In Hostile Waters: The Cruise of USS Argus (Oliver Baldwin Novel Book 3)

by William H. White

  I continued, hoping to discover something further about him. “When you disappeared from the frigate United States in Norfolk, what happened to you? It seemed like one moment you were there, hauling lighters of surprises out to us, and the next, you had vanished.” I watched him to see how he would react.

  Billy stared at me for a moment, then began studying the deck at his feet and humming a tuneless ditty as, gradually, he began to shuffle his feet in no particular rhythm or direction. Same old Billy! I knew I would not learn the answer to my question today.

  I smiled at him, nodded an acknowledgment of his victory, and headed forward, noting that the sky was growing a bit lighter on the barely visible horizon beyond the bowsprit. A new day was dawning and, hopefully, one that would be filled with the mundane, the daily routine of sailing alone in moderate weather.

  “Sail! Sail, broad on the larboard bow!”

  So much for mundane! Damn! I am already wearying of the cat and mouse game we’ve been playing!

  The lookout’s cry stirred a flurry of activity on the quarterdeck. I saw the midshipman assisting Bill Watson as junior officer of the watch run for the main rigging, throw himself onto the bulwark and into the ratlines, where he scrambled aloft with an obviously natural agility. I knew he would be back, quick as ever you please, as he had neglected to take a long glass with him. On the quarterdeck, Watson held his own glass to his eye and leaned out over the windward bulwark in a vain attempt to see the mysterious sail.

  “What’s her flag, man? Can you make out anything helpful?” He shouted aloft.

  “Set to t’gallants, she be, sir. No flag ‘at I can make out.” The lookout cried back before handing his glass to the recently arrived midshipman. I had misjudged the young man with my earlier prognostication!

  “Messenger: Mister Watson’s compliments to the captain, and would he be so kind as to come topside at his convenience.” The young landsman – one of several aboard – touched his forelock and stepped off to the hatch as bidden.

  “Well, Lieutenant, what do you make of her? Do we think it’s the same pest who dogged us last evening?” I spoke quietly to Watson as I arrived on the hallowed deck where he held sway.

  “If it is, sir, the fellow sailed faster than ever I would have imagined. I don't reckon he could have got himself that far ahead of us and to weather during the night. No, I would wager it ain’t them, but let us hope it ain’t even a warship. If it is, ol’ Argus had better be able to gather up her skirts and fly like the wind, what with them havin’ the weather gauge on us!”

  “Amen to that!” I answered, sharing his concern.

  “Deck there! On deck!” Midshipman Edwards, Watson’s junior, hailed from the maintop.

  “Aye, Edwards. What can you tell me?” Watson shouted back.

  “She’s holding her course, sir. No change at all. Kind of sloppy with her sails – foretops’l showing a bit of a luff – and she ain’t set beyond tops’ls. Seems to be heavy. I make her to be merchant, but still no flag.” Apparently the lookout erred when he offered the vessel was “set to t’gallants.”

  “Very well, stay up there for a bit. Let me know if anything changes. Could be just a ruse.” The shouted conversation ended with a waved acknowledgment from Edwards who, I could see, still held the lookout’s glass to his eye.

  “Quartermaster, the Portuguese flag at the gaff, if you please,” I ordered. And to Watson: “No point in showing him who we are, just in case he crosses tacks with a British cruiser later. He won’t be able to offer up an American brig to them.”

  We had been showing no colors at all, a safety measure commonly practiced by many ships in international waters; the Portuguese flag was hoisted smartly to the peak of the driver and stood out clearly in the stiff breeze. It would be the first of several national ensigns we would show the stranger before we passed out of sight.

  “Well, gentlemen. Our friend from yesterday did not swallow our ruse?” Henry Allen appeared on deck, glanced around the ship and saw the crown and shield centered on the white ensign snapping in the wind. “Portugal, Mister Watson?”

  “That was my choice, Cap’n. A neutral with nothing to hide might give the stranger a bit of comfort. And we don’t think that fellow there is the same one we encountered last evening. Edwards,” I pointed aloft, “doesn’t think it’s even a warship.”

