at its conclusion. Then he got to the business at hand.

  “As most of you men know, I just got back from Washington. Met with General Winder, Secretary Jones, and Mr. Monroe – he’s the Secretary of State, you know; there’s mixed ideas about what the British are thinkin’. Some favor them attackin’ at Annapolis and some others think it’s gonna be Baltimore from overland. I think they’re gonna try and take Washington. It ain’t but a short march from the river. And if I were gonna attack Baltimore,
I reckon I’d likely do it from the water. Be easier by half than tryin’ to march that distance – ’specially in this blasted heat.” Barney looked at his top captains, seeking some indication of their concurrence. Most nodded silently at his words.

  “I read in a newspaper while I was in the Capital an account of what they’s already callin’ the “Battle of St. Leonard Creek.” Seems the cove who wrote the story didn’t have much use for the federal troops what come down there to help us get out of the creek and even went so far as to question the ability of the government at defendin’ the folks here-abouts. Told how the British Navy had been raidin’ and stealin’ food, tobacco, and slaves from over on the Potomac just like they been doin’ here on the Patuxent. Said they was only here on account of lookin’ for us, and that we was to blame for most of the problems the folks is havin’. More specifical, I guess, me. Seemed to follow right along the same course as what we been hearin’ since last May – from most of the people here. Well, I got a job to do and, by God, we’re gonna get it done. And damn them what’s against us.” The commodore had gotten himself quite worked up with his tirade; he paused, calming himself, then wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He began anew, in a quieter voice.

  “Jared, I want you to pick a score or so of men and get yourself to Baltimore – you’ll have to make it overland, since you ain’t likely to just sail out of the river here. There are fourteen and more gunboats there, and if the British decide to try for Baltimore like some in Washington think, we’re gonna need them gunboats ready whether they come over land or from the water. If it turns out I’m right, or Secretary Jones is right and they attack Annapolis, we’ll get word to you and you can rejoin us – wherever we are. And if they attack Baltimore, me and the rest of the lads can get there in a day.” Talbot nodded, pleased at being given this big responsibility. Barney went on.

  “As to the rest of us, we’ll be gettin’ the flotilla underway again, and movin’ up to Nottingham. That’s a town what the militia has left alone – reckon they heard the British was comin’ and ran back to Washington.” The scorn in Barney’s voice reinforced his low regard for the local land units assigned to protect the river-front towns. “There’s a narrowin’ of the river there, even more than here, and we can hold that just like we held in St. Leonard Creek. It’ll be easier to get messages to and from Secretary Jones from there as well. An’ I understand that Colonel Wadsworth is bringin’ his troops up to Benedict just in case the enemy tries to move up the river along the shore.” Isaac’s eyes snapped to the commodore’s, the only indication that Benedict might be more than just another river town.

  After swinging to their anchors for the night, a night when some of the sailors and officers went ashore only to find an attitude consistent with that of the other towns the flotilla had visited, the gunboats, barges and sloops won their anchors and sailed further up the Patuxent. Clements, with the big dog and the half dozen men who had augmented Isaac’s crew, was back aboard his own sloop – it having been sailed to Lower Marlboro by Frank Clark in Jack’s absence – and Isaac was back to his regular crew less, of course, Jake Tate who, Isaac reckoned, was enjoying the company of his new wife in Frederick. Likely her family less so.

  The vessels had not been in Nottingham two full days when a breathless messenger arrived on a lathered horse seeking the commodore.

  “They’s comin’ by God, and eight hunnert strong! You gotta get down there and help, for the love of God!” The boy panted out the words in barely understandable gasps as soon as he had been brought to Barney.

  “Haul small, there lad. Who’s comin’ eight hundred strong? And where? Slow down, catch your breath. Another minute or two ain’t gonna make a big difference.”

  “Benedict. The Royal Navy is landin’ eight hunnert strong at Benedict. Probably gettin’ there now. Colonel Thomas sent me to fetch you.” The lad had calmed down, but was still consumed with the urgency of his mission.

  “Damn them militia coves! They run at the sight of a red coat and cuss at me for bringin’ the British into the river, but I’m the first one they call when they need help. Where’s Colonel Wadsworth? He’s supposed to be in Benedict already. Can not his troops deal with…no, I reckon not, seein’ as how half of ‘em run at St. Leonard.” Barney darkened and fumed at the messenger and any within earshot. He paced along the shoreline where the boy had found him.

  Finally he shook his head in frustration. How could he refuse? He turned to one of his sailors loitering nearby.

