A Fine Tops'l Breeze: Volume Two in the War of 1812 Trilogy Read online

  A FINE TOPS’L BREEZE

  a novel by

  William H. White

  Volume Two in the

  War of 1812 Trilogy

  Second Edition

  By the same author:

  1812 Trilogy

  A Press of Canvas

  A Fine Tops’l Breeze

  The Evening Gun

  Oliver Baldwin novels:

  The Greater the Honor

  In Pursuit of Glory

  Edward Ballantyne novels:

  When Fortune Frowns

  Gun Bay

  Non-Fiction:

  …our Flag Was Still There

  © William H. White 2001

  ISBN-13: 978-1500234041 (Soft Cover)

  ISBN-10: 1500234044 (Kindle Edition)

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems – without the prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art: The Liberators © Paul Garnett 2001

  Illustrations © Paul Garnett 2001

  Graphic design and production by:

  Palazzo Graphic Design, Bradley Beach, NJ

  Published by: Sea Fiction Press, Red Bank, NJ

  E-mail: [email protected]

  SECOND EDITION July 2014

  DEDICATION

  My sister, Linda White Wiseman, has always been there for me. She is as enthusiastic about history as I am; her different focus and specialization has worked to compliment my own efforts. In addition to actively promoting the finished product, she has encouraged me, supported my effort, and helped with research. Her relentless pursuit of a detail has inspired me, and hopefully made this tale more accurate. Thanks, Lin.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  During the course of researching and writing this novel, a number of people in two countries gave freely of their expertise, wisdom, and time to the author. I would be remiss if I did not publicly thank them.

  In the United States:

  Don Marshall, Ph.D. and Rick Guttenberg, Associate Director of the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem Massachusetts for providing copies of early nineteenth century charts of the Salem/Marblehead waters and harbors.

  John Mooshian, a Banker with a major New York institution who supplied a steady stream of reference materials stemming from his habit of haunting second-hand book shops and keeping my needs in mind. And for the occasional lunch in New York.

  Linda Wiseman, an independent scholar specializing in the field of 17th-, 18th-, and 19th-century culture and decorative arts, for her help with some shore-side detail and wisdom.

  William Martin, best-selling author and historian, for his unstinting willingness to share his knowledge of the world of agents and publishers, and provide a read of the manuscript with helpful comments.

  John Hattendorf, Ph.D., the Ernest J. King Professor of Maritime History at the United States Naval War College, Newport Rhode Island, author, speaker and renowned maritime historian, for his ready availability and amazing depth of knowledge – even of the little, seemingly insignificant, details.

  Karen Markoe, Chair of the Humanities Department at SUNY Maritime College, Bronx, NY, for her generosity of time, and willingness to share her knowledge and wisdom. And for her splendid foreword to my story.

  In Canada:

  Beverly Richard, a descendant of a 19th-century French inmate of Melville Island who helped with research in Halifax, Nova Scotia and arranged for introductions to others who participated in my research in that beautiful city. And for giving up an entire weekend to ensure I saw and understood those areas of importance to my story.

  Jim (JB) Byrne, a transplanted American with a fondness for history and a willingness to share his knowledge over a pint, and for showing me some marvelous and rare photographs of Melville Island when the prison was more in evidence.

  Other members of the Armdale Yacht Club, Melville Island, Halifax, who all shared their historic site and many of its secrets with me and for their warm welcome to an outsider on a cool Friday night in October.

  Dan Conlin, Curator of the Museum of the Atlantic, in Halifax, who opened that wonderful facility’s library on a Saturday for me, providing materials and copies for my study, and suggesting sources for investigation that I had not dreamed of. And for allowing me to use his local historical knowledge as a sounding board for some of my plot ideas.

  To each and every one of you, and probably others whom I have neglected to mention, I thank you; any success this effort enjoys is partly yours, for without your assistance and availability, it would have been very difficult to attain the accuracy of fact and, hopefully, the realism in the following pages.

