‘You settle the British, Isaac, and I’ll settle the fire,’ Toby snapped. ‘Take the helm, cox.’
He ran for the companion ladder, picking up four of the heavy buckets of sand — two in each hand — as he did so. Down the ladder he slid, holding his breath, while smoke swirled about his head and men stumbled past him, cursing and swearing and choking, anxious only to gain the cleaner air forward. Dimly he saw the glow of the flames thrusting through the gloom, and went towards it, emptying his buckets on to the burning timbers. He turned, and found other buckets being pressed into his hands; a chain had been formed from the upper deck.
Now, too, the pumps had been manned, and seawater surged by him to engulf the searing red. All his breath was gone, and his lungs were aching as if he were drowning. He threw four more buckets, and then the entire ship seemed to spin about his head and he crashed to the deck.
He was unconscious only for seconds, dragged forward to breathe relatively clean air, and sat up, gasping and choking. But the fire had been extinguished. Down here the noise of the hulls battering against each other was deafening; it hardly seemed possible for the wooden timbers to take such a battering.
He scrambled to his feet and regained the quarterdeck, saw that the British boarding party had been unable to make their assault, driven back at once by the sustained fire of the Americans, and by the seas, which were at last tearing the two vessels apart. And as the Guer-riere fell back, her last remaining mast, the main, also went by the board, its stays cut away by the American shot, and leaving her a helpless hulk, rolling in the swell.
‘Bring her about, Toby,’ Hull shouted, and squeezed his hand. ‘That was good work. Now let’s finish him.’
‘Aye-aye,’ Toby cried, and spun the helm, himself directing Boatswain Barclay to the sails which needed trimming.
But McDonough was on the horse blocks, waving and hollering. ‘She’s struck,’ he shouted. ‘She’s struck.’
Officers and men ran to the bulwarks to watch the white flag being waved from the British quarterdeck: there was no mast on which it could be hoisted. In fact, Toby knew, there was nothing else they could now do. Without masts she could not sail, and the Americans would be able to circle her and destroy her at will.
‘That will give them all something to cheer about,’ Hull said, standing beside him. ‘Oh, indeed, this is a famous victory. The greatest we have gained since Paul Jones, and your father, Toby, sank the Serapis off Flamborough Head. And you played your part most well. You’ll have your commission back, by God, or I’ll resign mine.’
‘I’m just one amongst five hundred, Isaac,’ Toby reminded him. ‘They were all heroes. But it was the ship gained us the victory.’ He grinned at his friend. ‘And her iron sides.’
‘Ironsides,’ Hull said. ‘By God, but you’re right. That’s not a nickname we’ll ever forget.’
CHAPTER 10
Boston and Lake Champlain — 1812-14
There were fourteen men dead or wounded on board the Constitution, but no fewer than seventy-eight casualties on the Guerrière, the result of only half an hour’s actual fighting. And the British ship itself was totally wrecked. Apart from being dismasted, she was taking water from several cracked seams, and the weather was deteriorating with every minute.
‘I am sorry, Captain Dacres,’ Hull said to the British commander, ‘but I have no choice other than to sink your ship, however much I would enjoy towing her into Boston as a prize.’
Dacres nodded. From his point of view, total destruction was clearly the lesser of the two evils.
The pumps were manned, and the two ships brought together, while the British dead were buried with due solemnity, as were the Americans. Then the disarmed British sailors and marines were confined below decks on board Constitution; their officers, allowed to retain their swords in accordance with best naval practice, were allowed the freedom of the ship — indeed, they had to be berthed amidships as the after cabins were too damaged to be used — and it was a treat to hear them muttering their wonderment at each other at the size and strength of the so-called frigate.
