The Evening Gun: Volume three in War of 1812 Trilogy

by William H. White

  “Them lads done right good, I’d warrant, Isaac. Looks like more ‘an a few of they’s shots told!” Jack Clements was peering over the side as the body and the remains of what might have been a row barge bobbed in the chop and passed by under the sloop’s lee. “Damn! It sure is nice to see some British vessels busted up ‘stead of ours!”

  As they approached the shoreward ramparts of the Fort with its waterbattery of forty-two-pounders poking ominously out from the earthern redoubts, all eyes studied the beleagured fort.

  “Would you have a look there! What a pounding they must’ve took! Lookee there; you can see where some of them big shells landed. And look at the wall there – whole pieces missin’ from it!”

  “They’s still some of them shells – mortars, I’d warrant – settin’ there at the water’s edge. Must not’ve exploded like they shoulda!”

  “There! You can see where they musta fired into the side of her. See, the wall’s all pocked and missin’ pieces.” Jake pointed out the results of the early morning attack from the row barges and, as Isaac eased the boat into the mouth of Ridgely’s Cove, he exclaimed again at the condition of Fort Covington.

  “Them poor bastards musta took a beatin’, there in – what’s that one called, Isaac?”

  “Recollect Jared called that one Covington, Jake. Looks like they got hit some in there. Musta been wild shots. Don’t seem like much of a target, less’n they got tired of shootin’ at McHenry.”

  “Ahoy! On the sloop. Isaac – that you? Up here, lad. In Covington. Here!”

  Isaac looked up again at the fort, and saw a figure – from the size it could only be Jared Talbot – waving and hollering from the wall.

  “Jared! What’re you doin’ up there. Figgered you to be chasin’ ‘em outta the harbor with the flotilla!”

  “Get yourself into the cove. I’ll meet you there and tell you what’s been actin’.” The voice boomed down and even before its echo died out, the figure disappeared from view.

  “Reckon ol’ Jared got hisself assigned up there by Commodore Rodgers. Remember, Jack? Rodgers told us them army coves was took sick with something or other. He sure had a view of the fightin’ from up there!” Isaac smiled, relieved to see his friend, and happy to be almost home.

  As the sloop eased into the anchorage, still crowded with a dozen and more gunboats, Isaac brought her onto the wind, ordered the sails handed and brought her to anchor barely a pistol shot from the short wooden pier. They could hear hollering and singing coming from the shore and Clements, his eyes crinkling even more than usual, smiled knowingly at his skipper. The flotillamen were celebrating.

  Even as the sloop came to her anchor, Frank Key remained intent on his work. The proximity of shore and the sounds of the celebration didn’t signify. The scrap of paper was filled with words, strike-outs, and more words. He studied it for a moment, pausing in his labors and, wetting the stub of a pencil on his tongue, wrote furiously again.

  “Say, Frank. Captain Biggs says a boat’s coming out to take us ashore. You had best put your journal aside for a bit and get your effects together. I, for one, am quite anxious to put my feet on American soil again.” William Beanes smiled at his friend but received a blank, glassy-eyed stare in return.

  “Uhhh…oh, we’re in already?” Key carefully folded the paper and started to put it and the pencil into his pocket. Realizing it was still quite wet, he thought better of it and, carrying both in his hand, stepped to the scuttle to “get his effects together.” “It’s not a journal, Bill; I’ve been writing verse. Seeing our flag this morning after that hellish night has moved me more than anything I’ve ever experienced and I wanted to set it down while the feelings were still with me. It’s not quite complete yet, but I shall soon be satisfied with my effort. Perhaps you’d be good enough to read it when we get ashore and give me an opinion?”

  “With pleasure, Frank. You know I’ve always admired your poetry. But let us find a quiet place in the city where we can talk. Now that I’ve rested, I want to tell you of the travails I have suffered these three weeks and more since Admiral Cochrane snatched me right from the dinner table in my home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  There was not a “quiet place” to be found in the city; indeed, the citizens of Baltimore were packed into every ale house, tavern, and coffee house celebrating their survival and the withdrawal of the British bombardment fleet. Even with the hour being barely dinner time, more than a few were glassy-eyed drunks, some passed out at tables, while others danced and cavorted like folks possessed. Singing, shouting, laughing people spilled out of doorways into the streets making it difficult at best to move past any establishment serving ale or rum.

