The Sea and the Sand

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Fire as they bear, Mr McGann,’ McDonough commanded. ‘We must act the part of complete orthodoxy to the very last minute.’

  ‘Aye-aye,’ Toby agreed, and a moment later he sighted the bows of Confiance coming round the headland. He gave the order, and the guns of the Saratoga began to boom. The culverins had a range of over a thousand yards, or better than half a nautical mile, and soon the men were cheering as they watched their shot striking home. But equally the twenty-four-pound balls were not capable of inflicting much damage at so great a distance, and the British ships came slowly and silently on, Confiance in the van, pennants hardly fluttering in the light air. Their galleys also soon came into sight, rowing at first to keep pace with the ships, but then quickening their stroke to proceed down the bay and engage their American counterparts, who watched them approach with cheers and jeers — but clearly it was on the outcome of the battle between the ships that the day would depend.

  ‘God damn it, we might as well be throwing stones at them,’ McDonough fumed, walking up and down the quarterdeck of the Saratoga, and casting anxious glances at the cables to the kedges. Indeed, Toby felt the same. They were both seamen, and to remain at anchor to await the approach of an enemy was both galling and unnatural; the temptation to cut the cables and take their chances on the wind were enormous. But they had laid their plan, and must now have the moral courage to stick to it.

  Gradually the range closed, as the British ships rounded Cumberland Head and stood into the bay, the wind astern now to drive them on. And now from the land there came the thudding of cannon and the rattle of musketry; Prevost had indeed timed his assault to coincide with that of the ships. But now was no time to worry about the fate of the soldiers. For the range was down to a quarter of a mile and closing, and signals were climbing to the masthead of the Confiance. Slowly, majestically, the four British ships turned to starboard, up into the wind, forming line abeam of the anchored Americans. As they lined up with their targets, the broadsides of heavy cannon exploded. The air was filled with flying shot, and with flying spars and ropes as well. And with men. The smoke was so thick Toby could hardly see what was happening.

  ‘Fire,’ he bawled, his voice hoarse. ‘Reload. Haste, now.’

  The culverins snapped back on their recoil ropes, and the men began to work with a will, even as they glanced at their comrades stretched on the deck. But for the moment the only sounds were echoes. The relevant broadsides of both fleets were spent, and it was a matter of who could reload first, or who could first come about to bring his other battery to bear. But as McDonough and Toby had calculated, the British were not attempting to wear their ships; they knew that would take too long in the almost calm conditions. With just enough wind to hold them abeam their enemies, they were confident of reloading and delivering another of those deadly broadsides, knowing that even if the Americans were as quick, the British shot was far the heavier.

  ‘Stand by now,’ McDonough called from aft. ‘The moment is coming.’

  The smoke was clearing, and Toby could see the British ships slowly coming closer as they drifted before the breeze. Some of them had been hit, but not seriously, while the main deck of the Saratoga already looked like a charnel house, with at least fifty men dead or wounded, he thought, and more than one cannon dismounted; the foremast had been shot away. But that was irrelevant now. If their plan did not work, they were going to be destroyed long before they could set sail.

  ‘Stand by,’ McDonough repeated, staring at Confiance. ‘Now!’

  The notes of the bugle, sounded by the man at his elbow, cut across the morning to transmit the command to the other three ships. Toby looked forward, gasped as he saw that the men waiting at the cables had all been cut down. Amongst them was Boatswain Barclay. Toby ran forward, looked down in horror at the bluff features which had repeatedly proved so faithful a friend and ally. Then he seized the axe and with a single stroke severed the heavy rope, at the same moment as the kedge cable began to be taken up from below decks, where a special squad had waited on the capstan since the action had begun. Instantly Saratoga began to swing, and he could see the other three ships doing the same. He looked up, gazed at the astonished British seamen, only a hundred yards away now, their faces reflecting the knowledge that they had been outwitted. They had reloaded their guns at great speed, and the command to fire was even then being given. The guns exploded, but the Saratoga was already moving out of the line of fire. A few seconds later she had completed her first turn.

