Brig of War, page 44
The bay was wide, formed by two tree-crusted capes, open to the east and southeast; there was white water rimming the bay, indicating reefs or mud banks. Favian scowled; it was a nasty lee shore to be embayed on, but if the wind held south-southeast they could run out without any trouble. There were islands in the bay, wooded and rock edged; no shelter there. Loyalist, which had apparently not seen Experiment yet, was square in the middle of the bay, heeling far over in the stiff breeze, her square topsails set in addition to the fore-and-aft canvas.
“I don’t know these waters well, sir,” Casterburgh said. “I can make some educated guesses, like, but it ain’t the same as knowin’. That’s a fishin’ settlement in thar, but I only been to it a couple times.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll try to be conservative,” Favian said. “Mr. Hibbert, we will furl the fore-t’gallant. Leadsmen to the chains.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The rising wind screamed through the shrouds. Experiment was cleared for action, the gun crews standing by the blue-painted carronades, strapping on their boarding helmets and shivering in the cold wind; trimmers raced aloft to get the fore-topgallant furled.
“And a half five!” the leadsman sang.
“Very well,” Favian said. “Let her go.”
“By the mark five!” Favian saw Casterburgh’s eyes on him.
“Very well,” he said.
They crossed the mud bank in four and a half fathoms, and then for the first time Loyalist saw them. The privateer schooner swung madly to starboard, yards flying, booms swinging across as she jibed. An interesting tactical problem, this: Experiment had the weather gage, and had to keep Loyalist boxed in the bay, heading her off from scraping past the northern cape, but also preventing her from going about at the last minute and running under Experiment’s stern.
“Three points to starboard,” Favian ordered. “Mr. Casterburgh, do shoals extend westward from that big island?”
“Don’t know,” Casterburgh said shortly. “Probably they do. I tell thee I do not like the looks of it.”
“Neither do I, Mr. Casterburgh. We shall give it a wide berth. Mr. Tolbert, clear away the larboard chaser and give them a shot as soon as you think it practicable.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Another point to starboard. Tell the leadsman to keep sounding.”
Favian felt himself grinning as the spray spattered on his upturned collar. There was a reckless feeling to this, as if he were deliberately tempting the fates: rising weather, an unknown lee shore, but yet they would give chase.
“And a half ten!”
It was a relief, sometimes, to let the cunning professional man in him take over, calculating bowlines and stresses, performing the automatic functions. Burrows’s death had been a shock; his closest friend gone without his being able to prevent it, or give him succor. Let it down, this sorrow; feel only the wind on your neck, hear only the shrill of the rigging and the song of the leadsman.
“By the mark twelve!”
There was a crack and a roar, and the air filled with the sound of loose canvas; the main-topgallant had split and was flogging itself into tatters of flax. Casterburgh gave Favian a sour look, as if to say “I told you so.”
Favian tried to hide his chagrin. “Mr. Hibbert, secure that canvas,” he said.
“Aye aye, sir. Hands aloft to furl the main-t’gallant! Clew down there. Ease the halyard! Haul round on the clewlines. Round in on the braces.”
“And a quarter eleven!”
“Deck thar!” The new voice was the lookout. “That ketch has driven itself ashore. Topmasts fallen, sir.”
Favian turned to see the ketch. It had deliberately run itself aground, presumably as much to escape the perils of a lee shore as to escape the privateer. Perhaps they’d thought Experiment was another enemy; he hadn’t raised his colors yet.
“Raise our flag,” he ordered.
“Ease the t’gallant sheets,” Hibbert was still droning. “Haul round on the clewlines, buntlines, and bunt leech-lines. Avast there!”
“By the mark ten!”
“Larboard chaser’s cleared for action, sir.”
“Fire as you bear, Mr. Tolbert.” The range was long, and considering the way Experiment was being tossed on each wave, the chances of hitting were slim; but it would give Loyalist something to think about. The chaser crashed out. Favian didn’t see the fall of shot
The gridiron flag was snapping overhead. Favian thought he had the race with Loyalist won; he was keeping well to windward, forcing the Canadian to commit himself.
