Chapter 3: The Convoy

July 1800

Once back in Kingston, the prisoners were transferred to the shore, and the San Augustino was given into the care of the prize court. To find places for the remaining women and children was a more complicated endeavour, but the chaplain of the Army garrison solved the problem, finding work for them in the kitchens of the governor’s household and the officers’ mess hall. They would get room and board, and when they had learned their duties, even a modest pay. One of the freemen serving the garrison church would guide them and teach them some rudiments of English. None of them had husbands, except one, whose husband had been sold in the Santiago De Cuba slave market. As it was, they were better off in the garrison kitchens than as enslaved labourers in the plantations.

The commander in chief, Sir Hyde Parker, was not too happy about setting those women free, but Theodore Grey could argue that none of them had been registered as slaves by a British magistrate and were natives of a country that was at peace with Britain. That was splitting hairs, but Sir Hyde could use it to formally justify the decision. The planters would not like it, but then again, Sir Hyde was not depending on their goodwill. He pointed out, however, that a commander, such as Theodore Grey, could ill afford antagonising the powerful Caribbean planter faction in Parliament.

Meanwhile, a convoy headed for London had assembled at Kingston Harbour, with ships from all the British possessions in the Caribbean. The huge size of Kingston Harbour was a decided boon for that purpose, but now it was time to sail, before the impending start of the hurricane season in August. Cormorant would be part of the escort, which was headed by HMS Veteran, 64, sent back to England for an overhaul. The Diamond, 38, frigate and Cormorant sloop completed the escort for the 52 West Indiamen and their valuable cargoes.

The convoy put to sea on July 17, 1800, and it took almost a day for all the merchantmen to clear the harbour mouth. Cormorant sailed first, forming the vanguard, and lay hove-to until mid-afternoon, when Diamond and Veteran sailed past Port Royal. Upon a signal from Captain Richardson of the Veteran, the convoy started close-hauled¹ on an eastern course along the southern coast of Hispaniola. With the Black rebels controlling Haiti, the French part of the island, and the Spanish forces in Hispaniola, the eastern part, engaged in a bloody conflict with rebellious slaves, too, there were small chances of being accosted by privateers. Yet, the convoy sailed in a tight, three-column order, with the escorts maintaining their windward positions, and it took them five days to reach their turning point, the Isla de Mona at the entrance to the Mona Passage.

From there, they could sail with the full Northeastern Trade Wind, for a long, northwestern leg to the Carolinas on the American coast, where they could expect to catch the Westerlies of the Northern Hemisphere. It was the usual route for the homebound convoys, and Britain’s enemies knew it. The convoys sailed along the northern coast of Hispaniola and past the Spanish stronghold of Samana Bay, some 50 miles west of Mona Island, where Spanish privateers waited for British shipping. Those were smaller vessels but handy, and therefore, Cormorant was sailing a full five miles landward of the convoy to provide early warning of any attack and engage any ships out of Samana Bay.

Indeed, as they approached the bay, the lookout spotted two ships leaving the protected anchorage, a three-masted sloop and a two-masted brigantine.

“Mister Smith, signal to Commodore: Two enemy sail in sight.”

Midshipman Smith, the youngest of the three midshipmen, picked the flags from the locker whilst the signal mate cleared the mizzen topsail halliard. A few minutes later, the five flags flew out from the mizzenmast. The answer came promptly.

“Sir, Commodore to Cormorant: Engage enemy.”

“Very well, Mister Smith. Mister Duncan, beat to quarters if you please!”

Thomas had to swallow as he heard the drum roll. This was the second time Cormorant prepared for a possible action. Yet, seeing everybody running to their stations, he gave himself a nudge and ran down through the main deck hatchway to the orlop deck and from there, through another hatchway down to the handling chamber. His eyes took a few moments to adapt to the almost-darkness of the magazine. The six boys were lining up and were handed buckets filled with gunpowder cartridges through a water-soaked felt curtain, which prevented any sparks to get into the magazine. The gunner’s mates wore wetted felt shoes, too, Thomas knew, since cartridges and buckets sometimes leaked, and the wet felt rendered the spilled gunpowder harmless.

Up along the companionways and to the quarterdeck, Thomas hasted through the milling mass of men manning their stations, and he reached ‘his’ carronades in time for their crews to load the first charge. He only had a short moment to look around before being sent down again, but he could see that his father was aiming to engage the larger of the Spanish ships. Then, he was on his way to the handling chamber again, running past the Marines sentry who guarded the companionway to the orlop deck to prevent men from seeking safety in the hold.

Down, in the dark, illuminated by two tallow lights in horn lanterns, the ship’s boys then waited for the first shots to be fired and for the order to bring more gunpowder. Thomas already knew that this was done since their purpose was to bring up the charges but whenever possible to stay out of harm’s way until they grew up to be sailors.

After what seemed like an eternity, the din of the discharging guns filled the lower decks, the sharp reports of the six-pounder guns and the duller roar of the carronades, but also the squeaking sounds of gun mount trucks as guns rolled backwards against the breech ropes. Then, distinctly, the sounds of splintering wood.

“Them Dagoes are firing back!” Willie Smith whispered.

“Sure they are. Dagoes are mean as snakes, but brave fighters,” Tom Watkins added his wisdom.

Just then, the next thunder rolled over the deck above them, and a voice yelled down: “Fresh charges!”

The gunner’s mates handed filled bucket through the felt curtain, and the boys hurried up to their stations as fast as they could carrying their loads. When Thomas reached the main deck, he saw the headless body of a man leaning against the foot of the main mast. Swallowing heavily and trying to suppress the urge to run back down, he ran up to the quarter deck instead. There was his father near the wheel who spared him a short nod. “Good lad! Keep going!”

