The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy

by William H. White

  “Commodore’s sent a messenger down to some gen’l named Stricker what’s got three thousand and more men – infantry, I collect – down on the Philadelphia Road. Told ‘em to get underway toward North Point.” Talbot smacked a fist into his open palm. “Damn! I reckon this thing is just about ready to…” He didn’t finish.

  “Troops ashore at North Point! They’s here, by God. Grab up your weapons!” A black man was running hard up the hill and shouting the warning to all within earshot as he passed.

  “They couldn’t be landing already. There wasn’t nothin’ but some small vessels spotted. Wasn’t big enough to carry any troops, by God.” Jared called after the running man, but he never even broke his stride. “We better get ourselves down there quick as ever we can.” And he picked up the pace; again Isaac and Jake had to trot to keep up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  At Fells Point confusion reigned supreme. Without question, the panicked messenger had already passed through the crowds still furiously engaged in fortifying the waterfront and, in some quarters, the pace had been increased tenfold, while in others, men – and women – stood in groups shouting at one another, gesticulating wildly, and casting nervous glances toward the mouth of the harbor – as though they expected momentarily to see the entire British fleet sailing hell bent for Baltimore with guns blazing.

  The four sailors pushed their way through the throngs, stepping over crates left where they landed when the word of the enemy’s arrival had reached those moving them. Those who didn’t move immediately did so quickly once they spotted Carronade. Jared was glad to see that most of his gunboats were crewed; shot and powder had been brought on deck and the guns released from their confinement along the bulwarks. Telling his companions to wait for him, he ran over to one of the vessels and gave instructions to its captain. Only a few of his words made it through the din of the confused throngs on the pier, but it was clear that he was passing on the orders from the commodore.

  “…and rig it with chains and control lines so it can be hauled back if need be.”

  In an apparent response to an unheard question, he said, “Aye, use spare masts, trees, spars…whatever you can find. And get it done now!” He started to leave, then turned with a further comment. “And be sure you rig it inshore of the boats. We may need to get underway quick-like, and waitin’ for someone to open the boom won’t answer.” He stepped back up to the pier, confident his men would carry out his instructions quickly and properly. They were flotillamen, after all!

  “Jared, if the commodore’s concerned about the British comin’ right in here, why not put a few of them merchants across there in front of the boom. Anchor ‘em fore ‘n’ aft and run lines bow to stern right through there.” Isaac pointed at the widest part of the opening between Fells Point – actually a little beyond Fells Point – and the tip of Whetstone Point with its star-shaped fort. Jack added his own thought.

  “Aye, Jared. A right fine idea from young Isaac. And while they is tryin’ to figger a way through the anchored ships, that gun battery yonder can pound ‘em into matchwood.” Clements eyes were brighter than his usual good humor made them as he thought of the hammering that would be offered to any vessel unfortunate enough to be stopped in front of the Lazaretto Battery and within range of the long eighteen-pounders in McHenry.

  Talbot looked at the dozen and more merchant vessels – mostly brigs, but a few larger and several smaller coasting schooners – tied to the quay and anchored just offshore. They had been trapped in the blockade and their long idleness was evident; rigging was slack and paint peeled from the sides and spars.

  It was one in particular – leaning against the quaywall at a drunken angle, clearly sinking at the dock – that gave him an idea. Her yards hung all ahoo; her sails drooped from the gaskets, and the absence of any sign of tar on her rig gave abundant testimony to her forced captivity and apparent abandonment. He scratched his beard and thought about the suggestion. But only for a moment.

  “Aye, that would answer handily. But we’ll sink ‘em. Water’s not deep enough there to cover ‘em completely and ain’t no one gonna sail through there with half a dozen hulks settin’ on the bottom. Good idea, lads.”