  Of course, I must acknowledge the support and love of my family: Ann, Skip, John, and Joshua. Each of you aided and abetted this project with constructive criticism, encouragement and good humor. And I thank you most sincerely for that. And especially a thank you to John for taking time out of his incredibly busy life to create and manage my website seafiction.net, and answer all the silly questions that flooded out of my barely computer literate mind with patience and wisdom.

  William H. White

  Rumson, NJ

  FOREWORD

  We are inclined to read historical novels from the vantage point of history. The history in A Fine Tops’l Breeze is that of the War of 1812, people with historical figures, notably the controversial James “Don’t give up the ship” Lawrence. Real vessels, such as the Chesapeake and the Shannon, sail among the ships that are the creations of the fertile imagination of author William H. White.

  Ask Americans to name wars that were controversial and divided the nation and surely they will name Vietnam. One has to probe (and often supply the answer) before the War of 1812 surfaces. Ask Americans to name wars that the United States did not win, and only the most astute will name the War of 1812 – one, by the way, that the U.S. did not lose; the war ended status quo antebellum. Ask Americans to name a war fought for freedom of the seas and they might name the War of 1812. However, ask them to name a way in which impressment was an issue, and surely, the War of 1812 would surface.

  This war, while certainly involving land issues, was precipitated by events on the high seas. A nation whose orientation was then eastward toward the Atlantic depended on unimpeded coastal and transatlantic commerce for its very existence.

  On the front lines to insure the free flow of people and goods were merchant seamen, generally young men, white and African-American, full-time sailors and part-time farmers. When hostilities with the British escalated into war, these men often signed on to privateering vessels to win glory and treasure – or if the engagements went badly, to exchange freedom for incarceration in a British prison for life, or for death. Some of the sailors we meet in A Fine Tops’l Breeze are imprisoned on Melville Island, Nova Scotia, site of a real prison then, a tourist attraction 200 years later.

  The novel’s descriptions truly reveal life aboard ship, the feel and language of the sea. A seafarer’s life in the early nineteenth century was gritty and dangerous. While American seamen were generally treated better than their often flogged British cousins, they also suffered bad food, terrible living conditions, and not rarely, brutal shipmates and officers. Theirs was a h
ard world made harder by the absence of civilizing feminine hands. Women were on the periphery, whores and girlfriends left in port.

  The seafaring tradition, so important in the early history of the Untied States, can be understood by reading A Fine Tops’l Breeze, meticulous in its rendering of seafaring life. Real sailors will marvel at the nautical detail; armchair sailors will also surely be drawn into the salty spray and learn and enjoy.

  Karen E. Markoe

  Chair, Humanities Department

  State University of New York

  Maritime College

  Bronx, New York

  SAIL PLAN OF A

  SQUARE-RIGGED SHIP

  1. Spanker

  2. Mizzen Topsail

  3. Mizzen Topgallant Sail

  4. Mizzen Staysail

  5. Mizzen Topmast Staysail

  6. Mizzen Topgallant Staysail

  7. Main Course Sail

  8. Main Topsail

  9. Main Topgallant Sail

  1o. Main Staysail

  11. Main Topmast Staysail

  12. Main Topgallant Staysail

  13. Fore Course Sail

  14. Fore Topsail

  15. Fore Topgallant Sail

  16. Fore Topmast Staysail

  17. Fore Topmast Outer Staysail

  18. Jib

  19. Spritsail

  APPROACHES TO HALIFAX – 1813

  A

  FINE

  TOPS’L

  BREEZE

  CHAPTER ONE

  February, 1813

  Percival “Butterfingers” Dunn raised up his lanky form and warmed his big hands for a moment over the galley camboose. Then he hitched up his canvas trousers and offered his messmates a grin. His face was mostly hidden by a brown beard specked with gray, and his mouth displayed a number of holes where there had once been teeth.

  “Hang on to your story, Isaac, I got to go to the head…though it’ll surely be a wonder if me arse don’t freeze where it sits, har har.”

