A matter of honor, p.19
A Matter of Honor, page 19
“Yes, Agee, very,” he confessed. “But I keep thinking of Will and that helps. Somehow I know he’ll be with me tonight, no matter what happens, and he’ll see me through. Probably sounds daft to you.”
“Daft? I hardly think so. My Indian friends believe that between them an’ the Great Spirit are their kindred spirits watchin’ over them, same as they did when they were alive. My ancestors? Ones I knew, I’m not sure I want ’em watchin’ over me. So if you’ve a mind, Richard, I’d be obliged if you’d ask your brother t’ look in on me every now an’ again.”
“He’d be honored, Agee,” Richard said.
At midnight, with the Mull of Galloway far astern and St. Bee’s Head not yet visible but approaching to starboard, Jones ordered the main topsail backed. With her fore and mizzen topsails remaining full, and her courses hanging loosely in their brails, ready to be dropped at a moment’s notice if need be, Ranger slewed partially broadside to the tide and current and drifted slowly up the narrowing tideway toward Whitehaven. David Callum at the helm was ever alert to the rate and direction of drift, mentally debating whether to maintain her sail plan as it was, or to back the mizzen topsail in addition to the main-topsail to slow her pace, or to back all three topsails to bring her headway close to a dead halt.
His master’s instincts were prompted by the calls of Seth Gardiner being relayed aft from the starboard fore chains. Gardiner was secured within the dead-eyes and shroud ends there and was heaving forward a lead weight attached to a twenty-fathom line marked at half-fathom intervals with scraps of rag, white at one-fathom intervals, red at the half-fathom. Though Callum was quite familiar with the charts of the Atlantic coasts, he had never sailed in these waters, and he took scant comfort from the fact that the captain had years ago as an apprenticed seaman. The captain, after all, was not even on deck. Which was why with the cry of “By the mark, twelve!” or “And a quarter less fourteen!” Callum allowed himself ever so brief an exhale of relief. No shoaling. Yet.
At three bells in the second watch the raiding party began assembling on the weather deck amidships. Though a few men had to be roused from their hammocks, most of them had marked time below wide awake. Up on deck, they formed two divisions, each according to his assigned boat. They stood at quasi-attention, rubbing sleep from their eyes or their hands for warmth.
At the bosun’s order, sailors hoisted the cutter and jolly boat off their tiers at midships and onto tackles attached to stays and yardarms acting as cranes. As the boats were lowered into the water on Ranger’s lee side, the senior officers finished their inspection of their men and gear. Jones’s force, the larger of the two, consisted mostly of cloaked marines armed with Brown Bess muskets. Under the cloak, each man carried a powder horn and calfskin cartridge pouch crisscrossed over his chest.
Mingled within their ranks were four burly seamen wearing dark loose-fitting, slop-chest clothes. Two of them carried coiled manila ropes with grapples on the end that resembled giant fish hooks coupled together back-to-back. The other two gripped long thin spikes, each capped with a sky blue cylinder with a six-inch length of fast-match curling down from its base.
Joshua Loring stood at attention before the smaller rectangle of men, a step in front of David Wendell. The officers saluted as Jones approached.
“You have the incendiaries, Mr. Loring?” He was referring to the fire bombs they had fashioned out of canvas and pinecones soaked in brimstone, in addition to the grenades they would bring along: hollow balls of lead stuffed with gunpowder and a short fuse.
“We do, sir,” Loring confirmed.
“Flints? Steels?”
“Accounted for, sir.”
“Very well, Mr. Loring. You may proceed to the boats.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Jones stepped up to the quarterdeck.
“You have command, Mr. Callum. Be close in at dawn. Watch for the rocket. That will be your signal to come in for us.”
“We’ll be there, Captain. Good luck, sir.”
When Jones returned, the twenty-two-foot joily boat was filled with men and Loring had given the order to bear off and ship oars. The thirty-foot cutter had taken its place below the entry port, and marines were now scrambling over the side. When everyone was at his place on the thwarts, Agreen stepped down, followed by Richard, Samuel Wallingford, and finally, Captain Jones. Wrapped in a navy blue cloak and wearing a black tricorne hat with a red and white cockade, Jones took position in the sternsheets next to Richard, who served as coxswain tonight at the captain’s request.