  As he set off to implement his plan, the first drops of rain splattered into the dusty ground and instantly disappeared into the dry dirt, leaving only a wet spot as the mark of their passing. The drops were large and widely spaced, but a glance at the sky told any who looked that this was barely the beginning. The puffy white clouds that had been superimposed on the pewter sky to the northwest now towered aloft and had spread over much of the northern sky. The stillness and oppressive air that fed the damp heat of scant minutes ago was replaced with a gentle but cooling breeze that the seamen knew would grow into a half gale in no time at all. Lightning was beginning to streak the darkening sky, shooting from one cloud to another and, occasionally, down to the ground well to the north of the city. Over the noise of the preparations for an invasion one could pick up the distant and threatening rumble of thunder. It sounded like gun fire far out to sea and some of the milling throng who heard it – the more skittish of the citizens of Baltimore – cried out that the firing had already begun. They were ‘shushed’ quickly by their more level-headed comrades.

  Shortly, the rain began to fall in earnest. The large drops quickly gave way to closely-spaced, smaller ones which increased in intensity and, in the growing wind, stung the skin where the wind whipped the rain horizontal.

  At first, it had felt good – cooling overheated bodies, washing off the dust and dirt from their labors – then the air cooled, the rain and wind intensified and many, suddenly cold, and long exhausted and aching from their labors, sought refuge in the nearby buildings and vessels. Some of the younger men continued pushing crates and bales into position, unconcerned with the rising storm.

  Isaac, Jake, and Jack stepped into the doorway of a warehouse and watched as the harbor became first riffled and pocked with raindrops, then stirred to small waves as the wind increased. As the rain became a torrent, the rising waves were beat down and the surface of the harbor took on the appearance of a boiling cauldron. The vessels secured to the pier and the quay leaned shoreward as the wind grew and pushed steadily against their rigs; smaller boats bobbed against the pilings and stones, tugging at their lines with a ferocity matched only by the intensity of the storm.

  “Carronade! Get your arse in here, you fool! Get outta the storm.” Jack, from the shelter of the building, saw the big animal sitting unconcerned on the quay where the men had last been. His head was lifted into the wind and his nose worked, smelling the clean air. His fur was soaked already, the water running down his back in rivulets. His eyes were closed against the ferocity of the driving rain, his only concession to the storm.

  When he heard Jack calling him, he looked around at the men sheltering in the open doorway; he pricked up his ears at the sound, but remained sitting in the now muddy street.

  “Probably feels right good – that cool rain – I’d warrant. He was some hot when we climbed up to where the commodore was at.” Jake smiled at his friend and looked back at Carronade, who had resumed his earlier posture.

  The driving rain and lashing wind continued for half a glass and, by the time it had abated, all the workers had sought whatever shelter they could find. However, within minutes of the storm’s passing, most were again outside, shifting the bales and crates, loading the carts and wagons, and tending to the preparations for the defense of their city. The flotillamen were now ashore, seeking spars, rope, and chain, already at work constructing the boom which, ultimately would be stretched across the water to Whetstone Point.

  Jared appeared from another building; his boots made sucking noises as he splashed through the morass left by the rain, and he was trailed by a gaunt, grizzled man wearing an unbuttoned black coat and well-worn porkpie hat. The sullen remnants of the rain dripped off the brim and, unnoticed, down the man’s neck. His face was covered by a scr
aggly gray beard which reached well below the frayed collar of his none-too-clean shirt. His dangling wrists stuck out of his sleeves like yardarms protruding from their brailed canvas.

  “This here’s Mister Ferguson, gents. He said the offer he made to Commodore Rodgers still stands. Sloop’s right over to the next pier, and seems in fine shape. Said we could take her soon’s we’re ready to.” Jared turned to Mr. Ferguson, whose head had been bobbing in agreement like a bird seeking worms from the morning soil. “This here’s Isaac Biggs and Jack Clements; likely one of ‘em’ll be cap’n of your vessel – leastways ‘til the Royal Navy gets sent packin’!”

  Isaac took the proffered hand, noting it felt like taking hold of a bundle of sticks; he looked at Mr. Ferguson and was momentarily taken aback by the expressionless, sunken, staring eyes looking back at him, ringed with dark smudges and topped with bushy gray brows that ran in one continuous line across the man’s weathered brow. The men moved off to the pier where the sloop was moored, as Jared gave orders to some men to begin moving the merchant vessels into the void off the pier. The sullen drizzle continued from the low clouds, while to the southeast the men could see the back side of the storm which was now thrashing the mouth of the Patapsco and North Point.

