Sworn for Mackinaw Read online

  Sworn for Mackinaw

  True Courage Amid False Colours

  Book 1 Great Lakes Great Guns Historical Series

  James Spurr

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  Double Edge Press

  Ebook edition ISBN 9781938002397

  Sworn for Mackinaw

  Copyright © 2006 James Spurr

  Fiction: Historical: War of 1812

  Cover Artwork: Friends Good Will off Mackinaw by artist Peter Rindlisbacher, all rights, title and interest owned by Michigan Maritime Museum. Used with permission.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Double Edge Press, 72 Ellview Road, Scenery Hill, PA 15360

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Dedication

  For my Mother, who instilled in me a love of history and an appreciation of language;

  and for my father, who instilled in me discipline and perseverance to accomplish dreams.

  Acknowledgements

  Information appearing throughout was initially found within

  Robert Malcomson’s Warships of the Great Lakes, 1754-1834,

  David Skaggs and Gerard Altoff’s Signal Victory

  Emily Cane’s Ghost Ships,

  Helen Doe’s Captain James Dunn,

  Maritime Life and Traditions, Volume 27,

  And

  The Bayliss Public Library, Sault St. Marie’s collection of

  Port of Mackinaw United States Customs Records.

  The Michigan Maritime Museum’s

  Generous use of Peter Rindlisbacher’s 2005 Painting

  Friends Good Will off Mackinaw

  Is also greatly appreciated

  For the cover design

  Authorized prints may be obtained through the Michigan Maritime Museum. For more information go online to www.michiganmaritimemuseum.org

  Sail the Winds of History

  For those who come to this book with an appreciation for History and of the Inland Seas,

  Or for those who in reading this book are inspired to learn first hand of what has so captivated mankind since the beginning of recorded motivation,

  Friends Good Will

  Sails Today

  With Volunteer Crew and Participating Passengers

  Owned and Operated by the Michigan Maritime Museum

  South Haven, Michigan.

  www.michiganmaritimemuseum.org

  Leave Ashore all but your Sense of Adventure!

  Sworn for Mackinaw

  True Courage Amid False Colours

  Book 1 Great Lakes Great Guns Historical Series

  James Spurr

  Chapter 1

  October 1805

  A breaking wave struck the larboard bow and lifted the stem even as it cascaded foam through the scuppers and into the waist. The breaker slammed the ship 20 degrees to starboard, perpendicular to the next smaller wave and cost the ship what-ever ground recently made to windward. Worse still, with the sails now over trimmed for the unintended heading, the ship lost power and would once again have to attempt to claw off the fast approaching lee shore.

  The Sailing Master recognized the curious objectivity of his thoughts. He would have expected anything but detachment. In a moment of extremis, just prior to death, he was surprised reflection was not only possible, but was in fact unavoidable.

  There was nothing to do. The ship would strike at any moment. His skills as a navigator, his knowledge of the chart and of these waters, all indicated to him their luck these past few seconds was more than would have been expected; more than they had enjoyed the entire voyage. Such luck could not continue. As sails were eased in a vain attempt to power the vessel once again to meet the steady onslaught of breakers, an action taken more by habit than hope, the crew suddenly ceased all effort, all performance of duties. By unanimous con-sent of mariners, if not humanity, on the verge of disaster, the crew began thinking only of themselves. All structure of com-mand and benefits of discipline, such as there were, evaporated as the breaker, just passed, marched onward to the closing shore.

  As the surf roiled against, alongside and over rocks and bars, spray and spindrift swept the deck and the ship shook violently in the breaking seas. The sails were now eased, the canvas foils powering the hull headlong once again at four to five knots. The Sailing Master clung to the larboard rail just forward of the binnacle. There was no need to further study the compass or chart.

  Brewster, ordinary seaman and none too skilled topman, emerged from the companionway hatch with a bottle of brandy, already opened, in one hand and two bottles of wine jammed in the front fall of his slops. He looked furtively at the officers for some sign of reproach for having broken into the spirits locker in the wardroom, as though such conduct, though criminal, would somehow in these moments be cause for reprimand or punishment. His glance to the Sailing Master was met only with disgust and he quickly averted his gaze, took another hurried drink and wiped his chin with his tar stained sleeve.

  Lieutenant Owen Dunlap, First Officer, to his credit, was attempting once again to trim the sails and improve the angle to windward, but was doing so largely alone. Other men gathered at the foremast fife rail, encouraging one another to find floating objects to improve their chances of survival. The seamen, most intent on their individual position and bracing for the impending impact, exchanged pledges of assistance while all harbored doubts of their ability to make good. Old Joe Phipps was crouched in the leeward scupper, deck wash about his knees, hands clasped in desperate prayer.

  The Sailing Master’s thoughts were interrupted by a strong tug on his coat. Bemose was on her knees, grasping his right leg from slightly behind him. Between her still more desperate tugs on his coat she clutched her torn leather blouse, preserving, even at such time, her modesty, as was possible. Her eyes asked the question, her moans confessed her debilitating fright; her tears revealed not panic, but deep hurt and trauma from those moments just preceding this new crisis. The Sailing Master loosed his right hand from its grasp of the rail and brought her close alongside him. He leaned over, looked past her bruised cheekbone into her eyes and gestured with his hand, now full around her neck. “Together,” he shouted. She nodded, clinging to his waist with both arms.