“Give way, all!” Richard ordered, once the cutter was free of Ranger and oars had been properly shipped in their thole pins. As the men heaved on the oars, Richard jogged the bow toward the southern shore.
As they were loading the boats, the wind had inauspiciously backed to the southeast and now began to freshen, its contrary effects offsetting the benefits of an incoming tide and rendering useless the lug sail furled on a portable mast beneath the thwarts. There was nothing to do but to row, and row hard.
Despite what he recalled as fluky currents nearer the southern shore, and the numerous strake nets set out there by local salmon fishermen, Jones ordered the two boats close in toward the calmer waters in the lee of the land. From his recollection, the rocky coastline was wild, uninhabited, so there was little risk of being spotted by an overly curious landsman, especially at this hour. Indeed, the only locals that seemed startled by their presence were occasional redshanks or oystercatchers seen poking about in the grassy salt marshes and sea lavender in search of food.
Jones ordered a shift at the oars every twenty minutes; nonetheless, it took them more than an hour and a half to row around St. Bee’s Head, considerably more time than Jones had estimated.
The faintest glints of dawn were edging the eastern sky as they rounded the head, bringing into slightly better focus what lay before them in Whitehaven harbor. Dawn came grudgingly this time of year, especially when the sky was overcast. Could they stretch the mantle of night for another hour?
Once the two boats were around the head and in the harbor, the turbulence they had experienced in the firth ceased abruptly, replaced by a chill calm. Only the rhythmic creaking of oars in their wooden pins and the patter of water dripping from the blades disturbed the serenity of the harbor at rest.
Richard glanced about, his gaze taking in the vast flotilla of small craft anchored to starboard: schooners, ketches, brigs, single-masted fishing smacks, and one he could not identify: a French lugger perhaps, judging by the enormous bowsprit jutting out horizontally from the forepeak and a short but sharply raked mizzenmast stepped far astern close to the taffrail. As Jones had predicted, these vessels were nested up close against one another, with as many as ten or twelve berthed at a single mooring. He saw no sign of life stirring anywhere and few anchor or cabin lights.
Ahead, the town of Whitehaven slept.
To larboard, all the way up the eastern edge of the harbor almost to the firth, stood a high smooth stone square that Richard recognized from Jones’s drawing as the fort. It was a dark and foreboding structure emitting no light except for two tiny specks flickering low on the western wall, an entryway perhaps, and another light, brighter and higher, inside what Jones had explained was a wooden blockhouse. The fort was perhaps a fifth of a mile from the quays at the southern end of the harbor: too far away in the lingering darkness to pick out anything of consequence along its stone ramparts. Sentries posted there either had not spotted the two boats in the harbor, or if they had, had dismissed them as nothing out of the ordinary.
Extending out from the stone quays to the right and left along the U-shaped harbor stretched a gently sloping beach. Splotches of sand there intermingled with small rocks and pebbles worn smooth by centuries of wave action. Here, at midtide, the beach was about twenty feet in width, and the tide was going out. At the upper edge of the beach, starting near the quays and running along the eastern edge of the harbor to a wide expanse of grass lawn stopping short of the fort, was a rocky, waist-high seawall that protected the town from seaborne assaults of nature. It was man-made, and Richard noted its solid, waist-high length that would provide ideal cover for what they were about. He wondered if it was simply blind luck it was there, or had Captain Jones considered this fine a detail in selecting Whitehaven as his first target? He suspected the latter.
“Up oars!” he ordered softly The command was instantly obeyed, and the cutter skimmed toward a stone quay where clusters of small boats were tied up from their bows, their oars removed to prevent theft. Just before the cutter hit the quay, a bowman leaped ashore, fended off, then threw a line over a bollard, securing the boat with a clove hitch. The jolly boat bumped alongside and was similarly secured. Its crew, with cloaks off and stowed in the boat, joined the others in front of a warehouse built on a giant slab of granite, which served as a loading area. Stacked inside and against the walls were wooden hogsheads of rum, hemp sacks stuffed with raw sugar, and an assortment of barrels and staves.
