The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy

by William H. White

  Isaac returned to the river and the boats to find a bustle of frantic activity; sailors and officers were shouting across the water to one another and he could see harbor furls being removed. A string of signals flew from the commodore’s gunboat and were repeated at each of the other gunboats and barges. A boat waited for him at the dock.

  “We’re takin’ the vessels up to Queen Anne’s, Isaac. Ol’ Barney’s not gonna get us captured if’n he can help it. S’posed to make all sail and get up there quick as ever we can.” Jake met him when he came aboard the sloop and was clearly excited by the promise of some action – even evasive action.

  Jack’s crewmen and Carronade returned to Clements’ sloop, their places on Isaac’s boat taken by men from the gunboats lost in St. Leonard Creek. With Carronade at his post in the bow, the two sloops made sail for Queen Anne’s – and who knew what else.

  “Startin’ to shoal up, Isaac. Keep her in the middle or we’re gonna be on the hard afore you know it.” Sam Hay was swinging the leadline from the larboard channel; the alarm in his voice amplified the gravity of his reports on the soundings. Isaac hardened up some and the sloop eased closer to the middle of the narrowing river.

  He could see shore birds standing in the shallows, their long legs moving gracefully as they lifted each foot clear of the water to work the bottom with long bills, searching out tasty morsels to satisfy their constant hunger. They seemed to Isaac much further into the river than they had only a few short miles to the south and yet the water came up no higher on their legs.

  “Pig Point comin’ up to starboard, Isaac; looks like a bar comin’ pretty far out from the shore.” Tate stood in the bows, as was his habit, and called back to Biggs who had personally taken over the tiller.

  “Aye, I got it. Sam keep that lead workin’; no tellin’ what we’re gonna find for water here.”

  Practically before the words were out of his mouth, Isaac felt the sloop jerk and scrape under his feet. He threw the tiller over and bellowed to his crew.

  “Trim the mains’l flat, lads; we’re takin’ the bottom. Sheet home the stays’l.”

  The vessel’s momentum allowed her to respond to the rudder; she carried across the shoal and worked to weather with reduced draft thanks to her sharper angle of heel. Isaac kept the sails trimmed tightly to maintain the boat’s slant and pressed on. The hands stopped whatever tasks they had been doing and held their collective breaths; this would not be a good place to put her aground where she would quickly become an easy target for even the most insignificant British boat to take at its leisure. The leadline showed thinner and thinner water and the sloop’s wake described a convoluted course as Isaac struggled to find a way around the bar.

  SCRAAAAAPE! Their forward motion stopped with a lurch and, in spite of their best efforts and all the tricks the Baymen could muster to free her, the sloop remained hard aground.

  “Sam, better get a signal up. Let them others know we’ve found the bottom here. Tell ‘em to anchor below us.” He raised his voice and called forward. “Clive: draw the shot outta the swivel for’ard there and fire a half load o’ powder when them flags get aloft.”

  As the gunboats, led by Clements’ black-hulled sloop, came around Pig Point, the little gun fired with a dispirited craack, and the captains saw immediately Isaac’s plight. They each rounded up and dropped their anchors in water barely sufficient to float them, forming an almost straight line down the center of the river. Isaac ordered his boat launched and had himself rowed to the commodore’s gunboat.

  “I ain’t took soundings ahead of us yet, no sir, but I don’t reckon they’s much deeper water beyond the Point. Been showin’ shallower and shallower right up to where we struck.” Isaac shook his head in response to Barney’s question and looked beyond his sloop. The river narrowed appreciably and the vegetation was growing well out from the banks.

  Within minutes, flags broke from the flagship signaling “Captains repair aboard.” Isaac remained and soon was joined by some dozen and more gunboat and barge captains and, of course, Jack Clements. Carronade, still sore from his wound, remained on the sloop.

  With the August sun beating down mercilessly and all hands sweating profusely, Barney addressed his senior officers on the deck of the gunboat under the canvas awning his crew had hastily rigged after coming to anchor.

