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

by William H. White

  Back to the afflicted landsman; Young was his name, and he simply laid there screaming until he passed out. Everyone crowded around his supine form and Inderwick had to push through the press of men to reach him. He ministered to him as best he might, stopped most of the bleeding, and had him carried below to the sick bay. I learned later that he had to cut off more of the leg in order to sew it up and cauterize it, but he might as well not have bothered; the poor soul died the next day. At least the weather held, and it was not too rough to provide him a decent burial, witnessed by all hands – including our passengers. The sailmaker and his mate sewed the fellow into his hammock, secured a couple of twelve-pound shot at the foot end, and, as Henry, in full dress uniform (as were all the officers) read some scripture, the whole was slid off the tilted plank and over the side. A small splash and it sunk out of sight. It was a melancholy day for all, but by afternoon the weather turned sour and we were distracted by the needs of the ship, taking our minds off Young’s demise.

  I am due shortly on deck – Henry insists that one of us, either he or me, be topside when the weather is up to ensure all is well. And it’s my turn, so off I must go. I shall add to this as time permits. Be well, my love, and know that you are continually on my mind. I dream of our past and anticipate our future!

  Most affectionately,

  Oliver

  CHAPTER FIVE

  1 July 1813

  The weather had continued to worsen, even in the brief interval I tucked down below. The brief but maddening calm that left us floating with practically no steerageway yesterday, only presaged what we now were experiencing: gale force winds, driving rain, and seas that crested almost to the foreyard. Even during the day, the sky was darkened with heavy, towering thunderheads streaming across the heavens, and lightning jumping from cloud to cloud, much like a child crossing a stream on stepping stones. Spume filled the air, giving the rain a decidedly salty tang, and the constant scream of the wind through the rig provided a persistent reminder throughout the brig – topside, as well as below – that venturing on deck unnecessarily was unwise. Squaresails had been struck, and the few scraps of stays’ls we left set, to keep us from falling too far off to leeward, were first reefed and then furled in the morning watch, and we scudded off under bare poles.

  I had suggested a drogue to the captain to help keep the ship’s head to the wind, but he decided it safer to run downwind, even though we would later have to make up the lost distance. The run downwind would also eliminate the incessant flood of sea water running the length of the ship, every time a cresting wave crashed into and over the weather bow. Now the crew on deck had only to deal with the driving rain, gale-force winds, and the twisting and bucking gyrations of the ship in heavy seas. As a wave picked up the stern, the bowsprit would drop lower and lower until the end of it buried itself in the sea, and when the wave passed under our hull, the vessel rolled rail to rail, then jerked upright with a stomach-wrenching lurch, only to repeat the whole process again with the next wave set.

  “What a spectacle! It is at once frightening and magnificent! How great is the power of the ocean, and how quickly it can completely change its character!” Crawford had surfaced again. He appeared from time to time to “take the air” and wonder at the fury of nature.

  Despite his positive attitude about the tempest, the man maintained a death grip with one hand on the main shroud, oblivious to the sticky tar that coated it. With the other, he had clapped onto his hat, jamming it down on his skull so it very nearly covered his eyebrows. His eyes darted excitedly between the dark heavens, filled with racing clouds shot with lightning, and the raging seas, capped with their white crests, rolling toward and beyond us, as Argus did her best to navigate the tempest.

  The rain soaked him, surely to the skin, and poured off his hat brim in a torrent. He had found a tarpaulin coat somewhere – I had doubts that he packed one with him – and it, too, was soaked through. His stockings, gaping and loose from the deluge, funneled the rain that poured down his person directly into his shoes. I wondered idly how he had got himself topside without my noticing. But here he was, trying to make conversation when the conditions would have told a normal person to stay quiet. He shouted aft into the storm, either directed at me or perhaps the four men manning the wheel, who were struggling to keep the ship from twisting on a wave and broaching. I made my way to his side.

  “How are you feeling, Mister Crawford? Better, I would warrant, given that you are out of your cot!” He had already tested my patience with his constant complaining of sea sickness any time the seas picked up, though in fairness, today’s conditions were enough to roil any man’s guts!

  “Not fit as a fiddle by any means, Mister Baldwin, but through the Grace of God and Mister Inderwick’s care, I am managing. Taking some air from time to time helps as well, and watching the majesty of the storm on the open sea takes my mind off my heaving belly. Thank you for your concern.” He managed a wan smile.

  His coat had come unbuttoned, but he would not spare a hand to close it up, as that would mean releasing his grip on the shroud or sacrificing his hat to sea! It billowed out to the sides, flapping like a sail gone adrift and sending a shower of spray in every direction that only added to the downpour. From time to time he would twist his body, in an attempt to close the coat by the force of the wind, but, as soon as he turned back into the wind, the offending tails and lapels resumed their flapping. I could not help from smirking, turning my head to conceal my amusement at his predicament.

  “As a matter of interest, and for my possible future needs, Mister Baldwin, would you be kind enough to point out which side is leeward? I have found through personal experience that it is best to be prepared.” He was obviously thinking of his last foray to the bulwark a few days ago.