“Roundly now, lads, we haven’t much time,” Jones urged those who were slow to gather around him. Though a candle would still be required to read fine print, dawn was coming fast.
The captain checked his watch.
“It’s now four minutes after five. Whitehaven comes alive in an hour, so an hour is all we have. We meet back here, at the boats, no later than six-fifteen. Six-fifteen, got it? Earlier, Mr. Loring, if you see the rocket. Good luck, gentlemen.”
The raiders split up. Joshua Loring led his men off to the left, toward the small craft huddled close along the harbor’s western edge. Jones took his command to the north along the eastern stretch of beach. Two marines remained on guard by the boats.
Jones led the way along the beach, jogging at a steady clip, slowed only a little by the two sailors lugging grappling hooks and lines. Instinctively they bent forward as they ran, exposing as little of themselves as possible above the rocky seawall. Going was smooth. The sand was hard-packed beneath their feet, and the numerous rocks and pebbles were of no consequence. In short order they were fifty yards from the fort, crouching low where the wall ended and the grassy expanse began. Kneeling in a knot together, the officers studied the parapets and embrasures with miniature spyglasses, searching for a clue as to what step to take next.
“We’ll scale the walls,” Wallingford announced after several minutes had elapsed and no alternative had presented itself. “Exactly where we scale them seems not to matter. I can’t make out anyone up there.” He continued scrutinizing the parapets, as though he couldn’t believe what his own eyes were confirming. “I’ll send up four of my best men: two on the south wall, two on the north. Once inside, they’ll find their way down to that door there.” He pointed at a small, heavy iron door at the base of the west wall. On each side of it a torch blazed in a socket, the two flickers of light Richard had noticed earlier from the cutter. The main entryway was on the opposite, eastern side, from where they could see a well-maintained road running into the countryside. But this door provided an alternate way into the fort, and it was unguarded from the outside.
Jones nodded his agreement. He was as suspicious as his marine lieutenant of the lack of sentries on the ramparts. This fortress may have little to fear from an enemy, but there was military discipline to enforce, even during times of peace. And this was a time of war. He was about to voice his concern when Richard suddenly pointed.
“Captain, over there.”
He was pointing at two British soldiers emerging from around the northwestern comer of the fort. They were walking in what appeared to be an odd, unsteady manner; each had his arm around the other’s shoulder for support. One held a lantern out in front of him, needlessly in the spreading light of dawn, while the other jangled a set of keys at his side as though the big brass circle were some sort of musical instrument. They were dressed sloppily. By the look of their crumpled scarlet regimental coats, their shirts unbuttoned at the collar, and the white-trimmed cocked hats askew on their heads, they had dressed in a hurry and without much care. And they were… giggling, their silly antics just now becoming audible.
“Capital!” Jones exclaimed in gleeful wonder. “Just capital! The buggers are drunk! The lying, thieving, buttock-loving whoresons are drunk!” His voice assumed the tone of a crotchety old schoolmaster having nabbed a youthful prankster red-handed. “Sneaking in the back door, are we, me lads? Slipped from your post to sample the local talent, hmm? Hope you enjoyed that quim. It was your last.
“Mr. Crabtree!” he hissed.
Agreen crawled up beside him. “Sir.”
“The one with the keys. Him first. Await my signal.”
Agreen drew an arrow from the quiver and inserted the string into the grooved end. Kneeling, he held the bow out horizontally in front of him.
Jones held up his hand: get ready. The soldier was fumbling with a key, giggling at his inability to insert it correctly into the keyhole. His mate slurred something indistinguishable to him that sent them both into a fit of stifled laughter. Finally the soldier got the key in and turned it properly. He pushed open the door, but instead of going in, he stepped aside and bowed low with a flourish, sweeping his right arm to the left in a grand gesture as if to say, After you, I insist, my dear fellow.’ When he straightened, a stupid grin illuminating his face, Jones said, “Now!”
