The Witch's Fleet - Chapter 1

Prologue

Welcome to 1807

·        Life expectancy is 60.9 years

·        The United States – once a collection of British colonies -- has been an independent nation for thirty-one years.

·        The population of the US is 7,239,881

·        There are seventeen states.

·        Thomas Jefferson is President

·        King George III is King of The British Empire

·        Napoleon Bonaparte has crowned himself Emperor of France and is bent on world domination

·        A going rate for skilled labor is $1.00/day.

·        A day laborer is paid $0.10/day.

·        The lowest denomination of minted US coins in the Half-penny (hapenny)

·        The fishing village of Erie, Pennsylvania is twelve years old.

·        It has a population of four hundred.

·        The British Royal Navy – the most powerful in the world – has 1,017 ships.

·        The US Navy has … seventeen.

CHAPTER 1

June 22, 1807

Aboard the frigate USS Chesapeake at the mouth of Chesapeake Bay

The Landsman …

          The Landsman was shaking like the frightened young man that he was. He had not, before this, consider himself afraid of heights, but then he had never been at heights such as these. Oh, he had worked at higher tasks sure, but those past elevations had at least the decency to hold still. The precarious perch upon which he now found himself, held no such thoughtful considerations.

Nay – as he desperately clung to line and spar, these new heights rolled and pitched beneath his naked feet with sickening suddenness. Forward then back, rising then plunging -- he struggled to hold his balance and his breakfast. He struggled to focus on his task and suppress his innate fear.

He had volunteered for this duty as he thought it to be the toughest job aboard ship – and he was right.

I must stop volunteering! He scolded himself.

“Gads! Are you Irish!” The shouted voice of the able seaman posted out to his right on the yardarm now commanded his attention. The dark face of the African, Quintin Moore, erupted into a toothy grin as he beheld the stark fear in the eyes of the newcomer. “I swear, I tain’t ne’er seen a man so blatantly Irish!”

          The Landsman – the sandy-haired, be-freckled lad with the milk-toned skin hardly responded to the exclamation of the able-seaman. His attention was surely elsewhere, his eyes lost to the distant mist that shrouded the southern horizon.

          “Irishman!” Quintin screamed at his new shipmate in a voice sure to drill through the Atlantic winds that swirled about them.

          The Landsman jerked and swiveled his head Quintin’s way. “I heard yee, African!”

          The reply did not satisfy Quintin’s concern. The Landsman wore a stunned countenance. His hands clamped the wooden yardarm with a grip that had his knuckles pressed white. Quintin had seen this before – the shock of a landsman on his first day working in the tops.

“Look at me!” Quintin’s voice was stern, demanding and uttered with enough force to penetrate any stupor.

The Landsman shuddered and complied.

The ship rolled on the ocean, rising with the advance of each swell then dropping suddenly into the following trough. Up in the ship’s rigging the vessel’s motions were exaggerated – like being at the business end of a whip. The masts lashed from side to side then forward and back again. Quintin, the able seaman, had become inured to the adventurous ride. To the Landsman, however, the new experience was equal parts nauseating and terrifying.

To fall from this height was a death sentence carried out either by the unforgiving timber deck directly below or the man-swallowing, suffocating sea that seemed to literally reach up to snatch at him every time the ship pitched in its direction.

All that now stood between his life and that awful death was the ropewalk beneath his feet -- a single run of one-inch-thick rope that hung suspended a few feet below the yardarm. Presently, this “platform” supported the combined weight of the African, the Irishman and two other topmen who were working the opposite end of the spar. Their bare feet clutched at its wet, slippery fibers as best they could. The landsman now prayed to his God for its long life. His eyes drifted back to the horizon.

“Do not look out there!” Quintin would have smacked the inattentive Landsman were he not positioned as he was just out of his reach. “Look to my eyes damn you! That’s it! That’s it! Look to my eyes right here – right now! Don’t look out there … or over there … and, whatever you do don’t look down! Just keep your eyes here on me and this task we have before us. Do as I say and you probably won’t die this day!”

