Sworn for Mackinaw Page 6

  The first six barrels on each side, from the stern, had been lowered and sunk with the seventh hanging near the waterline. The crew was just loosening the gaskets of the eighth when noise and confusion erupted from the shore. Visibility was poor in the fog, but noise was, by definition, trouble among those schooled and skilled in silent operations. All looked to the beach and saw the flash of a gunshot even before the report, which seemed muffled and distant in the fog and among the cliffs. The clash of metal, presumably swords, was unmistakable and was followed by calls and shouts, some with bravado, some in pain. The Master immediately called all hands to loose the gaskets making fast the ankers to the outside rail and haul on both the anchor and spring line, rigged as a clever precaution, from the starboard quarter to well beyond the bowsprit.

  All eyes were now off the beach as the crew focused upon their urgent tasks when within seconds a topman called, “Sail, dead ahead!”

  Just several lengths beyond where the anchor rode disappeared into the depths, the topmast of what was most likely a revenue cutter was protruding up from the thicker fog lying lower along the surface.

  The Master reacted instantly. “Hands to the peak and Jib Halyard. All others, haul away on the spring line.” The Master strove to get Venus underway as quickly as possible. While not certain, from the rake of the intruder’s topmast it appeared the vessel was slowly making way westward. With Venus lying to the south and the spring line rigged to starboard, her stern would swing to the west, and Venus, with some luck, would very soon be underway heading east. In this fog and with the intruder having to tack, they might just yet slip away. The Master wondered, indeed, as he ordered with some urgency, “Cut the cable!” whether Venus had as yet even been sighted.

  As the crew hauled on the peak and jib halyards, the jib began to ascend up the forestay and the mainsail assumed its full shape. The crew assigned the spring line elected against the windlass in these light conditions and relied instead on sheer adrenaline. The angle of the bow—off head to wind, starboard tack—was improving and the main began to fill when a blast of light and the distinct ring of a brass gun discharging caused all to take the deck. Venus was sighted. The Master saw no blood, heard no screams, though he noted that rocks, shards of metal, and glass could cut line and slice through sails as easily as they would men. This revenue cutter was intending to take them intact and avoid the damage that might otherwise be inflicted with round shot at near point blank range.

  The intruder hailed, “Surrender immediately! You are cut off from all points.”

  The Master weighed what might well be a bluff, threatened those on the spring line, “Haul, you bastards, for your life, damn you!”

  On board His Majesty’s Sloop Fox, Master and Commander Douglas, a serious minded Scott who reveled in setting and springing traps, and did so as well at sea as he did with game from his family’s estate in the lowlands, ordered the helmsman, “Put us about, on the instant.” Then to all in the waist, “Hands, off tacks and sheets, mainsail haul.” Fox came around well in the light southerly, as all crew were at stations and were expecting the maneuver. Within seconds, her bow now through the wind and hove to close hauled on the starboard tack, Fox stood near dead in the water with her port guns run out and bearing upon Venus. As a result of her hauling on a spring line, Venus now lay near parallel with Fox. Venus was built for speed and with light scantlings and no guns, while fast, was entirely vulnerable.

  The crew aboard Venus, now just making fast the jib halyard, called with alarm, “Boats ahead, preparing to board!” At that same moment Venus slowed and came to a sluggish near stop. The Master concluded something was dragging when a seaman on the starboard foredeck, beginning to hack away at the anchor rode with a hatchet, confirmed, looking under the bowspit, “The barrel line is caught inside the bobstay!” That line intended to connect the ankers slung on one side of the ship to those on the other had mistakenly been led above the bobstay instead of below. The careless mistake caused all barrels to be dragged behind instead of sliding harmlessly beneath the keel, ruining what for a moment had looked like still another very pretty escape. The error would cost only seconds; though seconds in such a circumstance were often the equal to a lifetime of consequences.