Meanwhile, a boarding party was sent on board Guerrière to set the trains. Then she was cast off and allowed to drift away, slowly settling into the water, although it was no part of the Americans’ plans to leave her until they were certain of her destruction. Sail was set on Constitution, but she remained hove to, half a mile from her victim, until the explosions were heard, followed almost immediately by the gush of flame from below which rapidly enveloped the upper decks. Then, her already opened seams forced further apart by the heat and the force of the explosion, she went down by the head, disappearing from sight in a vast sizzle of disturbed water.
This was the second ship Toby had helped to burn, and although this one was an enemy, unlike the poor old Philadelphia, yet he had a lump in his throat as he watched the frigate settle into the waves.
Not that the crew of the Constitution were given much time to reflect on the fate that could possibly one day be theirs; once the Guerrière was seen to be sinking all hands were mustered to set to work and make at least temporary repairs on the stern of their own vessel, which was at once shattered by the British shot and blackened by the consequent fire.
Yet it had been a stupendous victory; the British were not accustomed to losing any of their vessels in ship-to-ship actions. And it had come in good time, as American morale, so high when war had been declared, had very rapidly plunged to an extremely low level. For by the time the Constitution regained Boston, the plans to invade Canada had gone dramatically astray. The Americans had set off in high spirits, actually commanded by General William Hull, Isaac’s brother, but at Detroit they had been attacked by General Sir Isaac Brock, commanding a force of seven hundred Canadians and six hundred Indians, and two thousand five hundred men had laid down their arms without firing a shot.
The news of his brother’s pusillanimity came as a terrible shock to Isaac, and his own sudden fame seemed rather to depress than cheer him up; he handed over the command of the ship — which would in any event take several weeks to be properly repaired — and hurried off to Washington.
But worse news soon arrived. A massive counter attack on Canada, launched by some five thousand men under the command of General Henry Dearborn, fought an abortive action at Queenston, and then the Americans, all of them militia, refused to cross into Canada, on the grounds that they had enlisted to defend their homeland, not to engage in foreign wars. The only American comfort was that the formidable General Brock had been killed in the skirmish.
In the circumstances, the Constitution’s triumph was the only solid cheer the American people had to enjoy; Old Ironsides became a catchword amongst the Bostonians, and her fame was trumpeted the length and breadth of the country. While her crew themselves thirsted to be returned to sea. And Toby more than any of them; it was galling to be lying only a hundred odd miles north of Long Island, and be unable to go home.
Equally was it galling not to know what offer was going to be made to him from Washington, how Hull was proceeding with having him returned to his former rank. He was nearly beside himself with excitement when at last the captain arrived, but it turned out to be an entirely new captain, although another old friend, William Bainbridge, who commanded Toby to his cabin for an interview, and greeted him most warmly — but could offer little cheer.
‘I’m afraid the Navy Board feels that it cannot review your situation at this time, Toby,’ he said. ‘Your conduct, in disobeying the command of a senior officer, was really very serious, you know, and although they are prepared to acknowledge your considerable contribution to the victory over the Guerrière — and incidentally, despite the fact that John Rodgers has endorsed Isaac’s recommendation that you be restored your commission immediately — they are only prepared to confirm your promotion to warrant officer. They feel it would be detrimental to discipline to restore your rank at this time.’
Toby gazed at him, his cheeks flushed with
anger and disappointment. ‘I doubt that is the best way to repay loyalty,’ he remarked.
‘I would say you are right. But there it is.’
‘And supposing I say that I no longer wish to fight for them?’
Bainbridge sighed. ‘You signed on for the duration of the war, Toby. You cannot merely resign. You can only be dishonourably discharged. For a second time. I should hate to have a hand in that.’
Toby stood to attention. ‘Then I had best return to my duties, sir.’
‘Toby …’ Bainbridge stood up. ‘Your predicament commands the hearts of every man in this Navy. I will promise you that we shall seek a glory equal to that of the battle with Guerrière, and that your name will once again be presented to Congress for promotion.’ Toby saluted, and left the cabin. A week later the ship sailed for the Caribbean.