“By the mark six!” The water was shoaling rapidly as they approached the tail of the island. The rigging’s shriek increased by half an octave; Favian glanced aloft and wondered whether he should reef the topsails. Not yet, he decided; but it was time to put a reef in the fore-and-aft mainsail.
The bow chaser cracked out again: clean miss. The mainsail was reefed and the water shoaled to four fathoms before they were past the island; Favian knew he’d won the race. Probably the Canadian captain knew it as well. If Loyalist kept on her present course, Experiment would rake her at close range, at least half a dozen broadsides before she cleared the northern cape, and that would put an end to it.
“Two reefs in the tops’ls,” Favian said. It was probably not time to reef just yet— certainly not two reefs— but he wanted to slow Experiment’s progress, perhaps encouraging Loyalist to keep on her present course just a little longer before tacking and trying to slip under Experiment’s stem.
“Furl the forecourse, Mr. Hibbert.”
“Aye aye, sir. Man the tacks and sheets.”
The bow chaser roared. Favian saw a white feather in line with Loyalist as the ball clipped a wave top. “You’ve hit her, lads!” Favian shouted. Experiment’s cheers were almost drowned by a sudden howl in the rigging. Experiment rolled to leeward, spray sailing over her rail. If he hadn’t already reefed the topsails, it was certainly time now.
“Deck thar! She’s goin’ about!” Favian wiped spray from his eyes and watched Loyalist’s movements. She had chosen a bad moment to tack; she came into the wind just as the gust that had rocked Experiment reached her; her square topsails went flat aback and she hung in the wind’s eye.
“She’s missed stays!” He hadn’t expected that. In another few minutes he could rake her with his full broadside. He watched as men ran to the Canadian’s braces, as the jib was backed to help her fall off, as nothing worked and she began to gain sternway. The bow chaser fired, shot skipping within ten yards of the enemy. At last Loyalist fell off, back on the starboard tack, heading for the rocks. Nothing could save her now; there was not enough room to wear.
“Down helm!” Favian barked. “Brace her up sharp to the wind. Mr. Hibbert, rig the catharpings. Shake a reef out of the tops’ls. Let’s get out of here before we end up on the rocks like Loyalist!”
The Canadian privateer gained way, hesitated for a moment, as if wondering whether to anchor or not and take its chances, then ran for the shore deliberately, trying for a gap between the mud banks and reefs rather than being driven on them. She succeeded, driving up onto the beach below the evergreens, masts going at the first shock, crew running down the broken masts into the white water, struggling up onto the beach. If the gale didn’t finish her, she would certainly not be going anywhere for weeks.
Favian took another reef in the mainsail as the wind increased. Experiment was lying as close to the wind as she could; she would clear the northern cape by at least half a mile. Casterburgh looked at Favian with plain relief.
“Secure the larboard chaser,” Favian was ordering. “Secure all guns. Double the tackles and breechings. Wedge the wheels. How’s her head now?”
“East half-point north, sir,” said the quartermaster.
“Very well. Let her go through the water.”
Spray roared up over Experiment’s bow as the hands struggled to haul the carronades up to the ports and double the breechings so they ran no risk of breaking loose. The sky was all black to the southward. There was a heart-stopping instant when all the square sails were a-thunder, and then the quartermaster corrected. “East by north, sir.”
Favian squinted through the spray that dazzled his eyes. They would still clear the cape. “Mr. Hibbert,” Favian ordered, “go below and tell Davis to fetch up my oilskins. Fetch up your own while you’re at it. Here, take my boarding helmet.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Hibbert had no sooner stepped below than the sails began to roar again. Favian glanced anxiously at the dog vanes, then at the quartermaster.
“East by north, half north,” the quartermaster said. “The wind is heading us, sir.”
“Keep her full. Let her go through the water.” Favian felt anxiety wrapping him. This was going to be close. By the time Hibbert had come up in his sou’wester, and Davis had run up with Favian’s, the wind had backed another full point, and Experiment’s bow was driving straight onto the rocks.
