“So the captain seems to think. I never saw him more anxious,” replied Delisle. “My idea is that we shall have to cut away the masts and anchor. My only consolation is that if we escape with our lives, it is the only part of the coast where we should not to a certainty be made prisoners of war.”
I agreed with Delisle. To anchor would be our only resource, but one on which I feared we could place very little reliance. The anchors might hold; but with the whole roll of the Atlantic tumbling in on us, and the terrific gale there was already blowing, and every instant increasing, I felt that there was small chance of their so doing. Dark and darker grew the night, higher and higher rose the sea, and fiercer and more furious blew the wind. Still the stout ship struggled bravely on; her lee-side pressed deep into the water, while torrents of foam broke over her weather-bow and deluged us fore and aft. It seemed doubtful indeed whether the masts would long stand the tremendous strain put upon them. High above the roaring of the tempest was occasionally heard the ominous voice of the man in the chains as he sung out the depth of water in which we floated, showing that we were slowly though surely shallowing it.
That dark and terrific night will not easily pass from my memory. Captain Hudson had ordered the cables to be ranged in readiness to anchor. The carpenter and his crew were sent for, and ordered to prepare for the last desperate expedient of cutting away the masts. Every now and then, as a bright flash of lightning darted from the sky, they might be seen with their gleaming axes uplifted, ready at a moment to execute the fatal order. Everybody was on deck, for our danger was apparent to all.
“What shall we have to do?” asked little Harry Sumner, as he stood shivering with the cold by my side.
“Obey orders and trust in Providence, my boy,” said I. “If the anchors don’t hold and the ship goes to pieces, we may have to swim for it, and then, Harry, keep an eye on me, and if I can lend you a helping hand, I will. I must not promise too much, for I may not be able to help myself.”
“Thank you, Hurry, thank you. Oh, I am sure you will do all you can for me,” said the boy gratefully.
The coolest man on board was the captain. He stood on the weather-side of the quarter-deck, one hand holding on by a stanchion, the other grasping his speaking-trumpet, his hair streaming from beneath his hat, and his coat-tails fluttering in the gale. I love to picture our brave commander as he appeared at that moment, when he knew the lives of hundreds depended on his calmness and decision.
“By the deep nine,” was heard from the man in the chains. Scarcely had the words been uttered, when down came the tempest on us with redoubled fury, and the wind and sea roared so loudly that it would scarcely have been possible to have heard his voice again. Suddenly there was a lull.
“By the mark eight,” was now heard with startling distinctness. A flash of lightning revealed the captain as he raised his speaking-trumpet to his mouth. We knew what was coming. At that very moment the sails gave a loud flap against the masts, the ship plunged violently, but rose on an even keel. The captain took the trumpet from his mouth. Suddenly the gale backed out of its former quarter, and shifted to the north-west. There was a shout of satisfaction; some few, perhaps, breathed a prayer of thankfulness for our preservation as we ran off from the dangerous coast.
On the 23rd we reached Rhode Island. The fever had spread so rapidly among our men that in a few days we sent no less than ninety of them to the hospital on shore, while we kept an equal number of sick on board. On the 27th the commodore sent us a hundred men from other ships, and ordered us to cruise for a month in Buzzard’s Bay, between New Bedford Harbour and Martha’s Vineyard. The latter quaint-named place is one of the many islands off that coast inside Nantucket Island. The extreme severity of the weather made our cruise thoroughly disagreeable, and much prevented the people from recovering their health; indeed, it considerably increased the number of our sick. In truth, it was very tantalising and provoking to be kept for nearly a week knocking about for no purpose scarcely ten leagues from our port without being allowed to enter it. At last the captain could stand it no longer, so we put back on the 3rd of March, and were forthwith sent up Providence River as an advanced ship. Here we had frequent skirmishes with the enemy, who took a sly pop at us whenever they could, but without doing us much damage. On the 10th of March we received orders to proceed to sea immediately. We sailed accordingly that night, and the next morning captured a sloop from Charleston, bound to Boston with dye and indigo. That night we anchored under Block Island, and for some days cruised about in the hopes of picking up some prizes, I conclude. I fancy that the commodore had received notice that some vessels with valuable cargoes might be expected in the neighbourhood about that time. We anchored in Martha’s Vineyard on the 16th, where some of our youngsters expected to find grapes growing, and were much disappointed on discovering that none were to be found there, especially in March, and two days after we once more returned to Rhode Island without having made another capture. We were quickly sent off again, and, having bagged a prize, returned on the 3rd of April, when we were ordered up the river to relieve the Cerberus as the advance-ship off Providence, our station being between the Island of Prudence and the mainland. A glance at the map will show the number of islands in that fine estuary, which terminates in Providence Bay. On one of them, called the Island of Hope, near which the ship was generally at anchor, to vary the monotony of a sea life we employed ourselves in the cultivation of gardens. Our horticultural knowledge was not very extensive, but we managed during our stay to raise various crops of quick-growing esculents, and on our departure we disposed of our property to our respective brother-officers belonging to the ship which relieved us. Our life was, however, far from one of Arcadian simplicity, for we were constantly aroused by war’s rude alarms, and had every night to row guard in three flat-bottomed boats ahead of the ship, to prevent a surprise. The enemy were ever on the alert, endeavouring to find some means of destroying us. This was but natural, as we were completely putting a stop to their commerce, on which their existence mainly depended. We had, however, a number of spies employed, who brought us information of all the plots formed against us. Some brought us information, influenced by a spirit of loyalty to the king, and a belief that they were serving a good cause; but others were mercenary wretches, who were willing to be employed by those who paid them