  ‘Fire!’ McDonough yelled.

  The port battery exploded, enveloping the Confiance in a hail of shot, striking down one of her masts, sending men and guns flying in every direction. At such point blank range even the twenty-four-pounders could destroy.

  Once again the bugle call rang out, and now the springs were brought into action to swing the American ships back to their original positions. The British port broadsides were again empty, and while the gunners toiled feverishly to reload, the Americans could again use their starboard guns without risk of reply. Once again the culverins raked the frigate. Another mast went by the board, and Toby could see that the entire quarterdeck of the Britisher had been swept clean, even the wheel had been shot away, while the dead lay heaped on the deck. A glance over his shoulder told him the other three ships had suffered hardly less.

  ‘Reload!’ McDonough shouted. ‘We have them now.’

  But even as he spoke, a white flag was being waved from the shattered bows of the big ship. The Battle of Lake Champlain was over.

  CHAPTER 11

  Lake Champlain, Washington, Long Island and Boston — 1814-15

  An English seaman sat amidst the blood and wreckage which strewed the deck of HMS Confiance, his head in his hands. Toby, picking his way amidst the bodies, stopped beside him. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

  The man raised his head, stared at him with eyes that clearly did not see him for what he was. ‘I was at Trafalgar,’ he said. ‘It were nothing like this. It were child’s play, compared to this.’

  Toby stepped past him and went aft, gazed at the ruin of the quarterdeck. Captain Downie was there, shot to pieces by flying metal, and beside him, the tall thin body of Jonathan Crown, his features twisted in their invariable angry expression, even in death.

  I killed him, Toby thought. I killed him just as surely as if I had run him through with my sword.

  ‘A complete victory, Toby,’ McDonough said. He was elated by the success of the stratagem. ‘One of the most complete in all history.’ For the galleys had also gained a victory; the entire British squadron had been destroyed. ‘Now, if only Macomb can hold Plattsburg …’

  But the sound of firing from ashore was already dying down. When they landed several hours later, after having supervised the grim business of assembling the dead and seeing which of the ships could be salvaged, they found a bemused but equally elated Macomb.

  ‘They were all but through us,’ he said. ‘One of the red-coated columns was, anyway. Then the bugles sounded and they withdrew. It was a miracle.’

  ‘You mean Prevost saw what had happened to his fleet,’ Toby observed.

  ‘By God,’ Macomb said. ‘Well, gentlemen … we have saved the United States from invasion.’

  ‘Aye,’ McDonough said. ‘We have saved the United States, you mean.’

  *

  The aftermath of a battle is always far more terrible than the event itself. Especially in a naval encounter, when the dead cannot be escaped, and where the ruination caused by the flying shot is everywhere in evidence. The casualties in so brief a conflict were staggering. No fewer than three hundred British sailors and officers had been killed or wounded, and some two hundred Americans; Toby could well believe the opinion of the Trafalgar veteran that this was the hottest fight he had ever been in. The dead were laid out and buried ashore, amongst them poor old Barclay.

  ‘He was a good shipmate,’ McDonough said, remembering their days together on the Constellation in the W
est Indies. ‘But they were all good shipmates at the end.’

  Several of the English vessels had to be burned, they were so badly damaged. For the others, they had not the men to crew them, but secured them on moorings in the bay. News of the victory had then to be sent to Washington. ‘And you shall carry it, Toby,’ McDonough decided.

  ‘You should go yourself.’

  ‘I must remain with my command. You shall bear the news, and my despatches, to Congress itself. And Toby, mind you take proper credit, wherever it is due.’