In fact, for all his resentment, he could not but be happy to be at sea again and for such a long cruise, and in those waters where he had first seen action, and indeed first met Felicity. And Bainbridge was as good as his word. After cruising the Caribbean to the total disruption of British shipping for the remainder of the year, in December he ventured as far south as Brazil on learning there were British warships in that area, and on the 29th, four days after his crew had celebrated Christmas, off Bahia he brought to action HMS Java, another thirty-eight, which like the Guerrière possessed no chance against the big American ship.
But this was a much sterner contest than the first. It lasted for some two hours, and the Britisher did not surrender until her commander, Lambert, was dying. There were thirty-four American casualties, and Bainbridge himself had been hit.
Once again Boston turned out to welcome their heroes back in the spring of 1813. Now they had to share some of their glory, for the USS United States, commanded by Decatur, had also gained a signal victory, over HMS Macedonian, proving yet again the wisdom of the Americans in building frigates larger than any possessed by their enemies.
Yet single-ship victories, while good for the nation’s sagging morale, could have no effect on the overall course of the war, as the British began to exert themselves, and in addition to sending more warships across the ocean, took their earlier lessons to heart and commenced operating in convoys and squadrons. Worse, the major naval encounter of the year was an American disaster. In June, the unlucky Chesapeake, now commanded by James Lawrence, and moored in Boston only a few yards from where the Constitution was undergoing her refit, was sent a challenge by Sir Philip Broke, the commander of the lone British frigate outside the port, HMS Shannon, to come out and fight, ship to ship and man to man. Lawrence, who could well remember the disgrace brought on his vessel six years before, determined to accept the challenge, although warned against it by both Bainbridge and McDonough.
Technically, the two frigates were a perfect match, each mounting thirty-eight guns, and with similar sized crews. But the Shannon was well known to be the most efficient vessel in the whole British navy, and so it proved. The Chesapeake sailed amidst the acclamations of the Boston populace, who were convinced that ship for ship any American was better than any Britisher, while the crew of the Constitution swarmed into the rigging to see what they could of the battle. In the event they saw very little over the intervening islands, although they heard the ensuing cannonade. It lasted only a few minutes, during which time one third of the American crew, including almost all the officers, were killed or wounded, Lawrence himself being amongst the dead. His last words, ‘Don’t give up the ship!’ were futile, as Broke put Shannon alongside Chesapeake, boarded her and triumphantly took her as a prisoner into Halifax, Nova Scotia.
Boston was plunged into the deepest mourning. But there was no prospect of avenging her loss. By the time Constitution was again ready to put to sea, there were no less than a hundred British men-of-war operating off the American seaboard, eleven of them ships of the line; not even the powerful American frigates could hope to fight a battleship with any chance of success. Boston was blockaded by half a dozen ships, and there was no hope of getting out at all.
As month after weary month drifted by, and summer dwindled into autumn the cause of the Americans seemed to go from bad to worse. In the west, things had promised well as the year had begun. General William Henry Harrison had marched an army of seven thousand well-trained men to recapture Detroit. But he had realised that the success of his operation depended upon control of Lake Erie, across which both his troops and those of the enemy had to move. He had requested a naval officer to assist him, and been sent Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry, one of the Navy’s most brilliant young men. Perry had actually built a squadron on the banks of the lake, then put to sea, and gained a decisive victory over the also recently built British naval forces.
The news of the operation, perfect in concept, technical detail and execution, sent a thrill through the nation, and American morale rose even higher when Detroit fell, and Harrison inflicted another defeat on the British at the Battle of the Thames. It seemed as if all the disasters of the previous year were about to be wiped out, but now the error inherent in leaving the direction of the war to amateur politicians with no knowledge of strategy became apparent.
War Minister Armstrong decided that Harrison had done enough, and ordered his militia disbanded and returned home; his small remaining force of regulars were to concentrate entirely on the defence of Detroit. All the promised fruits of the victories of Lake Erie and the Thames were cast away, and Harrison, in disgust, resigned his command and himself went home. With him went the last American chance of success in the west.
