Part 12 (2/2)
”Closer, I said!”
”Aye aye, sir, closer it is, sir,” the helmsman said. He knew better than to argue, just as he knew better than to steer the s.h.i.+p any closer to Cross Island than he already had. He s.h.i.+fted a wad of tobacco in his mouth and spun the wheel to take the brig back southwards. A British round shot whipped just forrard of the Hazard Hazard's jib-boom, skipped off a small wave, and finally splashed and sank a couple of hundred paces short of the anch.o.r.ed Warren Warren.
Lieutenant John Moore watched from the height of Dyce's Head. The battle seemed very slow to him. The wind was brisk, yet the s.h.i.+ps seemed to crawl across the smoke-shrouded water. The guns jetted smoke in huge billows through which the big s.h.i.+ps moved with a stately grace. The noise was fearsome. At any one moment thirty or forty guns were being served and their reports elided into a rolling concussion louder and more prolonged than any thunder. The flames made the smoke momentarily lurid and Moore was suddenly besieged by the thought that h.e.l.l itself would appear thus, yet for all the sound and fury there seemed to be little damage on either side. Mowat's three s.h.i.+ps were immovable, their broadsides undiminished by the enemy fire, while the American s.h.i.+ps sailed serenely through the splashes of the British bombardment. Some b.a.l.l.s struck their targets; Moore distinctly heard the crash of splintering timber, yet he saw no evidence of damage and the scrubbed decks of the enemy s.h.i.+ps appeared unstained by blood.
One enemy s.h.i.+p, larger than the rest, sailed close beneath Dyce's Head and Moore allowed his men to shoot their muskets down onto the enemy, though he knew the range was extreme and their hopes of hitting anything other than water were slim to nothing. He distinctly saw a man on the s.h.i.+p's afterdeck turn and gaze up at the bluff and Moore had the absurd instinct to wave at him. He checked himself. A sudden gust of stronger wind cleared the smoke from about the three Royal Navy sloops and Moore could see no injury to their hulls, while their masts still stood and their flags yet flew. A gun fired from the Albany Albany and, just before the smoke obscured the s.h.i.+p again, Moore saw the water ahead of the gunport flatten and flee outwards in a fan pattern. and, just before the smoke obscured the s.h.i.+p again, Moore saw the water ahead of the gunport flatten and flee outwards in a fan pattern.
Nine enemy s.h.i.+ps were attacking Mowat's line, yet, to Moore's surprise, none tried to break that line. Instead they were circling and taking turns to hammer their broadsides at the sloops. Just behind Mowat's sloops, and anch.o.r.ed in a similar line, were the three big transport s.h.i.+ps that had helped carry McLean's men to Majabigwaduce. Their crews leaned on their gunwales and watched the cannon smoke. Some enemy round shot, pa.s.sing between the sloops, crashed into the transports, whose job was to wait and see if any American s.h.i.+p succeeded in breaking through Mowat's line, then attempt to entangle that s.h.i.+p, but no enemy appeared willing to sail straight through the harbor mouth.
Lieutenant George Little wanted to sail into the harbor, but his orders were to stay west of the entrance and so he circled the Hazard Hazard, her sails banging like cannon-fire as he wore s.h.i.+p, then ran the small brig straight towards Cross Island. A cannon-ball, fired from the island's battery, screamed down the deck, just missing the helmsman. ”Waste of d.a.m.ned powder,” Little grumbled. ”Keep her steady.”
”Rock ledges ahead, sir.”
”d.a.m.n the ledges, d.a.m.n you and d.a.m.n the British. Get closer!”
The helmsman spun the wheel anyway, trying to take the Hazard Hazard north so her broadside could spit iron and defiance at the British sloops, but Little seized the wheel and turned it back. ”Get closer, I said!” north so her broadside could spit iron and defiance at the British sloops, but Little seized the wheel and turned it back. ”Get closer, I said!”
”Sweet Jesus Christ,” the helmsman said, surrendering the wheel.