  He took twelve men, and travelled light. Once they regained the Hudson, they cut down a tree, as they had become so adept at doing and fashioned a dug-out canoe after the India style. With this, and the current, they soon made Schenectady, where the church bells were rung, and a proper boat was supplied to them. Only a week later they were in New York, and Toby made his first report to the military commanders there. He had no time to visit Long Island, but sent a message, informing Felicity not only of the battle and its outcome, but of her brother’s death, while reassuring her as to his own good health, and then set off for the overland journey to Philadelphia, whence, as in 1776, Congress had assembled following the burning of the capital.

  He had last ridden through here two years before, on his way to join Constitution, an unknown volunteer with a disgraced past. Now, the moment his mission was known, he found himself the hero of the hour. He was taken to see James Munroe, the new Secretary of War, who insisted that he read the despatches himself to the joint session of Congress, where he was received with acclamation. Then there was an audience with President Madison himself, and a gracious meeting with the famous Dolly, before, at last, an interview with Benjamin Crowninshield, who had recently replaced William Smith as Secretary of the Navy.

  ‘Well, Lieutenant McGann,’ Crowninshield said, surveying from his own somewhat limited height the giant before him. ‘You’d best sit down, and tell me all about it.’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Toby said, ‘I am but Acting Lieutenant McGann. I hold no commission, merely a brevet rank granted me by Lieutenant McDonough to facilitate our purpose.’

  Crowninshield nodded. ‘I am aware of that, Mr McGann. There is a thick file in that cabinet behind you, listing all your various achievements, and misdemeanours. But even an acting lieutenant may sit down.’

  Toby lowered himself into the chair before the desk, his heart pounding. There was no hostility here. At Crowninshield’s insistence, he related both the circumstances and the events of the battle over again, but now he had to be far more detailed than before Congress, for Crowninshield interjected a succession of questions which revealed him to be at once a seaman himself and the possessor of an acute brain.

  ‘A singular tactic,’ the Minister observed when Toby had finished.

  ‘An obvious one, sir.’

  ‘Think you so? Not to everyone. I am sure you can recall the famous Battle of Aboukir Bay, better known as the Nile, sixteen years ago, when Admiral Lord Nelson and the British fleet gained probably their most complete victory over the French. On that occasion, the French chose to fight at anchor, as did Mr McDonough and yourself, but passively so, enabling the British to engage them piecemeal and as they chose, pounding them to pieces with their heavier shot and their skill at reloading more quickly than the French. Admiral Brueys and his people chose just to sit and take it, until they were destroyed.

  ‘But suppose some imaginative French lieutenant had suggested the use of kedges and springs, to swing the French ships and prevent the British encircling manoeuvre, do you reckon Nelson could have gained such a triumph? You and Mr McDonough proved at Lake Champlain that you are seamen as well as warriors. And any navy, to be successful, needs men who are both. I am bound to say, Mr McGann, that it seems to have been your fortune to have been associated with the three most important naval events of this war, so far. The victories of Constitution over Guerrière and Java first made our people believe that an American could beat a Britisher. And now …

  ‘I am not belittling Commodore Perry’s great victory on Lake Erie, believe me. It was a superb feat of arms. But yet it produced no decisive results for our cause. But this skirmish on Lake Champlain, as it seems plain that it forces Sir John Prevost to abandon whatever plans he may have had to invade New England, may well turn out to be the decisive event of the entire conflict. You are aware that we have a team of commissioners at this very moment meeting with the British, seeking to terminate this senseless struggle?’

  ‘No, sir, I was not aware of that.’

  ‘At Ghent, in Belgium. We have of course given out the news of your victory along the whole seaboard, and have every hope that it will be reported in Europe in the very near future: ships do escape the blockade, and even if none of ours make it to sea, it will certainly be relayed by the British themselves. Such a failure on Prevost’s part may well have a very benign influence upon British thinking, as our agents over there have informed us that they were hoping to use the cutting away of the New England states as a lever to bring us to our knees, and to the conference table as suppliants. Now they will have to think again. Thus you are doubly to be congratulated.’