Quintin Moore had stood out on this yardarm thousands of times before, setting the sails, taking them in or just seeing to the maintenance of the heavy canvas. Many of those times had been spent in the company of some such novice Landsman ordered aloft to learn at the hands of the veteran able seaman. Today was no different, and those novices no less unsure, except that this man had volunteered for work as a topsman, something rare among run-o-the-mill, quaking Landsmen, even those eager to make themselves useful. So, Quintin eyed him with some small measure of respect.

The four men set to work setting the canvas sail, unloosing it from its cocoon-like form. They worked in concert with the two other men stationed to their left on the larboard side of the yardarm.

It took less than a minute to free the canvas and unfurl it, letting it fall away and drop into place. All the while, the Irishman seemed distracted. His distant attention irked the African.

“What in hell is out there?” Quintin gestured toward the distant mist that cloaked the southern horizon.

“Don’t you see it, African?” the Landsman replied without shifting his eyes from the distant fogbank. There was a whiff of wonder in his voice that caught Quintin’s attention.

“See what?”

“The … the ghost ship …” the Landsman haltingly raised an unsure, quaking arm and pointed.

Quintin now noticed that the other men further down the yardarm were looking that way too.

The African turned to see nothing except that the fog had drifted closer. “I don’t see …”

Then he did. Just for a fleeting second, he saw the form of a ship gliding in the mist. Then it was gone again.

Quintin hailed the other topsmen working thirty feet to his left. “Did you see that?”

They nodded then one pointed down to the quarterdeck. “Aye, and they see it, too!”

Quintin turned and looked down at the quarterdeck where Commander Baron and his officers were studying the phantom through their spyglasses.

“Here she comes! She’s making straight for us!” The cry came from someone else high in the tops. Quintin’s head spun round.

“She’s a Britisher.” He mumbled.

“What say?” the Landsman leaned toward him.

“She’s a British frigate come calling!” He turned again to the quarterdeck. “And we’re in poor shape to receive her.”

“How so?”

“Our guns are stowed and the deck is jammed with supplies for the fleet.”

“Are we not at peace?”

Quintin turned a skeptical eye on the Landsman. “There’s nary a sailor afloat who doesn’t quiver a bit at the sight of the Union Jack.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see here shortly. She’s hailing us.”

The British frigate closed rapidly on the USS Chesapeake. There was a sudden scurry of activity among the American crew as it grew closer.

“What ship are you?” a British officer called over through a bullhorn.

“The United States frigate Chesapeake!” Commander Baron replied sharply.

“Spill the wind from your sails! Heave to and receive my representative!” The British Captain’s voice was hard-set and final. It was a demand, not a request.

“Identify yourself!” Baron’s tone was identical.

“We are His Majesty’s Ship Leopard! Make ready to receive my representative!”

“She’s showin’ fight!” One of the American topmen observed.

“What’s all this?” The worried Landsman queried Quintin.

“They’ve got their guns run out and their crew’s at quarters. If we don’t heave-to they’ll fire on us.”

Commander Baron acquiesced and within minutes a British Lieutenant was standing on the Chesapeake’s main deck.

Salutes were exchanged but not pleasantries.

The British Lieutenant spoke first. “I am Lt. Meade, Captain. We have it under good authority that there are, among your crew, a number of Royal Navy deserters.” He handed a list of names to Baron.

“Of course you do.” Baron spoke facetiously as he perused the list. “There are no men aboard the Chesapeake that match these names, Lieutenant.” He handed the list back to the clearly skeptical officer.

“Will you call your crew to assembly so that a boarding party may search among them?”

“No, I will not, Lieutenant. You have no right to seize a non-belligerent ship in this manner and you have no legal footing here. This is a ship of the United States Navy and I intend to protest this breach in the most vigorous manner, sir.”