  “You men have done splendidly, you may rest assured. But now Washington, in the person of Secretary Jones, has ordered me to leave the vessels and get to the Capital. With most of our men. I believe you are looking at the final resting place of our flotilla; my orders are to burn each and every one of them, spike the guns and destroy anything that might be of use to the enemy if the British appear in these waters. They must not get our boats, no matter the cost. And I think it is only a question of when the British show up; there is little doubt in my mind that they will indeed.

  “I will lead the majority of our men overland to Washington tomorrow. In the meantime, you will prepare your vessels with powder charges and fuses set so that those who remain behind can quickly set them alight.”

  “Who’s gonna take care o’ that little detail, Commodore?” Luke Cooper, never one to hold back a question, took a step forward from the group. While he waited for the commodore’s answer, he hauled a dirty blue handkerchief the size of a tops’l from his hip pocket and mopped his dripping face and neck.

  “I propose leaving Captain Biggs in charge of the flotilla and two or three men on each vessel. Slow matches will be kept burning and, on his signal, the vessels will be fired. The men and Captain Biggs will then retire to the shore and make their way overland to join the rest of us. Most likely on the road to Washington.

  “Since we know the British troops are even now marching through Benedict with the announced intent of attacking the Capital, we will be felling trees across the road, burning bridges, and doing anything we can to hamper their movement. As I plan on taking four or five cannon with me to Washington, we will be moving slower than I’d like. It is likely that we will be little further than Upper Marlboro when you find us, Isaac, but find us you must. I caution you not to delay; the very moment you see any sign of a British approach, you must fire the fleet.”

  Isaac nodded soberly. What a way to end the career of his sleek black sloop, not to mention the gunboats and barges that had performed so well during their many encounters with the enemy. And now he and all his fellows were to be afoot and very probably fighting the British ashore. Not what he had had in mind last winter when he, Jack, and Jake signed on. No sir, not at all.

  Throughout the balance of the afternoon and into the evening the crews toiled in the oppressive heat at preparing their boats for destruction and removing onto the shore anything that might prove useful. Three twelve-pounders and two eighteen-pounders were man-handled to the shore at the cost of several crushed hands and strained backs. The heat was beyond oppressive. One of the men compared it to walking through the steam coming from a kettle over a hot fire, except it didn’t just stay in one place; it was everywhere. Evening brought little respite from it, and even after dark the air remained thick – almost palpable. It slowed everyone down, especially those unfortunates who had to go below; it was so unbearably hot in the holds and living quarters that few men could spend more than a few moments there. Dry lightning lit the western sky as the darkness became complete. Powder kegs were fused and rigged in key locations; trains of powder connected them and lengths of slow match led topside. The remaining guns were spiked, rendering them useless to the British in the event they tried to salvage them from the burned and scuttled fleet.

  By the start of the middle watch, the crews fell exhausted on deck, enjoying the cooling of the scant breeze on their bare chests and heads. Even as tired as all were, few slept; the thought of burning the flotilla and the likelihood of fighting ashore against crack British Marines made sleep impossible. Even the lowest seaman had understood that Napoleon’s defeat by the English – heard by all in June – would mean t
he cream of the British fighting men, battled hardened veterans who had served under the Duke of Wellington, would be coming to America and no one harbored any delusions about the outcome of a militia unit meeting those troops.

  Towards dawn, a few had found consolation in deep dreamless sleep only to be awakened by the others preparing to leave the vessels.

  “Isaac: you mind yourself, now. Don’t forget to light the fuses afore you head for the beach. We’ll see you right quick, I’m thinkin’ – you and Jake. Good luck to you, lad.” Clements passed close by in his boat and Isaac looked down at him. His two oarsmen rested on their oars and, even at this early hour, the sweat streamed off their faces.

  “You mind your own self, Jack. Good luck to you too. And take care o’ that dog. Don’t worry none about Jake and me; we’ll catch up to you quick as ever you please.” The young New Englander leaned on the bulwark of his sloop acting as though he had not a care in the world as he chatted with his friend. Carronade, he noticed with a smile, seemed nearly healed and Jack had reduced his bandage to the minimum. The dog stood in the bow of the boat, shifting his glance between his master and Isaac, while his tail described slow circles in the morning haze. With a part of his mind, Biggs wondered if ever he’d see his old shipmate – or the dog, to whom he had grown quite attached – again.