  Perhaps the fouled ankers were of no real significance. Indeed, while Douglas sprung the trap heading westerly, he had prudently left two ship’s boats astern, with swivel guns at their bows and full crews well armed and ready. When Fox’s gun signaled action, the ship’s boats rowed in to close off any attempted escape to the east. With the wind from the south and a jagged coastline to the north, Venus had few if any options. Fox tacked smartly and presented her entire broadside to Venus—amid all else, partially disabled by her own carelessness, and the crew raised their arms and cried out, “Surrender,” and, “Mercy!” They glanced with panic between the approaching boats off their bow, the armed cutter to starboard, and to their Master at the helm, who was furious with frustration though seemingly not contesting the obvious. He resigned to head into the wind and directed the crew to lower all sail. The anchor cable, though half parted, would in the light southerly, soon guide them back to that precise point, just a couple of lengths to leeward, from where they had started. The ankers at her bow were as yet still restraining Venus by a single misled line, like a gaoler’s chain and shackle.

  The Master still had one more play. He strode quickly forward, instructing the crewman with the hatchet to scramble over the bow and slice that offending line. The line was cut before the Fox’s boats pulled alongside and none of the Royal Naval crew, nervous and uncertain as to their reception aboard Venus, noticed the subtle movements of just one man at the stemhead. Some moments before Venus was boarded, the line was cut and the ankers, already dragging below the surface by the weight of the stones, slid silently to the bottom.

  Meanwhile, the noise from the shore also subsided. One man was shot dead in the opening fray, the man with the tophat and striped red pants was stabbed and seriously wounded with a dirk upon his drawing a pistol. All the smugglers were in chains and all goods were confiscated. The party was already beginning a long walk to the local magistrate under the guard of the militia and a handful of regulars.

  A junior lieutenant from one of the ship’s boats informed the Master of Venus she was now a prize of the Royal Navy, would be sailed instantly to Falmouth, and demanded that he produce all papers, especially the manifest.

  The Master invited his captor into the small aft cabin and produced evidence of ownership. Venus was a coastal trader, registered to Captain James Dunn and employed as a service boat to his personal shipyard. The manifest revealed a cargo of shipbuilding supplies purchased in Plymouth for Dunn’s yard in Mevagissey. Venus was searched and while none of the listed cargo was found aboard, nor were the false bulkheads and sectioned water tanks discovered. The Master protested to the young lieutenant, “Sir, you have searched my ship. She carries no contraband.”

  “True enough, though let me point out Venus sails with an apparently false manifest, justifying confiscation and further charges. In addition, you are miles east of your stated destination and in the company of smugglers, also apprehended in possession of goods enough to prove the guilt of all.”

  “Sir, certainly not even the Royal Navy can answer for those on shore adjacent to its ships on sea. We were misled by the lantern, thinking a safe harbor was at hand in this terrible fog. We discovered our error just in time before running aground and quickly dropped anchor. On the instant, shots rang out on shore and your ship, without identifying herself, made threats and opened fire!” His tone was sincere, his expressions practiced, his tale was both plausible and entirely ridiculous. The lieutenant was polite but would have none of it, despite the Master’s indignation.

  “Venus is ours; the prize court will hear you out,” he returned. For good measure, he added, “In the meantime, we shall drag these waters and see what the bottom reveals.”

  Both men knew well their trade. The M
aster predictably replied, “I hope you find treasures, Sir; as for myself, I have no clue as to what the bottom hides.” He had long since resolved to keep to himself that which he knew as fact—that a Royal Navy lieutenant, the son of an admiral, had diverted the goods on the beach from their rightful destination and offered them instead, for a small bribe, to the night men.

  “We shall be underway on the instant,” the Lieutenant replied. “You will remain in your cabin, which we shall search for weapons and the seaman at the door has his orders, I assure you. We shall be in Falmouth by dawn.” The sparring was over and both crews settled down to a tense sail on a foggy night, more nervous of those untrustworthy among them than of the all too near rocky lee shore.