  I looked around for his “minder,” Midshipman Pottenger, who had been ordered to keep our esteemed guest out of trouble. Crawford noticed my gaze and guessed at my purpose.

  “Young Pottenger seems to be afflicted with the same problem I have been suffering with. I suggested to him that he would benefit from some fresh air, but he declined, begging my forgiveness. I hope it’s not a problem.”

  “Not a bit, Mister Crawford. Do try to be careful and hold on to something – one hand for yourself, one hand for the ship. In your case, since you are not employed in working the ship, I would suggest that two hands for yourself might be more appropriate!

  “And in answer to your question, with the ship scudding off before the wind, I am afraid leeward will be forward, by the head.” His look of concern relaxed a little when I added, “But where you stand will be sufficient for your purposes, Please try not to fall over the bulwark, if you would. In these conditions, we would not be turning around to retrieve you.”

  He nodded his understanding and, I assumed, acquiesce, but he was, nevertheless, unwilling to release his grip on his hat to clap onto the shroud with both hands. We each had grown tired of shouting through the wind into each other’s face and so, when he turned to face forward again, I retreated to the quarterdeck and acknowledged Watson’s knowing grin with a nod and a quick smile of my own.

  The seas continued to mount, rolling under our stern with a sickening motion, lifting and twisting the ship at the same time. Only a well-seasoned seaman could keep his feet without a steadying hand on a safety line, shroud, or some handy bit of deck furniture. The rain, if anything, seemed to come down even harder, lashing faces or backs with the enthusiasm of a bosun wielding the cat. The skies had darkened further, now interrupted by frequent shots of lightning. Thunder was barely discernable over the fury of the storm, more like distant cannonading from unseen heavenly warships. Water trickled down our skin from any breach in our tightly buttoned coats and quickly proved that tarpaulin hats and jackets were not as waterproof as we had hoped! Being on deck was, in every way, a misery. Giving credence to that thought, I noticed Mister Crawford take one last look about the deck, the heaving ocean and skies, shake his face, and
make his way below decks where at least he’d be out of the weather. The deck did a decent job of preventing most of the water from finding its way below, and the rain simply drummed over one’s head, but the confused motion of the ship could still raise havoc with an unaccustomed stomach. And it did.

  I shouted my intentions across to Bill Watson at the weather rail and carefully made my way forward, toward the foremast where the watch was sheltering in the lee of one of the cutters lashed to the deck. The previous watch had rigged safety lines fore and aft, which proved a godsend; it would have been beyond challenging to keep one’s feet without it.

  When the men saw me approaching, they made the effort to stand, respectfully, in case I wished to issue any orders, I assumed.

  “Mister Groves,” I said to the master’s mate who oversaw the starbowlines, “How do you and your men fare?” I spoke louder than was necessary, forgetting that the lee of the boat would provide an excellent windbreak. They had rigged a scrap of sailcloth over their heads to offer a bit of relief from the deluge, and the whole effect seemed an improvement over facing the elements unprotected. Groves, of course, now stood in the rain with me, rapidly becoming as soaked as I was.

  “Bit tired of this spell of weather, Mister Baldwin. The lads here don’t fancy gettin’ sail on her later.” Realizing he had spoken perhaps a bit more frankly than might have been wise, he quickly smiled and added, “Gettin’ aloft with the old girl dancin’ as she be likely to be dicey. Not somethin’ I’d want to send a landsman to do. Aye, that’s for certain.”

  “You needn’t worry yourself, Groves. Cap’n Allen is not likely to be making sail before your watch ends, and probably not before the end of the dog watch. I sincerely doubt he wants to lose any more of his crew. We cannot control the weather, only the way we deal with it.” I recalled it was one of Grove’s men who had suffered the unfortunate encounter with the twelve-pounder carriage.

  He knuckled his forehead in a salute, acknowledging my remark. I turned away to continue forward, and he returned to his spot under the canvas, hunkering down with his men. Their conversation resumed and, while I could hear not a word of it, I presumed it was Groves passing on the information I had provided. I am sure they were all, especially the several landsmen he had in his watch, relieved to learn they would not soon be sent aloft.

  As I stepped out from the lee of the cutter, the full force of the gale smacked me all at once, very nearly upsetting my balance. A quick hand on the stout safety rope, secured firmly to the mainmast astern of me and ending at the pawl-bitt, saved me from embarrassing myself. The rain continued unabated, often blowing horizontally, so strong was the wind, and I was pretty well soaked through. I looked forward to the warm cup of coffee that would be waiting for me when I returned below, but then remembered that the galley fire would have been extinguished.

  Damn! I hope Bladen has put out some dry clothes for me! Thank heavens the temperatures are not any colder; that would be truly miserable!

  At the bow, the motion of the ship was considerably more pronounced, jumping up to bring the forefoot right out of the water and then slamming down, burying the jibboom in the foamy back of a wave. The fleeting feeling of near-weightlessness sent a confusing signal to my brain. I reached for the safety line to keep myself firmly in touch with the deck.