Another round shot, heavy by its sound, smashed into the Hazard Hazard's bows, then the s.h.i.+p shuddered and there was a grating sound as her hull struck a submerged rock. Little grimaced, then turned the wheel and the Hazard Hazard hesitated. The grinding noise continued deep below, but then the brig lurched and loosed herself from the rock and settled on her new course. ”Hands to the pumps!” Little called. ”And gunners! Aim well!” The guns crashed back against their breech ropes and the smoke blossomed, and a British ball struck the belaying pins aft of the forward mast and splintered them, and Little was bellowing at his gunners to reload. hesitated. The grinding noise continued deep below, but then the brig lurched and loosed herself from the rock and settled on her new course. ”Hands to the pumps!” Little called. ”And gunners! Aim well!” The guns crashed back against their breech ropes and the smoke blossomed, and a British ball struck the belaying pins aft of the forward mast and splintered them, and Little was bellowing at his gunners to reload.
High on the bluff Moore watched the small brig. For a moment he thought its captain intended to ram the Nautilus Nautilus, but then the brig turned to sail into the smoke left by the guns of the Black Prince Black Prince, a big privateer. The brig spat its fire and iron. ”A brave little s.h.i.+p,” Moore said.
”He gets any closer and he'll be selling his hull for firewood, sir,” Sergeant McClure said.
Moore watched the Hazard Hazard sail down the line. He saw round shot strike her hull, but her rate of fire never diminished. She turned west beneath him and Moore saw her gunners reloading. ”A terrier, that one,” he said. sail down the line. He saw round shot strike her hull, but her rate of fire never diminished. She turned west beneath him and Moore saw her gunners reloading. ”A terrier, that one,” he said.
”But we're not rats, sir, are we?”
”We are not rats, Sergeant,” Moore said, amused. Pearce Fenistone's small guns just behind the picquet fired, their b.a.l.l.s slas.h.i.+ng down at the enemy s.h.i.+ps and their smoke filling the trees. The sun was low in the west now and made the smoke glow.
”Captain Campbell coming, sir,” McClure muttered in a low warning to Moore.
Moore turned to see the tall, kilted figure of Captain Archibald Campbell approaching from the north. Campbell, a highlander of the 74th, commanded all the picquets on the bluff. ”Moore,” he greeted the Lieutenant, ”I think the Yankees plan to inconvenience us.”
”It's why they came, sir,” Moore replied happily.
Campbell blinked at the younger man as if suspecting he was being mocked. He flinched as the nearest cannon recoiled, its noise huge among the trees. The three guns' breech ropes had been seized to the pine trees and every shot provoked a rain of needles and cones. ”Come and look,” Campbell ordered, and Moore followed the lanky highlander back along the bluff's top to a place where a gap in the trees offered a view of the wider bay.
The enemy's transport s.h.i.+ps were anch.o.r.ed in the bay, which was being whipped into white scudding waves by the brisk wind. The gaggle of s.h.i.+ps was well out of range of any cannon McLean might have positioned on the high ground. ”See?” Campbell pointed at the fleet, and Moore, shading his eyes against the setting sun, saw longboats nestling against the hulls of the transports.
Moore took a small telescope from a pocket and opened its tubes. It took a moment to train and focus the gla.s.s, then he saw men in green coats clambering down into one of the longboats. ”I do believe,” he said, still gazing at the sight, ”that they plan to call on us.”
”I don't have a gla.s.s,” Campbell said resentfully.
Moore took the hint and offered the gla.s.s to the captain who took an age to adjust the lenses. Campbell, like Moore, saw the men filling the small boats. He saw too that they were carrying muskets. ”You think they'll attack us?” he asked, sounding surprised at such a thought.
”I think we'd best a.s.sume so,” Moore suggested. It was possible that the men were being redistributed among the transport s.h.i.+ps, but why do that now? It seemed far more likely that the Americans planned a landing.
”Bring your fellows here,” Campbell ordered.
The American wars.h.i.+ps were still shooting at Mowat's sloops, though their fire was desultory now and none, not even the Hazard Hazard, was venturing close to the harbor mouth. Two of the attacking s.h.i.+ps had already sailed out of range and dropped their anchors. Moore brought his men to join the rest of Campbell's picquets just as the longboats left the shelter of the transports' hulls and pulled towards the sh.o.r.e. The sun was very low now, dazzling the redcoats among thebluff's trees. ”They're coming!” Captain Campbell sounded astonished.
”Are the men's muskets loaded, Sergeant?” Moore asked McClure.
”Aye, sir.”
”Leave the muskets unc.o.c.ked,” Moore ordered. He did not want a shot wasted by a careless man accidentally pulling the trigger.
”Ensign Campbell, John Campbell!” Captain Campbell shouted, ”run back to the fort and tell the brigadier the rascals are coming!”