  Sam Hay and Clive had gone off with other members of the flotilla to celebrate, and Isaac, Jack, and Jake Tate had joined forces with Bill Andrews and Jared Talbot. They walked slowly through the choked streets of Baltimore while Jared told them of the long day and night in Fort Covington and the British attempt to flank them in boats. Andrews filled in whatever the big flotillaman left out.

  “It was about the onliest chance we got to do any real firin’, Isaac. Them bastards stayed just out of our range most of the time. Even the forty-two’s at McHenry had trouble reachin’ ‘em some of the time. But when one of the lookouts heard them oars splashin’, Jared, here, knew we was gonna be in for it! Opened up with the whole battery we done, by Gawd, and them coves at Babcock jumped right on it too! Reckon we busted ‘em up right good from the sound of it. Heard a lot of hollerin’ and wailin’ from they’s boats, so we knew the shots was tellin’. Then when they pulled back, they hadda get by the lads at McHenry and they had a turn at ‘em as well. It was right nice, I’m tellin’ you!” Andrews was animated, gesturing dramatically as he described the early morning fight, expanding on what Talbot had just mentioned.

  Isaac looked at Jake. “Reckon them two dead Royal Navymen and that ruint boat we seen comin’ in was on account of that, then.” He saw the questioning look from Andrews. “Aye. Seen a couple of ‘em – one for sure was an officer and, thinkin’ on it, a fair senior one to boot – and a boat pretty well shot up, it were. Probably four or five miles off Whetstone Point. Musta got carried out there on the tide. You coves done right good, I’d say. Yessir, right good, indeed!”

  “Bein’ on the receivin’ end of that bombardment musta been like bein’ in Hell, I’d warrant. Can’t imagine what it musta been like with them mortars and shells goin’ off all around.” Jake was awe-struck as Jared concluded his description. “Iron shot is one thing and we all done that, but them bombs blowin’ up overhead musta shook more’n a few of you coves, I’d wager.” He shook his head, seeing Talbot and Andrews in a new light and with new respect.

  “Here, lads, this talkin’s thirsty business. Let’s get us a glass o’ something in there.” Jared was already pushing his vast bulk through a doorway crowded with revelers. He used his size to open a path and the others followed closely in his wake.

  After they had elbowed their way to the back of the tavern and secured a large tankard of ale for each, the four of them stood in a corner and shouted over the din.

  “One of the coves what’d been in McHenry told me the British fired above fifteen hundred shells at ‘em. Weren’t but four of ‘em got ‘emselves killed in it, too. Hard to reckon that with how long it went on, by Gawd. Heard they was two dozen or so what got hurt – some cruel, to be sure – but still right lucky, I’d say. Most of the damage come from them damn mortar shells blowin’ up aloft; some exploded after hitting the ground, as well.” Jared’s deep voice carried well over the din and he had taken it upon himself to do most of the talking. “And I heard from one of the army or militia coves who was with Winder…”

  “Winder! That bag o’ wind was here? I figgered after the mess he got into at Bladensburg that he’da been hidin’ out somewhere or crawled off into some corner to lick at his wounds! With him in charge it’s a wonder them militias didn’t run off like they done at
Bladensburg.” Isaac couldn’t believe that the stout general he had met at the River Rose ale house in Nottingham – which seemed like years ago, but was only July – was actually in charge of anything.

  “Oh, he wasn’t really in charge, Isaac. General Stricker was givin’ orders, I reckon, and o’ course, Commodore Rodgers and General Smith were tellin’ him what to do. But gettin’ on with what I was tellin’: that cove tol’ me that they killed the English general early on – right quick after the shootin’ started – and the whole thing was damn near done then. The British didn’t know what to do ‘til some other general or colonel or something took charge. The Americans gradually fell back, skirmishing as they did, ‘til the British was right up to the Philadelphia Road. Then they seen Rodgers’ guns and entrenchments up to Hampstead Hill and had ‘em some second thoughts, by God!” Talbot laughed a great booming laugh at the way the Americans had drawn the hardened British regulars into a trap.