Favian scowled as he glanced to leeward, seeing white water streaming from jagged reef. He could be on that reel very soon, unless he somehow reversed the laws of nature and persuaded Experiment to sail straight into the wind. If a sleek schooner like Loyalist couldn’t tack in this weather, a sluggish old brig like Experiment certainly couldn’t. If he wore around, he’d end up on the rocks next to the privateer. The wind had foxed him; he’d have to go about very quickly or there was no hope at all.
Box-haul her? Not in this weather; they’d probably end up on the point stern-first. He reached his decision.
“Mr. Hibbert! Mr. Tolbert! Mr. Casterburgh!” He struggled into his oilskins as Experiment’s senior officers and pilot assembled on the quarterdeck. He clapped the sou’wester down over his forehead and blinked away the spray. “Gentlemen, I’m going to club-haul her. Double-bit the bower anchor and see her stoppered at twenty fathoms. Take the men you need for that and send the rest aft.”
Hibbert ran; there was no time to lose. Experiment’s complement assembled just forward of the mainmast, a dark, soaked, probably frightened mass of men. Favian picked up a speaking trumpet. “I’m going to club-haul her, men!” he roared. The howling wind almost drowned out his voice, “you’ll have to watch me carefully, and you’ve got to obey orders instantly. And without panic, otherwise we’re done for. Take your stations for tacking, and watch me.”
The white-faced mass of men dissolved as they ran to their stations. It was turning black. Favian clung to the lee fife rail in the partial shelter of the mainmast. Hibbert ran aft, sliding over the slippery deck, to report the anchor ready.
“Very well. On my signal!” Favian shouted. “Quartermaster, keep her full!” They were within a quarter-mile of the beach; Favian could see Maine rocks jutting up dead ahead. This was going to be close. Favian turned to the helmsmen and ordered the helm put down. Experiment began to stagger into the wind.
“Stand by the anchor! Stand clear of the cable! Let go the anchor!”
The bower plummeted to the bottom: there was a flash of fire forward, from the friction, as the cable roared out. Experiment failed to make its turn, failed even to head directly into the wind; the brig lurched, then began to gain sternway, staggering backward for the rocks. Then the cable went taut, water spraying from its tightening fibers, and the brig snapped head-to-wind with a lurch that threw half the men to the deck.
“Silence fore and aft! Haul all at once now!” Favian’s men tailed onto the braces, their feet digging into the planks for traction as they fought to haul the yards over in the face of the opposing wind. Canvas crashed and thundered; Experiment tugged at its cable. Done!
“Cut the cable!” Axes thudded into the cable, and with a lurch Experiment was free; the sails were filling, and she was gaining way on her new tack.
“Keep her full,” Favian ordered. “Mr. Hibbert, I think the sun’s over the yardarm.” The hands cheered as they coiled down, then ran for their liquor. Favian remained on deck, feeling Experiment’s motion as she corkscrewed through the water. Time to reef down again shortly, as soon as the main brace was spliced.
They weren’t out of trouble yet. They’d have to clear the tail of the big island again, then weather the south cape with its shoaling mud banks. If the wind held, there should be no problem, Favian smiled grimly. Hadn’t he hoped once before, just an hour ago, that the wind would hold?
But there was nothing to do about it. Favian remembered William Burrows saying, that night they’d held the wake for James Lawrence, “While trying to claw off a lee shore in a hurricane of wind, there is precious little room for ostentation or conceit. There’s your purity for you— but a little of it goes a long way.” Aye, this was pure seamanship all right; there was nothing purer than this elemental struggle of a fragile vessel against an overpowering storm. Favian felt his heart roaring, his face tingling as spray etched his features. He tried to tell himself that he would rather be at Portsmouth in a snug cottage, with mulled rum and a roaring fire, but somehow he couldn’t convince himself. So far as he knew, no American captain had ever successfully club-hauled a warship; this was a first, a professional triumph.
The hell with the profession, he thought savagely. The triumph seemed entirely personal. He had bested the storm. Perverse as the winds were, he had beaten off the shore with the loss of only a topgallant sail, the bower anchor, and twenty fathoms of cable; and he’d destroyed an enemy privateer to boot.