  “Watch yerself, Butterfingers. You don’t want to go fallin’ into the sea here. You’d not make it past the stern afore you’d be an iceberg. And we likely couldn’t get the barky wore around in time to drag your frozen arse out’n the sea.” Ebenezer Stone, foremast hand and captain of the top winked at the third mate, Isaac Biggs, as he cautioned his shipmate. “‘Sides, we ain’t got time to be comin’ after the likes o’ you. Cap’n Rogers seems in an all-fired rush to get on with this cruise an’ take us some prizes up yonder.” His face was serious, only his eyes giving away his amusement, as he watched Dunn move toward the ladder.

  General Washington, a brig of three hundred tons burden, a dozen nine-pound long guns and four carronades, labored under reefed foretops’l, spanker, and single jib as she slogged eastward on her second day out of Salem, Massachusetts, one of the ports left open by the blockading fleet of British line of battle ships which had, since the end of the year, effectively closed the Chesapeake and Delaware Bays. Why Britain had not run the blockade northward to include New York and Long Island Sound puzzled many, but they surely weren’t about to question the wisdom of His Majesty’s Navy, and Salem, Boston, and a few waterfront towns in Connecticut had become homeport to many private armed vessels, or privateers, which, with large crews, sallied forth to harass British merchant shipping.

  In response, Royal Navy brigs, sloops and sixth rate frigates were being assigned convoy duty, taking them away from the blockade and action with American ships.

  Dunn stepped out of the companionway hatch; the icy wind hit him just as a wave broke on the windward side of the bow, sending freezing spray over him. Each wind-driven sheet of spray froze as it hit the ship, leaving a growing coat of ice on everything – decks, rigging, bulwark, and the watch on deck. The footing was treacherous. He pulled his tarpaulin coat tighter around his neck, shrinking himself down inside the protective canvas, then, clapping on to the ice-covered lifeline, inched his way toward the bow, and the head.

  Butterfingers clung to the equally slippery line. Hope me arse don’t seize up, hangin’ it out in this Gawd forsaken weather, he thought as he ducked an ice-flecked sheet of spray and tightened his already death-like grip on the safety line. He looked aloft, and spoke aloud, more for his own benefit than anything, as there was not a soul within fifty feet of him. “God awmighty. Would you look at that. Wouldn’t want to have to get up there anytime soon. Ice on ever’thin’ an’ slick as ever it could be, I’ll warrant.” His seaman’s eye took in every detail, from the ice coated pin racks at the foot of both masts, to the shining yards and topmasts, each with a layer of ice which could bring a topman down, or should it get thicker, create a dangerous instability aloft from the added weight. The decks, bulwarks and boats were likewise glinting in the weak afternoon sunlight, their individual blankets of ice catching the rays of what little sun poked through the racing overcast.

  Dunn saw a figure approaching him as he eased his way carefully back toward the hatch, thinking how good the heat of the fire in the camboose would feel warming his backside after its recent exposure to the elements.

  “Dunn! That you? What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing out here. Ain’t your watch below?” First Mate Jack “Starter” Coffin squinted his eyes down even tighter than normal, his face screwed up in a grimace. The ice on his beard and the white scar over his cheek gave him a look even more grotesque, and the gravel in his voice, the result of a stroke from a belaying pin many years before, had caused many a poor landsman to go rigid in fear. His towering height added to their fear; indeed, Coffin was about the only man aboard who could look Dunn straight in the eye. “You’ll be comin’ on deck soon enough to enjoy this dandy weather, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Aye, Mister Coffin. Headin’ back below right quick, I am. Just payin’ a call to the head. Surely hope we ain’t gonna be shortin’ down on my watch. God alone knows what that ice yonder is doin’ to the top hamper. Hope the ol’ Gen’l can take it.”