  Allen followed my extended arm to see the midshipman still glassing the newcomer. “Hmmm,” was all he offered by way of commentary.

  Our courses continued to converge, neither vessel altering, which, while keeping us fully alert to any ruse from the stranger, gave us at the same time a bit of comfort in the hopes she was not a warship. Edwards remained aloft, sharing the glass and obviously, conversation, with the lookout. And the day grew brighter, as the orange top of the sun peeked above the eastern horizon, casting a ribbon of effulgence across a riled sea.

  “On deck, there. She’s hoisted colors – Irish, I think – green with an harp in the center.” Edwards’s voice drifted down to the deck.

  Captain Allen and Watson both raised their long glasses, squinting down the unengaged eye to avoid the glare of the sun. “Aye, appears to be Irish. Must be a merchant.” Allen stated, expressing exactly what I had thought. We collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

  Ireland maintained a large merchant fleet, but no armed vessels. Their uneasy relationship with England precluded a navy, but they managed to trade broadly across most oceans. I was about to order the British ensign to the gaff to replace the Portuguese flag, but with the approaching vessel likely Irish, thought better of it. Of course, they could have been affecting a ruse, too! France was out, as the perennial enemy of Great Britain, and Spain as well, for, while not as frequent a foe, it generally turned up allied with France, even after the disaster they experienced at Trafalgar.

  “What would you think about the Danish flag, Cap’n?” Seemed pretty safe to me, just in case our visitor was playing the same game. Swapping flags would have the benefit of further confusing the other ship.

  “Aye, add some confusion to the mix! Send it up.” Allen echoed my own sentiment.

  We continued to close, neither vessel altering so much as a whisker. We could now make out the full rig and much of her hull when she – and we – lifted on a wave. I suspected she was making better time of it than were we, with the wind on her quarter, but I was some surprised that she was not fully canvassed. Another indication she was not a navy ship. Short crew – maybe some scurvy aboard, not enough hands to manage a full set. Merchants!

  “Why are we showing Danish colors, might I ask? I would have thought the Stars and Stripes of the United States would be flying.” The nasal voice of the Honorable William Crawford, U.S. Minister to France, broke the short silence as the man appeared from the scuttle amidships. Continuing his way aft, he was about to step onto the quarterdeck but halted mid-stride, apparently remembering an earlier admonishment from Lieutenant Levy about the sanctity of the watch officer’s domain.

  “Well, Mister Crawford. How nice to see you up and about. I collect your condition is improved over yesterday…and the day before?” The sarcasm offered by Captain Allen did little to dampen Crawford’s clearly improved physical, as well as mental, situation. In fact, he seemed almost ebullient!

  “Thank you for asking, Captain. I am indeed vastly improved. Feel quite restored, thanks – I am certain – to the wonderful efficacy of Mister Inderwick’s ginger root. I took another taste of the curative this morning upon rising and am entirely pleased with its salubrious benefit.” He cast his glance about the deck, then aloft at the sails – and noticed the midshipman, clearly visible in the maintop.

  “Is the young man being punished for some malfeasance?” He pointed aloft. “I have heard you navy men sometimes send the young gentlemen up the mast for punishment. Better than a flogging, I suspect!”

  “No, Minister. He is acting as our eyes up there to more clearly see the ship we are closing with.” I smiled at th
e thought of Henry actually sending a midshipman to the maintop as punishment. Masthead, maybe; maintop, not a punishment of any stripe!

  “Ship?” He turned and glared forward where I had pointed. “Is it that the same ship we saw last evening? Why are we not at fighting stations…or sailing off to avoid a confrontation? Captain, you were expressly forbidden to engage enemy ships until my party is safely ashore in France. What are you thinking?” Crawford’s tendency to leap to the most dire conclusions was staggering.