  The sloop was indeed a handy little vessel; her hull and decks seemed well-caulked. Her bowsprit poked up into the wet sky at a rakish angle and both a jib and a flying jib were neatly secured to it. The rigging looked well-tarred and taut; obviously, this was not one of those which had suffered forced confinement.

  Must be right quick since she’s likely been sailed right through the blockade. Probably be able to outrun most of what’s out there, Isaac thought as he studied the lines of the little sloop. Aloud he said, “I’d warrant this’ll answer just fine, Jared.” Isaac’s seaman’s eye had taken in the whole vessel quickly, sizing up her sailing abilities and seaworthiness in a glance. “Won’t take more’n a handful to manage her – even if the weather pipes up. Reckon Jack and Jake an’ me, ‘long with one or two others could handle her just right.” Clements and Tate nodded their agreement.

  “All right then, Mister Ferguson. You made yourself a deal. I reckon Commodore Rodgers’ll see to your fee quick as ever he might – soon’s I let him know we’ve come to terms. Why don’t you show Cap’n Biggs and the others through her while I see to a few other chores I got to take care of.

  “Isaac, when you are ready, you lads can bring her over to Ridgley’s and I’ll grab a couple of lads off’n one of the gunboats to help me bring my vessel around. Shouldn’t be more’n a half a glass behind you.” With that, Talbot strode off back the way they’d come, and Isaac, Clements, and Tate stepped aboard the sloop with Mr. Ferguson.

  By the time the sloop was anchored off the quay at the gunboat docks in Ridgley’s Cove, the weather had eased; the rain was stopped entirely and, while the sky remained leaden and the wind easterly, there was no sign of any immediate threat from the heavens. The gunboats were bobbing gently to their anchor rodes or were secured to the pier; the men were busy preparing the vessels for what was now assumed by most to be an invasion by the British Chesapeake fleet. Hammering and shouting carried well past the entrance to the cove. The comments and bravado that floated over the dark water indicated that these crews also had heard of both the British ships which had appeared at the mouth of the river and those which were sailing up from the south. The men welcomed the challenge, frustrated by their forced idleness.

  As Isaac and his short crew rowed ashore from the sloop, they could see two well-dressed gentlemen standing on the quay, deep in conversation.

  “Them two must be lost, bein’ they’s down here. Mayhaps they’s wantin’ to sign into one of the gunboats! What d’ya think about that, Isaac?” Jake laughed at the incongruity of such fine gentlemen mixing with the likes of the gunboat sailors who populated the docks of Ridgley’s Cove.

  “Aye. They look like they belong over to Fells Point with them other dandies. Helpin’ load wagons and jackassin’ crates around.” Clements studied the pair for a moment as their boat approached the stone steps on the quaywall.

  “Would one of you gentlemen be Captain Jared Talbot, by any chance?” The taller of the two called out as the boat carrying the trio – and Carronade – bumped gently against the steps and was secured with a short length of hemp. Led by the big dog, who leaped ashore with sure-footed grace, the men stepped out of the boat and made their way up the slippery, weed-covered stair.

  Jack watched, amused, as Carronade’s head cleared the top of the steps and the two men stepped quickly out of his path. The dog stood looking down at his master and the others; his tail, throwing little droplets of water from their recent drenching, described circles in the still wet air. He paid little heed to the well-dressed men who by now had given him noticeable searoom.

  “Not on your life, mate. He oughtta be ‘long right quick though. Shouldn’t be more ‘an…” Jack, the first onto the quay, didn’t finish his thought. Jake, just stepping out of the boat, was pointed toward Whetstone Point and the vessel just coming into view around its seaward end.

  “Ain’t that Jared’s boat just turnin’ the Fort now? Sure looks like her.”