  The mate smiled, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Why, Butterfingers, you been aloft in worse ‘n this. ‘Sides, why would Cap’n Rogers want to shorten down. This bein’ such a fine tops’l breeze. I’d warrant we’ll have this all the way to Canada – just like last time.” As the mate spoke, an outsized wave smacked the bow, causing the ship to shudder, and sending a gout of ice laden spray over both men. Coffin laughed as the wind-driven spray hit him, and waited until Butterfingers straightened up from where he had ducked away from most of the icy deluge. “Gen’l Washington sails right fine in a nice breeze o’ wind like this’n. When I was a foremast jack like you, I sailed in her ‘round Hatteras in the wild weather – that was back afore the war – an’ she behaved like a perfect lady. You don’t need to worry none ‘bout her. She’ll outlast all of us.” With that, Starter Coffin turned and made his way aft, moving with more caution than one might expect given the tone of his words, and Dunn returned to his mates below.

  “Right nasty it is out there, lads. Worth a man’s life to tarry up for’ard. I’d warrant even the quarterdeck ain’t noticeable better.” He pulled off his coat, the ice falling from it and melting quickly on the warm galley deck, and ran a huge paw across his beard combing out the ice that had accumulated in the few minutes he’d spent topside.

  “I hope you didn’t go on with your tale, Isaac, whilst I was topside. I’d not want to miss any o’ that yarn.”

  Biggs looked up at his shipmate, his wide-spread, penetrating eyes studying him briefly, and shifted his compact frame into a corner of the galley, both to provide a backrest and minimize the motion of the ship, as it beat its way east into the steep, icy seas.

  “No, Percival, I waited on you…where was I? Oh righty-oh. My ship, Glory, and them other two, Bill of Rights, and Freedom, had just got into Baltimore – that was afore the Brits closed the Bay. As it was, we had to take it real careful headin’ in toward the Virginia Capes; they had a third rate sittin’ outside sailin’ off and on and stoppin’ anything they cou
ld catch. Wasn’t many sharp built schooners they catched, though; I ain’t never sailed on anything what could sail like that, on the wind or off. I’m tellin’ you boys, she was some fine swimmer and, under a press of canvas, ain’t nothin’ afloat, Brit or American, what could outsail her.

  “After we was paid off an’ got our prize tickets cashed in, I headed off to Mrs. Wright’s for a real hot bath an’ a full night’s sleep in a honest-to-God bed…”

  “Aye, and a honest to God doxy to share it with you, I’d wager.” Ben Stone voiced what each of the men were thinking; Isaac merely smiled at his shipmate. A slow blink and a hand pushed through his curly dark hair were the only indications of his annoyance at the interruption.

  “Not then, Ben. Sleep’s all’s I was thinkin’ on there. They was other nights…well, I guess that’s another story for another time. Right now, I’m tellin’ you coves ‘bout gettin’ in and me back home again. Anyway, now where was we? Oh yeah, in Baltimore. Well, Cap’n Smalley wanted me to come back aboard Glory an’ stay on as third for the next cruise, and mebbe permanent-like, but I had to get meself up to Marblehead to see my kin. You collect I ain’t seen ‘em in two years an’ more.

  “Ol’ Coleman, Brit though he was, took our second, Clements and the Irishman, Conoughy, down toward Annapolis to see ‘bout signin’ onto a Navy frigate. Likely he thought they’d be better off on a bigger vessel, him bein’ a topman an’ all, and Tim Conoughy bein a gunner. Tried to talk me into joinin’ ‘em, they did, all the time we was waitin’ for our prize tickets. Couldn’t make me change my mind ‘bout headin’ up here, though by the Almighty, they surely did try. Surely do hope those boys are takin’ care, and that they found ‘emselves a Navy ship to sign into. Coleman was dead-set on that right from the start. Called himself a ‘man o’ warsman’, he did, and while he surely was grateful ‘bout bein’ took out o’ Haiti on Glory, he pined for a frigate or line o’ battle ship. Mister Halladay – he was firstmate on Glory you recollect – he told ol’ Coleman the United States Navy didn’t have no ‘line o’ battle’ ships, alls we got is frigates and a few brigs, so Coleman, he says, ‘well, that’ll ‘ave to do then. I bin on a frigate most o’ me life, I ‘ave, an’ make no mistake’.” Isaac mimicked the English sailor’s accent quite accurately.