  * * *

  Thomas, weary from the long ride but intent on the orders given to him in detail just that afternoon, drove the coach into Falmouth, but instead of turning inland, on that road to the Fleet Manor House, turned left down to the quay where a boat waited. Within a cable length, he brought the coach to an abrupt halt.

  With the halting of the coach, James, inside it, knew he had been misled. The Admiral looked at him, said simply, “Go with Thomas”. Then he looked away while seemingly, at least for a moment, expressing an emotion resembling sincere care: “Let us hope and trust in fresh starts.”

  Thomas led James to board a ship’s boat waiting at the stairs along the harbor wall. Thomas, although much older, managed the slime and weed of the harbor tides with grace; almost instinct. He had served as Coxswain upon His Majesty’s ships with the Admiral for many years and seemed as much at ease in a ship’s boat as on a coach top, or anything else offering motion and requiring balance.

  The boat was expertly rowed by a silent uniformed crew through the fog of an early dawn. It pulled alongside a brig with top and headsails loosed and James realized he would be at sea on the instant. He turned to Thomas. “I packed no bag.”

  Thomas returned, “Personal affects are already aboard. Consider those in Plymouth lost.”

  James swallowed at still another humiliation, climbed aboard and was met at the entry port by an officer. “Mr. Fleet, I am First Officer Robert Conley. You are reporting aboard for duty upon His Majesty’s Brig Triton, serving as Second Lieutenant.” James instantly noticed he was several years older than his superior and speculated that indeed he may well be older than Triton’s captain. He asked, still again, one last time that evening, “Where are we bound?”

  Conley did not disguise his surprise at this most unusual introduction to Triton’s wardroom. “Why, to Halifax, of course; we are assigned to the North American Squadron.”

  James turned back, just for a moment, and observed Triton’s ship’s boat gliding silently into the fog, returning Thomas, already lost to view sitting in the bow, to his father, the Admiral.

  Conley interrupted his bitter reflection. “Mr. Fleet, take charge of the foredeck division as we prepare to weigh.”

  James responded with words he had used sparingly these past several years, words that he knew he would now use constantly, “Aye, Sir.”

  Thomas, upon his return to shore, was motioned to the window of the coach before climbing to the top. He wondered now as he again picked up the reins at the meaning of the Admiral’s surprising revelation: “One more errand, Thomas, before this long night… or should I say morning, is over. We have business in Mevagissey. If fortunate, we may take our breakfast there.”

  By mid morning the coach was again proceeding slowly down the cobbled streets of the village, this time heading east. The Admiral directed Thomas turn off the main street, inland, where after just a few doors, Thomas stopped at the signal of the Admiral’s cane on the coach roof, tapping twice. Thomas attended the coach door and the Admiral strode to the front door of a stone house, impeccable in its care and maintenance, exquisite in its workmanship. Thomas wondered at the detailed stonework against the red painted window casement. To the left, carved in relief on a stone set in the wall, were the initials J.D. To the right, in the same manner, was carved the date 1791. The Admiral was greeted promptly, but he soon looked slightly annoyed and returned to the Coach. He directed, “Thomas, take us back to the main street and one block further east, to the Ship Inn.” Thomas set out recalling the public house from their ride through earlier that night. Suddenly, Thomas realized the initials carved in the wall of the fine home stood for none other than James Dunn.

  The Admiral entered the Inn with Thomas, though he left his cloak, coat, hat and other trappings of identity and rank in the coach. Thomas knew he was included for protection. The Ship Inn was a two story stone building with an arched door painted black. Brick work detail showed above the large window casements and iron grills wrapped around the lower windows. A handsome painted sign of a cutter on a broad reach, flying under square topsail, signaled the major interest of the locals. Thomas suspected the cutter was either escaping the revenuers or making for a clandestine rendevous.