“Sir, we know these men are on this ship …”

“You always do, Lieutenant. This is becoming routine Royal Navy behavior. You can seize any ship at random and force the sailors aboard her to prove a negative, that is, that they have never served aboard a Royal Navy ship. Which, of course, they cannot. Well, I will not be intimidated and have my crew roughed up by your press gang. Good day to you, sir!” Baron instructed his Commander of Marines to escort the Lieutenant back to his waiting longboat.

“My Captain will be most displeased.” Lt. Meade observed as salutes were again exchanged and the discussion ended.

“Mr. Nicholson, prepare to get under way and resume our mission.”[i] Baron instructed his sailing master.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Baron wished to put quick distance between the Chesapeake and this English antagonist. Lt. Meade had not yet returned to the Leopard before Chesapeake began to move. Upon seeing this, Captain Humphreys of the Leopard ordered a single cannon shot fired across Chesapeake’s bow – a warning to go no farther.

In the next instant, the entire length of Leopards larboard side erupted in fire, flame and death. The deafening roar of the broadside almost drowned out the shrieks and screams from the Chesapeake which were both immediate and pitiful.

Thirteen cannon balls ripped into the American ship raking her from bow to stern. Arms, legs and heads flew through the air on a pink cloud of vaporized blood. Wood splinters shredded the crew and severed ropes and sails. Sixty feet up, the rope line that supported Quintin and his mates was cut away by shrapnel. The two topmen to Quintin’s extreme left were no longer there. Their mangled bodies dashed against the wooden deck below. 

The African would have joined them if not for the quick hands of the Landsman. Having been clamped to the yardarm by his grip of fear and not truly trusting the integrity of the ropewalk, he had not dropped like a stone when that rope suddenly cut away beneath them. He now hung from the yardarm by his left armpit while his right hand held fast to the African who swung helplessly.

“I demand that you strike your colors, sir!” Captain Humphrey screamed through his bullhorn at the reeling American ship.  

Aboard the Chesapeake all was chaos. Commander Baron lay bleeding and incoherent. His bloody, writhing form represented his ship succinctly.

His shocked First Lieutenant processed the scene about him through a haze of utter horror as he assumed his first command. Hardly a man was left whole. Clouds of acrid gun smoke burned in his eyes and he wiped vigorously at the water that cascaded down his cheeks – lest they be thought tears. The Chesapeake’s guns and ammunition had been stowed away to make more room for the mountain of supplies that now littered the main deck. He ran to the mizzen and yanked down the Stars and Stripes.

The USS Chesapeake surrendered. 

High above the mayhem, two souls struggled to remain in this world. The Landsman was being slowly torn in two. His left arm slung around the yardarm, he hung swinging in the wind with the African dangling as dead wait from his right clenched fist. The Landsman had him by the shirt collar. The African hung helpless and dazed. His chin had come down hard on the yardarm as the severed ropewalk below him fell away. The blow had knocked him senseless. He could taste blood as his teeth had chomped into the inside of his cheek. In his dazed state he looked down upon the bloodied main deck with its ghastly display of body parts, dead men and other human forms bent in agony. Through their midst red-coated British marines now moved uncontested.

Above him he could hear the Landsman cry out for God’s mercy as his left shoulder separated. Quintin knew his time was short. The Landsman had already held onto him longer than he thought possible. He was living borrowed moments.  

Captain Humphrey took possession of the Chesapeake in the name of the King. “Doctor, see to these men. Assist their surgeon however you are able.” He barked at his own ship’s surgeon.

The British Marines went on about the business of assembling the remaining American crew. The list of names surfaced once again and a small committee began examining each American for health and physical traits. One man began to struggle with the British Marines and he was quickly laid out with a rifle butt.

“This is Ratford here!” a British officer recognized the prostrate form.

“We found him hiding in a coal bunker, sir.” A Sergeant of Marines added.

“Take him aboard the Leopard and clap him in irons!”

“None of the other four are here, sir.”

“That’s alright. We’ve got Ratford and there’s four or five others here I like the cut of.”