“Mr. Hibbert!” They were in the island’s lee; the wind moderated, the waves’ surging abated. Hibbert came bustling aft, bending his head to hear Favian’s orders.
“Send two leadsmen into the chains,” Favian said. “We’ve got to keep as close to the island as possible or we may not weather the south cape. I don’t dare keep her off the wind.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Another reef in the tops’ls.” Spray curled from Hibbert’s oilskin hat as he nodded.
“Aye aye, sir.”
A chain of men was assembled to send the leadsmen’s information aft to Favian; with the wind howling, he wouldn’t be able to hear the chant directly. The first information was alarming.
“By the mark six!” Favian nodded, worried. With this sea Experiment would strike in three. They were at least a quarter-mile from the island, and would have to pass close under its lee.
“A quarter less six!”
Damnation. Shoaling rapidly. Favian felt his heart race.
“And a half five!”
Favian kept Experiment driving on until Casterburgh’s eyes were as big as saucers, until the leadsmen called three and a half fathoms. Favian turned to the quartermaster.
“A point and a half to starboard, if you please.”
“P’int and a half to starboard, aye aye.”
Experiment slipped gratefully from the wind. Favian could feel himself breathing easier; he could see Casterburgh clutching the fife rail, bracing himself for the crash.
“A quarter less four!”
“Down helm. Full and by.”
“Full and by, sir.”
They passed out from behind the lee of the island, and the wind heeled Experiment over until her lee rail began to ship foam. Rain splattered down on the deck. Favian peered ahead to see if they were going to clear the southern point. Quite clearly they would.
He felt like cackling aloud in riotous joy. They were going to escape the clutches of the coast! A piece of pure seamanship, unparalleled in the history of the United States Navy— wrecking a privateer and club-hauling off a lee shore on the same day! He felt his distant halves unite as his whole will urging Experiment’s yards around; there was no rebellion in him, no distancing in the face of the elements. The seaman had triumphed over the officer and the cynic, uniting them. He’d never felt as alive.
“Barometer’s rising, sir,” Hibbert reported. “We’ll have a nice day tomorrow.” And we’ll live to enjoy it, Favian thought. He saw the grin on Hibbert’s face, and knew he was sharing the same relief and exhilaration.
“Congratulations, sir, by God!” Hibbert finally burst out, and then Favian and Hibbert were dancing like madmen on the deck, clapping one another on the back, the rain foaming off their oilskins. Then suddenly the sails were roaring, and Favian and Hibbert were standing stock still on the deck, staring at one another in pure horror.
“She’s heading us again!” the quartermaster gasped, utterly disbelieving.
Favian straightened, and gave the order in as expressionless a voice as possible. “Full and by. Let her go through the water.”
“Full and by, sir.”
They watched, doomed, as the wind veered and headed them for the mud banks off the southern cape. They were in narrower waters now; they didn’t need the carré navale to tell them that even if they could go about once more, club-hauling twice in the same day, they would just run themselves onto the island.
Their luck had run out. The wind was behaving with unbelievable caprice, backing to put them on the northern cape, then veering to put them on the southern one. Favian had fought the good fight, but the elements had conspired to destroy him.
“Mr. Tolbert, I’ll thank you to light a slow match, go forrard, and begin firing the distress rockets and the false fires.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Take Brook with you.”
“By the mark eight!” Word was passed from forward.
“What does thee intend to do, sir?” It was the pilot, crouching down to minimize the lashing the wind was giving his back.
“Wait till she shoals to four and a half fathoms,” Favian said. “Cut away the masts, then anchor.”
Casterburgh nodded. It made sense; cutting away the masts would reduce the brig’s drag, perhaps allowing the anchors to get a hold on the bottom.
The first rocket shot skyward, exploding red in the rain. Crimson shadows flickered across Casterburgh’s craggy face. “It was brilliant, sir,” the pilot said. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” He stuck out his hand. Favian took it, curiously cool. In all probability they were going to die very shortly, and Favian could not find it within himself to work up much of a protest about it. He had done what he could, and through no fault of his own it had failed. He hoped someone would survive to carry the story of his efforts to the family.