Rising to full height, Agreen flipped the bow to a vertical position, took aim, and fired. The arrow sang through the air and struck the soldier square in the stomach. For a moment he stood slack-jawed, staring down at the projectile with both his hands clasped around the shaft. Then slowly, silently, he slid down to a sitting position, his legs straight out, his head slumped forward.
His mate gawked stupidly at him, then toward the beach. A second arrow struck him just below the rib cage, killing him instantly.
Jones held up his hand: don’t move. He paused, senses primed, listening intently for any reaction from inside the fort. He heard nothing from there, but the distant shouts he and the others heard coming from Whitehaven town made them all freeze.
“Pirates! Everybody up! Pirates, I say! Pirates are attacking us!”
“Bloody hell!” Jones swore.
“Who’s the fucking Paul Revere?” Wallingford demanded. He jerked his head around at the clutch of men bunched up behind him. “Who’s missing?”
There was a quick nose count.
“It’s Freeman, sir,” a marine corporal told him. “Seaman, Irish.”
“Figures,” Wallingford spat.
Jones jumped up. “Let’s go, lads!”
They charged the fort at full tilt, expecting at any moment the clang of an alarm bell or the whine of bullets fired at them from the parapets. But… no. Whitehaven might be astir, but the fort itself was deathly silent.
Jones and Wallingford were first to reach the opened door. They seized the two torches from their sockets and went inside, swinging the light this way and that, sizing up the musty interior dimly lit by lanterns hanging from metal holdings along the walls. To the right was an unbroken corridor leading to the south wall. At the far end was a flight of stairs leading up. To the left was a corridor of equal length, with another flight of steps leading up against the north wall. Halfway down that corridor was another corridor intersecting the west wall in the shape of a T. That corridor led eastward.
Wallingford was as familiar as Jones with how such a fort was constructed. He looked at Jones and pointed to himself, then pointed to the right and up. Jones nodded, pointing to himself and to the left. He held up five fingers: give me five marines.
They split up. Following Jones were the two midshipmen, the five marines, and the two sailors who had dropped their grappling gear on the beach. The rest of the marines and the sailor carrying the rockets followed Wallingford down the west corridor toward the steps leading up to the ramparts.
On the left side of the eastward corridor was a double oaken door meeting in the middle of a wide arched entryway. On the right side were three single doors set wide apart. Officer’s quarters, Richard assumed. Jones pointed to the double doors and silently mouthed the word “barracks” to Richard and Agreen. He then went toward the first door on the right, paused there, and held up his hand for silence. He pressed on the handle.
The door was unlocked. Jones gently pushed it ajar and peered in. It was the room of an officer, or two officers, for there were two single beds in it, some scenes of horses and rural England on the wall, two bureaus, and what appeared to be an expensive desk of some girth that added a gentlemanly feel to an otherwise Spartan room. Draped over the back of the brass-nailed, red-leather chair adjacent to the desk was a British Army dress coat with the epaulettes of a major.
Jones backed out of the room. He pointed to Richard and Agreen and to the door on the left, then to himself and the second door on the right.
Richard nodded and motioned to three marines and the two sailors. He led them to the double doors and drew back the hammer on his pistol to halfcock. He put his shoulder against one of the doors and pushed. The door creaked open, revealing wooden bunks in the room stacked three-a-top in typical army fashion. There were numerous sets of cots within the large rectangular space and not all were empty.
“Good morning,” Richard greeted those abed as he stepped inside the room. Beside him, the marines and sailors fanned out, their weapons drawn. There were perhaps fifteen or twenty British soldiers in the room early in the process of awakening. They were sitting up in bed or at the side of their bunks, staring wide-eyed at the Americans. To Richard’s relief he saw no muskets or pistols in the room, nor any other weapon save for a foot-long dagger lying flat on a table nearby, covetously being ogled by a balding soldier in halfdress sporting a black patch over his left eye.
“’Oo the ’ell ’r you?” a groggy giant of a man with a thick cockney accent demanded.