  Jack’s boat pulled on and, joined by a dozen and more, made for the far river bank. The men spilled out and began picking up the weapons, supplies, and personal items they had put ashore during the night. Five teams rigged lines to the cannon hidden in the brush and, clapping on, dragged the ponderous guns into the forest. Isaac and Jake, along with as many as four men on each of the other vessels watched as, one by one, Commodore Barney and their flotilla mates disappeared into the undergrowth and headed through the trees for Washington.

  “You reckon the English’ll sail up here, Isaac, or walk?” Jake was leaning against the bulwark next to his captain. The early morning silence was eerie; not a sound save the few birds calling in the trees. The normal motion of the boat would cause the rigging to creak and even a light breeze would whisper as it brushed past the spars and lines of the sloop. The boat was still aground and the breeze non-existent, making it feel all the hotter.

  “I ‘spect they’ll come up here in barges or cutters; water’s too thin by half for anything much bigger. If’n they decide to walk up, we might have a little problem gettin’ ashore after we fire the boats.” Isaac paused, thinking, for a moment. “’Specially if’n they come up both sides. They could just set on the banks and take they’s time about killin’ us, I reckon.”

  Isaac’s dark comment provoked no further conversation for a while. The sobering thought of meeting the crack British troops ashore – or riflemen in the tree line targeting the sailors as they tried to get ashore from the burning boats – caused both Jake and Isaac, as well as the two sailors who had heard the comment, to withdraw into themselves. The images they held in sharp relief in their minds were unappealing and there didn’t appear to be a solution to the problem – at least that either Isaac or Jake could produce.

  The men on the other boats were equally quiet, perhaps pondering equally unanswerable questions. Or perhaps saddened by the inevitable scuttling and burning of these little ships. No sailor ever wanted to see his ship, no matter how ugly, crank, or insignificant, sunk or burned. Many of the flotillamen had been with Barney and the gunboats since they were built; they were Baymen who knew these waters and most of the inlets and creeks with an intimacy gained over a lifetime of fishing and trading on and in them. Fighting the British answered just fine for them, but from ships and boats, not ashore. And the waiting was taking its toll.

  “Say Isaac, why not set the fires and get while we got the chance. No need to wait on the damn British ‘til they’s ready to climb over the transom.” One of the flotillamen called to Isaac from a nearby barge.

  “Commodore said wait ‘til we see ‘em comin’ and that’s what I aim to do. Just rest easy and wait for my signal. We’ll get ashore all right. And keep a sharp lookout.” Biggs knew Barney was counting on him to follow his orders, but he wished he felt the confidence he had just voiced. And that he knew Joshua Barney had placed in him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Looks like they’s comin’ Isaac. Look yonder through them trees there.” Jake handed Isaac the longglass through which he had been peering intently.

  Biggs took the proffered telescope and raised it to his eye. The late morning sun dazzled the water, but even with the glare, all he needed was a glance; a cutter was indeed visible, nearly a league distant, propelled by a dozen oarsmen. A tall figure with gold epaulettes stood in the sternsheets. The glare of the sun, now well above the trees, bathed the boat and its crew in its harsh light and glanced off the gold braid on the officer’s uniform, glinting almost white in the effulgence. A slight shift in the glass brought into focus four larger boats – barges, they appeared to be – behind the cutter. And behind them, he could see quite clearly through the trees, the top hamper of a small brig anchored in the bend of the river south of Pig Point. Aye, comin’ indeed, by the Almighty!

  “Looks like the admiral himself come for a look, Jake. And he brought some friends along, too. Make the signal.” Isaac spoke quietly, the droop of his shoulders echoed silently the resignation in his voice.