“These are Americans!” the American First Lieutenant exploded. “You have no rights to them!”

“Can they prove it?” Captain Humphreys challenged. “They look like deserters to me!”

“You bastards!!” the First Lieutenant cursed them.

A British Marine Sergeant moved quickly to silence the officer when he was stopped in his mid-step by a plaintive shriek.

“FATHER!”

The cry melted down upon those gathered on the deck as if it had been uttered from somewhere in Heaven. It echoed from the forecastle to the quarter deck and eventually off of the Leopard.

All fell silent. All looked skyward.

It was only then that they noticed the drama being enacted up in the riggings. Two men dangling precariously – about to fall to their deaths.

“Quintin!” One of the American sailors gasped and broke free of the British Marines.

“Stop that man!!” a British officer ordered and a half dozen red clad Marines grabbed at him but the tall, dark skinned able seaman cast them off with a powerful sweep of his arms.

“THAT … is my son up there!” The elder African gestured to the tops just as a British rifle was about to make its heavy presence felt.

“Stand down!!” Captain Humphreys commanded and the British Marines backed off. “Let him go!”

The American seaman now bolted to the rail and then raced up the rat lines. He gained the tops in impressive time and was soon out on the lower yardarm just below his swinging, concussed son.

“Drop him to me, Irishman!”

The Landsman gladly complied. Two other able seamen had arrived at his station and assisted his rescue as well. Within fifteen minutes they were safely carried below to the surgeon’s sickbay.

“Very well then, Lieutenant.” Captain Humphreys rubbed his hands together. “We’ll take Ratford, these four and, oh yes, we’ll take that most impressive African.”

“You barbarous swine!” the American First Lieutenant lunged at Humphreys but was stopped at the tip of a British bayonet.

And so, as Quintin Moore lay below, lost to unconsciousness, his father, Abel-seaman Jabari Moore, was pressed into Royal Naval servitude.[ii]

*     *

Meanwhile … in Philadelphia

The Franciscan …

Father Egan had been summoned by messenger to appear before His Excellency Bishop Michael Egan and he arrived by carriage accordingly at the appointed time.

He was shown into the cavernous cathedral where he found the Bishop kneeling in prayer in the front pew. The good Father genuflected dutifully in the aisle then settled in next to His Excellency, performed the Sign-of-the-Cross and joined his superior in prayer.

“We have chased her into the shadows, Walter.” The Bishop whispered in a voice just barely audible to his knew companion.

“You know where she is then?” Father Walter Egan, the Bishop’s youngest brother, replied with more than a little surprise in his voice.

“We know where she is not … which is anywhere near here. For that we thank Almighty God.”

“Do we have knowledge of where she has gone?”

“She has retreated out to the periphery of civilization – somewhere along the shores of the Great Lake Erie.”

There was a moment of thankful silence as both men offered appreciative prayers toward their Creator.

For Father Egan, however, a sickening queasiness soon turned his insides into quaking jelly. All at once he knew his new assignment … his mission … the reason he had been sent for. The knuckles of his folded hands whitened as his prayers grew most fervent.

Bishop Egan did not look up from his folded hands as he issued his ultimate order, “And when you find her – destroy her!” 

*     *

Late that night

The mouth of Presque Isle Bay

The southern shore of Lake Erie

The shadow of a ghost …

          She moved through the moonlight like the shadow of a ghost. In the gentle summer wind, her canvas coat rustled about her as its deep hood shrouded her features in dark mystery. In comparison, her footsteps issued hardly a sound as her boots pressed lightly into the beech of gravel and sand.

          She inhaled the clean, night air deeply, and held it. It was at once sweet with summer scents and the unmistakable, clammy mix of fish, sodden driftwood and thick seagrass.

          She now stood at the very tip of what the locals called Presque Isle Peninsula and studied the four cardinal directions.

           Toward the western horizon a full, setting moon shone a luminescent path across the tranquil lake igniting the water to shimmer and sparkle. She allowed her senses to take in this magic moonscape as best they could. She finally exhaled with a contented sigh and looked off to the north where the star laden night sky dropped down to meet the pitch-black horizon.