  The Admiral had never met Captain James Dunn, though he knew of him near his entire life. Strangely, he recognized him instantly. Captain Dunn bore a friendly face and a clean white shirt with black coat and vest. He was seated near the fire going over account books and attending to business. He looked most comfortable as he signed papers. While the Admiral supposed him capable on a quarterdeck, there was an unmistakable air of business and wealth about his manner. Thomas would have thought Captain Dunn surprised at seeing an Admiral seek him out, but instead his demeanor suggested merely inevitability.

  Thomas hung back and stood in such a position so as to observe the entire room, although at this early hour it was nearly empty. While he heard little of the preliminaries, within seconds, it seemed, Captain Dunn was expressing his regret over his wayward nephew, Peter. He assured the Admiral of his sincere remorse and asked if, as there were no charges, “… a drunken tantrum musts bring crashing down the legitimate businesses of family and community?”

  The Admiral considered and replied, in a most careful manner, “The world has changed. In these modern, less tolerant times, I hardly expect to assist in that which has caused me so recent a serious loss.”

  Captain Dunn admitted, “My men tell me Venus is lost; such an unfortunate misunderstanding. I must really stress to my Captains the importance of more accurate coastal navigation.” Noting the Admiral gave no encouragement, he continued, “Still, I would be happy to wholly indemnify those who suffered losses in doing business with… well, my shipyards.”

  The Admiral looked into his eyes, assured himself of a common understanding and offered, “The loss of a vessel is serious; the loss of a nephew is tragic. Perhaps it can as yet be avoided.”

  The Admiral looked to Thomas; Captain Dunn to the landlord. The two principals stood, shook hands, and each began to leave the room. Captain Dunn turned as he stood in the doorway to the back room. The Admiral had his hand on the front door latch. Captain Dunn observed, “Lieutenant Douglas reveals much promise. With England facing enemies on all fronts, it is a comfort to imagine the good work of which he is so obviously capable.”

  The Admiral considered for a moment, understanding instantly the veiled hint and agreed, “I am sure after the Venus affair, the Admiralty may offer him his step. Then who knows, off to fight the French?” He swung open the heavy door to the now brighter early morning sun and stepped quickly into the seclusion of the coach. Thomas was left behind for a few minutes to attend the details and arrangements.

  After changing horses, their fifth team in barely more than two days, Thomas and the Admiral returned to Plymouth. The Admiral took a room in a respectable Inn known to higher ranking officers while Thomas followed the roads adjacent to the harbor. Soon a small local fishing boat set out from shore, its oars muffled, and slowly, casually made its way as it fished under the counter of a frigate. Oddly, a stern window was open despite the cool night. A figure lowered itself silently onto the middle thwart and instantly, expertly, manned a third pair of oars.

  Within minute
s, Peter Dunn was ashore, in a boat owned by his uncle, Captain James Dunn. Thomas gave thanks for the loyalty, if not avarice, of his former shipmates aboard the frigate. As for the Admiral, he smiled to himself as Thomas reported the evening’s events. His losses from Venus were made whole. Peter Dunn was free without charge before telling his tales. Lieutenant Douglas would no longer focus his talents on the Cornwall coast. And his son James, aboard the Brig Triton putting out to sea—having passed within hail of Fox as it sailed into Falmouth, Venus as a prize—had been given still another chance, though undeserved.

  James, just hours before, while peering into the fog at the forward cap rail, anchor secure, choked back tears of humiliation, anger and resentment at the thought of his return to Canada.

  Chapter 4

  Oliver and Mary finally hired a boat from Eckert’s yard at the end of the day to take themselves and their packages more than a mile down the Detroit River to Contractor. The trip was easy with the small sail and a favorable current. They pulled up alongside Contractor in what seemed just a few minutes amid a pleasant late April evening. William was delighted to see them climb aboard, the Mate having recognized their names and hastened the preparation of the entry port. There was as yet more than an hour before sunset.

  “Surely, Captain Lee, you are not having second thoughts, I trust,” chided Oliver as William climbed up from below. “I have seen Contractor now for more than two days at anchor here alongside the western shore, and all I can imagine is that you are delighting in testing my patience.”