Thomas made the round to the four carronade crews, and when his bucket was empty again, he could not resist a quick look over the nettings. The Spanish ship did not look so neat anymore, with her foretop gone and her mizzen sail flapping uselessly in the wind, its gaff shot away. They might be winning. Then he rushed down the companionway to the main deck, but before he reached the hatchway, the Spanish ship fired again, and all around Thomas, the cannonballs crashed into the timbers of the sloop. Right before his eyes, a sailor cried out in agony, a two-foot-long, jarred piece of wood sticking from his right thigh. Without thinking, Thomas dropped his bucket and gave the wounded man his shoulder to lean on. Fortunately, he was only a slight man. They slowly made their way down the companionway to the orlop deck, whilst on the main deck, the six-pounders were firing back. Down on the orlop deck, Thomas helped the sailor forward to where the surgeon and his mates were tending to the wounded. Two of the surgeon’s mates received the man and, without ado, laid him on the blood-stained planks on which the surgeon performed his grisly duty.

“Hey you, back to your duty!” one of the mates yelled at Thomas who quickly ran down to the magazine, the screams of the sailor in his ears, just in time for the next charges being handed out.

Three more times, Thomas carried fresh charges to the quarterdeck before the orders came to cease firing. A moment later, the hurrahs of the crew filtered down to the lower decks, and the boys grinned at each other in relief.

Even with the Spanish striking their flag, Theodore Grey kept his crew at stations until proper control of the prize was established. Diamond had chased off the smaller privateer, and the convoy continued on its way whilst hasty repairs were affected on Cormorant’s decks and rigging. The prize, named El Halcón, The Falcon, also underwent repairs. The Spanish prisoners greatly outnumbered whatever prize crew Cormorant could sent and were therefore distributed between the three escorts, who would share in the prize monies anyway, having been all in sight at the surrender.

Finally, the tired and hungry crew raised the bulkheads again and Cormorant returned to normal. This meant even more work for Thomas and Bartleby, since clearing the cabin for the engagement had left disorder and dirt all over it. It also took time for the galley fire to get going again, and as a result, Thomas was only able to serve dinner to his father at the start of the evening watch². By this time, he could hardly stand on his feet anymore, but he manfully stood until the captain turned into being his father.

“Sit down, Thomas, and eat. Mister Wellard told me how you helped Wilkerson down to the surgeon in the middle of the fighting. The surgeon cut that splinter out from the leg. Wilkerson’s a good man, and we hope that’ll be fine again soon.”

“I ... I had to help him, Father. He was screaming with pain.”

“Yes, these wounds hurt badly. His messmates saved their tots³ for him, and when I visited the sickbay, he was sleeping.”

“I hope he’ll get better.”

“One just cannot tell,” Theodore Grey sighed. “We’ll have to wait and see. Now, have some of that meat! We must not starve you.” After a moment, he raised his voice. “Bartleby, I think this young man deserves a small mug of the ale.”

“Aye-aye, Sir, that he does. I’ll be right back, Sir. Some more ale for you, Sir?”

“I believe that to be justified,” Theodore Grey smiled, and when Bartleby placed the filled mugs on the table, he raised his and toasted his son. “To your first battle, Son. May you always escape unharmed!”

Thomas took a sip. It tasted a little bitter, but not too bad. The taste was stronger than the light ales he had been allowed to drink. “Thank you, Father. You, too.”

“Yes, it would be hard for either of us returning home to your mother without the other.”

“Shall we take the prize to London?”

“Those are the commodore’s orders. It’s always good to return to port with a prize, and Captain Richardson has not had much luck with prizes so far. It’ll do us good.”

Helped by the half pint of ale, Thomas was out like a light as soon as he rolled into his hammock, and he slept a dreamless sleep until shaken awake by Bartleby.

“Four bells, my lad. Let’s get the captain’s breakfast going!”

And so another day dawned for Thomas and the other hands in the Cormorant sloop. By six bells, the captain’s breakfast was served, and Thomas tidied up his father’s night cabin whilst the captain enjoyed his coffee. Then there were two shirts to wash, sea boots to shine and the tin plates to clean.

When he thought he was done, Mister Hanson called the ship’s boys together for another lesson. It was then that Thomas noticed that Willie Smith was not with them. Tom Watkins noticed Thomas’s look.

“Sick bay. ‘E’s got ‘is arm broken. Falling block hit ‘im.”

“Damn!” Thomas cursed under his breath, but the boatswain heard him.

“Yes, damn, young Thomas. Young Willie was hurt yesterday, but the sawbones thinks he’ll be all right again. He and you all bravely did your duty, and I’m right proud of you. Watkins, you did good filling in on the main top. I’ll talk to Mister Duncan about making you a top man after this journey. Grey, that was good thinking to bring Jimmy Wilkerson to the sawbones. All of you, I saw that you were scared with all that iron flying around your heads, but you served the gun crews as you were taught. We’ll make true tars out of all of you in no time. Well, that is if you ever get the long splice right, so let’s practice that!”

Thus followed an hour practicing all the splices they’d learned so far until the ship’s bell sounded six times, and they were released to claim their morning rations. As Thomas stood in line for his mess, one of the former mutineers, Tim O’Leary, clapped a heavy hand on his shoulders.

“Jimmy Wilkerson says ‘thank you’, young Thomas Grey. He’ll be a while healing he says, but that’s better than going down to Davy Jones’s Locker, like Billy Gorran yesterday.”

“He ... he was hurt. I only gave him a shoulder to get down to the surgeon all right,” Thomas answered modestly. It really was not such a big thing.