  “Reckon they just sat there then trying to figger out what they was gonna do. Tested the line some and get sent back, they’s tails a’tween they’s legs.” He laughed again. “Puttin’ together the way it happened, I’d wager a fair piece that that run they made in boats toward us at Covington had something to do with them gettin’ stuck there under Rodgers’ guns. They was takin’ a poundin’ there, I’d warrant, and maybe the navy was tryin’ to draw some of our so’jers away from where they was. Didn’t reckon on findin’ the flotillamen lookin’ down their barrels at ‘em, har har!”

  A disturbance near the entrance and the sudden easing of the noise ended Talbot’s second-hand description of the battle of North Point.

  “They’s regroupin’. Get back to your posts. The British are formin’ up again. Comin’ from over to North Point, they are!” Someone shouted out the grim news and after a long hush born of disbelief, the floodgates of noise reopened. Everybody was shouting, some trying to debunk the news while others shouted encouragement.

  “Cain’t be! Sent ‘em packin’, we done, by the Almighty! We seen the ships sailin’ for the Bay with our own eyes!”

  “Hell’s fire, lads! We whupped ‘em once, we can do it again. Teach ‘em good an’ proper this time. Let’s get back to the lines! Bring ‘em on!”

  Regardless of which side one took, the boisterous crowd soon found itself pushing out of the ale house. In no time at all, the establishment had disgorged most of its occupants – those who could walk or stagger – into the street. Confusion as to the veracity of the report had the people running to and fro, bumping into their fellows and, in some cases, knocking the smaller off their feet into the thick mud beyond the walkways.

  Some of the men ran to horses, carts, or other means of conveyance which they mounted and dashed off to their duty-stations from the night previous; others discussed the situation, finally deciding to go up to Hampstead Hill and see “…what the devil this was all about!” Still others, the flotillamen most notably, walked quickly to Ridgely’s Cove and, rounding up a few sober sailors, set out to the harbor in a pair of gunboats.

  “They sure don’t look like they’s headin’ back this way, lads. Looks from here like them bomb ships and frigates are just waitin’ out by the flagship. ’Pears they’s anchored, near as I can see.” Jared had a longglass to his eye while Bill Andrews steered the boat. He steadied himself against the larboard shrouds and peered through the glass again, studying the scene some five and more miles away with intensity.

  “Jared! You see them boats? The ones coming over toward the shore yonder? They’s full of Marines. Looks like they’s headin’ out, not in. Might be they’s bringin’ ‘em back from North Point.” Clements’ voice floated over the water from gunboat that he, Jake, and Isaac, along with a few others to man guns should they be needed, had commandeered from a crew too drunk to manage.

  Jared swung his glass and studied the scene for a moment. His booming voice carried easily to the other vessel. “Looks like you’re right there, Jack. They must be haulin’ ‘em back to the ships. We’ll get us some closer. Cain’t hurt and we might be able to see more.”

  The two gunboats, American flags flying proudly at their peaks, sailed further from the harbor and closer to the enemy ships anchored in a light chop and growing breeze off North Point. A steady stream of boats plied the waters between the shore and the transports, some coming from the mouth of Old Roads Bay while others came from the point itself. And they were loaded to the gun’ls with red-coated Royal Marines. More could be seen with the glass as they clambered up the sides of the hulking transports, while still others waited, lining the shore to the east.

  Boom! A dull thud of a cannon firing caused all hands to shift their gaze to a sixth-rate frigate, identified by the small cloud of lavender-tinged smoke just blowing away from her side. She was anchored on the outer edge of the formation and apparently the American flags flying from the two gunboats had aroused some attention in that quarter. The ball fell far short and, from the splash, Jared decided a small bow or stern chaser had been used.

  “I don’t reckon they’re gonna get underweigh and come after us, Isaac, but let’s not give ‘em the idea! They’s likely none too happy with the position they’s in and might be thinkin’ on takin’ it out on us.” Jared emphasized his words by nodding at Andrews who put the tiller down, bringing the boat’s head around through the wind and settled her down on the other tack, heading back toward the city. Isaac followed suit, Carronade barking insistently at the British fleet now receding astern.

  Within a few days, the people of Baltimore were again jubilant, celebrating with undiminished fervor, as they watched the British fleet sail from the mouth of the harbor; they had recovered their marines, buried their dead, and won their anchors. A rider had brought the news from Patapsco Neck early on the morning of September sixteenth. And this time, there was no stopping the delirium.