In the north, American fortunes reached an even lower ebb. Generals Wilkinson and Wade Hampton between them commanded forces which were invariably superior to those possessed by the British, but equally were they repeatedly harried and beaten by the more mobile and better disciplined redcoats, always assisted by the Indians, who regarded the Americans as their chief enemies.
The nadir of American military prowess was reached at the Chateaugay River in October, when General Hampton, pursuing a much smaller British force, found himself lured into a swamp, and was so bedevilled by the British bugle calls and piecemeal counter attacks that he supposed himself in the presence of an outnumbering enemy, and fled after hardly firing a shot.
Yet no one talked of making peace. Utterly bewildered by the apparent ineptness of their leaders, both in Congress and the field, the American people remained totally defiant, and dreamed of better days.
The one unit which could have done something to redress the balance, USS Constitution, remained bottled up in Boston throughout these dismal days, absolutely forbidden to attempt to break through the British blockade by a Navy Board still haunted by the catastrophe of the Chesapeake. But as the ship had orders to sail the moment an opportunity presented itself, the most galling aspect of their situation was the inability of Bainbridge to grant any leave to his crew, officers or men.
This, and the boredom of sitting in port, especially following the destruction of the Chesapeake when the crew longed only to be in action, bred both discontent and ill-discipline, and for the first time the Constitution began to have its daily round of floggings as the men quarrelled amongst themselves. As a warrant officer, if Toby was largely uninvolved in the lower deck squabbles, it was his distasteful duty on more than one occasion to lay on the cat-o’-nine-tails — never had he felt so disgusted and even self-humiliated as the blood flowed and the victim screamed, and he had overseen punishments often enough as an officer.
To his surprise and total delight, his monotonous existence was at least relieved when, at the end of August, Felicity herself came to Boston to visit, and he was given two nights’ furlough to spend with her in a local hostelry. Gratefully they fell into each other’s arms, to renew the passion that had been forced to lie dormant for nearly eighteen months, and equally gratefully he heard that all was well with the farm, with his parents, and with his children — even Boru was doing well. While if she felt any disappointment tha
t he remained only a warrant officer, she concealed it perfectly.
Felicity’s personal news was less happy. Both her mother and father had died during the preceding year, and for all their estrangement she was deeply saddened by the event, and by the circumstances arising from it. It had taken several months for the information to reach her, and then it had been conveyed not in a letter from her brother Jonathan — indeed she had no idea where he was — but in a communication from the family lawyer. For to her amazement, and contributing to her unhappiness, after all that had happened, she had been left a half share in her father’s estate.
‘I truly wish I had made more effort to contact them after our marriage,’ she said. ‘Then who knows … we might have been reconciled. Now Jonathan has obviously taken deep offence.’
‘He is far more likely to have taken deep offence at your father’s generosity in leaving you his heiress,’ Toby said, ‘as I remember his character.’
She sighed. ‘I’m sure you’re right. But that, too, is a problem. The lawyer would like me to visit London as soon as possible to conclude the business. Apparently the estate cannot be released unless I am there in person. And I may say that it is by no means as small as I would have supposed; Papa seems to have died a relatively wealthy man. But I do not imagine that is possible as long as this war continues.’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t,’ Toby agreed. ‘You’re an American citizen now, and might well be imprisoned.’ He squeezed her hands, and frowned at her. ‘Believe me, sweetheart, I am deeply sorry about your folks, and that we were never reconciled. And I am delighted that you are an heiress, even if your inheritance may have to wait a year or two before you can collect it. But I also think there is something else on your mind.’
She flushed. ‘How well you have come to know me.’
He kissed her nose. ‘Tell me what it is.’
‘I suppose it is nothing, really,’ she said. ‘Nothing to concern you, Toby, at such a time.’
The Sea and the Sand Page 25