Thorn - Sloop Of War

The salt spray stung James face, a bitter Christmas Eve kiss. The wind, a fickle mistress, had shifted to a north-easterly, pushing his breath back into his throat. He gripped the railing of the Thorn, the once-proud British sloop of war now flying the defiant thirteen stars of the upstart American Republic. Just four months ago, under the flag of the Union Jack; now, he was a privateer, a rebel, a citizen of a nation still wet behind the ears.

The irony wasn't lost on him, nor on the rest of the crew. They were ghosts of their former selves, reborn in the crucible of war. The Thorn, born in Mistley, England, was now a thorn in the side of the very nation that built her. Captured by American frigates in August, she’d been quickly refitted and re-christened under the ownership of Isiah Doane. James had signed on, drawn by the promise of a share in prize money and a burning hatred for the redcoats.

Two silhouettes broke the grey monotony of the horizon – the British privateers Sir William Erskine and the Governor Tryon. James felt a surge of adrenaline mixed with a knot of apprehension. Both were formidable vessels. He glanced at Captain Daniel Waters, his jaw set, gaze fixed on the approaching danger. Waters, a man of few words but decisive action, barked the order: “Hard to starboard! We’ll play possum for a while, boys!”

The Thorn turned, presenting her stern to the enemy, seemingly fleeing. A low rumble of excitement rippled through the crew. They were lambs playing wolves. Their quarters were alive with nervous energy, the air thick with the smell of black powder and sweat. Despite the apprehension, a strange, almost gleeful, anticipation pulsed through them. As Waters had declared, they were "in high spirits for engaging."

Christmas morning dawned cold and clear. The British ships, like wolves on a scent, were gaining ground. The chase had continued through the night, a silent ballet of predator and prey beneath the cold, watchful stars. But then, at nine o'clock, the fickle wind, ever the joker, shifted again. A strong south-westerly blew up, filling the Thorn’s sails and allowing her to suddenly reverse course.

“All hands to battle stations!” Waters roared, his voice cutting through the morning chill. The Thorn surged forward, a predator unleashed. They were no longer fleeing; they were coming to fight.

The Governor Tryon, being the larger of the two British vessels, was their prime target. An hour later, the Thorn was alongside her. Confusion reigned on the British ship, their officers caught in a bizarre twist of fate. A warship they would have recognized as British, now bearing down on them flying the American flag.

The captain of the Governor Tryon hailed them, his voice laced with disbelief, "What right have you to wear the thirteen stars in your pendant?!"

Waters’ response was swift and brutal. "I’ll let you know presently!" he bellowed and unleashed a full broadside. The roar of the cannons was deafening, the smell of sulfur filling the air. The battle was joined, a chaotic ballet of fire and fury. The Governor Tryon returned fire as the Sir William Erskine joined the fray. For an hour, an exchange of cannon fire ripped through the air, splintering wood and tearing sail.

James manned a gun, his face grimy with sweat and powder. The shock of each shot reverberated through him, the weight of the moment heavy. He saw the fear etched on the faces of some of his comrades, but also the fierce determination. A stray splinter struck Waters, and he howled in pain, clutching his knee. Despite the pain, he continued to direct the fight.

The British attempted to board the Thorn, but the American marines met them with "a warm and well directed fire" sending the boarders reeling back, their faces a mask of death as several of them fell overboard. The battle continued, the ships locked in a deadly embrace. The Thorn unleashed another broadside, and another. Then, after the third barrage of fire from the American vessel, the colors of the Governor Tryon finally dipped, a sign of surrender. Blood, one account would later reveal, was running from her scuppers.

With the Governor Tryon defeated, the Sir William Erskine attempted to flee. Captain Waters, despite his wound, wouldn’t let her get away. He ordered pursuit. The chase continued, the Thorn spitting out a stream of bow chasers. Finally, the battered Sir William Erskine also struck her colors.

The adrenaline still coursed through James, but a wave of exhaustion washed over him. The victory was sweet, but the cost was high. As they prepared to tow their prizes back to port, a grim discovery was made. They found bits of wreckage scattered on the sea – oars, masts, and tattered sails. The Governor Tryon, it seemed, had succumbed to her wounds and sunk with all hands.

James stared out at the debris field, the cold sea stretching out like a vast, indifferent grave. Christmas, a day of celebration, had been marked by death and destruction. But for James, and the crew of the Thorn, it was also a day of defiance, a testament to the courage of men fighting for a new nation and the audacity of a ship re-born under a new flag. The irony, the cruelty, and the sheer strangeness of it all were, for now, a profound silence that echoed within the salty air.