  ‘You should be aware, Mr Crowninshield,’ Toby protested, ‘that Lieutenant McDonough was also present at the events you mention, and in a much more responsible position than I.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Crowninshield nodded. ‘You are both fortunate, and as poor Bonaparte was wont to say, a lucky general is better than a skilful one, any day. No doubt he presumed he was both, down to this year. And I have no doubt you are both. Mr McGann, may I take it that you are now old enough, and experienced enough, and …’ he smiled, ‘married enough, to be capable of avoiding the temptation to disobey orders in the future?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Toby said. ‘I would say you may presume that.’

  ‘Then we must see what can be done. This navy needs men of experience and courage and initiative … and good fortune. Return to your Long Island home, Mr McGann. You deserve a furlough. Oh, do not worry. Lieutenant McDonough, who is of this moment Captain McDonough, will also receive a furlough at the earliest opportunity. You will both be reassigned: we cannot bury two such men away in the wilds of Lake Champlain where there is no need for it. You are confirmed in your rank as second lieutenant, Mr McGann.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘And will very shortly, I promise you, be promoted to a position more in keeping with your experience and talents and service.’ Another smile. ‘And fortune. For the time being, enjoy yourself.’

  *

  Enjoy myself, Toby thought, as he made his way north. But could it all be unalloyed joy? He had been promised a restoration to his rank, with even a hint that a captaincy might be in the offing. That was splendid news, but it would inevitably mean that he would be assigned a ship, and have to go to sea again. Even after the conclusion of peace? That would depend on whether he elected to stay with the Navy. And what would Felicity have to say about that?

  Nor did he know how she was reacting to the fact that he had to all intents and purposes killed her brother.

  More important yet, he did not himself know what he truly wanted. For so long had he dreamed of being reinstated in the Navy, and for so long had those dreams been shattered, time and again, by the determination of the Navy Board not to forgive. The sudden change of heart was more then he could for the moment grasp. Who would manage the farm? But then who had been managing the farm for the past two and a half years?

  Why, Father, with the assistance of an extra hired hand, and even of seven-year-old Stephen, who sat a horse like a cavalry general, and gravely dismounted to shake hands with his father. Not so the girls, aged respectively four and nearly three, who came tumbling down the front steps, accompanied by Born, laughing and screaming, to be taken up into his arms.

  Mother waited on the front porch to greet him, her eyes shining; more than just with pleasure at having him home. She, like everyone else, had heard everything about the victory of Lake Champlain,
and the enormous possibilities that might arise from it. ‘I had always known I possessed one hero in the family,’ Elizabeth said through her tears. ‘Now it seems that I have two.’

  He held her close, but his thoughts were inside, as she understood. ‘She waits for you, Toby.’

  He released her, entered the house. The living room was deserted, and unchanged. He went down the hall and up the stairs, which creaked as he remembered them always doing. He crossed the landing and walked down the corridor into the wing which was exclusively theirs, and into the master bedroom. Felicity sat by the window in her favourite rocking chair; the room looked over the back of the farm, and she could not have seen his approach. But she had undoubtedly heard it. She rose as he came in, breathing quickly, pink spots in her cheeks, and faced him.

  ‘How splendid you look in that uniform,’ she said.

  ‘And how beautiful you look, always,’ he replied.

  ‘Have you seen the children?’

  He nodded. ‘I would have supposed you heard them.’

  ‘I did.’ She still gazed at him, waiting.

  He drew a long breath. ‘I did not see Jonathan until after his death. He sent me a challenge, which I certainly meant to take up, but the matter was resolved while our ships were engaged. I cannot pretend I have any regrets, Felicity.’

  She sighed. ‘Neither can I, Toby. Neither can I.’

  She was in his arms. After more than a year, and more than a year before that, save for those unforgettable two nights in Boston. ‘Oh, Toby,’ she whispered. ‘Is it really over?’