          To the east, a flock of geese flapped by on their way north to Canada. They were far off but shone white in the moonlight. As she admired them, she noticed an owl, much closer and coming her way. As he arrived overhead, he began to circle her … gazing down and eyeing her with curiosity.

          “Hello, dear strix!” She called up to him.

          He did not reply but continued to circle.

          She turned to the south and studied the distant lights of her new home – two miles distant.

          “Hello, Erie! You do not look like much from out here.”

          Huddled together along a line of bluffs fifty feet above the bay sat the

houses, shops and drinkeries of the little fishing village of four hundred souls –

Erie, Pennsylvania. Not much more than a small clutch of cabins and simple plank buildings where faint yellow lights flickered from the windows and wisps of smoke coiled lazily up from the chimneys. Two the east of the village, sitting even higher on its own cut of bluff, a log blockhouse stood sentinel in the night.

          “How unlike Philadelphia you are.” She muttered then looked back up at the owl. “I know, strix. That would be a good thing for me, would it not?”

          She turned back to the water and to the task at hand.

          The shallow wrinkles of the quiet lake lapped at her feet as she looked off to the north.

          “They tell me Canada is out there somewhere, strix.”

          The owl lighted on a nearby tree branch and hooted his reply.

          She smiled. “I take that for a ‘yes’ then.”

          She held a wooden bucket in her right hand and now knelt down to fill it full of moon water. As she did so, her bended knee touched the water and she suddenly sobered and recoiled in fear.

          She pulled away from the water and stared with mouth agape back to the north and the dark void at the end of the stars. She closed her eyes but nothing at first appeared.

As long as she could remember she had been prone to visions. She could neither control them nor conjure them. Indeed, they conjured her … and in their own good time.

With halting caution, she moved back to the water and knelt at its edge. She stared down into its liquid depths in dread for it had suddenly become alive with evil. She sensed a sinister presence lurking in its depths.

          Slowly she reached out to it and allowed her fingertips to break its surface. The tingle of an evil current as powerful as it was unexpected caused her to recoil instinctively. She sensed dark, cold doom … and things worse.

          She closed her eyes again, and this time she saw the shadow of an evil, humorless grin sketched across the inner canvas of her eyelids. Soon a pair of China-blue gimlet eyes joined it and leered at her.

          She now knew what it was – and she trembled. She kept her eyes closed and her hand in the water as she fought a rising tide of fear.

          Fifty miles to the north, on Lake Erie’s northern shore, a similar being had come to the waters edge at midnight on the night when the moon was full to fetch a bucket of the magic moon water. The two night-creatures had dipped their hands into the water at precisely the same time – and thus made contact.

          They now each peered out into their featureless horizons and studied their distant reflections. Each stood transfixed by the other.

          She pulled her hand from the cold water, filled her bucket and paced away from the shimmering lake. She looked back to the moon and closed her eyes again. This time she could see the outline of a great ship silhouetted against it. Next, she looked to the south and the flickering lights of her new village.

          She closed her eyes again, but this time … saw only tears.

*     *     * 

[i] The USS Chesapeake was in route to the Mediterranean with supplies for American warships dealing with the Barbary Pirates when she was waylaid by the HMS Leopard.

[ii] Seaman Jenkin Ratford was court martialed by the British Navy and found guilty of desertion. On August 31, 1807 he was executed by hanging from a yardarm of the HMS Halifax, the ship he had deserted from.

Commander Baron, the commanding officer of the USS Chesapeake was Court Martialed by the US Navy and found guilty of “neglecting on the probability of an engagement, to clear his ship for action”. He was suspended from the Navy for 5 years without pay.

By the time the US Congress declared war against Great Britain in June of 1812, 6257 American seamen had been forcibly taken from US ships to serve in the British Royal Navy. When war was declared 2548 of those men refused to fight against the United States and were imprisoned.