  The prepared flags rose to the masthead of the sloop and, within a scant moment, he and Jake could see plumes of smoke rising from many of the vessels. Quite apparently, none were eager to stay and see what happened. Several men were already scrambling over the sides of the gunboats into boats secured alongside.

  “Best get them fuses lit, Jake, and then let’s get us gone. They ain’t gonna be long gettin’ here” Isaac held a smoldering slow match and had already started forward as he spoke; Jake picked up another and moved to the aft scuttle where a length of powder impregnated cord showed above the lip. The other two sailors from Isaac’s crew disappeared below to perform their part in this sad duty.

  They met at the boat tied off amidships and dropped into it. Sam Hay and his crew mate took the oars and Jake in the bow, and Isaac at the tiller in the stern pushed them away from the black sloop – for the last time. They could see the bow of the English cutter as it rounded the point, and the men pulled hard for the shoreline, joined by a dozen other small boats, each occupied by three or four men. The barges following were not yet visible, but Isaac was certain they had not stopped.

  As they climbed the short bank into the scrub oak and pine, Isaac made sure each of the men was accounted for. Then he turned for a last look at his sloop and the other vessels of Barney’s flotilla. Each had a satisfying but sad plume of smoke rising from the deck, and several showed flames already licking at the masts and rigging.

  The cutter was now within a cannon shot from the nearest gunboat and, on a faintly heard order, its oarsmen rested on their oars. Isaac, and Jake who had joined him, knew that Admiral Cockburn could plainly see Barney’s blue pendant lifting in the heat-generated breeze. And the fires consuming their targets.

  With breath-taking impact, an explosion wracked the air. So intense was it that the men on the shore could feel the concussion on their chests. It was followed quickly by others as flames reached the magazines and within minutes, the entire fleet was burning, the outline of each vessel shimmering in the flames and smoke.

  The cutter backed away from the intensifying heat and the likelihood of further explosions. Its crew and the admiral watched, mesmerized, as his nemesis on the lower Bay and particularly on the Patuxent, was destroyed before their very eyes. Ironically, it was exactly what the British had been trying to accomplish for six months and more, and here the Americans had done it for them. Isaac noticed the slump of Cockburn’s shoulders as the admiral witnessed the conflagration; it was apparent to the Americans that he enjoyed no satisfaction from it.

  As Isaac, Jake, and other American seamen watched, Admiral Cockburn, still standing in the stern, doff
ed his hat in a silent salute to his adversary, wiped his sweating brow, and gave his crew the order to turn about. They met the row barges which had been rowed the nine miles up from Nottingham, and now would be rowed back in the crushing heat of an August day on the upper Patuxent. The Americans disappeared into the trees.

  They had gone barely a mile along the river bank when a sailor from the rear of the line ran forward and tapped Isaac on the shoulder.

  “Sounds like they might be so’jers comin’ up the shore, Isaac. Astern of us…mebbe a cannon shot back, but no more.” Even the whisper carried the urgency of the message and Isaac held up his hand to stop the procession.

  He held his finger to his lips and the signal was passed to the rear quickly; the silence was complete. Not a bird, an insect, or even the breeze made a sound. He and all the men strained to hear. After all, a body of British Marines coming through the forest would most likely make a pretty good ruckus. After a moment or two, he grabbed Jake Tate and, putting his mouth close to the sailor’s ear, whispered to him. Then he signaled the column forward, gesturing his men to continued silence.

  Jake stepped off the trail – if the serpentine and overgrown path could be so dignified – and squatted down to wait, nodding to each of the sailors as they passed. He held a pistol in his left hand, and another was tucked into the top of his canvas trousers. A cutlass rested in a strap hanging from his shoulder.

  Long minutes passed and the last of the flotillamen had disappeared from sight. The birds again sang and insects buzzed. There was still not a breath of a breeze and small flying insects annoyed the waiting seaman as they flew into his face and crawled down the neck of his jersey. With but one arm, and an unwillingness to release his grip of the pistol, Jake let them be, occasionally shaking his head sharply when the cloud became unbearable. Barely noticing the rivulets of sweat that coursed down his face, neck, and back, he waited – and listened.