  Another huge breaker roared in with a rush. The blocks rattled, the wind whistled and the poorly trimmed canvas cracked like musket shot. Amidst the chaos he heard the helmsmen call from behind him, “Sir! Sir! Where is the Captain?”

  He didn’t reply, but his look of disdain was so egregious it would have, but for the circumstances, assured him a charge of insubordination had the captain observed him. Poor fellow, he thought of the helmsman. Could he be so dull as to actually look to that quarter for leadership, let alone salvation, in such a moment of dire need? Then again, to have steered the ship to her present circumstance, the helmsman likely held little skill to his merit.

  The Sailing Master of the distressed vessel clung to the rail, Bemose in turn clinging to him. He thought of how just seven days prior he had not foreseen any of this.

  * * *

  A week ago, in a native canoe, skillfully manned and chartered at his expense, he and his small crew’s hard efforts against the current over the previous two days paid off. The canoe had made as much progress northward as Her Majesty’s Schooner General Hope.

/>   A light southwest wind had veered, causing the schooner to anchor just opposite Fort St. Clair, on the river of that same name, still some distance from the mouth of Lake Huron. The schooner was well found. Launched in spring, 1803, she was now near to completing her third sailing season. As their canoe approached from the stern, the Sailing Master admired the carved nameboard of that vessel known on the Lakes as ‘Hope’. Soon after his arrival he learned there was in fact little; now, a week later, there was none.

  While his arrival was unexpected, the First Officer, Dunlap, met him at the small entry port after being assured by hail of his good intent and proper business. Dunlap took him below. “Charts of Lake Huron are aboard, but they stem from 1795, now ten years old. They may have originated with the French.” They descended the steep, narrow companionway steps. “None of us eight souls aboard have as yet been north of Lake St. Clair.”

  The Sailing Master thought the first comment curious. Certainly Dunlap did not mean to imply the French would not require accurate charts? He could not believe they welcomed disaster or attached less value to their lives than the English. Perhaps it was the implied arrogance, as if only the English could count on their charts or were capable of safely navigating these Lakes, though the French were here long before. He let it pass. He simply replied, “I have brought several but would be pleased to see yours at your earliest convenience.”

  Dunlap cautioned, as though to suggest the Sailing Master were presuming a great deal, “First, you meet the Captain.”

  Dunlap knocked on the narrow door, waited an undue, if not embarrassing, several seconds before a gruff voice replied, slightly annoyed, “Come.”

  Dunlap, without looking at the Sailing Master, opened the door. “Captain, I present…”

  “What in the devil’s own hell are you doing on my ship and how dare you approach from under my counter in a hostile craft!” The Captain rounded on the Sailing Master, ignoring his First Officer.

  Dunlap looked at the floorboards and backed up a step.

  The Sailing Master replied, “Sir, I am…”

  “I don’t give a damn who you are. What are you doing here? I demand an explanation.”

  The Sailing Master handed the Captain, reddened with anger, the warrant that had been, until that moment, rolled and tucked under his arm. The Captain tore off the ribbon, ripping the parchment in his frustration. He scanned it warily, read it then with more care. The Sailing Master added, “I am well familiar with the natives I engaged and assure you, Sir…”

  “Assure me?” the Captain shouted. “You presume to assure the Captain of this vessel of, what… its safety? You dog! Damn your eyes. One more word and I’ll stripe your back!” Spittle settled upon the warrant and the Captain, catching the Sailing Master considering this circumstance, returned his attention to the parchment. “Do you think Amherstberg can force you upon me? Get off this ship immediately.” He reached for a pistol lying beside an uncorked dark glass bottle on the small table between them.

  Dunlap shoved the Sailing Master gracelessly out of the cabin. “Wait on deck,” he advised, then returned to the cabin and closed the door behind him. The Sailing Master obeyed and, somewhat shaken, listened carefully at the rail in the waist, but could hear nothing. He noted the glances of other crew indicated nervousness more than curiosity.

  Dunlap emerged just minutes later, motioning, and whispered, “Bring your bag. I convinced him of your usefulness.”

  Back again below deck, he was shown his bunk, to starboard in the wardroom, just forward of the bulkhead. He asked Dunlap, “What is he about?”

  “He,” Dunlap corrected, “is Lieutenant James Fleet, Royal Navy, appointed to this command, and you would do well to take care at all times. Do your job flawlessly and keep as low a profile as possible.” He reached above his own bunk and pulled from between a stringer and the knees a roll of charts. “These may be of use. Anything else?”

  “Do you have a draught of this vessel?”

  Surprised, Dunlap replied, “Yes, but pray, of what use would it be to you?”

  The Sailing Master explained what he thought should be obvious, though taking no tone: “The sailing qualities of a vessel and her expected behavior are all relevant in plotting her position.”