  Revelers overflowed the taverns and lined the streets. They had done it! The militia and the townspeople had turned the mightiest army in the world – the one which had put down Napoleon Bonaparte – and withstood a twenty-four hour bombardment by the Royal Navy. The disgrace of Washington’s defeat was forgotten and there was singing in the streets.

  Isaac, in the company of Jared Talbot, stood along the wall of a tavern shouting at each other over the tumult. Suddenly, Jared noticed that Isaac’s eyes had fixed on something – or someone – beyond him. He turned and looked. In a corner of the establishment was a crumpled figure, the well worn and dirty clothes marking him as a sailor.

  “What’re you lookin’ at so hard, Isaac? Not that drunk yonder, is it? Just some washed up sailor, I’d warrant.” Jared shouted into Isaac’s ear.

  “No, Jared. I mean, aye, that’s what I’m lookin’ at. But I’m right sure I know that cove; sailed with him back a few years. I’m gonna have a look.” Isaac pushed his way through the few men to get to the corner and the table over which the sailor was slouched. A tarpaulin hat, torn and ragged, was pulled down low on his forehead. As Isaac stood over him, the seaman looked up with bleary, reddened eyes that squinted, even in his torpor, with a malicious cast. A ragged growth of beard, the filth on his plaid shirt, and the aroma emanating from his form gave perfect testimony to his unemployment and destitute state.

  “Wha ya want? ‘Less’n yer gonna get me a drink, go away. I…hey! You look some familiar. Who are you? You mebbe need a prime hand fer yer ship?” The man shook his head to clear away the stupor and tried to focus on Isaac. He reeled some in his chair and clapped onto the edge of the table to steady himself.

  “I thought it looked like you, Mister Jakes. You remember me? Isaac Biggs – off’n the Anne.” Isaac stepped back a bit and wrinkled his nose. He noticed that he had lapsed easily into the ‘mister’ form of address, a habit left from the days when Jakes was third on the bark and he was a topman.

  “Biggs, is it? Aye, I ‘member you.” He rubbed a grimy hand across his face and beard. “Pain in my arse, you were. Thought you was in the Royal N
avy, now. Har har! What happen, they t’row you out?” Recognition crossed the drunk’s face and, as the memory of where he had known his visitor filtered into his rum-soaked brain, was quickly replaced with hate.

  “Why aren’t you sailin’, Jakes? How long you been ashore, anyway?”

  “Smalley, that damn scoundrel, put me ashore soon’s Anne got into St. Bart’s. Didn’t take kindly, he said, to me sellin’ ship’s stores. He never proved a damn thing, but he put me on the beach just the same, the bastard! Wouldn’t even bring me back to Boston, damn his eyes.

  Got myself back home but couldn’t get more’n a seaman’s berth by the time that rascal got done tellin’ folks why he put me ashore. Ain’t been out in a year – how long’s this war been goin’ on? Aye, three it is and ain’t been out since afore it started. All on account o’ that bible spoutin’ whoreson. An’ you, I reckon. You musta had something to do with it, ‘s’well. Hard times for Ben Jakes it’s been!” The drunk started to rise and reach for a knife, then realized it wasn’t there and shook his head and slouched down again in the chair.

  Realizing he had nothing more to say and that Jakes likely was incapable of saying more, Isaac returned to Jared, still leaning on the wall where they’d been. He responded to Talbot’s questioning look.

  “Cove I used to sail with – back before the war. He was third on a merchant outta Marblehead. I was in the foretop back then…afore I wound up in the Royal Navy. Hasn’t been to sea since the war started, he said. Can’t get a berth. Reckon he’s not likely to get one any time soon, neither!”

  Jakes was forgotten as the two men continued celebrating with the crowds, telling stories at the top of their lungs, and enjoying the gayety and festive atmosphere of the city.

  At the same time, Jack Clements and Jake pushed their way, laughing, down a waterfront avenue and bought a newspaper – The Baltimore Patriot – from a boy for a few cents. The headlines proclaimed the ‘wondrous victory’ and every page was filled with stories of the horrors and triumphs of the ‘siege of Baltimore.’ There were lists of dead, wounded, and missing. Stories from eyewitnesses to the bombardment. And near the back, by itself, was printed a poem.