  Isaac turned and looked; they all did. “Aye,” he agreed. “Reckon that’d be him right yonder.” He looked at the two gentlemen whose glances shifted back and forth between the dog and the new arrivals. “Who might you gents be, if’n I might ask?”

  “My name is Skinner – Colonel John Skinner.” The taller of the two, the one who had earlier inquired as to the identity of Jared Talbot, extended his hand to Isaac. He kept a wary eye on Jack’s dog. “I am the Prisoner of War Exchange Agent here in Baltimore. And this is Mister Frank Key, of Georgetown. He is a lawyer in that city. He – and I – need transportation out to the British fleet.”

  His comment, offered quite off-handedly, quickly caught the men’s attention and, seeing their surprised looks, went on quickly to explain. His manner continued to be quite matter-of-fact, as though seeking transport to the enemy fleet was a daily occurrence.

  “He has been engaged by friends of Doctor William Beanes of Upper Marlboro to secure the good doctor’s release from the English. He, by all accounts, is being held on Admiral Cochrane’s flagship, HMS Tonnant. Why, we have little idea, but Mister Key and I must meet with the admiral and effect his parole. Both he and I agree that sailing into the enemy fleet would be less hazardous in a vessel which could not be mistaken for a warship. I was told that Captain Talbot had such a vessel here in Ridgley’s Cove and, it would appear, have mistaken your sloop for his.” Colonel Skinner, having completed his explanation, fell silent and watched as what he now knew was Talbot’s sloop made for her berth on the pier. Covertly, he tried to keep an eye on the dog as well.

  Isaac, also watching, responded. “Likely he’ll be happy to oblige you, Colonel, but you’ll have to put your question to him. I ain’t in charge here.”

  “Colonel, you seem some nervous about ol’ Carronade there. Less’n you’re British, you ain’t got no cause for worry from him. He ain’t likely to bother you at all. Don’t much take to anything British, though.” Jack was absently scratching the big dog’s head as the dog closed his eyes and leaned against his master’s hip. The colonel didn’t appear to be completely convinced, but smiled thinly at Clements’ effort to put him at ease.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  By the time Colonel Skinner and Lawyer Key had reiterated their need to Jared, their tankards had been emptied and refilled. The ale house was quite full and more than a little noisy, now that most of the work on the gunboats was completed and the flotillamen had found the establishment a convenient place to gather and swap stories. Naturally, the volume of conversation rose with the volume of ale consumed, and the colonel, at the end of his story, had been forced to shout just to compete with the boisterous sailors.

  “Well, it’s a certainty we ain’t gonna send you out there in a gunboat; don’t reckon you’d last
a minute without you bein’ blown to matchwood soon’s they spotted you – even with a truce flag a-flyin’. Them coves out there likely seen more ‘an a few of ‘em out on the Bay over the last year and more! An’ it’s a good bet they’d take a truce flag as a ruse. So I reckon you’re gonna have to use either my vessel or the one Isaac just brought in.” Talbot thought for a moment, then looked at Biggs and Jack. “How’d you feel ‘bout sailin’ out to the British fleet, Isaac? I don’t ‘spect they’d be likely to fire on your sloop quick-like – long as you had that white flag showin’. Be right plain she’s not armed inta the bargain. Might even be able to get some idea of what’s actin’ with ‘em. That would be right useful to Commodore Rodgers if’n you can get back in here and tell him afore the British show up.”

  “I can surely sail out there, Jared. Ain’t a problem in that. But what makes these fine gentlemen so sure the Brits’ll just let us sail right up to ‘em, tip our hats, and sail away with the good doctor? I sure don’t have any wish to wind up in the Royal Navy again! Once was enough for me!”

  “My thoughts exactly, Isaac. I ain’t got no plan on spendin’ time up to Melville Island again. Was right about this time last year you got us out of that hell-hole, by the Almighty. Ain’t that so, Jake?” Clements’ normally cheery grin had been replaced by a dour expression at the recollection of their experiences after the Chesapeake disaster.

  Tate just shook his head; his right sleeve, tied off with a piece of tarred hemp, provided ample testimony to his own feelings about spending time in a British prison.