  Dunlap conceded immediately, seeming almost embarrassed, and reached into his trunk. “Certainly. Study if you like. Please return it and we will talk later.” He went through the door and up the first stair before leaning back and down to add, “You will lead starboard watch; larboard is on at present.”

  Hope hauled anchor later that hour when the wind backed and strengthened. Soon after, three bells in the second dog watch, the Sailing Master was standing next to the binnacle, studying the river in the gathering darkness, trying to subtly suggest to the helmsman he was luffing, when Dunlap approached, though now off watch. “So, what did you think?”

  “Interesting. I have never before had opportunity to evaluate a… what was it called… a sliding keel. I must say, on this tack I see little difference.”

  Dunlap admitted, “It is yet in its housing.”

  The Sailing Master’s puzzled look was met with a brief explanation, “The Captain sees little use in or benefit of the idea.”

  “Surely you have employed it at some time. What do you make of it?”

  “I think it bears merit. It permits a shallower draft, such as on the river behind us, while on open water in ’04, off Long Point on Erie, she went to windward quite well in about twelve knots.”

  “Well, I very much look forward to evaluating any difference.”

  Dunlap rolled his eyes and walked away, as if he held little hope of that happening.

  The sliding keel, of which two were fitted on the centerline of Hope, was the brainchild of Captain William Robe of the quartermaster’s office in Quebec. Stationed in England a few years before, he witnessed the effect of such on gun brigs in the English Channel. William Bell, the Provincial Marine’s Master Builder at Amherstberg laid down the lines of Hope in draught form and Robe suggested the contrivance. The sliding keel was originally attempted by Captain John Shank, who as a result of his appointment by the Royal Navy to Quebec in 1778 with a sweeping directive to take command of all vessels on the Lakes, effectively fathered the Provincial Marine. Shank’s reputation as a mariner, administrator and inventor was highly respected and Bell considered the suggestion favorably.

  The sliding keels were raised and lowered vertically through the keel by a winch housed in a watertight trunk or long narrow box. The theory was that shallow draft vessels, necessary on the Lakes and in particular on its adjacent and connecting rivers, would improve their performance sailing closer to the wind by lowering the moveable “keel”, thus increasing the lateral resistance of the hull as it slips through the water. The Sailing Master, while considering the contrivance novel, instinctively understood the potential benefit and recognized the device as still another marvel of the scientific age in which he had the good fortune to live.

  Hope finally reached the open waters of Lake Huron after taking a slow and frustrating passage from her anchorage off Ft. St. Clair, where the Sailing Master had joined. The winds had been fitful; the late last vestiges of a summer already past, untypical for midOctober. Hope was bound for His Majesty’s establishment on St. Joseph’s Island, the new post near the Straits since the British had finally evacuated Mackinaw Island in 1796 as the long awaited result of the treaty formally ending the Revolutionary War. The British withdrawl from Mackinaw and relocation to St. Joseph’s Island finally implemented the now agreed boundaries between the new United States and Canada, now firmly in English control as a result of yet another earlier war.

  Hope was setting her mainsail in a moderate southerly breeze under a cloudy sky, with foresail and jibs drawing nicely. The shore, all too close for the last two days while on the river, steadily broadened on both the starboard and larboard quarter as it receded astern and was now nearly out of sight. Just as the wind seemed
to gather some will, Old Joe Phipps called out with the authority of his long years of experience, even without rank: “Sir, floating debris to larboard.”

  The Sailing Master called, “Where away?”

  “Just abaft the beam, half a cable length and converging.”

  “The Sailing Master confirmed the sighting with his long glass and directed Brewster who was on the helm, “Hold your course for now.” He called to the waist, “Sullivan, take my glass aloft and report.”

  Moments later, Sullivan was near the cross trees, arm locked around the shrouds, standing upon the ratboards. With body twisted round and glass extended, he called, “Deck there! There’s a person holding fast to what ‘pears an overturned canoe.”

  Indeed, the courses were converging, though with a mainsail set Hope would pull forward of the drifting wreckage, leaving it well astern. The Sailing Master strode into the waist, and directed the men, who had begun their hauling after removing all gaskets along the boom, “Belay hauling, peak and throat halyard.”

  Dunlap emerged from the hatch and though off watch, approached and inquired. The Sailing Master gestured toward the canoe, “We may have a survivor.” He looked up. The wreckage was now much closer and he called Sullivan down from aloft and ordered Brewster to gradually turn to larboard and luff up so to intercept the floating wreckage, now easily visible to all on deck. Sullivan landed on deck from his small jump from the rail and the Sailing Master directed him and Brewster to trim the foresail and jibs to coordinate with their gradual turn. The men made their obedience and Dunlap and the Sailing Master resumed their positions on the quarterdeck. Within two minutes, the sails began to luff and the schooner’s momentum brought her starboard alongside the wreckage. Indeed, a native was clinging to an overturned canoe some 30 feet long, far larger than one person would have set out in and attempt to man.