  While the twisting and rolling seemed more moderate up forward, the up-and-down gyrations caused even my seasoned gut to roil a bit, and I tarried not a whit in checking out the head rig and the bowsprit’s heel for any movement. Finding all was well, I turned about, still holding securely to the safety line, and started aft again, thinking about the warmth and dryness of the berth deck.

  “Man overboard! Man overboard” The shouted alarm made me forget at once about my own discomfort; some fool had fallen into the sea and we had not a single chance of retrieving him. I ran to the larboard bulwark where four or five of the watch were gathered, pointing into sea while a couple of others were walking aft following the unfortunate chap who had gone overboard. Because we were ourselves moving with the seas, he seemed to drift away more slowly.

  “Mister Groves: what happened?”

  “It was Finley, sir. Usin’ the head, and I reckon he got hit by a wave or lost his footing. Heard him holler as he hit the water. One of the lads, Timson, here it was, heaved a line at him. The others there,” he pointed at the couple of men scrambling aft, “they’re following him with the line. Poor bastard! He ain’t got a chance in hell if he don’t grab that line afore he get himself astern.”

  Even though he hadn’t drifted too far from the ship, real problem was that he often disappeared from sight, as a wave dropped him into a trough. I could see his head bob to the surface as the next wave lifted him up, above the level of the deck.

  “Keep an eye on him, Mister Groves, and have your men stay with him.”

  I raced aft, staggering with the motion and, at times, being lifted off my feet as the ship dove into yet another sea.

  “NO, BILLY. Don’t do that!” I stopped in my tracks and turned about in time to catch a glimpse of our peculiar bosun’s mate, Arbutus “Billy” Halethorpe, poised on the bulwark, his elbow looped through the main shroud, securing the bitter end of a sheet about his waist. Before I could even take a breath, he launched himself into the sea.

  He surfaced quickly, turned himself about as he looked for his shipmate in the water. As he rose up on the crest of a wave, he espied the unfortunate seaman and struck out, swimming towards him. Finley was less than a pistol shot away from the ship, but, near as I could tell, he might as well be in New York Harbor! Billy made fair progress, disappearing from our sight and then rising up on a wave, catch sight of his target, and strike out once again in his direction.

  “Grab that line, sailor! And look lively!” The gruff brogue of Bosun McLeod cut through the clatter of the men shouting encouragement to both men in the water and the din of the wind and the sails and galvanized the sailors to action.

  “He’s got ‘im! By God! Billy’s done got ‘im.” Someone cried out, pointing at the spot where the two men alternately appeared and disappeared as the waves lifted them and dropped them.

  I could see Billy – or rather the top of his head – from time to time on the crest of a wave. The other man, Finley, was flopping around and clearly panicking. I knew the cold water would sap their strength before too long, and began shouting, along with everyone else, encouragement to them both.

  A weak shout drifted to us, “Pull the line!” Billy waved his arm when he rose up on a wave and called out again and again.

  An enthusiastic gang of haulers clapped onto the line and began heaving around with vigor. Expecting to see both the men drawing closer to the ship, I was suddenly surprised to see only one, Finley. Where was Billy? Why is he not attached to the line also?

  The men got their burden close aboard and began to lift his dead weight up the side of the ship. As the brig rolled down on a wave, the top of the bulwark was suddenly almost even with the waves and Finley flopped aboard like a fish on a line. He dropped to the deck as people clustered about him, shouting questions and propping him to a sitting position. No one seemed to be looking seaward for Finley’s savior. I did.

  Billy was still out there, floating in the sea and watching the ship pull away from him. He waved his hand from the top of a wave and shouted something I was unable to make out.

  “Here, you men! Throw that line back to Halethorpe! He’s still within reach of a good throw.”

  One of the sailors, a topman, I think, picked up the line now untied from Finley’s waist, coiled it in his hand, and with a strong side arm throw, launched it toward Billy. It fell short but not by much, but I could discern no effort on Billy’s part to reach it.

  “Bring it in and try again! You can’t leave that man out there.” I grabbed the topman by his arm and pointed as I shouted at him.

  By the time he had recovered the line, coiled and thrown it again, Billy was quite beyond the reach o
f even a perfect throw, now barely visible through the rain and the heaving seas; he was gone.

  The sudden ringing silence about the deck spoke eloquently of our distress at losing a shipmate. Even the noise of the weather seemed to abate momentarily, as if apologizing for taking our friend. And clearly, Billy had, in spite of his peculiarities, endeared himself to his mates.

  “Why did he do that? I told him to hang onto the line! He never said a damn word to me, just untied the line from hisself and fixed it on me.” Finley had rallied himself and watched helplessly as we tried to rescue his savior to no avail. His face was streaming, but I was not sure if the water on his face was sea water, rain, or tears.

  “A sad day in Argus, men. When the weather calms a bit, I shall say a few words. Finley, get below, be grateful, and use the bucket instead of the head next time.” I had not seen Captain Allen join the knot of people amidships.