  “Fear not, Mister Crawford.” Henry wasn’t used to being questioned, especially by a civilian, and he didn’t appreciate the departure from naval conventions. The strain of restraint was clear in his tone. “We are neither about to have a confrontation, nor is it necessary to flee. That,” nodding towards the direction of the approaching vessel, ‘is an Irish merchantman from whom, possibly, I might gain some intelligence as to the whereabouts of any British cruisers. And that, to answer your earlier question, is why we are showing Danish colors. He might flee if we reveal our true colors too soon.” Allen barely took his glass from his eye as he fired a figurative shot across Crawford’s bow.

  The impact was quite beyond the minister’s ken; he simply offered a vacuous stare at the captain, then shifted his stance to look at the approaching vessel.

  Edwards had returned to the deck, offering some insight to Watson about his observations from aloft.

  “Cap’n, I believe our assessment is correct. From Mister Edwards’s description, it is clearly an Irish merchant. On top of that, she is sloppy, under-canvassed, and sailing somewhat erratically. Also she does not appear to be pierced for cannon.”

  “Aye, my thoughts exactly. Well done, Mister Edwards. Let us see if her master might offer a bit of intelligence as to what we might encounter in the days to come.”

  The vessel, ship-rigged but about the same size as Argus, was now ranging a cannon-shot off our windward bow. With us traveling in opposite directions, there would not be a significant amount of time to “speak” her, but strong lungs on both sides might manage a useful exchange.

  “Mister Watson, have the sailing master back the foretops’l. We need to get some speed off her. It will also show Mister Irishman there we are not a threat.” Allen spoke softly, raising his voice only when necessary to be heard over the wind or other distractions.

  The crew was sent forward to the brace the yards around, which they did with vigor, and the brig began to bleed off speed. The approaching vessel mimicked our action and quickly slowed as well, making it possible to do more than just pass a few words.

  “Bring her up a half point, Mister Watson. My lungs aren’t as strong as they once were!” Allen laughed at his self-deprecating order.

  The two ships were on a scant pistol-shot apart; Allen perched himself on the bulwark, lightly gripping the main shroud with one hand, his speaking trumpet in the other. He turned to speak, again quietly, to the watch officer.

  “Let us show our true colors, Mister Watson. My Danish is not up to conversational levels!”

  I watched the Irish ship for a reaction when the Stars and Stripes climbed up the leech of the driver and stood out proudly at the gaff. An officer aft had a glass to his eye and turned and spoke to someone behind him when he saw what we had done. The scurry of activity on deck made clear that they regretted coming so close, and the “hauley-pulley” sailors on deck began to pull the main yard around to catch the wind.

  “Avast, there. We mean you no harm. We would seek only some information.” Lungs not what they once were, Allen’s voice, tinny and a bit distorted by the speaking trumpet, nevertheless, boomed out across the roiled water between the ships.

  The Irish captain raised his glass to his eye, looking for some sign of hostility from Argus. Seeing nothing threatening, he belayed the command and the main yard stopped its motion around the mast and, once again, the crew backed the sail.

  “What is it, ye seek, sir? And who might ye be?” The words floated clearly across the water, losing none of their Irish inflection.

  “Good morning, to you, Captain. I am Lieutenant William Allen, commander of the United States brig of war, Argus. We are bound for Europe, and I would welcome some information on what ships you might have crossed tacks with – or even seen – in your passage.”

  “William? I thought his name was Henry.” Crawford whispered to me, not quite sotto voce.

  I waved him off, preferring to hear what answer the Irish master might provide.

  “And a good mornin’ to ya, as well, sir. Hamish O’Leary at yer service. We are the Shannon Line ship Maggie out o’ Bantry Bay. Been on the sea now twenty-three days and only a single Dutch schooner have we seen. A bit short-handed we are, with a few of the hands down with the ague, but we should make Boston in a few days.”

  “Aye, you will that. Bit of nasty weather ahead of you, should it still linger. And you’ll want to watch for the blockaders hanging about off President Roads. We did cross tacks with what we took to be a British cruiser just last evening. My suspicion is he’s likely still looking for us!”

  “I thank you, sir, for that information. We shall, indeed, be alert for trouble. A safe passage to you.” The Irish master waved his hat in a friendly salute, then spoke again over his shoulder and the activity on deck resumed, the mains’l filling and the vessel gathering speed.