The kilted ensign left and Moore watched the approaching boats, noting that they were having a hard time in the rising wind. The bay's waves were short and sharp, smacking hard against the big rowboats to smother their oarsmen and pa.s.sengers with spray.
”McLean had best send reinforcements,” Campbell said nervously.
”We can see those fellows off,” Moore responded, surprised at how confident he felt. There were some eighty redcoats on the bluff and the enemy, he guessed, numbered at least two hundred men, but those two hundred had to clamber up the bluff and the first fifty or sixty feet were so steep that no man could climb and use a musket at the same time. After that the slope flattened somewhat, but it was still precipitous, and the redcoats, positioned at the summit, could fire down at men struggling up the hill. A last flurry of cannon-fire sounded from the south, the thunder echoing briefly, and Moore, without asking for orders from Campbell, leaped a few paces down the upper slope to a place where he could see the attackers more clearly.
”We'll wait for the brigadier's reinforcements,” Campbell called reprovingly.
”Of course, sir,” Moore said, hiding his disdain for the tall highlander. Campbell had sent the ensign back to the fort, but that was a journey of almost three quarters of a mile, much of it through tangling undergrowth, and McLean's reinforcements had to make the same journey back. By the time they arrived the Yankees would long have landed. If the Americans were to be stopped then Campbell's men must do the job, but Moore sensed his commander's nervousness. ”Bring the men down here, Sergeant,” he called to McClure and, ignoring Archibald Campbell's plaintive inquiry as to what he thought he was doing, led McClure and the other Hamiltons north along the bluff's shoulder. They were at the place where the easier upper slope ended, just above the steepest part of the hill, and Moore was positioning his men so that they would be directly above the beach to which the Americans rowed. He was feeling a sudden excitement. He had dreamed of battle for so long and now it was imminent, though it was nothing like his dreams. In those dreams he was on a wide-open field and the enemy was in dense ranks beneath their flags, and cavalry was on the flanks, and bands were playing and Moore had often imagined surviving the enemy volleys until he ordered his own men to fire back, but instead he was scrambling through bushes and watching a flotilla of large longboats pull hard for the sh.o.r.e.
Those boats were close now, not more than a hundred paces from the narrow beach where the short, wind-driven waves broke white. Then a gun sounded. Moore saw a cloud of smoke appear amids.h.i.+ps on one of the transport s.h.i.+ps and realized it had been a small cannon aboard that s.h.i.+p. The round shot crashed noisily through the bluff's trees, startling birds into the evening sky, and Moore thought the single shot must presage a bombardment, but no more guns fired. Instead two flags broke from the s.h.i.+p's yardarm and the longboats suddenly rested their oars. The boats wallowed in the turbulent water, then began to turn around. They were going back.
”G.o.d d.a.m.n them,” Moore said. He watched the boats turn clumsily and realized the Americans had abandoned their plans. ”Give them a volley,” he ordered McClure. The range was long, but Moore's frustration seethed in him. ”Fire!” he snapped at the Sergeant.
The Hamiltons c.o.c.ked their muskets, aimed, and let loose a ragged volley. The musket sound stuttered in the trees. Moore was standing to one side and was certain he saw a man in the nearest rowboat thrown violently forward. ”Hold your fire!” Campbell shouted angrily from the summit.
”We hit a man,” Moore told McClure.
”We did?” the Sergeant sounded disbelieving.
”One less rebel, Sergeant,” Moore said, ”G.o.d d.a.m.n their disloyal souls.”
The wind carried the musket smoke away and the sun, which had momentarily been obscured by a ribbon of cloud above the bay's western sh.o.r.e, suddenly flared bright and dazzling. There was a silence, except for the rush of wind and the fret of breaking waves.
A cheer sounded as the sun set. Brigadier McLean had led his officers down to the sh.o.r.e and along the beach to a place just beyond the Half Moon Battery and there, within easy earshot of the three Royal Navy sloops, he saluted them. To McLean, watching from the low unfinished ramparts of Fort George, it had appeared that the Americans had tried to enter the harbor but had been repulsed by Mowat's guns, and so McLean wanted to thank the navy. His officers faced the s.h.i.+ps, raised their hats and McLean led them in three heartfelt cheers.
The Union flag still flew above Fort George.
”An Indian named John,” Wadsworth said.
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