the highest. The reports of these latter, though it was necessary to employ them, were always received with great caution by our captain. He could scarcely conceal the disgust he felt for them. One morning, about ten days after our arrival, as we were washing decks at sunrise, while I happened to be looking over the ship’s side, I observed a small boat standing towards us from Prudence Island. As she drew near, I saw that there were two men in the boat. They were dressed as ordinary seamen. One was a young man of nineteen or twenty; the other was much older, with his hair already turning grey—a stout, strong-featured, healthy-looking man. The younger man was rather tall, and had a pleasant, honest face. When the sentry hailed them, they asked leave to come on board to see the captain. Captain Hudson was already up. I went to inform him of their arrival, and by his desire conducted them to him. Their manner was frank and open, and they seemed to have made a favourable impression on the captain. When they left the cabin he ordered them to be carefully provided and looked after. I afterwards had much conversation with them. The elder had been a soldier in his youth, and served the king in many parts of the world. They were both imbued with an almost romantic feeling of loyalty. “King George was always a good and kind master to me, and I’m not going to desert him when he most wants me because his ministers choose to do what some of the people of this country don’t like,” said the elder man. “I got a wound in his service in my thigh here, so I can’t march and carry a musket as I did once, or I would have gone down and joined the royalists at New York, but there are other ways of serving his Majesty, though they are somewhat risky, I own; but what of that? every man should be ready to die in a good cause. It’s very bad, though, all this fighting and bloodshed among folks of the same race and kindred, and now, if they’d followed my advice, I don’t think it would ever have come about. As I used to say to my nephew, Amos Weeks here, ‘Amos,’ said I, ‘wait a bit and don’t be in a hurry. Write and petition against the taxes as much as you like. Taxes must be laid on, and somebody must pay them, and if we don’t like them we must petition, as I say; but anything beyond that will be rank treason and rebellion, and that’s wicked and abominable. Suppose this country was to become free and independent as they talk of, what would the people do? Either they must make General Washington a king, or they will soon quarrel among themselves and cut their own throats.’” The old soldier spoke so earnestly, and there seemed to be so much good sense in what he said, that I put it down. He certainly proved himself a very good advocate of the king’s cause. From him we learned that the enemy were about to make a grand attack on us with their fire-ships, and in the hurry and confusion which would necessarily ensue they hoped to enable three of their frigates, which had long been waiting an opportunity, to run past us and to get to sea. That night we were doubly on our guard, though we could scarcely increase the precautions we had already taken. It was very dark, with a strongish breeze blowing down the river. There had been almost a gale in the day, with a heavy rain, which would have afforded the enemy a greater chance of success had we not been on the watch for them. Mr Gaston, our third lieutenant, Delisle, and I had charge of the three boats. Our ears were more likely to serve us than our eyes, considering the thick darkness with which we were surrounded. My boat was the headmost—that is, farther up the river than the rest. Grampus was with me. “Hist, sir, didn’t you hear the chirp of a block?” said he in a whisper. “The lubbers should have taken care to use more grease if they wanted to surprise us.” I fancied I had heard the same sound. We listened breathlessly while the crew lay on their oars. It came from up the river, directly ahead of us. “Ah! there it is again,” said I. For some time we waited without moving, all hands peering into the darkness. At length I thought I discerned one spot darker than the surrounding atmosphere. I gazed at it earnestly. Gradually the spot increased in density till it resolved itself into the hull of a vessel, with canvas set, standing directly down towards us. There could be no doubt that her intention must be to run aboard the Orpheus, and that she must be a fire-ship. “Give way, my lads,” I whispered, steering directly for her bows. The instant we reached them we threw on board the grapnels we had prepared for that purpose, and began to tow her away across the stream. As we did so a fire of musketry was opened on us from her deck, which wounded one of our men. We had no time to reply to it, nor was it repeated, the crew of the fire-ship having taken to their boat. The sound and flash of the fire-arms brought the other boats to our assistance, and they began to pepper away at the retreating boat as she was disappearing in the gloom. In less than a minute she was no longer to be seen. For another instant there was a perfect silence, then suddenly a bright light shot up from the hold of the fire-ship, flames burst forth from her ports and from every quarter, and climbed up her rigging, while fire-balls and all sorts of missiles of destruction leaped forth in every direction, a bright glare extending far and wide over the broad stream showing us our own ship on one side, with her spars and rigging in bold relief, traced against the dark sky; and on the other, towards Providence, it shone on the white sails of three or four large ships and several smaller ones, which we concluded were fire-ships. We fully expected an abundance of hot work. Notwithstanding the great risk we ran of destruction, we towed lustily away till we had got the fire-ship well out into the stream, so that there was no longer any risk of her drifting down on the Orpheus; while fortunately, as we had a long painter, we escaped without injury. We knew that before she reached the other ships she would have burnt out, so we cast off and prepared to grapple with any more of the same ugly customers which might be sent against us. The Orpheus had, in the mean t ime, sent all her boats to our assistance, and together we waited in expectation of the attack; but hour after hour passed away, and when the morning dawned our mysterious and phantom-like enemies had, like the ghosts of romance, disappeared from the landscape. The adventure of the night would have seemed like a dream, had it not been for our wounded comrade and the charred bits of wood which lay scattered about the boat. This night’s work I describe as a specimen of what frequently occurred during our stay in the river. The following night I was sent on shore to land our two spies, that they might learn what were the next movements proposed by the enemy.