  Allen jumped down from the bulwark with the agility of a midshipman. “Get her back on course, Mister Watson, and get the foretops’l sorted out, if you please. We can ill afford to dally.”

  “Well, Captain Allen. It would appear we have little with which to concern ourselves; the weather is pleasant, the sea devoid of enemy cruisers, and the way ahead clear. How long do you estimate it will take us to make the coast of France?” Crawford had puffed himself up and smoothed his shirt-front, as though preparing to appear before the French Emperor at any moment.

  “Minister Crawford, while your question is understandable, I have learned over the years that attempting to prognosticate something some two weeks and more away is an exercise in futility. There are entirely too many variables that could – and will – come into play.

  “I suggest you enjoy the nice weather, get some breakfast into your belly, and take your ease. I shall worry about the ship and when we will arrive.” Allen shot a glance at me, nodding slightly, and went to the hatch. I presumed he was planning on getting his own breakfast and wanted me to at least go below with him. Which I did.

  Crawford followed us down the ladder and, doffing his hat, stepped into the wardroom where I could see his secretary and several others already at table. I followed the captain into his cabin.

  “Oliver, you have no idea how it galled me to refer to myself as “Lieutenant” just now, when I know damn well I should be lieutenant commander or even captain. And now we’re off to an uncertain future. I am sure there will be no news awaiting our arrival in France, as it is unlikely that any ship departing after us could make port before we do. So it is equally unlikely I shall discover my promotion until we return to New York – or the war ends. On top of that, even I don’t know where we shall put our party ashore, so were a fast schooner to make it across before us, they would have no idea where to find us.” His voice grew quieter as his ruminations went on. I think he was talking more to himself than to me, and I kept my own council.

  He glared around the cabin for a moment, noticed that Appene had set a table for his meal, and invited me to join him. I gratefully accepted and sat where directed, to his right. Perhaps I might try to brighten his dark mood.

  “Well, Henry, at least we have a fair breeze and the bit of weather we experienced is well astern. Let us hope there is nothing further to put us off our heading. The faster we make France, the sooner we can get on with hunting British merchants.” I felt it safe to use his given name, as we were alone in the privacy of his cabin.

  “Aye. And grateful for that! I sustain myself with imagining the success of that commission. We should get thei
r attention should we be even half as successful as I dream! Capturing their merchantmen right under their noses will have them scratching their heads in Whitehall right quick, I would imagine. The secretary’s idea to cruise the Irish Channel, rather than the English Channel, for their coastal ships, was a stroke of genius. Likely too many of the home fleet lumbering about in between England and France in any case! Those Brits are terrified that Napoleon will invade from across the Channel, but there’s no threat on the other side; Ireland ain’t likely to start invadin’ them, I’d think!

  “And I look forward to putting Mister Crawford and his cronies off my ship rather sooner than later!” His mood had changed in a flash, like a sudden squall, and glad of it, I was! It helped that I agreed fully with his position with regard to our guests.

  I laughed. “At least with the moderate weather, your cabin companion is less likely to be…shall I say, distracting?”

  He lifted his head and sniffed the air, as if checking whether the previous night had been uneventful for Crawford. The air was clear; the ginger root had indeed worked its magic!

  Appene set another place on the table for me, put out a plate of pork, another of toast, and filled coffee cups for each of us.

  Our table conversation, limited by protocol to only trivia and nothing of ship’s business, was sparse. Henry was clearly contemplating the remainder of the passage to France, determining how quickly we might get in and back out to resume the rest of our commission. For my part, I was concerned that we had held no practice with the great guns, small arms, or edged weapons. It would not stand us in good stead, should we meet a British ship before we were ready, regardless of the secretary’s orders. Once the meal was cleared, another cup of coffee served out, I broached the subject, hoping we were sufficiently done with our meal to manage some important ship’s business.

  “Henry, now the weather has cleared, I think we need to work the people a bit on some gunnery. It will do us no good to wait, I think.”