  “Run and find any of the men what’s ashore and get ‘em back aboard the boats. Then find Cap’n Cooper and the others and tell ‘em we’ll be leavin’ forthwith.” He turned to the rudimentary pier and spied his cutter making ready to pull back to the gunboat. “Avast there! Stay at the dock. I shall be with you in a trice,” he shouted.

  The boat back-watered and once again made fast a line to the dock. The sailor hurried off to find the crews. The messenger from Benedict, wide-eyed at the activity he had started, stood rooted to the ground until Barney spoke to him.

  “You gonna ride that horse back or sail down there with me?”

  “I…uh…well, sir…I don’t rightly know what I’m s’posed to do. The colonel didn’t tell me no more ‘an get up here an’ find you.” He looked around as if the answer would be found on the faces of the few people who had gathered to witness the commotion.

  “Well make up your mind, lad. If the Royal Marines are landing at Benedict now, I surely ain’t got time to wait whilst you figure out what to do.” Barney, having made his decision, was anxious to get going and engage the enemy. Little would be gained by waiting now.

  “If’n it’s all right with you, sir, I’ll take the ride in your boat. I reckon the horse oughta be fine here for a spell.” To himself he added, Might be safer than just ridin’ into a fight on top of it.

  “Then get you down to that boat there, lad. Soon’s the crews are aboard the barges and gunboats, we’ll be headin’ down river with all haste.”

  Without waiting for an answer or the boy, the commodore strode purposefully down the shoreline and out the dock. His boots rang hollowly on the planking. A hand helped him into the cutter and Barney settled himself in the sternsheets for the short pull to his gunboat. The boy ran down the dock and leaped into the bow of the cutter as it pulled away. He crouched in the very bows, panting, the sweat running freely from his face.

  Throughout the anchorage shouts of “Stations for makin’ sail, lads” could be heard as Barney’s orders to “Get underweigh” were delivered. Flags snapped at mastheads and gaffs reinforcing the spoken word. Boats pulled between the barges and gunboats returning crews and officers. The air was filled with the sounds of blocks squeaking, sails flogging, capstans turning to haul anchors from the river bottom, and men shouting and cursing as they prepared cannon, vessels, and themselves for the eagerly anticipated battle. Filtering through the melee was the resonant voice of Carronade as he encouraged sailors on Jack’s sloop and the gunboats nearby to make haste.

  “Sails and oars, lads; sails and oars.” Barney’s voice rang out across the water and his instructions were repeated boat to boat by voice and flag. The barges and gunboats sprouted great oars from their sides, and willing backs bent to the task of augmenting the gentle breeze. The sloops, with their big mains’ls, stays’ls and jibs bellied out, quickly set their square tops’ls to keep pace with the armada as it tore down the Patuxent toward Benedict – and the arriving British.

  Isaac paced his sloop’s deck nervously; what the devil was goin’ on down there? How could the British get there that quick and with eight hundred marines? What was the militia doing? Were the townspeople involved? What would their reception be this time? And finally, What was Miss Sarah doing. Was she all right? What if…He refused to let himself think that way. Of course she would be just fine.

  Oh my God. What am I doin’ thinkin’ that way? I hardly know the girl. Sure, she’s pretty to look at and she seems to have a spark and I d
o like talkin’ to her, even if it confuses me sometimes. An’ she has been on my mind for the past few days an’ more. I ain’t never felt like this afore. Even that gal down to Nassau – what was her name? Oh yes, Becca. She surely didn’t make me feel like this. What’s goin’ on with me? Isaac had gripped the bulwark with such force that he suddenly realized that his hands hurt. He let go and moved to the quarterdeck where Sam Hay was at the tiller.

  Looking across the fifty yards of water separating the two black-sailed sloops, he saw Clements pacing his own quarterdeck and Carronade standing at his post in the bows. The gunboats and barges were keeping pace, the cadence of their stroke floated over the water just behind the dip of their oars. The bright early summer sun glinted and sparkled as it struck the wet blades and the evenly spaced white patches on the water dazzled the eyes with their brilliance. A fine sight they made, indeed. Suddenly, something he saw on a nearby gunboat – it was Jared Talbot’s, he saw, but without the big one-eyed Bayman – called his mind to the task at hand.

  “Billings: get the muskets and cutlasses topside and stacked. You there, Jackson, get powder and shot on deck.” He turned to the helmsman. “Sam, get them guns loaded. I’ll take her while you do. Load the swivels with grape or canister and ball shot for the cannon. The Lord alone knows what we’re likely to find when we get there, but bein’ ready’ll answer best.” He stepped over and put his hand on the big tiller, smiling as he felt the tug and surge of the sloop’s speed on her rudder.